Above
the roar of the rotors, Rye yelled across to Jimmie, “Want to welcome you to
the worst fucking place on earth.”
“Yeah,
Rye, thanks for inviting me along. Sure glad to be here.”
The
Huey touched down. “OK, Jimmie, here goes nothing!” They jumped out.
The
pilot was to keep the bird on the ground, rotors turning, and ready to make a
quick exit as long as it remained undamaged and able to fly.
WHEEEEOOOOWW!
WHEEEEOOOOWW! Incoming rounds were flying over their heads…
BBRROOM!
BBRROOM! The rounds exploded around them.
Rye
grabbed onto Jimmie. “Assess, strap, sling ’em up, and we’ll get the hell out.”
Quickly
surveying the grim landscape of rotten sandbags, burned-out planes and
choppers, the place was a mess--hardly worth saving. They made their way to the
first gun.
Rounds
were coming in--Jesus, were they coming in. Rye knew their source as their old
nemesis--Russian 152s.
BBRROOM!
BBRROOM!
Rye
couldn’t help feel they’d failed…failed, for given the chance, they hadn’t
killed them all.
“Jesus,
what a fucking mess, Rye!”
“Yeah,
Jimmie, you take the 105s, I’ll get the 155s. Whatever happens, you and me, we
got to get out, right?”
“Yeah,
you got it, Rye. No heroes today!”
In the
increasingly heavy enemy fire, they began. Jimmie was strapping up the six 105s
for the approaching Chinooks. Rye was preparing the straps on the six 155s for
the marine Jolly Green Giant Crane chopper lifts. It would be one at a time as
long as they could. The ground was exploding around them.
Something
diverted Rye’s attention. Something out of place…didn’t fit…
In the
midst of the chaos--there, on the ground, crawling, a ragged, disheveled man,
his uniform peeled halfway off. He was crawling toward them.
Then
they saw another--his head sticking out from beneath sandbags. He was trapped
beneath rotten bags. He was staring out at them.
Disoriented,
in shock--They are nuts!
“Jesus,
Jimmie…” BBRROOMM! “Left behind…out of their gourds! They’ve been left behind,
Jimmie!”
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