"Nossir, Sorry, Sir"

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "You're a damn fool. We gotta wait here real quiet, and here you are comin' up outta nowhere and makin' all kinds of noise. If you don' wake the dead right 'bout now then I'll be damned. You git your fool ass over here and siddown." The sergeant continued to swear under his breath. This was not the first time the new guy had done something foolish and put everyone's lives at risk. As far as the sergeant was concerned, though, it would be the last. "This is the last time I put up with this kind of behavior," he growled.
"Yessir, I'm sorry, sir." The new guy shifted uncomfortably, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. Sweat rolled in large, slow beads down his face.
"Damn right you are. I oughtta throw you to those yellow dogs right here an' now."  His tirade was over, though, and he began to be sorry for the new guy. Sure, he was pretty foolheaded, but the sergeant knew he was trying. Guys like him belonged back behind the lines, handling the mess or sitting in an officer's tent behind a typewriter. The real fault, he knew, was with the administration. He would try to go a little easier on the new guy. The sergeant was a softie, and everyone but the new guy knew it. "All right man," he softened his tone. "We're jus' sittin' here waitin' for orders to come down from the top. We ain't seen nobody yet, but you better keep your eyes w-i-i-i-d-e open," the sergeant emphasized. At this point, the most he could do was warn the man, talk straight and clear about what he expected. Tomorrow he would see if he could get the guy transferred.
"Yessir, sorry, sir," he mumbled again.
"Git down next to me," directed the sergeant, and waved his hand impatiently.
The man crouched down next to him, continuing to rock on the balls of his feet, as sweat still rolled over his drawn face. It was then that the sergeant noticed the man's hands, clenched around the barrel of his rifle so tightly the color had drained from his knuckles. They were shaking violently.
"Calm down, man," the sergeant whispered.
"Yessir, sorry, sir."
"God, you're givin' me the jitters, shakin' like that."
"Sorry, sir."
"You don't talk much."
"Nossir, sorry, sir."
"Jesus." The sergeant swore quietly. Nobody could call this guy the sharpest knife in the drawer. He would have to ignore the man and focus on his job. He peered out over the top of the ravine against which he and the others lay. Dusk was settling over the jungle, the half-light falling slowly from the tree tops onto the damp earth below. The dusk created shadows that played with his eyes. Suddenly, a slight movement about fifty feet in front of the ravine caught his eye. At the same time, the new guy slipped in the soft soil and knocked against his shoulder.
"Dammit! I thought I saw somethin' up there, an' you distracted me an' i can't find it no more," he seethed quietly to the man.
"Sorry, sir."
"Git down on your belly like me an' take a look-see over that ravine. I'm done pokin' my head up like a fool. I ain't gettin' killed over the likes of you."
"Nossir, sorry sir." The man remained where he was, on his knees, elbows propped, hands tightly gripping the metal. The sergeant waited for the man to get up.
"Nossir," the man whispered, white hands still shaking crazily.
"Nossir what?" breathed the sergeant furiously. "Was that a, 'Nossir, I ain't gettin' up there', like I thought I heard?"
"Yessir, I'm afraid so, sir."
"O-o-o-h-h-h you did not just say that."
"I'm afraid I did, sir, sorry, sir." The man's voice was barely audible.
The sergeant was furious. "Get up there, now," he paused between each word, pronouncing each one slowly and carefully, so their meaning could not be mistaken. His voice was tight. This was no longer funny. A damn fool man like this could get the whole squadron shot to hell.
The man remained where he was, and did not respond. The sergeant shoved him with the heel of his hand. As the sergeant leaned in and shoved, touching the man's shoulder, he realized that the man was soaked, and the salty, ripe smell of his sweat rose up from his body. The sergeant could smell the man's fear, but he was resolute.
"Take a look over that hill right now before I shove my gun right up your fool ass."
The man did not respond. The sergeant shoved him again, this time with the butt of his machine gun.
"Don't touch me! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" The man was nearly hysterical now, nearly shouting. He leaped to his feet and dropped his rifle. "Don't touch me," he repeated, quietly this time.
"Shit man, git down," the sergeant urged, surprised. "C'mon, you'll get killed standin' up there."
"Yessir, sorry, sir, don't touch me, sir," the man repeated, in one breath.
"Alright, alright, but git the hell down!"
The man hesitated, and the sergeant could see the fear in his eyes. A long minute passed, both men frozen in place, breathing heavily, staring at the other.Then, slowly, the man crumpled to the ground. The sergeant stared at him, unsure what to do. He was afraid to give the man his weapon back, but afraid to leave him unarmed in case of attack. He remembered the unidentified shadow he had seen, the original cause of the man's outburst.
"Git on your knees," he ordered gruffly.
"Yessir, sorry, sir." The man struggled to his knees, grasped his rifle without being told, and commenced to shake and sweat in place, rocking slowly from side to side.
"Dammit," grumbled the sergeant. "The least you couldda done was git shot while you were standin' up there an' then at least you'd be outta my hands an' into the Lord's. Didja manage to git a look-see while you were standin' up there at least, make yourself useful for once, maybe? You ain't even worth the bullet it would take to kill you." The sergeant raged under his breath, not caring if the man heard him or not. "Well didja see anything? Huh?"
"Nossir, sorry, sir."
     The sergeant was not surprised."Christ." He shook his head.

     "I'm sorr - "

     "Shut up," the sergeant cut the man off. He did not want to hear the man apologize again. He had wasted enough time already and the situation was getting serious. He was sure he had seen movement in the near distance. He lay against the damp soil of the ravine, thinking. To his right and left his men lay in similar positions, quiet and still and calm. They relied on him. Even the fool probably relied on him, he realized. He would have to take another look."Alright, man," he addressed him. "I'm goin' up to take another look. Cover me, an' I won't ask you to git up here with me."

