ending



	FRIENDS - THE ENDING

	"GIVE ME AN F! GIVE ME A U! GIVE ME A C! GIVE ME A K!

	While a half million people were gathered on the farm of Max Yasgar for the legendary Woodstock Concert, Roman and others in his platoon had begun to show the effects of battle fatigue. In the four months since they'd been there, ten of the men who boarded the bus behind Centennial High had been killed in action. The senses of the soldiers became keen and just about anything made them jump. Roman began to wear a long sleeved camouflage shirt to hide the knife that Roe Huberman gave him. No one could understand why he'd wear the heavier shirt in the tropical conditions.

	Both he and Peter had learned to kill with their weapons when they faced three Viet Cong guerrillas on a trail one day. If they had been in the same circumstances their first week in Nam, they might've hesitated. But they had been shot at so many times and saw so much death, there wasn't the least bit of hesitation. The three were cut down before they could raise weapons of their own. Even inside Ton Son Nuht was not a good environment for practical jokes. Nerves were frayed and trigger fingers itchy.

	Roman found solace in his writing, the base priest, and the only true male friend he'd ever had, Peter. He found it ironic that he could get along so well with a white boy. It wasn't something he tried to analyze, however, because in that analysis it was possible to see Peter as a naive Caucasian not yet caught up in the eccentricities of real race relations. Roman preferred to see him just as he was since there was always a chance that a bullet or bomb could end the friendship. It made no sense at that point to find meaning in the bond they both shared and enjoyed. Their ping-pong battles continued when there was time to spare. It wasn't every day that they were sent out on patrol. Roman had improved his game to where he could squeak out a best-of-seven match four to three with more than one game going to tiebreakers.

	They rarely went into Saigon for recreation. Even in a friendly area it was risky to venture out. The VC had terrorists everywhere. Military personnel never sat in the front of a restaurant, near a door or window where a bomb would do damage if thrown from a car or bicycle. There were also the stories about female VC spies posing as prostitutes had surgically implanted razor blades inside their vaginas. Even if that story was made up, Roman didn't want much to do with the city.

	When he wrote home it would usually take him a while. He put much thought into his words no matter to whom he was writing. The letters to Virginia and Gloria were usually the most literary. They were the ones he missed most next to his sons. In their letters he would relate feelings rather than mere events. He wrote as if he were writing a journal and could not foresee himself returning home. The stories of boys dying and begging to see their moms one more time or to make sure a certain song was played at their funeral were things that he had to release. Putting the anguish on paper helped relieve his tension.

	Roman didn't know how many people he'd killed, men, women and children. In July he killed a nine-year-old female sniper who'd wounded two men and fired on him with a small rifle. He hit her several times, making sure of the kill. While looking at her mangled body he realized that he was capable of anything. After that he started going to confession. Despite his lack of participation in the Catholic Church, he needed to have the deaths absolved from his soul lest he be killed and go straight to hell with his mortal sin of murder. His greatest fear was that he would kill someone and then be killed before he could say an Act of Contrition.

	"You shouldn't worry about that," the base priest told him. "In the field, fighting a war, anyone can hear your last rites. I am but a man designated by our faith to hear your confessions and deliver Jesus to you. Besides, I'm sure God knows your heart is not in the killing you do for your country and these people."

	"But father, what if my country is wrong in this war and I kill anyway?"

	"Your fear of God will deliver you. It proves your faith, and his plan for you will not be eternal damnation."

	The base commander dragged his feet in replacing Lieutenant Fitzgerald because Sergeant Sevenkiller was a fine leader, and the platoon had the lowest death rate among any on the base. On September first a new lieutenant finally arrived. John Davies was his name. He came from a military family. His father was among the first U.S. troops in Berlin at the end of the Second World War.

	Davies was also an explosives expert assigned to help carry out a special mission. The Viet Cong were painstakingly moving a large amount of ammunition and explosives closer to Saigon to supply the rebels in and around the area. To find and destroy or even confiscate the materials would sorely hurt terrorist efforts.

	"Why don't we just bomb the sight from the air?" asked Sevenkiller during a meeting in the base commander's office to discuss the logistics of the mission.

	"Because, Sergeant, the VC are moving this stuff almost every day," said Captain Brian Willis. He had a bigger stick up his ass than the late Lieutenant Fitzgerald and was going to command the new mission so Davies could concentrate on the explosives. "They're piling it in makeshift villages thrown together for the sole purpose of storing the supplies. We can't just bomb any village and they know that. So they move it at night, sometimes to a real village where the people give up their homes for a day or so."

