The Village Read Online Free Page B

like the parody of a heel-and toe race than a combat patrol. No sooner had the PF at point struck the main path than he hurried eastward at a pace better suited to a cross-country race. Brannon tried to keep up, while at the same time juggling his equipment to keep it from rattling, forcing his gait to have the grace of a drunk ostrich. For the first few steps, Beebe had held his pace to a crawl, placing his weight carefully. Before he could adjust, a fifty-yard gap had opened between him and Brannon, whom he could barely see. Fearful of having the patrol split into two segments less than a minute after leaving the fort, Beebe broke into a trot, the speed of which increased for each man back in line, finally forcing a flabbergasted Faircloth to run as fast as his legs would carry him to join up with a column rapidly disappearing into the darkness. Hearing the footsteps pounding up behind him, the point PF broke into a run to stay out in front, where he assumed he was supposed to be. With momentum begetting more momentum, the patrol was thundering toward the black and ominous treeline with all the stealth of a berserk elephant, the equipment of the men jingling and jangling with every step.
    â€œCatch him, Brannon, catch him,” Beebe wheezed.
    â€œCatch him hell,” Brannon panted back. “It’d be a lot easier to shoot him.”
    â€œWhat’s the word for ‘stop’?”
    â€œI don’t know. But I know the word for ‘water.’ Will that help?”
    â€œScrew it. Hold it up. I’m not going up against that treeline like this.”
    The two Marines jogged to a halt and leaned forward, hands on knees, to catch their breaths. Suong came panting up, followed at a few seconds’ interval by each of the other patrol members.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” gasped Faircloth, trying to untangle the straps of two LAWs from his neck. “I just don’t believe it.”
    â€œWhat’ll we do now?” Page asked. “Go back in?”
    â€œGo back?” Beebe replied. “Page, you’re out of your gourd. We just came out. I’ll camp out here before I’ll go back and face those others. We can’t go back in. We’ll have to wait.”
    The men sat down along the side of the road and waited. Five minutes passed, ten minutes.
    Brannon spoke. “Don’t look now but here comes Native Dancer. Walking. Slowly walking. Vee-re slowly walking. Like he’s all alone and doesn’t like it.”
    Up the path from the treeline, in a half-crouch, with his rifle at the ready, came the PF point. He was moving slowly and making no noise.
    â€œNow that’s good movement,” Brannon said. “He does everything right. He just does it sort of backward.”
    Suong went forward to talk with the point. When he came back, he pointed at the treeline and whispered, “VC, VC.”
    â€œI think it’s a crock,” Faircloth said. “He’s just trying to cover up for that guy screwing up.”
    â€œYou’re probably right,” Beebe said. “But at least Suong’s taking point. Let’s go.”
    They entered the treeline, and the visibility dropped from fifty feet to five. Houses were spaced near the path, which was overhung with coconut and banana trees and bordered by thorn thickets and broad-leafed shrubbery. In places the vegetation so overgrew the path that no light from the sky entered, and in those black tunnels each patroller proceeded by sound and guess only. He could see nothing.
    Suong moved quickly, too quickly for the Marines, who feared an ambush at any second and who were sure that the noise of their passage was traveling ahead of them. Once in the hamlet, the PFs wanted to stay close enough to the Marines to touch them at all times. If a PF felt a gap was opening between him and a Marine, he would run to close it, heedless of the crackling branches breaking under his feet.
    After several