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Foster's Short Story: Where To Go To Hell

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Bullets screamed past his ear and splintered the bamboo beside him. Sergeant Wolf Foster, dove to the jungle floor and tried to determine the direction it came from. It was the first indication his platoon had crossed into hostile territory. "Not today, you rat bastards, you won't be killing ' The Wolf' today." Sergeant Foster growled, and suppressed the foolish urge to stand and howl, as he swiftly lay down an answering barrage of gunfire. He wasn't fast enough. Torres took two in the chest. Sgt. Foster heard the wet, sucking noise of Torres' drowning in his blood, and cursed the good ole U.S. of A's fruitless war against communism. The brass would give Torres a shiny, posthumous, medal for his heroism, ship him home in a body bag, and …show more content…

His body spent every night in sweat drenched, remembrance; no matter how much he polluted it in search of a few moments respite from this land of death. Foster's fingers subconsciously touched the shirt pocket holding the photo of his son. He needed the reminder of why he wouldn't give the Viet Cong the satisfaction of dying. The platoon, scrambled to cover their asses, and joined him in strafing the undergrowth. Flashes from the enemy's muzzles, gave the Viet Cong's positions away. One by one, the men tossed their grenades toward them, and the ground erupted. Foster, pulled the pin on his grenade with his teeth, counted to three, and lobbed the explosive in the first sniper's general direction. Moments later, hell opened up, and dragged the 'Cong bastard into its depths. He hand-signaled a ceasefire to his corporal, and gave orders to regroup. The platoon, held their gunfire, and changed formation. They spread into an inverted V, with Sergeant Foster at point, and waited for his signal to advance up the hill. At the first volley of gunfire, Turner, the platoon radioman, had called base requesting air support. Their timing was perfect. The men moved forward with the jets swooping in, simultaneously from

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