Fields of Fire Read Online Free Page B

“Shut up.” They were immediately silent. He paced the circle, just in front of the recruits. “You goddamn girls. You cowards. That little shit is the only one of you that had the balls to come out here and fight. You should be laughing at yourselves, you dippy pukes!”
    He returned to Snake. There was a sparkle of warmth in his expression. Some day, Snake mused, standing at a rigid attention, he's gonna like the hell outa me. It's the tattoo. Every day he dumps on me for not rating it, but he digs it. Pretty good move to get it.
    He tossed Snake a pugil stick. “O.K., Private. Let's see how bad you really are.”
    A football helmet and a groin protector were passed down and Snake donned them, then picked up the pugil stick. It was heavier than he had expected. He held it tentatively, took a secret deep breath, and moved over to Statue Body.
    Statue Body was grinning widely, waiting for Snake to come into range. He carried the stick lightly and bounced on his toes like a fighter. What the hell, thought Snake. He moved in after the man and started to swing.
    Pow. Next thing he knew he was on the turf. His head spun as if he was one toke over. He shook it, clearing the buzzing circles, and stood again. Statue Body grinned like a taunting Muhammad Ali. Snake moved after him again and Statue Body took one step to the side and popped him up the side of the head. Pow. Down again. Everyone was screaming.
    The DI stood over him. “Get up, you little turd.” He booted Snake lightly in the ass. “I thought you said you were tough.”
    Up again. Pow. Down again. Up again, dizzily, wobbly. Pow. The DI stepped back in and started to take the pugil stick out of his hands and he looked coldly at the Sergeant with steady blue invincible eyes. “Sir. The Private ain't finished yet.”
    The DI spoke quietly, privately to him. “He's killing you, boy.”
    “Give me a break. I'm wearing him down.”
    The DI checked the area quickly for officers. “O.K., Private. You got two minutes.”
    Up again, swing and miss. Pow. Down again. Up again. Pow. Statue Body seemed embarrassed now. The circle of recruits was silent. Up again and swing, Statue Body let it go by as if he were parrying a weak jab. Pow. Snake was back on the turf, trying to find his head. It was scrambled at his knees.
    Statue Body was uneasy. He turned to the DI. It wasn't fun anymore. “Sir. The Private—”
    Snake moved as quickly as a pouncing cat, holding the stick near one end like a baseball bat. He aimed for the back of Statue Body's head. Pow. Statue Body dropped like a stunned elephant. The platoon cheered wildly.
    Statue Body was on his knees, still stunned. He started to get up. Snake knew that if he made it up Statue Body would kill him. Pow. He dropped him again. Take that, motherfucker. Statue Body bowled over, rolling like an egg. Balloop. Balloop.
    Snake pounced again and stood in front of him, determined not to let him up. He peered into Statue Body's face with the same grin that Statue Body had used earlier.
    The DI finally stepped in, stopping it. He raised Snake's hand to the cheers of the circle of recruits. Champion. As the platoon yelled the DI whispered to Snake.
    “You little shit. You are mean.”

2 ROBERT E. LEE HODGES, JR.

I
    February 1969
    There was a footlocker in a shed at home that his parents never opened. It was green, and had sat in the corner of the shed for as long as he could remember, under a gray footlocker that held some of his mother's old clothes. There was no indication on its outsides as to where or for what purpose it was acquired. It simply sat in anonymity under the larger gray one, year after year, its outsides slowly gathering rust and its insides taking on the musty odor of items left untended in humid places.
    If his mother and father had ever sat down and discussed it, they would probably have agreed in rather few words to get rid of the footlocker. But for them to discuss it, it would have become necessary for one