Larry Bassett’s Reviews > The Foot Soldier > Status Update

“Listen, Costa. The men agreed ... Johnson was hit by a sniper. His pistol went off and you took one in the foot. That’s the story.”

“Yeah...” “Sergeant Davis put a slug through Johnson’s chest. Shot him in the heart. As Johnson went down, his .45 went off and got you in the foot.”

There was a blast so shattering, everything burst in a flash of intense light. I don’t recall much, least of all, falling, but I must have gone down. The world pinwheeled. There were soldiers’ voices and women screaming and babies squalling, and something exploded in my body. There was pain beyond description.

Could this really be happening? I said nothing, just stood there, stunned. “All right, college boy,” Johnson snarled. “We’ll bust your cherry. You’re gonna shoot the dink.” “No, sir. I—” “I said you’re gonna shoot him.” “But, Lieutenant, it’s illegal. It’s a violat—” “You don’t disobey an order. Not in the field, where our lives are at stake. I’m ordering you to kill this dink.”

"There’s nothing.” But Johnson wasn’t listening; no logic would penetrate. He’d descended into some beastly valley of mindless hatred. “Sir, these people’ve done nothing!” shouted Davis. “You really believe that, Davis?” asked Johnson, his face crimson and eyebrows arched. “If you do, you’re more stupid than I thought.”

I shuddered inwardly when he called me. I knew what was coming, and I was sure I’d be the next casualty, thanks to Johnson. My knees felt wobbly as I approached him; a smirk materialized on his face. “You’re up, college boy...” A minute later, I was walking point. Certain my time was near, I was filled with the dreadful anticipation of sniper fire.

The Hueys made air drops and kept us supplied. We ate lousy food and guzzled warm, metallic-tasting water from our canteens, but I could never slake my thirst. My mouth felt parched and my lips were cracked.

“Lieutenant, there’s nothing here,” said Bonilla, a buck sergeant from another platoon. “Make sure, goddammit,” shouted Johnson, again brandishing his .45. “If we find one fucking thing, we’ll burn this place down and poison their well.”

I sensed we were on a never-ending and indefinable battlefield. It seemed there was no beginning, no end—just nonstop, nerve-racking danger—actual and imminent.

I tried not thinking of snipers or VC scouts or booby traps, but the thoughts intruded, filling my brain with a neural overload or dread. That’s just the way it was.