Loon - Jack McLean [65]
I rechecked the inside of my pack—four C ration meals, halazone water purification tablets, one claymore mine with detonator and wire, a clean pair of socks, two packs of cigarettes, four rolls of 35 mm film, a block of C-4 plastic explosive, two blasting caps, a fuse, bags of loose candy left over from my twenty-first birthday the week before, and a fresh box of .223 caliber rifle ammo. In the large outside pockets were stuffed four 60 mm mortar rounds. I tightened the straps, readjusted the harness for a clean fit, and buckled an entrenching tool to the back.
The chin strap on my helmet was rechecked to be certain it would hold through a rough landing. I placed a new plastic bottle of insect repellent securely inside the black rubber tire band that circled my helmet, and added a dirty little Harvard pennant to the other side. The helmet pennant had been my visible logo since returning from R & R.
My nylon pants contained a camera in the right thigh pocket. Two more packs of cigarettes were in the left pocket, along with a small roll of toilet paper. Other pockets contained a Zippo lighter and a five-dollar bill from my grandmother. She always sent five dollars on my birthday. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I kept it in my pocket, where it wouldn’t get lost.
Finally, I rechecked my flak jacket. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven hand grenades—four high explosive, one yellow smoke, one red smoke, and one willy peter (white phosphorus). The pins were securely intact.
On the ground, next to my pack, lay the four final components to my gear that would go on after I saddled up. They included my rifle, a 60 mm mortar tube, four bandoliers of machine gun ammo, and a LAW (light antitank weapon) portable rocket. All grunts shared the burden of transporting machine gun ammo, 60 mm mortar rounds, and rockets.
Satisfied that I had everything, I saddled up—web gear harness over each shoulder and secured in front; flak jacket vest slid on, zippered, and snapped. My pack was swung around and secured one arm at a time. I hung bandoliers, mortar, and rocket around the outside. My rifle was slung over my shoulder. I stood tall, stretched, felt the full weight, jumped, and wiggled several times to be certain all was secure, then slowly sank to the ground, knees first, while executing a carefully calculated roll that left me sitting—comfortably—propped up by my pack. I could sit like that forever.
I untied and retied my boot laces with double knots.
I was ready.
During the previous month, my thoughts at idle times like this had turned to my coming college life. While on a late-night watch, or filling sandbags, or burning shitters, I’d think of walking to class on a crisp fall day across Harvard Yard. I’d fantasize about meeting girls and going to football games. Occasionally I’d feel concern about competing academically, but since graduating from Parris Island, I knew that I could achieve anything that I put my mind to. I’d be sure to avoid math, however, just in case. As late May turned to June, most of my incoming classmates were just now graduating from high school.
There were no such daydreams this afternoon. The next hour would be the most critical of my life. The little free space in