Ambush
When she was nine, my daughter Kathleen asked if I had ever killed anyone. She knew about the war; she knew I’d been a soldier. “You keep writing these war stories,” she said, “so I guess you must’ve killed somebody.” It was a difficult moment, but I did what seemed right, which was to say, “Of course not,” and then to take her onto my lap and hold her for a while.
Someday, I hope, she’ll ask again. But here I want to pretend she’s a grown- up. I want to tell her exactly what happened, or what I remember happening, and then I want to say to her that as a little girl she was absolutely right. This is why I keep writing war stories:
He was a short, slender young man of about twenty. I was afraid of him— afraid of something—and as he passed me on the trail I threw a grenade that exploded at his feet and killed him.
Or to go back:
Shortly after midnight we moved into the ambush site outside My Khe. The whole platoon was there, spread out in the dense brush along the trail, and for five hours nothing at all happened. We were working in two-man teams—one man on guard while the other slept, switching off every two hours—and I remember it was still dark when Kiowa shook me awake for the final watch. The night was foggy and hot. For the first few moments I felt lost, not sure about directions, groping for my helmet and weapon. I reached out and found three grenades and lined them up in front of me; the pins had already been straightened for quick throwing. And then for maybe half an hour I kneeled there and waited. Very gradually, in tiny slivers, dawn began to break through the fog, and from my position in the brush I could see ten or fifteen meters up the trail. The mosquitoes were fierce. I remember slapping at them, wondering if I should wake up Kiowa and ask for some repellent, then thinking it was a bad idea, then looking up and seeing the young man come out of the fog. He wore black clothing and rubber sandals and a gray ammunition belt. His shoulders were slightly stooped, his head cocked to the side as if listening for something. He seemed at ease. He carried his weapon in one hand, muzzle down, moving without any hurry up the center of the trail. There was no sound at all—none that I can remember. In a way, it seemed, he was part of the morning fog, or my own imagination, but there was also the reality of what was happening in my stomach. I had already pulled the pin on a grenade. I had come up to a crouch. It was entirely automatic. I did not hate the young man; I did not see him as the enemy; I did
not ponder issues of morality or politics or military duty. I crouched and kept my head low. I tried to swallow whatever was rising from my stomach, which tasted like lemonade, something fruity and sour. I was terrified. There were no thoughts about killing. The grenade was to make him go away—just evaporate—and I leaned back and felt my head go empty and then felt it fill up again. I had already thrown the grenade before telling myself to throw it.
The brush was dense, and I had to throw the grenade high without aiming. For a moment, it seemed to hang frozen in the air, like a camera capturing a single frame. I ducked, holding my breath, watching faint wisps of mist rise from the ground. The grenade hit once, then rolled along the path. I didn’t hear the explosion, but there must’ve been a sound because the young man dropped his weapon and started to run. He only managed a few steps before hesitating, turning right. He glanced down at the grenade, tried to cover his head, but never did. It hit me then—he was about to die. I wanted to warn him.
The grenade made a soft popping noise, quieter than I expected. A puff of dust and smoke—just a small, white burst—rose, and the young man jerked as though yanked by invisible strings. He fell on his back. His sandals had flown off. He lay still in the middle of the trail, his right leg twisted beneath him, one eye closed, the other a gaping, star-shaped hole.
For me, survival was never at risk. I was in no real danger. The young man likely would’ve passed by without noticing me. And I know it will always be like that.
Later, Kiowa tried to reassure me, saying the man would’ve died anyway, that it was a good kill, that I was a soldier, and this was war. He said I needed to stop staring and consider what the dead man would’ve done if the roles were reversed.
But none of that mattered. The words felt too complicated. All I could do was stand there, staring at the reality of his body.
Even now, I haven’t made peace with it. Sometimes I forgive myself; other times, I don’t. In the quiet moments of life, I try not to dwell on it. But occasionally, when I’m reading or sitting alone, I’ll see him again. He steps out of the morning fog, walking toward me with his shoulders slightly slouched, his head tilted to the side. He passes within a few yards, smiles to himself, and continues up the trail, disappearing back into the mist.
