Animosity

Chapter 2 - Two Frenchmen

Photo: A group of panicked ground troops run from a falling helicopter.

—

2 Months Later

The inside of the chopper was dim, air heavy and thick as it hung like a blanket in the oppressive interior. The seats shook under me and the floor rumbled dangerously, bouncing my boots up and down on the metal surface, the sound of the tapping drowned out by the whir of machinery around us. Huge helicopter blades were slicing through the air above the roof, propelling us swiftly over the sprawling mass of jungle speeding by. I looked down, instantly wishing I hadn't, and the seemingly never-ending expense of green made me dizzy as it rushed past.

My eyes traveled around the silent interior, careful not to make direct contact with the other men sitting stoically there. They all looked tired, weary, blinking in the same absent manner, all trying not to let fear show on their faces. They were men of all shapes and sizes, all different races, fiddling nervously with the rifles placed in their laps, running stray fingers through their hair. A skinny black man was trying to sleep at the end of my row, cap pulled over his eyes, but he cursed as more turbulence shook the chopper and jostled him back into high alert.

        I strained my neck outwards, trying wistfully to see the pilots at the cockpit, but they were blocked by crates of uniforms lugged lazily into the middle of the aisle. Our row, stationed and backed up against the wall of the helicopter, was sitting directly across from another in the same position, filled to the brim with a parade of dark green. The only difference between our column and theirs was that we had an extra man at the end, standing right next to my seat at the back of the chopper.

        I glanced up at him quickly; his uniform was different from ours, heavier and a lighter shade of green, pockets adorning the side, a single star patch stitched onto his shoulder. His hands, large and muscular, were wrapped around the barrel of a gun that I didn't recognize, bigger and more damaging than the slender metal one strapped onto my back. He sighed once and cleared his throat, fingers twitching, likely craving a cigarette. I had seen all the signs of an addict during my six weeks at Point Sac, and judging from the tiny circular burns callousing his thumb and wrists, he was one of them.

        The officers at Sac had always told us one thing about cigarette and alcohol and hash addicts. Stay away, was the rhetoric, stay away from them so you don't get hooked too.

        I was surprised when he turned to me, and I noticed for the first time that his scathing blue eyes matched mine.

        "Hell you lookin' at, greenie?"

        Blinking once, I winced slightly at his biting tone, his irritation amplified through a thick Boston-Italian accent. "I... I was just wondering some things, that's all."

        He scoffed in annoyance, looking down at me with disdain as he adjusted his form to face in my direction. His figure was muscular, slightly short, although I realized that if I stood up next to him he'd have been taller than me. I could fully see his face now, square with pointed features, and although he acted like he was frustrated with me, I could tell he was enjoying the attention he got. Eyes all throughout the helicopter were now trained on him, watching ever since the outburst he had aimed at me earlier.

        "Wondering? What in hell are you wondering about?" He asked rudely, and a sigh escaped my chest. "What's your name, kid?"

        Silently, I turned the identification badge sewn onto the front of my chest towards him, and he stooped down gingerly to read it.

        "Tom Descartes? Said like 'De-cart', right?" He repeated, unimpressed, and I was slightly surprised he didn't pronounce the S in the beginning and end. He was one of the few people that I've met who managed to get it right the first time, and I felt a waning grin touch down lightly on my face before he started talking again. "French name, huh? We match."