Rambo and Jorgenson stood stock-still hoping to be neither seen nor heard. They were up to their necks in stagnant water, with their backs up against the mud bank taking cover..
Their faces weren't just deformed by the weight they’d lost, but their eyes had almost became stiff inside their skull-like sockets. They had aged, were full of insect bites and welts while their sweat had assumed such an unhealthy colour that it seemingly indicated they were dying already. The putrid water they were taking cover in was a brownish-yellow colour, and dirty to the point of looking almost viscous like.
Jorgenson was injured.
He had taken an AK bullet right in the neck only 24 hours earlier. The wound had started bleeding again and was now seeping through the bandages, which at that point then become old and filthy. To make matters worse they were also the last ones they had.
Rambo had used his fair share as well, not long after they’d made their getaway. He had cut his foot open.
Jorgenson grimaced in pain.
“I can't let these bandages get dirty with this fucking water.”
“Shut up!” Rambo said forcefully yet under his breath.
“They are right fucking there, damn it.”
His bandage had obviously gotten wet, because there was a red liquid altering the murky yellowish colour of the water right in front of where Jorgenson was standing. They didn't just a little wet either, he’d managed to get them downright soaked.
It hadn’t been in contact with anyone for almost 6 days. If that wasn’t bad enough, on day 5 or of that fucking getaway, or yesterday to be precise, the VC had spotted them and they ended up having to fight.
That’s when Jorgenson got hurt.
*
Jorgenson had been hit almost instantly, and yet – luckily for Rambo - he managed to continue the fight anyway. Because yes, without Jorgenson's fire during that fight Rambo – on his own against twenty, maybe even thirty Vietcong – would have find himself stuck by enemy fire behind his corner, and that would have been the Vietcong would have put him down like a rabid dog for sure.
The first contact - which was the proper and real part of the fight, when Jorgenson was wound on the spot – lasted for no more than a few seconds.
An ultra violent bunch of seconds during which dozens of rounds had been flying on both sides and despite being immediately wounded, Jorgenson didn't gave up the fight. Not at all.
He continued shooting and reloading and shooting over and over, and he did with one hand only while using the other to keep the pressure on his his wound, in order to slow the blood loss down.
He let the pressure on the wound go while reloading only, and that was when blood started squirting all over the place and out of his neck.
And yet, Jorgenson did not gave up the fight thus giving he and Rambo a proficient way to cover each other while retreating. They retreated by shooting like there were no tomorrow - three, four magazines each, something like one hundred bullets each – and they then run away into the jungle.
Once out of range, the two of them made a ninety degree curve to the west, in order to get lose of their own tracks, then they then started running away like hell and with no particular direction in their minds.
On the other side, the Vietcong – after that first contact - did never stop chasing Rambo and Jorgenson.
Rambo and Jorgenson had no idea if their pursuers had dogs or not (the Vietnamese dogs practically never used to bark). Nor that it would have made any difference on their choices for fooling their noses was impossible anyway.
Since twenty four hours before, Rambo and Jorgenson did nothing else than run away day and night in any direction, even random ones.
They were entirely out of the grid anyway and since two days before, thus one direction was as worth as any other.
With no more maps at disposal, their last plan was a pretty basic one: go east.
Cross the border and let themselves be found by some friendly force, or rather find a way of communicating because their beepers's were do die pretty soon too.
The two soldiers had rationed their batteries since the beginning (they understood pretty soon that they were doomed to stay in the jungle for a long time) and yet the batteries were now going to dry out anyway.
And they were still hunted.
The Vietcong had been hunting the two of them for the last twenty four hours, but this time the moment of the truth had come for real.
*
With one arm, Rambo was holding Jorgenson under his shoulders - in order to avoid him from sliding under the surface of the water - while with the other arm he was holding the muzzle of his AK over the water, and ready to fire.
Now that they had lowered themselves inside the water, there was nothing else they could do other than waiting and hoping to be found not
(...if they don't have no dogs with them, of course.