       "Yessir." The man's hands shook, although less violently than before.

       The sergeant hesitated. He did not want to place his life in this man's incapable hands. He looked to his left, and motioned to the man nearest him to crawl over. The man skimmed capably over the ground and dropped down next to the sergeant. It was the radioman.

        "Yessir?"

        The sergeant appreciated the man's skill and prompt obedience. This was the kind of man he liked to have in his squadron. This was the kind of man he could rely on."I'm goin' up to have look. Pretty damn sure I saw some movement a while back, but this fool here went nuts on me and I ain't sure now."

        The fool turned red, and opened his mouth, to apologize again, presumed the sergeant, but snapped it shut when he saw the withering looks both men sent his way.

        "Yessir, I saw that. Guys like that oughtta be shot for puttin' everybody else in danger," he agreed. "But you don't gotta worry 'bout me, I got your back."
        The sergeant crawled carefully up again, and looked out over the top of the ravine. He squinted his eyes and struggled to focus. The jungle had darkened considerably since he had last looked out into the shadows of the trees. He strained his eyes and ears, but the jungle was quiet, except for the soft crackle of the radio and the low voices of the radiomen coming through the airwaves. The radioman motioned for him to come down."Jus' heard from Alpha Company," he informed the sergeant. "They're heading back to camp now. They haven't seen anything, but they said to be careful. They've got some scouts who think there's a few spies or something out in the jungle now."

            "S-s-s-ir?" piped the fool, addressing the sergeant. "Are we heading back now?"

"Shut up an' let me think. We'll leave when it gets a little darker."

            "Maybe you should just stay," sneered the radioman to the fool.

            "Shut up," repeated the sergeant. "That ain't no way to talk."

            The radioman sulked and the fool became jumpier. He began, again, to rock from side to side on his knees. A cool wind rushed through the jungle, stirring the trees violently and casting an eery chill over the sergeant and his squadron.

            "Calm down, man," urged the sergeant."Jus' wait."

            But the man did not calm down. The wind grew steadily stronger and the trees slapped their limbs and leaves against each other. The sound of the wind and the sound of the shaking trees arched over the jungle in an ominous crescendo of noise. Like a tiger that soars through the air onto the back of its target, the sound of the jungle descended upon the men hunched beneath its boughs, deafening them.                                                       

            Suddenly, the man leaped to his feet, shouting, his screams swept up by the jungle and lost in the wind. "I can't wait! I can't wait! I can't wait!" He turned to run up the other side of the ravine, towards camp. The sergeant and the radioman dove to grab the man and missed. He leaped over the edge of the embankment, and as he did so, a single shot rang out, its sound somehow distinct from the jungle-noise, and arrested the flight of the fool. He paused in mid-step, and then collapsed and rolled down the steep slope.    

            The sergeant rushed to the man's side, instinctively keeping low. Around him, a volley of machine guns fired out over the ravine and into the darkness. What a fool, what a fool! The sergeant knelt by the man's side, peering in the darkness to find the point of the injury. He searched frantically, but could not see. “Hush now, rest easy,” he consoled the man as he writhed in the dirt. “You’ll be ok.” The man grew quieter, and lay still upon the damp earth.
            “Nossir, I won’t, sir,” the man whispered. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t wait, sir . . . couldn’t wait . . . had to go.”  The man’s voice halted, and his breathing ceased.                                

            “Damn,” muttered the sergeant, “damn. What a fool. They shouldn’t let these high strung types into the army.” Reaching over, he closed the man’s eyes. 

[The River]

The best part of the river isn’t even in the water; it is above it, on top of the lichen-clothed boulder that juts out over the water. Sometimes I lay with my belly flat against the cool, damp rock, staring down over the edge at our reflection. The water is clear enough, and when its still I can flip my world upside down, and pretend my rock and I are the reflections. But I can only see this on a still day.
  It’s hard to find the perfect kind of day. Most days, a slight wind glides over the surface of the water. It brushes the river, distorting our reflection, and sweeps upward, over my back, into the boughs of the sycamore trees overhead. I like the sound the wind makes, how it sweeps my hair away from my face, and the way it dries the sweat beads forming on my shoulders and back. The wind is always warm, because I don’t go down to the river in the winter.
  Even when the wind moves faster, it is peaceful at the river. On days like that, the sycamores send showers of leaves down from their canopies. They rustle softly as their branches sway, and the leaves make ripples in the water. The sycamores protect me from the sun, and I welcome their silent company. I went down to the river once, when the trees were dormant and bare, and I felt vulnerable and afraid. I missed the animals too.
  I am the only human at the river, but I am not alone. If I lay still and silent enough upon my rock, I can trick a vulture into circling overhead. But when I do that he scares away the other birds, and I miss their music. Once I saw a doe and her fawn sipping quietly from the cool water, but they haven’t come back. I suppose it is because somebody started mowing hay from the field that borders the opposite side of the river.
  The best time to sit here is in the early morning. If I face east, I can see the sun rise slowly as the night fades away. The rays reach through the trees, touch my forehead and my cheeks, and chase away the fog rising over the water. When I look out over the rock now, I see more than our reflection; I see bass and sun perch moving slowly through the water, their bodies swaying from side to side as they glide forward with the current. Turtles with upturned noses and red-striped faces move upward from the deep and float on the surface of the water. They too are waiting to greet and be warmed by the rising sun. If I lay here long enough, I think, I will become a part of the river, a part of this rock; I will melt into the water with the turtles and the fish, with the leaves and the wind.