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headed for trouble.
    I had to look out for two privates and a private first class. We’d be swinging east along the inside of the perimeter with a bunch of jumpy paratroopers on my right. Somewhere out in front, two or three experienced and committed North Vietnamese soldiers waited. Since it was past dawn, they’d missed their window. They knew that none of them would leave the base camp alive. They had nothing to lose.
    We’d dispersed at the proper interval. I sent PFC Gallagher as a scout, a few more yards to the right. I had my head on a swivel, trying to ensure that we didn’t get jumped by the sappers or shot by our own guys.
    Twenty minutes into the sweep, we entered an area where the engineers had been building an artillery battery emplacement. The construction crews had left two trucks, a bulldozer and Jeep. They’d parked the vehicles in a neat row from east to west, facing south. Something about the vehicles caused the hair on the back of my neck to go up.
    I whistled. About 60 yards to the north, SSG Walsh heard me. I signaled that we had vehicles to our front. He alerted the platoon leader. The whole platoon slowed down.
    Walsh signaled for me to take the fire team to the south side of the vehicles. The rest of the squad would be on the north.
    “Listen up, guys.” I stage whispered. “The sappers might be hidden in and around those vehicles. There’s a fortified bunker manned by our troopers to the south. The rest of our squad will be on the north side of the trucks. We’ll be in the middle. Be fucking careful. There’s ten ways to screw this up. Get it right.”
    As the fire team’s two privates swept past the first of the two-and-a-half ton trucks, I looked to the right and spotted an Airborne sergeant about 30 yards to the south. He stood behind a bunker next to the Green Line. He watched our movements with interest. I signaled him. He lowered his M-16 and nodded.
    As I looked back out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an NVA sapper 20 yards to my left. He crouched underneath the first deuce-and-a-half. The two double sets of large rear wheels on each side had given him cover from my less-than-vigilant young troopers.
    My men had walked right by him. If he’d had his AK 47 ready, he could have killed them both. Although it all took less than five seconds, I still remember what happened next in great detail.
    The sapper had unscrewed the end of a Chicom grenade handle. He’d inserted a finger of his right hand into the small metal ring that connected a thin wire to the grenade’s fuse through the hollow handle. He prepared to toss the grenade at my men, which would disconnect the wire and arm the fuse. Four seconds later, it would explode. It could kill both of my men.
    Though itchy-fingered Paratroopers surrounded me, I had to shoot the son-of-bitch. In less than a second, I brought my M-16 to my shoulder, flipping the selector to full auto. I fired a burst into the enemy soldier, hitting him at least three times.
    The force of the impacts caused the sapper to snap backwards and involuntarily fling the grenade forward, arming it. Chicoms resemble the old German potato-masher hand grenade. Once they hit the ground, they bounce erratically. The sapper’s armed grenade bounced toward me, landing four yards away.
    I yelled, “Grenade!” I dove to a prone position, trying to make myself as thin as possible. When the Chicom exploded, the concussion sucked the air from my lungs. Pieces of shrapnel slammed into my helmet, flak vest, load-carrying equipment, and my rifle.
    I looked over at the sapper. He’d slumped to the ground. I could see his body writhing and blood spurting from his shoulder. A wave of fear swept over me, then a strange calm.
    I started to check myself out. Gallagher got to me first.
    “Tony, don’t move. Let me see where you’re hit. Stay still.”
    “Get your ass back on that flank, PFC Gallagher!” I shouted. “They’re other sappers around. Watch your ass!”
    SSG