more magic. None.
And also with all due respect to our brave brothers of the United States Army, the Marines are not a defensive force like they are and we should not everâve been asked to hang around and defend any part of this country. We werenât trained for that. We are an offensive force.
âHold fire! Hold fire!â Lt. Jupp calls out as loud as he can and nobody, but nobody, holds fire right away, not even me. I think heâs been calling it out for a while before I even realize heâs doing it, to be honest, because my ears are filled with the awesomeness of cannon fire and with my pounding, heaving heart, and truth is if the lieutenant wanted to be heard when he shouted he maybe should be a little more selective about all the shouting he does all the time.
But thatâs no excuse, really, and when I realize whatâs what I stop firing well before the other guys do.
I love the 81-mm mortar every bit as much as the M-67 rocket launcher and I hope I never have to choose between the two of them.
Itâs a little frightening, a little embarrassing to watch Jupp have to go up to one bloodthirsty Marine afteranother and insist that he stop pummeling whatever is left of the enemy stronghold down there. Itâs even to the point where he comes scary close to Gillespieâs line of fire as he cranes in to shout at him. Gillespie is chuckling like a movie villain and Jupp is leaning harder and harder into him, screaming. Iâm pretty sure Gillespieâs running out of ammo now is the only thing that saves the lieutenantâs life, though not his dignity.
I know how the guys feel. Those enemy guys, whoever they are down there in whatever setup they have going there, have hardly done enough to shake us up too badly. But still, every cell in my body wants to use up every bit of ordnance in our tank to blow them to pieces and blow their pieces to pieces, and those pieces to pieces. They canât be dead enough.
But itâs no excuse for ignoring a direct order.
When the men are all finally convinced to stop shooting, we listen.
There is no return fire. No rifle shots, no rocketsâ red glare. By far the most noticeable noise in this whole soggy, leafy, phospho-smelly patch of jungle is the heavy marathon breathing of Lt. Jupp.
Itâs hard to tell for sure which is making him hyper-ventilate like heâs doing: the rush of the action or the effort of shouting every one of his men individually into the off position. At any rate, what is for sure is that thiswas not the walk-in-the-park assignment he was expecting it to be.
I have never been more excited in my life.
But I have also never seen Lt. Jupp so tense. His eyes are bugging and bloodshot.
âIs everybody okay?â he says, snarly and shaky both.
There is much gruntage, no words, everybody pretty clearly being okay.
âOnce again, superb fighting, men. Job extremely well done. Might have expected you to be rusty from inaction, but you were â to a man â ready, willing, and able, and far too much a match for whoever and whatever was down there. Now, I donât know about you all, but I am ready to get back and get some chow, huh?â
It starts with both corporals. I watch as they go all wide-eyed, their jaws tensing. Then the look makes its way down the chain of command, starting with the more disrespectful privates, Gillespie and Marquette, and passing to Hunter and Squid and, I realize, to me, too. There is genuine shock in these looks. Shock and fury.
âLieutenant,â Cherry says, âwe have to go down there.â
âWe have to follow up,â McClean says. âWe need toverify, visually, what we had down there. What was, what is, what we accomplished.â
âWhat might still need to be accomplished,â Cherry adds.
Jupp, to my disappointment, gives them an unmistakable are-you-stupid? look.
âWe know what is left to be accomplished, corporal. Nothing. Put
And also with all due respect to our brave brothers of the United States Army, the Marines are not a defensive force like they are and we should not everâve been asked to hang around and defend any part of this country. We werenât trained for that. We are an offensive force.
âHold fire! Hold fire!â Lt. Jupp calls out as loud as he can and nobody, but nobody, holds fire right away, not even me. I think heâs been calling it out for a while before I even realize heâs doing it, to be honest, because my ears are filled with the awesomeness of cannon fire and with my pounding, heaving heart, and truth is if the lieutenant wanted to be heard when he shouted he maybe should be a little more selective about all the shouting he does all the time.
But thatâs no excuse, really, and when I realize whatâs what I stop firing well before the other guys do.
I love the 81-mm mortar every bit as much as the M-67 rocket launcher and I hope I never have to choose between the two of them.
Itâs a little frightening, a little embarrassing to watch Jupp have to go up to one bloodthirsty Marine afteranother and insist that he stop pummeling whatever is left of the enemy stronghold down there. Itâs even to the point where he comes scary close to Gillespieâs line of fire as he cranes in to shout at him. Gillespie is chuckling like a movie villain and Jupp is leaning harder and harder into him, screaming. Iâm pretty sure Gillespieâs running out of ammo now is the only thing that saves the lieutenantâs life, though not his dignity.
I know how the guys feel. Those enemy guys, whoever they are down there in whatever setup they have going there, have hardly done enough to shake us up too badly. But still, every cell in my body wants to use up every bit of ordnance in our tank to blow them to pieces and blow their pieces to pieces, and those pieces to pieces. They canât be dead enough.
But itâs no excuse for ignoring a direct order.
When the men are all finally convinced to stop shooting, we listen.
There is no return fire. No rifle shots, no rocketsâ red glare. By far the most noticeable noise in this whole soggy, leafy, phospho-smelly patch of jungle is the heavy marathon breathing of Lt. Jupp.
Itâs hard to tell for sure which is making him hyper-ventilate like heâs doing: the rush of the action or the effort of shouting every one of his men individually into the off position. At any rate, what is for sure is that thiswas not the walk-in-the-park assignment he was expecting it to be.
I have never been more excited in my life.
But I have also never seen Lt. Jupp so tense. His eyes are bugging and bloodshot.
âIs everybody okay?â he says, snarly and shaky both.
There is much gruntage, no words, everybody pretty clearly being okay.
âOnce again, superb fighting, men. Job extremely well done. Might have expected you to be rusty from inaction, but you were â to a man â ready, willing, and able, and far too much a match for whoever and whatever was down there. Now, I donât know about you all, but I am ready to get back and get some chow, huh?â
It starts with both corporals. I watch as they go all wide-eyed, their jaws tensing. Then the look makes its way down the chain of command, starting with the more disrespectful privates, Gillespie and Marquette, and passing to Hunter and Squid and, I realize, to me, too. There is genuine shock in these looks. Shock and fury.
âLieutenant,â Cherry says, âwe have to go down there.â
âWe have to follow up,â McClean says. âWe need toverify, visually, what we had down there. What was, what is, what we accomplished.â
âWhat might still need to be accomplished,â Cherry adds.
Jupp, to my disappointment, gives them an unmistakable are-you-stupid? look.
âWe know what is left to be accomplished, corporal. Nothing. Put
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