Creative Writing: Instant

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Creative Writing: Instant

Creative Writing: Instant

I'll always remember Instant. That was the nickname the men had tacked onto
the muscled giant that wielded the M60 in my unit. "Instant" was short for
"Instant Death." And I'll always remember the first time I saw Instant in
action.
I was a new Lieutenant assigned to Vietnam. Back then, the Army didn't try to
develop any "team spirit" within the corps; men were rotated frequently before
any friendships developed. Consequently, my men were a group of strangers united
only by the need to survive. They were eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds with the
eyes of old men. My first real assignment was to check a tiny hamlet, Dien Hoa.
Army Intelligence believed the Viet Cong were operating from Dien Hoa. Our job
was to determine if that was correct.
We rode in an olive-drab chopper. The whooping blades of the helicopter give
us a little relief from the relentless heat of 'Nam; the blades cut the thick,
humid air and pushed a breeze downward over the passenger compartment.
Soon, we circled the landing zone. The LZ looked cold. There's only one way
to find out if it is really cold, I thought as I double checked my M16. If no
one zapped us when we entered, it was cold. If they did, it wasn't.
"Lock and load," I yelled.
The helicopter circled low and slowed down until it almost hovered four feet
from the ground. The door gunner mashed the spade grips on his .30 caliber M60
machine gun. The gun spewed bullets over the field below us.
It was time to jump off the skids while we skimmed above the surface of the
lush, green valley. My stomach felt like it was turning wrong-side-out.
We dropped into the grass, stumbling under heavy packs and the weight of ammo
and weapons. I wondered about snakes and hoped the groan I mad when I hit the
ground was drowned by the noise of the helicopters. Though the helicopter gunner
continued firing into the heavy growth to the north of them, there was no return
fire. We were safe for the moment.
"OK," I yelled signaling with my hands the way you're not supposed to. Hand
signals are a good way to mark yourself as the leader. It's just the thing enemy
snipers watch for. But few of my twenty-seven men could hear me over the roar
and firing of the helicopters. I had no choice. "Move out. On the double," I
ordered. The choppers lifted. We were on our own.
The soldiers started with the usual complaining but then grew strangely quiet.
They knew we had to move quic

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