	"Our mission is search and destroy?" Sevenkiller asked.

	"No, since we know the direction the supplies are coming, we'll set up a camp and wait for them to come to us," Lieutenant Davies answered.

	Sevenkiller thought about the plan and realized the two newcomers weren't totally aware of Viet Cong method of operation. "Sirs, the VC know their jungles a lot better than we do. To set up a camp out there would be like inviting a massacre."

	The captain smiled. "Sergeant, I thought your name suggested your character. It seems I was mistaken."

	The sergeant was insulted by the candy assed officer. "Sevenkiller was a name my great grandfather earned in the Little Big Horn. I assure you, Captain, right here in Vietnam I could change the number over a hundred times if I wanted. I can show you right now how lethal my name can be." Sevenkiller stood, ready for a fight.

	"Are you threatening me, Sergeant?"

	"That's enough, both of you," Colonel Humphrey ordered. He lit a cigar as the two men settled down, though a good fight would've livened things up a bit. The captain was a gangly six feet, three inches, and maybe 190 pounds. Sevenkiller was shorter by five inches but had a more powerful upper body, weighing all of 205 pounds.

	"Captain, if the sergeant has any concerns, I suggest you heed them. This is his second tour of duty here, and I trust his judgment completely."

	"But sir, he just threatened me!" Willis protested.

	"That depends on interpretation." He moved some papers around on his desk and then slammed his hand down. "Your main objective hinges on you coming back from this mission with as few casualties as possible. Is that understood?"

	"Yes, Sir," Willis said.

	"Good, you and the lieutenant here go requisition all of the supplies you'll need. I want you pulling out of here in twenty-four hours. Dismissed."

	"Yes, Sir."

	All three men prepared to leave until the Colonel stopped the sergeant. Sevenkiller had volunteered for his second tour when he could've gone home. For Humphrey, the sergeant was a valuable commodity to have. "You know you have my confidence, Sergeant. I hate signing death certificates, and I trust you will use your undeniably superior wisdom out there if those assholes get too full of themselves." That was softest way the colonel could tell Sevenkiller to take out the officers if either put the platoon in jeopardy.


	"Yes, Sir."

	He had already killed one over zealous officer leading him and others into imminent death. "Let's take that hill, Boys!" the officer yelled as if he'd watched every war movie made.

Sevenkiller could see that the enemy had that position tightly secured, so when he saw some of the men begin to follow the leader, he "accidentally" shot the officer and yelled, "FALL BACK!" There was never an investigation since everyone thought the VC had killed the man. Shots had rung out from every direction. Humphrey suspected something but never inquired. He knew the sergeant was not a coward, but a man with a high level of common sense which clicked in when situations became impossible. The service was filled with officers who treated the war like a homecoming game.

The first five miles of the mission was traveled in trucks and then the platoon hit the jungle. Captain Willis led the way with his side arm drawn in one hand and a map in the other. The air was misty and hot, making the platoon of fifty men edgy and uncomfortable. The trails in the jungle were well defined, traveled by man and beast. Boots were strung up tight to protect against low-lying plants with sharp irritating points.

Everyone was wary of any sound not related to the man walking in front or behind. Tropical birds and other animals made their calls and signals to one another. Sergeant Sevenkiller listened for sounds that could be human.

"I sure wish I knew why the fuck we have to be out here for two motha fuckin weeks," Roman said on the fourth day out of the base. His demeanor and language had regressed to near primal from the building anxiety of battle. Only the sergeant had been out on a mission this long and there was surely a chance that several of these men would not return. "Eh, Sarge, why don't they bomb all the fuckin villages around? The one that makes the loudest noise would be the right one."

"We can't go around bombing every shit hole village cause we think it's the one, Robinson. It wouldn't look right."

"Sarge, how come Captain Willis is in the lead instead of you? You know this area better than anyone. A land mine might be hard for him to spot," Peter Todd added.

"Hell, Todd, he's a captain, he can find a mine just as good as me."

"How will he know?"

"The first big clue will be the loud explosion." He and the others around laugh.

"Where'd we get these guys from anyway?" Roman asked. "They seem like they don't know shit from shynola."

"Is that one of those old ghetto terms, Robinson?" Sevenkiller didn't go by rank out in the bush unless it was necessary. It was more important for him to know that each one of his men would be willing to watch his back in time of a crisis.

