Instant Essay -- Creative Writing Essays

Instant I'll always remember Instant. That was the nickname the men had tacked onto the muscled giant that wielded the M60 in my unit. "Instant" was short for "Instant Death." And I'll always remember the first time I saw Instant in action. I was a new Lieutenant assigned to Vietnam. Back then, the Army didn't try to develop any "team spirit" within the corps; men were rotated frequently before any friendships developed. Consequently, my men were a group of strangers united only by the need to survive. They were eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds with the eyes of old men. My first real assignment was to check a tiny hamlet, Dien Hoa. Army Intelligence believed the Viet Cong were operating from Dien Hoa. Our job was to determine if that was correct. We rode in an olive-drab chopper. The whooping blades of the helicopter give us a little relief from the relentless heat of 'Nam; the blades cut the thick, humid air and pushed a breeze downward over the passenger compartment. Soon, we circled the landing zone. The LZ looked cold. There's only one way to find out if it is really cold, I thought as I double checked my M16. If no one zapped us when we entered, it was cold. If they did, it wasn't. "Lock and load," I yelled. The helicopter circled low and slowed down until it almost hovered four feet from the ground. The door gunner mashed the spade grips on his .30 caliber M60 machine gun. The gun spewed bullets over the field below us. It was time to jump off the skids while we skimmed above the surface of the lush, green valley. My stomach felt like it was turning wrong-side-out. We dropped into the grass, stumbling under heavy packs and the weight of ammo and weapons. I wondered about snakes and hoped the groan I mad when I hit the ground was drowned by the noise of the helicopters. Though the helicopter gunner continued firing into the heavy growth to the north of them, there was no return fire. We were safe for the moment. "OK," I yelled signaling with my hands the way you're not supposed to. Hand signals are a good way to mark yourself as the leader. It's just the thing enemy snipers watch for. But few of my twenty-seven men could hear me over the roar and firing of the helicopters. I had no choice. "Move out. On the double," I ordered. The choppers lifted. We were on our own. The soldiers started with the usual complaining b... ...prized buck. We made careful, deliberate shots. One after another, the black, running forms crumpled. With a final flurry of shooting, only a lone Charlie managed to escape into the grove of trees below. The bodies of the VC dotted the open hillside. Sporadic last shots ended the lives of the few wounded who continued to stir below us. Complete silence reigned for a few moments, then Blake yelled an obscenity at the last Cong who had eluded us. Silence. "We did it," I simply said, my words falling flat. A weak cheer went down the line; one man dropped to his knees and cried. Even though we'd all felt as good as dead, we realized we had won. Afterward, waiting with the wounded and dead for dustoff, I thought about the firefight. Instants selfless deed had saved our skins. It was little wonder the men had so much respect for the soldier. I studied him for a moment. He sat by himself beneath a tree, carefully cleaning his M60 like a mother washing a baby. He wore a bandage over his right eye and a second on his arm; except for those minor wounds, he had managed to come through the fight uninjured. And he'd shown a green lieutenant and his men what true bravery was.