A Rumor Of War

by Philip Caputo

when a sniper opened up from a tree line beyond the village, I did something slightly mad. Ordering the platoon to train their rifles on the tree line, I walked up and down the clearing, trying to draw the sniper’s fire. “When he opens up, every man put five rounds rapid into the tree line,” I said, walking back and forth and feeling as invulnerable as an Indian wearing his ghost shirt. Nothing happened. I stopped walking and, facing the tree line, waved my arms. “C’mon, Charlie, hit me, you son of a bitch,” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “HO CHI MINH SUCKS. FUCK COMMUNISM. HIT ME, CHARLIE.” Some of the marines started laughing, and when I heard one of them mutter, “That stocky little fucker’s crazy,” I started laughing too. I was crazy. I was soaring high, very high in a delirium of violence. “C’mon and hit me, Charlie,” I yelled again, firing a burst into the tree line with my carbine. “YOU SON OF A BITCH, TRY AND HIT ME. FUCK UNCLE HO. HANOI BY CHRISTMAS.” I was John Wayne in Sands of Iwo Jima. I was Aldo Ray in Battle Cry. No, I was a young, somewhat immature officer flying on an overdose of adrenalin because I had just won a close-quarters fight without suffering a single casualty.