"I don't know. It's old and I heard it in the ghetto."

Just then the man walking in front of Roman was shot in the jaw. Blood flew into Roman's face and everywhere. "GET DOWWN!" the sergeant yelled. Roman immediately got down and felt a bullet whiz by his head. The other soldiers also hit the dirt and returned the assault with a rapid volley from their M-16s. Sevenkiller took out three hand grenades and threw them one, two, three. Then another soldier quickly set up a rocket launcher during the firing and sent off a rocket within fifteen seconds. It cleared enough space to build a village.

"CEASE FIRE!"

The shooting stopped and there was the eerie sound of the jungle settling. "Investigate laterally, Sergeant!" Willis ordered, and Sevenkiller looked to see who was at the front of the line.

"BICKERSTAFF! WHITEHEAD! GO IN!" the sergeant ordered and then turned to Roman. "Robinson, you and me, we'll go in from the back."

"Right, all my life I've been goin in from the back."

"You're not talkin about your sex life, are you?"

Both men had to joke to guard against the reality that a man they were walking with moments earlier was now bleeding profusely from his face, which would never be the same. He was missing most of his teeth and part of his bottom lip was hanging down toward the grass.

The four men took five minutes to reach the spot from where they were fired on. They were quiet and careful since there could've been more VC hiding close by. Three of the enemy were dead and Roman was about to move closer when the sergeant grabbed him.

"You know better!" he said in a hushed tone, but the noise startled a VC who blew his cover. He started firing an automatic weapon toward the Sarge and Roman who both dived for cover. Whitehead and Bickerstaff pointed their weapons and fired. The gunman was hit twenty times before his face touched the ground. Then his killers moved closer. They signaled for the sergeant and Roman. The four of them checked around for others.

"Confiscate these weapons," Sevenkiller ordered.

"Right, Sarge."

Then the sergeant inspected the area and noticed all of the supplies
were in sets of five. There were five canteens, nap sacks, and rifles. He looked at the four bodies and became concerned. "Are you guys sure you didn't see another gook around here?"

"We're sure, Sarge," Bickerstaff replied.

The sergeant looked around and searched the jungle. His keen sight slowly surveyed every bush, leaf and blade of grass for anything out of rhythm with their surrounding. Nothing. He looked down and saw a shadow move in a tree overhead. Before he could look up a Viet Cong soldier leaped from the tree and landed on him. The VC swung a machete and slashed Sevenkiller's arm badly. The others were going to shoot, but their sergeant was too close. Roman dropped his weapon and quickly moved in to help. He grabbed the enemy from behind and lifted him off the ground. Then he got a quick kick in his testicles from the attacker who was dropped and turned on him with the machete. The weapon was raised to take a fatal swing at Roman, and the sergeant fired a bullet that entered under the attacker`s jawbone and exited just above his left ear.

"Sonofabitch! Fuckin sonofabitch! Look at my fuckin arm!" Then the sergeant put his handgun to the dead man's nose and fired. "Grab this shit and let's go! Come on Robinson, get up!" Then he started back toward the trail.

"Is everything secured?" Captain Willis asked.

"Yeah, everything's fine."

"What did you say?" The captain showed that he was pissed.

"Yes, Sir! Everything is secured."

Sevenkiller knew that the first man who was shot in the jaw would receive medical attention first. The medic was applying bandages and doing as much stitching as he could to the young soldier's face. The gunshot was not life threatening, but it would require a lot of surgery. As the medic worked he saw the sergeant go into the medical kit. Sevenkiller took out a syringe, and a small vile of medicine. Next he filled half of the syringe with the medicine and gave himself a shot.

"Sergeant, what are you doing?" Willis asked. "I'd like to press on. The base is sending a chopper for this man."

"Well, if you don't mind, Captain, I'd like to sew up my arm." He put peroxide on the wound, which made him wince. Then he added betadine. The captain looked at the wound and could see the torn flesh would take at least fifty stitches to put it back together.

"Todd, come here."

Peter did as he was told. "Yeah, Sarge?"

"Hold your hands out." Sevenkiller poured peroxide on Peter's hands. "Grab that fish hook and thread it with that."

Peter got the needle shaped like a fish hook and put the thread inside. Then he gave it to the sergeant who gave him a pair of scissors. The needle was stuck into Sevenkiller's arm, and he winced again, not having waited for the anesthetic to work. He looped the needle through the thread and tied a tight little knot. "Cut that." Peter cut the first stitch and the sergeant took another. The wound took sixty-five stitches in all. The arm was not totally numb, however, until the tenth.