'Cause if they do, there's no hope left).
Given the fact that they could hope only, Rambo used the time at disposal to check his equipment out.... And think about his next move too, of course. Even during a time as desperate as that one was, Rambo never stopped thinking.
In theory, his AK should be able to fire even after a shallow plunging under the water such as that.
In theory.
In reality, no matter his esteem for the AK as a reliable weapon platform, Rambo was hoping he hadn't to bet his life on to it. Also because that water was dirty.
And so tomorrow (provided – and not granted - that he had survived the day) he would have rather used some clean water to rinse his AK. Just to be sure.
Noise.
Don't think about the noises.
Keep thinking, just not about the noises.
I can’t do anything about it from where I am now, anyways. Come on, think. This may be a pretty good hiding place but it wouldn’t be a good place to return fire from, right?Right.
So think for fuck’s sake.
You might have to make a run for it any minute now and once you’re back on the run, you won’t have the luxury of reasoning the way you can now.
So get fucking to it and think.
Taking his own advice, that’s exactly what he did. Rambo waited and waited maintaining his calm all the while. In an almost zen-like in manner, he used his time wisely to contemplate all the potential scenarios.
In addition to having dipped his AK in that shitty water, what worried Rambo now was the integrity of the remaining bits of first aid kit.
His kit may have survived the wear and tear from his last two falls, but this time it wasn’t just broken but soaking wet as well.
So now, candidly speaking, the shit was gearing up to hit the fan.
For those of us who know very little about treating wounds or medical supplies, here’s what this all meant.
If there weren’t bandages or whatever necessary to clean Jorgenson’s bullet wound, he probably wouldn’t just bleed to death. Not most certainly get some kind of rare infection or disease you can only be lucky enough to get if you happened to spend time in a jungle, or you’d been shot while spending time in a jungle.
Not that Johnny had expected anything different for Jorgenson if all things were considered.
In all honesty he hadn’t expected anything rose-coloured for himself either.
Even if by miracle, they somehow managed to hide from the Vietcong again, they both had a life sentence, anyway.
Voices... Fuck, it's them.
They’re here.
Rambo didn’t have any of them in sight, couldn’t see any signs of them– but he could hear them –and with that kind of information, he could do wonders. Rambo heard the noises, he knew it was them and it was thanks to those noises that he not only knew how many of them were there, but even how armed the fuckers were too.
The only thing he couldn’t tell was what the story was with the dogs. (God damn fucking dogs).
Those 24 hours of continuous pursuit, had served Rambo in that he now had a pretty good idea of exactly how well they were trained.
In order to pursue the SOG, non-stop, for twenty-four hours, without a break you had to, and could only be North Vietnamese Special Forces soldiers.
They couldn’t have been anything else.
Trautman was dead right about the North Vietnamese: whoever was up there North commanding and training them all was someone who had years of guerrilla warfare experience in the jungle under his belt, and left nothing to chance.
God, please don’t let them have dogs with them.
The first minutes passed - slowly and seemingly without an end in sight – during which Rambo could simply wait in the water, and hope they weren’t found.
Then an hour passed, and during those waiting moments, Jorgenson passed out twice.
*
At about the ninety-minute mark, Rambo was finally convinced about the Vietcong being gone.
Okay, so there’s about twenty of them, mainly light weapons, very experienced, highly trained and no dogs. Obviously, they don’t have dogs because if they did, we'd be dead already.
“Hold on tight,” exclaimed Rambo, but Jorgenson had already passed out.
Rambo dragged the two of them up and over the embankment.
He was short of breath and feeling light-headed because of the extra effort.
Fuck, I’m starving.
Nah, that’s not it.
I just stood still for too long.
It’s a sign of starvation, John. You’re dying of starvation.
No, you’re not.
I have to do this.
“Let me go,” Jorgenson whispered with great effort, interrupting Rambo’s train of thought
“Let me die.”
