Lou Rowed a Boat
by Alexander Holden
The mist, a wall of white and gray rolling over the green, heavy banks of the river, and the hot, humid air, thick with the sweat of the jungle, clung to the boat. Only a few feet across, creaking and swaying as Lou rowed away from where he last saw his friends, the foreign rowboat was cramped and efficient. He thought about his friends, briefly. He thought about how they looked, crouched in the jungle, wearing all green and hard Poplin cloth. He thought about the plane, tall and silver, the roar of it taking off only days ago, off far away from the small bank he’d pushed off of. He remembered a song, something by Tom Jones, he’d heard on the radio that morning. Most of all, though, he remembered his family, and when they shipped his son off to college a few months ago. He ignored all of it, and went back to rowing.
A few minutes prior, sitting together, they were quietly staring up at a tall, hundred acre hill covered in dense Vietnamese jungle. They were deathly quiet. Tense. A line of enemy troops and supply carts pulled by oxen was winding down a path carved into the hillside, down towards them. Had the convoy seen them? Were they approaching, or passing them by? The sound of the carts, loaded with supplies, was audible, but only just. They may be far enough away, they’d avoid them all together, Lou hoped. As the line drove down towards them on the winding dirt road, Lou watched them intently, and hoped they would somehow just slip straight down the slope of the jungled mountain and into the water. He knew they wouldn’t. He spent the next few minutes hoping they would keep on the main path, curling down the mountain and out of sight, but they turned. They were heading right toward Lou and his men.
The boat snagged on a tangle of dense plant life that had somehow worked its way into the river. Lou pushed off with his oar, quietly as he could. The plants looked alien to him, it being the first jungle he had ever been to. The only jungle he’d ever be to, he thought. Lou, rowing down the river, focused on the rowing, not on his thoughts. Thoughts like that didn’t help anyone.
When they’d run back to the camp, the men were still packing up. They were fast and efficient, but tense, and it wasn’t enough. Knowing that they didn’t have time just made it worse. Lou knew some of the others there well enough to know they were scared. They might have been swearing under their breath, or looking around otherwise, but no-one made a sound. Abandoning the supplies would be the death of them, but staying would be a firefight they couldn’t win. That was when Lou remembered the boat he’d found there at the river, earlier that morning.
Lou let the boat drift forwards, down a straighter bit of the river, as he pulled at the string tying up the cloth bag he threw together a few minutes prior. Bullets that had been pulled apart for powder and wrapped in paper, candy wrappers, money, and anything else they could find lay there, in the makeshift bag next to a spare clip of ammunition for himself. He had done the same as a kid, playing with Chinese firecrackers. He knew what they sounded like.
His CO had yelled at him in a harsh whisper, before he left. It made things harder, but he appreciated it nonetheless. The way the men looked at him, though, that was burned into his gut. He’d never need to process the feelings, but he knew it sure was something. Good or bad, though, he couldn’t tell.
Making his way down past another turn, and pushing off the bank, he looked up at the climb ahead. The road snaked down towards the camp, and the hill was shorter here. He’d have a few minutes setting up. Then he’d get their attention, get them out into the jungle, to him. His rifle felt heavy on his lap, and his mouth was dry. Lou rowed the boat down the river, away from his men, and he sighed.
A few minutes prior, sitting together, they were quietly staring up at a tall, hundred acre hill covered in dense Vietnamese jungle. They were deathly quiet. Tense. A line of enemy troops and supply carts pulled by oxen was winding down a path carved into the hillside, down towards them. Had the convoy seen them? Were they approaching, or passing them by? The sound of the carts, loaded with supplies, was audible, but only just. They may be far enough away, they’d avoid them all together, Lou hoped. As the line drove down towards them on the winding dirt road, Lou watched them intently, and hoped they would somehow just slip straight down the slope of the jungled mountain and into the water. He knew they wouldn’t. He spent the next few minutes hoping they would keep on the main path, curling down the mountain and out of sight, but they turned. They were heading right toward Lou and his men.
The boat snagged on a tangle of dense plant life that had somehow worked its way into the river. Lou pushed off with his oar, quietly as he could. The plants looked alien to him, it being the first jungle he had ever been to. The only jungle he’d ever be to, he thought. Lou, rowing down the river, focused on the rowing, not on his thoughts. Thoughts like that didn’t help anyone.
When they’d run back to the camp, the men were still packing up. They were fast and efficient, but tense, and it wasn’t enough. Knowing that they didn’t have time just made it worse. Lou knew some of the others there well enough to know they were scared. They might have been swearing under their breath, or looking around otherwise, but no-one made a sound. Abandoning the supplies would be the death of them, but staying would be a firefight they couldn’t win. That was when Lou remembered the boat he’d found there at the river, earlier that morning.
Lou let the boat drift forwards, down a straighter bit of the river, as he pulled at the string tying up the cloth bag he threw together a few minutes prior. Bullets that had been pulled apart for powder and wrapped in paper, candy wrappers, money, and anything else they could find lay there, in the makeshift bag next to a spare clip of ammunition for himself. He had done the same as a kid, playing with Chinese firecrackers. He knew what they sounded like.
His CO had yelled at him in a harsh whisper, before he left. It made things harder, but he appreciated it nonetheless. The way the men looked at him, though, that was burned into his gut. He’d never need to process the feelings, but he knew it sure was something. Good or bad, though, he couldn’t tell.
Making his way down past another turn, and pushing off the bank, he looked up at the climb ahead. The road snaked down towards the camp, and the hill was shorter here. He’d have a few minutes setting up. Then he’d get their attention, get them out into the jungle, to him. His rifle felt heavy on his lap, and his mouth was dry. Lou rowed the boat down the river, away from his men, and he sighed.