The platoon made up for the lost time and then some. They traveled ten miles further into the jungle before stopping to make camp. There weren't any more incidents, which was considered lucky. Once they settled in, everyone was regulated to his spot because flashlights were to be only in case of emergency. There were no fires allowed also because of the attention light could bring.

That night Roman thought about the events of the day. He was disappointed in himself for letting the soldier disable him so easily. Then his mind switched to the man in front of him, the first guy shot. The bullet had entered his face on the right side and exited through his front teeth. I'd hate to go home like that, he thought. Then he realized that at least he was going home. The VC who cut the sarge's arm was back in the jungle without a face.

The next day they broke camp and prepared to move on. After washing up, Lieutenant Davies was about to slap on some after-shave and Peter stopped him. "Excuse me, Sir, you don't want to put that on out here."

Davies looked at Peter with an indignant glare. "What did you say to me, Private?"

"Sir, I thought I was pretty clear. You don't want to put that on out here. The VC could pick up the scent."

"You're telling me that these people have noses like bloodhounds?"

Neither Davies nor Willis knew that the platoon was following Sevenkiller's policies. They'd seen him in battle so many times that they knew his word was to be trusted and would keep them alive. One of his standing orders was no cologne or perfume of any kind.

Other men were around but didn't say anything to the lieutenant, though they gathered when Peter spoke up. He had begun to gain more of their respect during the time in Nam. There was a gleam in his eye that lit up with every kill he made, and most were glad he was in the platoon.

"Sir, I'm not making any claims whatsoever. I'm strongly advising you to refrain from using that after-shave. The enemy will detect it."

"What's going on here?" Captain Willis said as he approached the area.

"Captain, this little grunt is telling me that I can't put on after-shave lotion."

Everyone was quiet when someone was heard cocking a handgun. No one knew who did, but the captain got the message quickly enough. Despite his and Davies's seniority, these men did not want the cologne out. "Lieutenant, save the after-shave for later, why don't ya?"

"Yes, Sir."

A couple hours later they came upon their fifth village since starting the mission. The captain wanted to walk in, but Sevenkiller stopped him.

"This village may look harmless, but fuck, everyone in there has been trained to kill - even the babies." The sergeant was skeptical about the success of this outing. The original orders called for them to wait for the ammunition to approach them. He thought it would be a lucky strike if the cache was hidden here, though the captain would probably take the credit for such luck.

He also didn't think the men could take two weeks away from the base. Most of them were civilians just months before. Then they found themselves fighting a war deep in a country that they probably couldn't point out on a world map. A lot of them arrived in Nam with knowledge of the anti-war movements around the United States. Some disabled vets had begun to speak out against the war because they saw it as a no-win situation. Sevenkiller saw the current group of men as survivors opposed to others he'd served with who fought to win the war.

"If we go in there," the sergeant started, "I'd suggest we go in strong, not like a bunch of fuckin missionaries looking to take care of their needy and spread religion."

"I agree," said the captain. "Form a perimeter around the village and move in on my signal."

Sevenkiller directed his men which way to go. In twenty minutes the village was surrounded. He wondered if he had made a mistake by telling the captain to go in strong because he didn't necessarily mean with guns blasting. A show of strength could've been made by rushing in with guns ready. The village didn't appear to be a threat. He reached for his walkie-talkie to caution the captain about firing, but before he could raise him on the air, he heard shots. "Fuck!" He turned to the men with him. "You guys follow me and don't fire unless you have to!" He ran down a steep embankment staying alert and watching for anyone that might pop out of nowhere.

The initial firing alerted VC hiding inside a hut and the first wave of men to hit the village was cut down immediately. Twelve soldiers lay dead and Sevenkiller stopped where he was. The firing was heavy and five more men whose momentum took them into the open were cut down as well. "They're inside the huts! Rocket launcher!"

His team of rocket men was set up in seconds. The first rocket landed just in front of the hut that was doing the damage.

"Adjust your angle!"

"Why don't we just shoot through the straw?" Roman asked him.

"Those huts are lined with steel probably! The gooks aren't stupid!"