Rambo rested his forehead against the ground for support, knowing he couldn’t stop for long, at all. From where he was he could see the water streaming down Jorgenson’s filthy uniform.
“Let me die, Johnny, just leave me here.”
Rambo heard him, but knew he couldn't sit for a second more: Jorgenson's wound was filthy with rotting water. He had to put the last bandage he had left on him. Assuming the kit had resisted of course. Rambo dragged himself over to Jorghenson.
“You have a better chance on your own. Let me go.”
The two of them may have had mud all over and clothes soaked in putrid-water, but their level of exhaustion kept them on the ground and panting for a while longer.
Rambo would have laid there forever, but it was out of the question.
It was time to bandage Jorghenson properly, or he’d bleed to death.
Rambo put his backpack down on the floor, opened it up and pulled-out the first aid kit.
It may have been a superficial wound, but they hadn’t eaten much for the past few days and couldn’t boil any water either, without running the risk of being spotted. They were very close to the limit.
Rambo stripped Jorgenson down to the bare chest and his blood started mixing with the mud.
Thank God, the last bandage was still intact.
He cleaned the wound using some of the boiled water that was still left in his thermos, opened the jar where he kept the disinfectant powder, and carefully poured it over the wound.
“Just leave me alone,” said Jorgenson.
Concentrated on the task he'd at hand, Rambo unwrapped the sterilized bandage and began covering the entire area around Jorgenson's wound.
“I said leave it,” repeated Jorgenson.
Just as Rambo was pulling the Baker knife out of its cover, he stopped suddenly to listen.
Voices... Vietnamese voices, Vietcong voices.
Rambo cut the bandage off with one brisk slash.
Fuck, that’s right, the Vietcong had left, sure, but they were on their way back.
Rambo rummaged through Jorgenson's equipment as fast as he could until he found the first aid kit along with everything else.
“Let's go!” he said turning quickly.
“I can't,” said Jorghenson reaching towards his gear in vain.
“Don’t bother,” said Rambo, picking it up before he did, and throwing it quickly down the embankment, straight in the water, never to be seen again.
“Get the fuck up.”
Rambo pulled Jorghenson up this time by force and loaded him across his shoulder.
“What the fuck are you doing Johnny?”
“Shut up. We’re leaving.”
“You can’t fucking do it John.”
It was true, he couldn't. Jorgenson seemed to weigh a ton.
Rambo had never lifted anything that heavy. Not even at boot camp. Not ever.
Come on, he isn’t that heavy, you’re just in bad shape too.
Just suck it up you can’t let him die. Don't let him die.
Just don’t.
“You can't fucking do this,” said Jorghenson to Rambo again.
“Shut the fuck up for Christ’s sake. Can't you fucking hear them? They’re already here.”
Rambo tested his new load briefly before setting out, and he was managing it.
He was keeping his balance.
He was moving, despite the extra weight.
It wasn't a matter of fatigue then, but of pain. Excruciating pain, but he had to do it.
Besides, he couldn't let Jorgenson be the one who died because he was the one with a baby girl of his own. Not him. As far as Rambo was concerned, Jorgenson's life was worth more than his was.
Precisely.
You’re not gonna’ make it – his body said to him.
Too many days with too little food, too much dysentery – his mind quickly reminded him.
He closed his eyes.
Enough already, that’s enough,
Shut the fuck up.
Concentrate.
After a few uneasy steps, it wasn’t long before he was able to quicken his pace but by then, they were close, very close.
He had the advantage of a head start on them though, and a good one at that. Now, he could go in whatever direction he wanted and they shouldn’t be able to tell which one he took.
With that thought, Rambo decided he’d carry his friend like that from then on in. That meant until the very end, if need be.
Until the end.
He’s the one who’s got the little girl, God.
So please, if you’re gonna’ take someone today, take me.
Just don't take Jorgenson.