One Man's War. Lindsay McKenna
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stood four feet from a huge dry dirt dike, up to her ankles in murky brown water, as she talked to them, slender rice shots surrounding her.
The overhead sun was bright, as always, but Tess’s bamboo hat effectively shaded not only her face, but her shoulders and upper back as well. It was, in her opinion, one of the most brilliant designs the people of the Far East had created.
She’d just finished explaining some rice fertilization techniques when she heard her name being called from a distance. Tess looked in the direction of the sound. The four women also lifted their heads.
Coming along the paddy complex’s western dike wall was a marine in a dark green flight suit. Tess knew from the uniform that he was a pilot. But she could tell, even at a distance, that it wasn’t her brother, Gib. Tess heard a noise behind her and looked over her shoulder. A ten-man squad of marines, heavily ladened with packs, M-14 rifles and protective helmets, was slowly making its way across the southern dike. She frowned. If only the marines didn’t have to run patrols around her village of Le My. If only... Tess gave a whispered sound of frustration. The marines had landed in force at Da Nang a month ago, and already their presence was being felt and dreaded. It could only escalate the conflict, she feared.
She excused herself from the women and walked forward through the muddy water toward the approaching pilot. Tess vaguely recognized him. Most of the men in Gib’s helicopter squadron were stationed at Marble Mountain, and she had met some of them on various visits to her brother. Although she was sure she’d seen him around, she knew she’d never met this officer. Almost against her will, she noted how handsome he was.
Pete Mallory’s heart was doing funny things in his chest. Unconsciously, he rubbed that area as he approached the woman who obviously was Tess Ramsey. He ignored the fact that her dark green cotton slacks, resembling baggy pajamas, were haphazardly rolled above her nicely shaped knees, and the fact that she stood in rank, murky brown water. Her heart-shaped face, wide, intelligent green eyes and full mouth held his fascination. Lord, what a mouth she had. The urge to taste her exquisite lips was nearly overwhelming.
Just as Pete raised a hand, mustering his charm to casually introduce himself, sporadic rifle fire sounded nearby. His gaze snapped to the south, where a marine squad had been slowly making its way across the dike. The men all dived for the earth, flat on their bellies. At a sharp order from the officer they prepared to return fire.
Damn it! Pete’s gaze snapped back to Tess and her group of women. They were standing there as if nothing were happening! The idiots! Didn’t they hear the sniper fire? The shots probably were aimed at the marine squad, but the women could be in the line of fire!
“Get down!” Pete shouted. He made a sharp gesture for Tess to hit the deck—or, in this case, the flooded rice paddy. “I said, get down!” he roared, beginning to run toward her. How stupid could she be? All five women had curious looks on their faces as he yelled at them. Typical women, Pete decided.
More shots sounded, and the squad of marines began returning fire at a jungle wall half a mile away.
The paddy dike sloped steeply down into the water. Pete didn’t give a damn about the four Vietnamese women standing around looking nonplussed as he hurtled toward them. But he did care about Tess Ramsey. She was an American and she could be killed. Pete leaped off the dike and made a lunge for her.
Tess gasped as the pilot jumped directly at her. What was the fool doing? But even as the thought formed, his hands connected with her shoulders and Tess was flung backward. They both landed in the rice paddy with a tremendous splash, sheets of chocolate-colored water flying up in veils around them.
Water flowed up into her nose and choked her as Tess fought the pilot’s grip, knocking his hand away so she could struggle out of the two feet of water.
“Let go!” she sputtered as she staggered to her knees, and then her feet. She glowered at the pilot, who was still on his hands and knees in the paddy, sopping wet. “What do you think you’re doing?” Tess croaked. She coughed violently, her fingers pressed against her throat.
Scrambling to his feet, Pete could still hear the marines returning fire. He charged Tess. “Get down!”
Dodging his flailing attack, Tess leaped backward out of reach. “What for?” she yelled angrily.
Water streamed from Pete as his jaw dropped in utter disbelief. “What for?” he bellowed. “Lady, there’s sniper fire right over there.” He jabbed his finger angrily toward the trees. “Now get your butt down in this paddy and stop fighting me! You want to get killed?”
Tess burst out laughing. She couldn’t help herself. The marine pilot looked like a drowned rat, his military short black hair plastered to his skull, the flight suit clinging to his lean frame, his intense blue eyes flashing with anger and frustration.
“Captain, it’s okay. Really it is. That isn’t sniper fire!”
Disgruntled, Pete turned toward the marines hunkered against the southern paddy dike. They’d stopped firing their M-14s and no further gunshots were heard from the jungle.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he snarled, returning his attention to Tess.
The four Vietnamese women covered their mouths with their hands and began giggling. Tess grinned as she pushed her wet hair off her face.
Pete glared at the women. “What the hell’s so funny?” He couldn’t help but notice that Tess was indeed like a tall piece of bamboo next to the four tiny Vietnamese women. She must be at least five foot eight or nine, Pete guessed, but she was dressed like the other women in every respect. Why? he wondered, when she could have worn her khaki US AID uniform, instead.
Tess ruefully rescued her bamboo hat from the water and tipped it to empty out the contents. “That firing you heard, Captain, was Nguyen Oanh, this woman’s son. They own an old rifle—about thirty years old. He was going into the jungle just now to hunt for wild pig.” With a shrug, Tess placed the bamboo hat back on her head, her smile widening. “Oanh is only ten years old, and we all know he can’t hit the broad side of a barn, but his father’s with him to teach him how to shoot properly.” Then she added, “I just hope they’re okay.”
Chastened, Pete looked down at himself. He’d paid the Vietnamese maid extra piasters to starch his flight suit so he’d look good for Tess. The odor drifting upward stung his nostrils, and his lips drew away from his gritted teeth.
“What the hell is this smell?”
Giggling, Tess said, “Water buffalo dung, Captain. It’s a great fertilizer, didn’t you know?” She looked down at herself and then over at her women friends whose faces were wreathed with shy smiles of amusement. Tess loved the Vietnamese earthy sense of humor because it matched hers. “I’m afraid we both look like drowned sewer rats,” she said, laughing. “Would you like to follow me to a nearby stream and wash off some of that fertilizer you’re wearing?”
Disgustedly, Pete flipped off several chunks that had lodged in the folds of his flight suit. “I hate this place,” he muttered. “Yeah, let’s get the hell out of this sewage pit.”
Laughing fully, Tess ignored the pilot’s angry statement. She told the women in Vietnamese to tell the marines on the dike about Oanh and his father, and to make sure they were allowed to return safely from the jungle where they’d been practicing their marksmanship. She didn’t want the marines to injure one of the villagers by mistake. The women realized the seriousness of the situation and quickly made their way toward the confused marines still kneeling on the south dike. Tess gazed after them for a moment. She could tell when the marines understood what had taken place, and she watched them sheepishly get to their feet, dust off their clothes and continue their patrol. Satisfied, she began slogging through the paddy toward the dike.
“Here, let me help you,” Pete said as he hurriedly tried to catch up to Tess and help her negotiate the steep dike.
Tess turned and halted. She watched the pilot flail around in the muddy paddy, in danger of losing his precarious