The next rocket hit the hut dead in the center and there was a large explosion. They could feel the heat where they were, and the explosion was so devastating the two huts next to it exploded as well.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Sevenkiller yelled. He knew that they had found the luck he sought, and if they didn't move quickly they would all die because there were two more huts closer to their position. He didn't have to tell the other men twice to move because they could see the line of huts leading toward them. The sergeant was one of the last to bug out, and no one looked back. They ran fifty yards before the first explosion and then two seconds later there as another. The latter knocked them all down and a blast of heat blew over them.

The sergeant raised his head when he felt cooler air on the back of his neck. He counted twelve men around him. "Everybody all right?" They all confirmed their fitness to continue, though some were skittish because of the occasional smaller explosions coming from the burning village. The few inhabitants of the huts stood in the center of their burning microcosm and cried.

Sevenkiller wanted to leave the area, but knew he should look for those who weren't cut down when they rushed into the village. He moved quickly because the explosions and the fires would surely bring more VC into the area. He circled the village, picking up a few men as he went. Several had ringing in their ears from the noise of the blasts. One soldier was so close to the first explosion that he was thrown fifty feet to a tree where he was impaled through and through by the stub of an old branch. The body was suspended from the branch twenty feet off the ground, with his back to the tree. The sharp branch stub protruded from his chest. His camouflage pants were soaked with his blood, dripping into a puddle underneath him.

Three of the men found by Sevenkiller were wounded but able to walk on their own. Lieutenant Davies assumed command when he was found. Captain Willis was killed in the first volley of machine gun fire. Davies could see the urgency in Sevenkiller's face. Remembering the colonel`s words, he heeded the concern of the more experienced soldier and gave the order to vacate. Thirty-four out of fifty had survived. Sevenkiller advised the lieutenant to lead the platoon at double time, and that advice was also followed. They could later send choppers for the bodies of the deceased.

They jogged three miles before stopping to rest and replenish their hearts with the desire to make it back. There wasn't much conversation during this short respite. Each man had a different scene from the village running through his head. Several focused on their friend's body suspended on the tree branch.

"Man, I'll be glad when we get the fuck out of here," Roman said and seconds later their resting place was inundated with VC who had the element of surprise on their side. Not one shot was fired as the Americans had machine guns pointed right at them. These men were angry and the leader shouted out his orders.

Both Davies and Sevenkiller were taken to the commanding officer as the others were bunched together and had their weapons taken away. Next the men were searched by VCs who kept saying, "Fuck you, Joe, fuck you."

There was fear on the face of each soldier. "God, help us now," Leroy Whitehead mumbled. Peter Todd kept his eyes on Roman. He knew his friend wasn't about to be taken by the enemy. This was something he could not see happening, despite the overwhelming odds against them.

"What are you going to do with us?" Davies asked the leader when they were half way through searching the men. Then the leader calmly unholstered his handgun and shot Davies in the head. His blood and brains splattered everywhere as his body hit the ground with no pain. "Fuck you!" the officer said. Then he pointed the gun at Sevenkiller and pulled the trigger. The trigger jammed just as Roman was being searched. He raised his arms to the side and thought the Sarge would soon be dead.

They're going to kill us all! His mind was racing, and he remembered what Sergeant Smith told the platoon in Florida about not getting captured. He envisioned himself being tortured or shot in the head like Davies. His sons would grow up without a father, and he would never see anyone in his family again.

A VC soldier patted him down the sides and in between his legs. Unfortunately for him, he didn't check Roman's right arm because when it came down his switchblade slid into his palm, and he released the deadly blade. The move was so quick the knife sliced through the VC's neck as if it were butter, and he didn't stop cutting until he hit bone. That was the distraction Sevenkiller needed to grab the leader's gun and shoot him. Then the sergeant was shot in the back and shooting broke out everywhere. Those soldiers close to a weapon grabbed it and started firing. The VC fell quickly as they were bunched together. Vernon Bickerstaff threw a hand grenade that landed within ten VC and five of them were killed. Then he caught a bullet in the windpipe. With the fighting going on, no one could help him. He writhed wildly on the ground as he gasped for air before finally dying an agonizing death.

"LOOK OUT!" the soldiers tried to help one another. "OVER THERE! BEHIND YOU!" They all scrambled toward a trench where there was adequate cover. It was important for them to obtain as many of their own weapons as they could and some of the men made several quick trips from the trench to where the VC had begun to pile them.

Peter went to the Sarge and grabbed an M-16 from the ground and took out five more of the enemy. "You OK, Sarge?" he asked and was surprised to hear. "You're stepping on my hand you sonofabitch." Then they were joined by Roman as the enemy went into a retreat mode. He grabbed the sarge's shirt and started to pull him toward the trench as Peter laid down defensive fire.

