Wayne Holloway was glad to be in Charlie Company’s weapons platoon. For him, wrestling with the heavy and awkward 81 mm mortar tubes and the heavy ammunition they fired was certainly no fun but it was a lot better than being a rifleman. The infantry rifle company was normally configured with three rifle platoons and a weapons platoon. The rifle platoons had the M16s, machine guns and grenade launchers. The weapons platoon had the mortars and recoilless rifles. Sometimes the company would establish some sort of base of operations, either with another company, or even with all four companies of the battalion. What that meant was that the weapons platoon soldiers tended to stay in place and not take part in the daily search and destroy missions, the sweeps. Neither would they be involved in ambush patrols that were sent out each night. It was the rifle platoons that made the daily sweeps and the night ambushes. Weapons platoon would stay put, ready to provide indirect fire support for the rifle platoons, any time, day or night. That suited Wayne Holloway just fine. But that was only usually the case. At times the weapons platoon became just another rifle platoon. The mission that had brought the men to Hoc Mon meant the Manchus were constantly on the move. There would be no chance to set up mortars. Each member of weapons platoon would become just another rifleman.

    In addition to this unwelcome role, Wayne Holloway had in the back of his mind the curious relationship that had developed with Leroy “Chief” Nelson. The two had met when Holloway first joined weapons platoon but really had not gotten to know each other. “Chief,” a nickname that the Navajo soldier from the reservation outside Flagstaff, Arizona would have preferred not to have, was shy and a loner. The two had found themselves together on guard duty one night and Holloway took the opportunity to try to get to know Chief better. He had tried to start a conversation but his attempts at small talk were met with a stony silence. Thinking that perhaps Nelson hadn’t heard him well, Holloway continued his banter, at times repeating what he had said earlier when he was abruptly cut off. “I don’t like you,” was all Nelson said. For the outgoing Holloway that blunt comment hurt. And it started him wondering, even if just a little, am I hard to get along with? Does he think that because I’m a southern boy, I am a racist? Alvin Cayson doesn’t seem to think so and he’s black. We get along real well.

    It was just another thing in the back of Holloway’s mind as he tried to find his place in Charlie Company. It would help to have some friends because some of what he was experiencing was pretty hard to understand, like the day he came across a dead Manchu. He didn’t know the man, couldn’t see his face in fact. Holloway had been walking along a dike as Charlie Company moved to support another of the battalion’s companies and there he was, an American boy, laid out on his back, covered in a rubber-coated green poncho with the boots sticking out. Holloway didn’t know how to react. It looked so strange, especially the boy’s boots. His eyes kept being drawn to the boots, neatly tied, the laces tucked away in the tops, the jungle fatigue trousers neatly bloused. Why was such a simple image so disturbing? It wasn’t like looking at some horrible, gruesome wound. You would expect that to be upsetting. It was just a pair of boots, the polish long worn off from the constant cycle of immersion and drying out as the soldier walked the rice paddies and canals. Maybe it was the just plain normality of it all that made you wonder. Had the boy put on dry socks that morning? Some guys were really good at keeping one pair of dry socks in reserve so that after even the worst of nights lying out in the rain or submerged in some canal, there would be that singular satisfaction that only dry socks could bring. Had he been one of those guys? The boy could not have known what lay ahead as he put his boots on that morning could he? Had he just put his boots on as he always did, maybe even enjoying, as Holloway sometimes did, the comforting feeling of a pair of dry socks?

    Holloway had to look away but the image of the boots remained. This is real, he thought. A few minutes later Holloway found himself walking passed a dead enemy soldier. His body was hard to look at too. Holloway began to think, I could be killed too. Or maybe I might have to kill someone else. He wasn’t sure at that moment which was worse and he couldn’t help wondering, do all soldiers feel this way, or is it just me?