SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

A mere ten steps beyond the tree line and their APC was out of sight, the jungle enveloping them in a darkness broken only by the intermittent spears of moonlight piercing the canopy above. They trod softly, carefully, for Charlie owns the night. Charlie… or whatever the fuck had ambushed Panther Troop back there.

They stumbled across a well-used trail heading north-west and flanked it from the shadows keeping about 6-feet to the left in case of trip wires or traps of any kind. It was slow going, both men conscious of time passing with every heartbeat. Then, seeing the silhouette of a man on the trail ahead, Fisher stopped and went to ground, Green doing the same as the man crawled along beside him.

“What do you make of that?” whispered Fisher.

“Look at the helmet,” said Green. “Looks like NVA to me.”

“The gook’s just standing there.”

Fisher dug through his webbing for the binoculars, raising them to his eyes as he focused on the silhouette. “It’s a North Vietnamese Reg all right. But he’s not gonna be any trouble.’ He passed the binoculars to Green as he stood.

“Dead?” asked Green as he peered through the glass. Then, in answering his own question. “Oh, yeah. He’s dead.”

They stepped carefully up to the body, the only thing keeping the morbid scarecrow upright being the spear plunged down through his skull and torso into the ground.

“Jesus-H-Christ! What kinda force does it take to do that to a man?” Fisher’s eyes were fixed on the tortured death mask of the NVA officer before him. “This is my second tour here Mr Green, and I ain’t never seen shit like this.”

“The Guardians,” said Green soberly. “It’s got to be the Guardians. Crusaders sent here to—” Fisher placed the palm of his hand across Green’s mouth, guiding him down to their knees just as the approaching sound of heavy footfalls commenced ahead. They backed away from the trail and into the jungle, low and silent, melding with the shadows. Breathlessly they waited and watched, the only living witnesses to the Guardians’ existence.

Marching in two perfect columns along the narrow track, the hunters’ moon broke through the jungle canopy enough to make out details of their sunken skeletal features, the flesh of their faces like dry parchment, their eyes pale, unblinking orbs beneath their helmets and chainmail. The Guardians’ tattered tunics bore multiple stains, although the broad cross of St George was still discernable across their chest plates; their armour rusted and beaten after centuries of battle damage. The absolute precision to their marching was amazing, their heads held high and facing towards the fight; shields held close to their left shoulder; broadswords clasped in their right gauntlet with one intent. To kill.

Fisher waited until the column had passed before keying his radio handset. “1-2-Alpha, this is Sunray.” He waited for a replay from the APC, Green and he just looking at each other in a mix of disbelief and wonder.

“This is 1-2-Alpha, Sunray,” came Fry’s voice. “Sarge, is that you?”

“Alpha, yeah, it’s me. Prepare for company. You have a hundred plus heading your way.”

“One hundred plus what are heading this way?”

“Guardians, Fry,” said Fisher. “Green’s story is true, every fucking word of it, and they’ll be in your location any time now. If they break into the clearing take out the second line with Claymores, and pepper the first line with phosphorus grenades from the turret launchers.”

“Got it, Sarge. Anything else?”

“Do we have an ETA on the tanks yet?”

“Thirty minutes or so, Sarge.”

“Then you and Jenkins fight the good fight from inside that bucket of ours until the MBTs arrive, got it? If you exit that vehicle you won’t stand a chance.”

“Got it, Sarge. Good luck out there.”

“Sunray out,” Fisher said, trying to imagine what might be happening back at the vehicle. Like the single blimp appearing on the ground radar as the Guardians broke cover. As two blimps turn to four, then eight then sixteen while their numbers multiplied before their eyes.

“We need to move,” said Green tapping his watch face.

“Yeah,” said Fisher. “Can’t miss Christ’s birthday and all.”

Passing the speared scarecrow, they made their way towards the cathedral site as the pop-pop-pop sound of claymore mines firing back at the clearing echoed through the undergrowth. The jungle trail progressively became strewn with the bloodied bodies of Vietnamese soldiers, cut to pieces and making the muddy trail blood-red underfoot. A little further on they heard the .50 calibre open fire back at the vehicle; and a little further again, they broke through the jungle to find themselves standing before the Guardian’s fortress.