"Owwwwwwwwwww!" Roman dropped to the ground screaming and let go of Sevenkiller. The bottom half of his left leg was shattered and there was a large gaping tear from which a splintered bone was sticking through. He screamed in pain as Pete pulled him to cover and then went back for the Sarge.

Roman looked at his leg and saw the bones protruding out at least two inches. Several visions flashed through his mine and for this reason he grabbed his friend's arm. "Pete, don't let'em cut my leg off. That Doctor Henshaw back at the base is a fuckin butcher, Man. You've heard those stories. He's sent more guys home with wooden legs than the fuckin VC."

"I'll see to it, Buddy, but we have to get out of here first." Peter picked up his M-16 and shot two VC tryin to move closer. Then he saw Sevenkiller lose consciousness. "Who's on the fuckin radio!" he yelled. "We need help out here!"

"Help is on the way!" Leroy Whitehead yelled. "They should be here in thirty minutes or less!"

"Wake up, Sarge!" Peter said and slapped the sergeant who opened his eyes.

"I'm gonna kick your fuckin ass for that, Pale Face," he said.

"Good. I can't wait."

Roman started to cry. "I can't feel my leg, Pete! My God what am I going to do with one leg gone?"

"I gave you a shot for pain, Roman!" Leroy said. "Five minutes ago I gave you a shot!"

"I just know they're gonna cut my leg off." He screamed as shots continued to ring out.

"He told you he wasn't gonna let them, Robinson," Sevenkiller said. "And that's a fuckin order too, Todd! You don't let that butcher Henshaw take your buddy's leg!"

"Yes, Sarge." Just then Peter took a flesh wound on his arm. A bullet put a deep gash just under his shoulder. �Shit!�

"SNIPER!"

�I`ma get that gook!� Peter got up to rush into the jungle.

�Todd, don`t you go anywhere!� Sevenkiller yelled. �You don`t know how many are out there.�

Peter grabbed two hand grenades and tossed them in the direction of the sniper. �There aren`t as many as there were a second ago.� Pete grabbed a belt of ammunition and darted away from the others.

"He`s gonna get himself killed," Roman was able to forget about his leg because the pain killer began to work. "Oh, God." He looked for Peter who couldn`t be seen. �PETER!�

�What`s gotten into your buddy?� Sevenkiller asked.

�ROCKET!�

Everyone took cover when a soldier rose to fire a rocket launcher. His aim was thirty yards ahead of Peter who dived when he heard the warning. The hit was just what he needed because ten Viet Cong left their cover and tried to retreat. They were cut down one by one by Peter`s M-16. His adrenaline rushed through him with a temporary euphoria. He began to laugh at the death he caused. When the rifle ran out of ammunition, there was one rebel facing him from twenty feet away.

�Fuck you, Joe.�

Peter didn`t flinch when the soldier rushed at him with a large machete. It seemed like time slowed down for Peter with a killer rushing toward him, screaming. A smile came to his face as he counted the milli-seconds in his head, playing chicken with death. He waited till the last possible moment to pull his .45 caliber handgun and purposely shot the man in the stomach so he would suffer.

�Fuck you!� Peter yelled at the dying man in agony.

Then another rebel came out of hiding and ran.

�Oh you`re not getting away. Get back here!� The now crazed American had crossed the thin line protecting his sanity. The jungle had pushed him with the constant threat of death. His mind flashed to Roman slicing the soldier`s neck to save all of their lives and then finally he saw damage done to his buddy`s leg.

�Come back and get yours!� He took off after his prey, reloading his M-16 on the fly. Then he started firing but stopped running when he heard a large explosion. He had left the others, and it sounded like there was a battle behind him. �Shit!� I left my men, he thought with the fear that they would all be killed. Back through the jungle he ran 50 yards and then 100.

The men who Peter left behind waged a wild battle through the foliage against a small encampment of a dozen Viet Cong who wouldn`t let them move. Several of them were surprised when Peter accidentally ran into their hideout. They were the first to die. Then the others fell.

It was a minute before others realized they were no longer under fire. Peter was knocked down by the percussion of an American hand grenade. He saw white lights and his ears rang, blocking out the sound of two choppers. I gotta get up, he told himself. Slowly he sat up and could see his platoon starting to move out. I gotta catch up with them. Can`t get left behind. Then he forced his body to respond, though the ground spun under him. Staggering, he made his way across the area where the battle took place and finally caught up with Roman and the others.

