No Man's Land

Whether you have the title or not, you always lead people...somewhere

They give you everything you need before you go out into the bush. Training until you think you're going to die just from that, forget the war. They give you the gear, the armor, the weapons. And you feel real cocky once you got it all on and down. Put a gun in your hand and suddenly you're all-powerful. You're the baddest, and nothing and nobody can touch you. You're loaded and ready.

That was me. Green as grass. Then the time came to hit the bush. Scared! God, I was so scared. One of the guys in my squad, Henderson, a real cowboy from Texas, was assigned by our lieutenant, Franc, to quickly teach me the fundamentals. He told them to me in one sentence as we were walking out on my first day: Always watch your back for the unexpected, work as a team with the squad, and never, never get stuck in no-man's land. That was neutral territory. You had a better chance of living if you ran stark naked behind the enemy line than if you got tagged in no-man's land.

I listened to everything with half-an-ear. The darkness of the bush seemed to swallow you whole. Several times that night I almost got too far away from the squad before Franc yanked me back by the scruff of my neck scaring the hell out of me. Stay with the squad, he reminded me. Stay with it or you're dead. Don't be stupid. Don't stay green.

It was a couple weeks later. I was getting in good with the guys: there was Chapman, a real hardcase from Montana; Mitchell, a reformed geek from Virginia; Henderson, who was born singing the Star Spangled Banner; and Franc who'd left a position as a second-string quarterback at UCLA--for this. Franc even taught me the squad's bush calls. I started out sounding like I was just sucking air. After some practice though I actually got out something that resembled a bird call. Finally, I thought--watching the newest recruits to our company fumble around in the bush‑-I'm losing my greenness. Finally, someone else can be the one everybody picks on.

One day, though, I got cocky. I got a little too loose, a little too comfortable. We were out and I was taking in the sights--the sky ripping blue, the bush smelling musty and thick and sweet after all the rain--and I didn't hear someone sneaking up.

A bullet ripped through the air near my head convulsing my heart to a tom-tom. A body suddenly crashed down beside me and I was staring into the dead eyes of the enemy, a knife longer than my arm still in his hand. I glanced up. Henderson stood over me. Out here, he said, you can't shut your eyes, man. Never, or you're dead.

After a time, I learned to ride point in the squad. It wasn't my favorite position. Most of the time it scared the hell out of me. But I certainly was never so alert as I was when I rode point. Yet like everything else, you get used to it. And soon point came to be just another position in the squad.

One day we were out and Franc sent me out on point. I hadn't slept much the night before--Mitchell joked I had malaria--and I was feeling a little sick. I jogged up to take Chapman's place in front.

I walked for a long time, my senses half-in, half-out of the bush. I was thinking about home, about the big brown lounge chair in the living room that my mother's cat had frayed, the view from King's Point Beach, strawberry milkshakes—

I stopped because suddenly something seemed...strange. I cocked my ears and listened.

Nothing. And I mean nothing.

No insects, no birds, no nothing.

I hit the ground just as a line of bullets ripped over my head. Quickly, I moved, flat on my belly back toward the squad. Had they seen what I'd missed?

The markers--the bloody markers to No-Man's Land.

Twenty yards, thirty, fifty. I stopped and listened.

Nothing.

How far had I come in? I looked around. Nothing was familiar. Where were the guys? I was supposed to be leading.

My senses were magnetic. Intensified. That's why I heard them.

And not my squad.

After you're in the bush awhile, you get to know the sound, the movements, the mind of the enemy. If you don't, you're dead because they get to know you. Very well.

I could hear them coming. Two, maybe three of them.

I ran on my stomach, my legs zigzagging behind me. Twenty, thirty yards.

I stopped. Still nothing was familiar. Had I wandered even past no-man's land into enemy territory--without know it?!

Then another sound joined the one behind me. It came from ahead. I listened and strained with all the energy in me, hoping, praying it wasn't what I thought it was.

Henderson was whistling the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

I pursed my lips together and whistled one of Franc's bush calls.

Time stopped.

Everything and everybody stopped. The enemy behind and the squad before.

Then I began to crawl again. And as I moved, those behind me moved too.

And they were coming faster. They could smell me. My jacket starting to feel like sandpaper on my stomach. Sweat poured in my eyes.

And still they were coming. Coming quicker.

I pursed my lips one more time to strain out a warning.

They were right on me—

Henderson's gun muzzle in my face scared the hell out of me.

The rounds were suddenly flying and I just lay there my arms over my head, Henderson's rifle hammering in my ears, and breathing in the muddy air between my face and the ground.

There were several minutes of silence when I finally raised my head.

Franc, Henderson, Mitchell, and Chapman all stood over me.

"I...I'm sorry, sir," I mumbled.

Franc hunched down beside me. "No man's land," he said. "You walked straight into no-man's land. What in the hell were you doing?"

"I...I don't know. I wasn't watching."

"You were leading! When you lead you always, always watch. 'Cause it won't be just you that ends up dead. It'll be all of us."

© 1989 K.K. Pullen