He waited on the division base camp log pad with his pack, M-16, and three FNGs. He had 30 days on the wake-up; but after waking up, he tried not to think about that. He just knew he had to go out to the bush one more time again before a freedom-bird was in his future.

There would be no rear-job for him. He smoked dope, didn’t like lifers, and lifers didn’t like him. He figured he’d be in the bush until a week before DEROS. He didn’t expect to be cut any slack.

He sat down, resting his back on his pack which was set a distance apart from the three, already sitting, new guys. He reached into one of the big side-pockets of his pants and produced a warm can of coke, opened the tab-top, and looked at the FNGs before taking a slug of cola.

“Ya know where we’re goin’?” One FNG spoke up.

“Alpha company,” the short-timer replied with a sad smile.

“No, I mean where,” added the FNG.

The short-timer gave a flat-palmed point to where he thought west was, “Oh thataway, I guess.”

Another FNG spoke up, “How much time you got left?”

The short-timer stopped his smile, “’Bout that much…you bic?” The FNG didn’t reply.

The short-timer looked away, glad that he was already toasted from firing up a cann-sai smoke earlier that morning. The short-timer knew he was headed back to the Cambodia border—it didn’t much matter where. What was waiting was god-forsaken jungle and gook bunker complexes with NVA dug-in deep.

A smile came back to the short-timer, “Are any of you guys from Cal?”

One FNG piped up, “Yeah…you?”

The short-timer grinned and shook his head, “…Nah.” The short-timer thought about Perkins—he had been from Laguna Beach—good lookin’ guy—surfer type—had six days left and was still in the bush—a mortar landed on him during a log—dead on —disintegrated him—FUBAR—we found parts of his head and dental work and put it in a plastic bag—other parts of him in different plastic bags—nobody else got hurt at all—like that mortar was telegraphed for him—like he was short, but no way was he gonna DEROS—that mortar came in…and his time was fucking up.

The sound of the log bird was in the sky, now; and the company’s first sergeant came riding up to the pad on a flat-bed all-terrain vehicle. He was there to deliver the last of the food and water and make sure all the G.I.s made their bird. He was a short-stocky, middle-aged Polynesian man who always carried a deceptive smile. He got out of the driver’s seat of the “mule.” “This is your bird, men,” he said to the FNGs, who got on their feet and adjusted the packs on their backs.

The short-timer still sat plopped against his pack. The first sergeant looked at him, “Sorry that rear-job fell through, Animal…have fun in the bush.”

“Yeah…fuck you too,” said the short-timer. “Catch you on the flip-flop, Top.”

The slick came in, got loaded by two shirtless REMFs, then the 4 G.I.s boarded. The Huey skied away, heading for its last log-lift of the day for alpha company.

The air was cool and refreshing on the chopper ride a thousand feet in the air. The short-timer dangled his legs out an open side of the cargo compartment. This was the part of the deal he didn’t mind; he loved chopper rides. It was the closest thing he could imagine to what a magic-carpet-ride was like.

The slick got close to the log-site and descended; but out of a whim the pilot decided to approach from a different side of the wood-line. That was where the gook .51 was. It opened up and pounded orange tracers into the low-flying Huey.

The short-timer probably saw an orange streak for a nano-second before the lead of a huge bullet tore through his head.

Everyone on board the chopper was killed in its fiery crash, except one FNG who jumped out and slid down a high row of bamboo stalks.

We never did find the short-timer’s head; and what was left of his body, was crispy critters.