�Todd, where the fuck have you been,� Sevenkiller yelled. He was being carried on a stretcher. �Was that you who took out those gooks back there?�

Peter`s mind was still reeling. �I guess so.� He saw Roman unconscious on a stretcher and moved closer. �Roman, you all right?�

�He can`t hear you,� said one of the men carrying Roman.

�Don`t forget what he asked you to do,� Sevenkiller said. �He wants to
keep that leg. And thanks for gettin us out`a there.�

�Yeah, Sarge.�

Two choppers met them five minutes later without any enemy fire to worry about. There was time to quickly collect the dead, including Vernon Bickerstaff. Of all the men who died on the mission, he and two others were the only ones from Sergeant Sevenkiller's unit.

Leroy Whitehead looked with teary eyes at his friend's body during the flight back to the base. "You should've planted one of Robinson's seeds, you dumb-ass white boy."

Pete sat next to his friend whose eyes opened during the flight. �You made it back,� Roman said and smiled, oblivious of his leg.

�Of course.� The dizziness in Peter`s head slowly subsided. �I came to keep my promise, Roman. Now get some rest.�

The wounded were rushed to the base hospital and triaged. Roman began to experience more pain in his leg as he was checked over. He felt comforted by his buddy`s presence. Peter`s M-16 was taken as they entered the emergency area, but he slipped his sidearm into the back of his pants. There was no way he was going to let Roman lose a leg to Doctor Henshaw, so when the butcher appeared he and Roman eyed him carefully.


"OK, let me just take a second to examine your leg."

Roman didn't say anything while the doctor looked at the leg for a moment and then turned to a nurse. "Prep this man for surgery. We'll have to take this leg off before infection takes over."

�No you don`t,� Pete said and pushed the doctor away from Roman. �Get the fuck away from him.

"Hey! What are you doing, Soldier! Nurse why is this man in here?"

�I`m here to save his leg."
"You tell`em, Pete. You're not cuttin my leg off!" Roman shouted.

Four military police rushed into the cubicle when they heard what happened.

�Good,� Henshaw said. Then he ordered the MPs. �Get this grunt out of here. I don`t have time for this shit.�

Peter pulled his gun and pointed it at the doctor`s face. Who are you callin a grunt, mother fucker?�

One MP started to draw his gun, but Roman also pulled a gun and pointed it at him. "Don't move motha fucka! I'll blow yo dumb ass away!" The situation was tense as several nurses and medical personnel looked on.

"Soldier, you and your buddy put the guns away, so I can treat you," the doctor said.

"You didn't even examine it!" Roman shouted. "All you did was look at it for a few seconds!"

"That's all I needed to see that your tibia is missing about two inches of bone. There's no way it's going to heal. Not to mention the other damage."

"You're not touching me. Get me a good doctor," he said to a nurse who started out of the room just as another doctor entered.

"What's going on in here?" asked the new doctor who was obviously Latino and older.

"He wants to cut my leg off," Roman said. "He's a butcher."

"The middle section of his right tibia is gone. At least two inches. Not to mention all of the nerve damage. And who knows what else?"

"Have you surmised the extent of the other damage?"

"He hasn't done a damn thing." Roman asserted.

"Yeah, ask one of these people,� Peter said. �He took a quick look at his leg and said, 'get my saw' in so many words.�

�Ask her,� Roman added. �And my medication is starting to wear off. My leg is starting to hurt."

The older doctor looked at the nurse, and she nodded in agreement. "Doctor Henshaw, you're dismissed."

"Great." Henshaw turned and left the room.
Then the doctor walked toward Roman and Peter without fear. "I'm Doctor Jesus Martinez. I guarantee that I will do the best I can to save your leg. Why don't you give me the guns, so we can get you cleaned up and get started?" Martinez held his hand out and received both guns. "Good.�

Then he turned to the MPs. �Gentlemen, you can leave now.� He waited for the MPs to leave. �I understand you men have gone through some tough times out there in the past two days." He gave the handguns to the nurse.

Roman and his uniform were dirty enough to warrant two or three washings. He moaned in pain and felt he could trust this doctor. "Haz lo mejor que puede." Roman ordered the doctor to do his best. He had noticed a Latin accent and thought the doctor would perform better for a compadre.

Martinez was surprised when he heard his native tongue. "Me voy."
I'm going to. "�Donde apprendiste Espa�ol?" Where did you learn Spanish?

