We froze, staring into the ditch as the wounded NVA twisted in agony. His face was gone, his brain bulged 
from cracks in his skull, yet he lived and breathed, strange spasms inching him forward. If not for that head wound he might have been crawling. Was he really alive? It shouldn’t have mattered. He should have been one more dead gook, the same as the rest of them. But none of us raised a weapon to finish him off. And none of us knew why.
The lieutenant walked to the ditch, had a look, surprised we hadn’t popped the bastard, but made no move himself. Mousy the Christian thought to wait a few minutes.
“Let him die naturally,” he said. “Like the others.” He meant the other NVA killed in the ambush.
The lieutenant agreed. “Chow down, but make it quick,” he said.
LT knew we were tired, nervous. The last seven days had been one quick firefight after another. Nobody hurt, much ammo spent, a couple of blood trails, not a single body. But this morning things went well. It happened at sunrise: the the ear-splitting blast of six daisy-chained Claymores exploding all at once. Then silence, and we stuck our heads up to see…nothing. Not one fucking body. But then came the screams, and they howled like animals, the living and dead, hideously mangled, swept by the blast into the ditch.
We threw frags at the screaming, and clamped our hands over our ears, and kept throwing until the screams stopped and all we could hear was the rustling sound of bamboo.
The blast killed four outright. “Hamburged” we said of the mangled men. We finished off two barely alive, and now this one, this nightmare, this reward for an otherwise perfect ambush.
The six of us just stood there, waiting. None of us wanted to do it, but the son of a bitch just wouldn’t die. We couldn’t wait much longer so we figured why not the whole fucking platoon? They griped about spoiling their breakfast but got off their asses and walked to the the ditch.
Fire in the hole,” I called out.
Locked and loaded, we raised our weapons.
“On three…two…one…”
The wreckage of a human being spasmed, from its ruined face came a gurgling sound. Arms twitching, legs convulsing, and the world erupted in gunfire.
Dodging the low trees and vines, the lieutenant ran to us, his RTO behind him.
“How many?” he said, thinking the NVA had returned. “Where are they?”
“Sir,” I said, “it was just us taking care of the prisoner.”
The others nodded. The LT looked down at what was left of him. Why had we used so much ammo, he asked. What made this so one different?
A grunt name Paul muttered, “’Cuz he moved, LT. He just kept moving.”
I backed him up. The others agreed. The lieutenant looked at us as if we were crazy. He told Mousey to search the body for intel before we moved out. Mousy the Christian knelt in the mud, snatched the dead man’s AK, ammo vest, his blood-soaked wallet. Inside were an I.D. card, some gook money, a photo of a young woman holding a child. They were smiling. Mousey handed me the rifle and ammo. He tossed the wallet to the lieutenant.
As we moved out I dropped back to Paul. “Did you think he was still alive?” I asked.
Paul kept walking. “I don’t know, man. He was… I don’t know.”
By evening the story was changing. Mousy remembered something we hadn’t talked about.
“The faces in the photo,” he said.
That’s what stayed with him. The image of the young woman and her infant. Her dumb smile, not knowing her husband, unrecognizable, was dead. One small thing, an insignificant detail, in a perfectly planned ambush we hoped to forget.
The Man Who Would Not Die – by Jack Parente
We froze, staring into the ditch as the wounded NVA twisted in agony. His face was gone, his brain bulged
from cracks in his skull, yet he lived and breathed, strange spasms inching him forward. If not for that head wound he might have been crawling. Was he really alive? It shouldn’t have mattered. He should have been one more dead gook, the same as the rest of them. But none of us raised a weapon to finish him off. And none of us knew why.
The lieutenant walked to the ditch, had a look, surprised we hadn’t popped the bastard, but made no move himself. Mousy the Christian thought to wait a few minutes.
“Let him die naturally,” he said. “Like the others.” He meant the other NVA killed in the ambush.
The lieutenant agreed. “Chow down, but make it quick,” he said.
LT knew we were tired, nervous. The last seven days had been one quick firefight after another. Nobody hurt, much ammo spent, a couple of blood trails, not a single body. But this morning things went well. It happened at sunrise: the the ear-splitting blast of six daisy-chained Claymores exploding all at once. Then silence, and we stuck our heads up to see…nothing. Not one fucking body. But then came the screams, and they howled like animals, the living and dead, hideously mangled, swept by the blast into the ditch.
We threw frags at the screaming, and clamped our hands over our ears, and kept throwing until the screams stopped and all we could hear was the rustling sound of bamboo.
The blast killed four outright. “Hamburged” we said of the mangled men. We finished off two barely alive, and now this one, this nightmare, this reward for an otherwise perfect ambush.
The six of us just stood there, waiting. None of us wanted to do it, but the
son of a bitch just wouldn’t die. We couldn’t wait much longer so we figured why not the whole fucking platoon? They griped about spoiling their breakfast but got off their asses and walked to the the ditch.
Fire in the hole,” I called out.
Locked and loaded, we raised our weapons.
“On three…two…one…”
The wreckage of a human being spasmed, from its ruined face came a gurgling sound. Arms twitching, legs convulsing, and the world erupted in gunfire.
Dodging the low trees and vines, the lieutenant ran to us, his RTO behind him.
“How many?” he said, thinking the NVA had returned. “Where are they?”
“Sir,” I said, “it was just us taking care of the prisoner.”
The others nodded. The LT looked down at what was left of him. Why had we used so much ammo, he asked. What made this so one different?
A grunt name Paul muttered, “’Cuz he moved, LT. He just kept moving.”
I backed him up. The others agreed. The lieutenant looked at us as if we were crazy. He told Mousey to search the body for intel before we moved out. Mousy the Christian knelt in the mud, snatched the dead man’s AK, ammo vest, his blood-soaked wallet. Inside were an I.D. card, some gook money, a photo of a young woman holding a child. They were smiling. Mousey handed me the rifle and ammo. He tossed the wallet to the lieutenant.
As we moved out I dropped back to Paul. “Did you think he was still alive?” I asked.
By evening the story was changing. Mousy remembered something we hadn’t talked about.
“The faces in the photo,” he said.
That’s what stayed with him. The image of the young woman and her infant. Her dumb smile, not knowing her husband, unrecognizable, was dead. One small thing, an insignificant detail, in a perfectly planned ambush we hoped to forget.