Fort Bragg, some days later
The scenery was flowing past the two Baker teams as they were running.
Ortega liked that view.
As the minutes went by – with a relentless slowness -, Ortega saw the city change into countryside, and the countryside turn into hills... And yet they never stopped, nor did they slow down.
His throat started burning while the scenery continued to flow beside him, without ever stopping.
After his first return from Vietnam, Ortega used to suffer from nightmares, but they had ended. He was healed.
The selection process had made him born again.
Not that he had slept so much, after the selection, and so far he hadn't had a lot of time to think very much either.
And yet – for some strange reason – the two nights he had just spent at the hospital hadn’t given him nightmares.
Maybe because of the environment too.
In Fort Bragg everyone knew what the Vietnam War was for real, so Ortega no longer needed to hide what he really felt. Rambo in particular was probably feeling the same way.
He and Rambo were really similar, and were becoming very good friends.
It was good to be fine.
Of course it was not going to last for ever – nor had he any intention of staying in the army for ever, if the war lasted for years -, but to him, finally feeling fine was a very big step forward.
He was going to survive Vietnam - just like he did the first time -, but this time his return to the real world was destined to be different. He was not going to become the destitute person he had been after his first return, a long time ago now.
No... Those days were over for ever.
And he was going to fix things with Helen too, one day... Or he was just going to find another girl. No matter what, he was going to start a family one day, and live a normal life.
If he had just been able to pass such a selection, fuck.... He could fix his life too and that day, over Fort Bragg's hills, he was absolutely sure about it.
***
Trautman unbearably just kept running at the head of the group while the recruits, on the contrary, were starting to tire.
It was nothing compared to the fatigue of the selection process, yet they were tired anyway.
Samuel 'the beast' Trautman, while running, was continuing his delirious speeches about the moves, chess and how to analyze the enemies' methods.
From his point of view, the war the United States were fighting in Vietnam was different from any previous one ever.
It was not similar to conventional warfare, but to the local Resistance the Nazis had to fight against while keeping control over their occupied territories' soil.
So it was no coincidence that there had never been any war declaration in Vietnam, from either of the two opposing forces.
To tell the truth, Trautman's personal ideas were barely mentioned during these speeches about strategy.
His mouth was mostly giving out some very tragic sentences, very harsh and violent, and so even more actual.
“If this was a war like the others are, we would have dropped a couple of nukes over Hanoi already. But this is no war like the others are. And in order to win it, first of all we have to understand it.”
“Some think that we are exterminating the Vietcong because for every single US loss, ten of them are wiped out, and because we are winning every single battle.
But if it was just a matter of numbers, the Vietcong ranks should be decreasing, not increasing.
On the contrary, they are just like insects: the more you poison them, the stronger they get against poisons. Numbers have nothing to do with this war, but in Washington they are too stupid to understand that”
The group was so high on Fort Bragg's hills by then that to men it was as if they were towering over the city.
Even the vegetation was starting to thicken.
The sun was going down, and the light was falling.
Ortega's throat was stinging more than before, and his feet were burning at each and every step.
He was drenched in sweat from head to toe.
His legs were like jelly, his lungs almost gone.
Ortega had already started losing some pounds, and that day he asked himself if he had to start worrying about it.
Then he turned to look at his mates.
Their faces were taut, their eyes staring or closed into two splits, like snakes.
Ortega's body was near the point of no return by then.
He was going to explode... It's that he just couldn't, so was not going to explode for real.
He was not going to explode, and that's it.
The course had just begun, but one thing Ortega had learnt already: if he really wished to command his team, he had to be one of the physically strongest, or the strongest of all... Or so Trautman thought anyway, so Ortega had no other choice than to be so.
Because – as Trautman used to say – when the going gets tough for the team, everyone has the right to give in under many circumstances, but not the one who is in charge, never ever, and for no reason at all, no matter what.
The commander never gives in.
In Trautman's opinion, a team leader’s duty was to literally die, before giving in.
So Ortega was ready to die right that evening already, if necessary.
He turned for a short while to Trautman, who was a few steps behind him.
The bastard was not only able to withstand the run just like any other recruit and despite being in his thirties, but he looked like he was also sweating less than him
And he could do it without ever stopping blethering, Jesus Christ.
To tell the truth, the colonel was now blethering just a little less than before, but it was a very small consolation.
Ortega esteemed him and listened to every single word the old man taught, always trying to make it his own... But he also thought that sometimes the 'old man' used to go too far, just like everyone else did.
And then of course, the Vietnam War had turned out to be much more difficult than anyone ever thought two years before, when it had just started, but this doesn't mean that Ortega always believed everything the 'old man', or the 'beast' as others called him, had to say.
As an example, it wasn't possible that all of the Vietcong were as worthy, smart and brave as Trautman said.
They couldn't all be so motivated as they seemed by something as idiotic as communism was.
The pain brought Ortega back from his thoughts to reality, and he couldn't stay focused on them anymore.
It was almost dark and the wind was just starting to feel cold against his sweat-soaked gym suit.
The way back to Fort Bragg was still long, and the idea of walking it wasn't very likely.
It never ends... Today, it's really never ending.
Ortega slowed down until he fell beside Trautman, as if he had to talk to him, even if he had nothing to say him.
Trautman was now struggling.
From so near, his facial expression was easier to read.
The old man was starting to get tired, at least.
But then the colonel turned right to him.
Jesus – Ortega thought
Then the colonel smiled.
He was satisfied.
He is suffering less than me – Ortega thought.
And now I also have to withstand his approval, for God's sake.
Who in hell is this man? A fucking alien?
God... I hate him so much...
And then – with no warning – Trautman started with his speeches again... And Ortega intensely wished to sucker punch him.
***
When Trautman realized that the teams were well cooked – and that no one was still listening, with the only exception of Rambo – he finally stopped his running, and started walking.
At the same time, the sixteen recruits stopped running all at once at his back – some thanking God -, and they finally started getting their breath back.
They had been running for almost three hours.