"De mis vecinos." From my neighbors.


"�S�? �Donde vives?" Yeah, where do you live?

"Los Angeles."

"�Yo tambien! Es un mundo peque�o." Me too! It's a small world. "Ahora, voy a salvar tu pierna." Now I'm going to save your leg. Martinez smiled. "Nurse let's prep private Robinson for surgery."

�Uh, I don`t know what you guys just said, but is his leg going to be all right?� Peter asked.

�I believe so, Private.�

�Roman? You all right?�

�Yeah, lil Brotha. Thanks.�

To have Roman call him brotha was Peter`s proudest moment. They did the three-move handshake. �No, problem. I`m going to change and wash up. I`ll be back when you`re in recovery.�

�OK, Pete. Thanks again.� They embraced and Pete left.

The nurses began to undress Roman, who winced in pain when they touched him.

"Get him something for his pain," the doctor ordered.

"Morphine?"

"Yes. May as well go with the best."

"Doctor, what are you going to do that's different from the butcher?" Roman asked.

"Well, I believe I could put a steel rod in your leg and bolt it to your existing bone, but I have an experiment that would give you a longer lasting result. And with no rust." He smiled.

"What could last longer than steel?"

"Your own bone."

Martinez was an orthopedic surgeon who theorized that the bones of a person Roman's age and apparent physical condition would mend itself in the proper environment. He would encase the tibia in plastic hoping that each end would extend toward the other and mend itself. Once the bone fused, the plastic could be removed. The advantage of doing this experiment on Roman was his age. He was still growing and had regeneration abilities that an older person would not have. The separation in Roman's tibia was two inches. The doctor strongly believed the experiment would work.

Roman agreed to the procedure figuring that his own bone would provide more mobility than a steel rod. I'll need it to keep up with Dakota and Randall at home, he thought. Once Martinez started the operation he saw that the damage Dr. Henshaw spoke of was not that extensive. The man should've been shot, he thought. Or at least accidentally shot - I wouldn't have wanted this young man or his friend to be imprisoned for shooting a quack doctor. Still, I'll have to report what happened.

Fortunately for Roman, the bullet only nicked his fibula. Having it intact eliminated guesswork during he procedure. The final result was a bulky cast wrapped around a metal ring at the top and one at the ankle, so Roman would not be able to put any pressure on the fibula or the healing tibia. The pain of the surgery diminished after two weeks, and it was two more weeks before he could stand it without pain medication. Every few days, however, the doctor would adjust the screws in the top ring, and this caused much agony for Roman.

Peter visited his friend every day. Most days he went more than once, bringing mail or something good to eat. The time of his visits was not uniform, showing up just about any hour. He was always able to put a smile on Roman`s face. One night he stopped in long after visiting hours but easily sneaked in past guards and nurses.

�Roman, wake up.�

Dr. Martinez had adjusted the screws on Roman`s leg that day and had to prescribe extra pain medication. It was difficult waking him.

�Roman, come on, man, wake up.� Peter could not talk much above a whisper lest a nurse would be alerted.

�What`s goin on?� Roman was groggy. He started to fall asleep again until Peter shook him.

�Wake up, Roman. It`s Pete.�

�Pete? What the hell time is it?� He began to gain his senses. �Why are you here so late?�

�I came to say good-bye. I`m leavin. Somebody thought it was a good idea for me to go home, but I want to stay. There`s nothing back there for me.�

�Pete, what are you talking about?� Roman noticed that his friend was dressed in full gear. He also had an M-16 and his .45 caliber sidearm.

�I`m staying here. This is where I became a man.�

�But I thought we were going to hang out together, back in L.A.�

�That sounds good. You and Gloria. Virginia and me. But my fuckin family would always be there. Roman, the jungle is the only place I can go and not think about my dickhead father.�

�Pete, that jungle is dangerous.�

�Thanks for caring. You`re the only one who`s ever cared for me. I love you more that my own brother.� He shook Roman`s hand.

. �I love you too, Man. That`s why you can`t go.�

Peter had to pry his hand away from Roman. Then he started to cover his face with night face paint. �I`ll never forget you, Roman. Do me a favor?�

Roman understood that Peter was resolved to go into the jungle. He could`ve alerted the nurses and guards, but that could`ve meant bloodshed. �Yeah, I`ll do you a favor.�

�Don`t tell Virginia about Miami.�

Roman smiled. �I won`t.� That was the last time he saw his friend.