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the instant they turned, we opened fire. The VC scattered as two M-60s, two M-79s and twenty-six M-16s unleashed an awesome five-minute burst of firepower. I expected the only remains would be tiny chunks of flesh.
    As quickly as it had been shattered, the silence returned. Sergeant Krol ordered us to form a line and assault in a wave. Assault? In the dark? My mind raced. I felt I was looking into the face of death. We moved rapidly toward the impact area, listening intently for sounds but hearing only our own heavy breathing and the brush rustling underfoot. I tried to stay beside the man on each side of me, not wanting to neither fall behind nor get ahead. It was the safety in numbers thing; the age-old herd mentality that has not yet been bred out of humans.
    The irregular vegetation looked like the perfect hiding place for a wounded VC to wait in the darkness to cut my throat as I passed by. I squeezed every bit of energy to visually penetrate each shrub. Suddenly, a bush in front of me moved! I swung around firing wildly into the shadows. Then I wondered why I was the only person shooting.
    “Who fired those rounds?” shouted Lieutenant Bruckner.
    “Wiknik, sir,” I answered sheepishly.
    “Whadya get?”
    I closed in on the undergrowth. There was nothing there. I only thought it had moved.
    “I shot a bush, sir.”
    “Nice going, Cherry. Let’s hope you killed it,” he chided me as a few snickers were heard within the ranks. “I don’t want it sneaking up on us in the middle of the night.”
    We continued combing the area for another ten minutes but found nothing. It was now too dark to see anything, so we decided to abandon the search until first light.
    The platoon separated into four-man positions to set up a perimeter guard about one hundred feet across. The Lieutenant, his RTO and the Platoon Sergeant formed a CP (Command Post) in the center.
    My position had PFCs Smith and Scoggins, each with nearly six months of experience in the field. They were regular guys who had trained together stateside, arrived together in Vietnam, and had become close friends. They didn’t bother anyone, and in return just wanted to be left alone. They never volunteered for anything, but they also never refused to do their part. I felt safe with them.
    The other GI in our position was Specialist Harrison, the platoon’s longevity man with more than ten months in the field. Eager to return home, he was always pulling some goofy stunt, trying without success, to get sent to the rear. His nasal Kentucky twang and permanent grin sometimes made us think his antics were a sure sign he was a burned-out GI. Standing a scant five and one-half feet tall, three inches shorter than me, he was someone we all looked up to.
    Early in his tour, Harrison had taken part in a night ambush of what was believed to be an North Vietnamese squad. Instead, his platoon had engaged the lead element of a company-sized enemy force. The ambush turned into a bloody firefight complete with aerial flares, artillery, and air support. During the battle, Harrison ran out of ammunition and was forced to scavenge M-16 magazines from a dead GI. While trying to reload his weapon, Harrison looked up to see an enemy soldier standing five feet away pointing an AK-47 at his head. When the NVA pulled his trigger, the rifle misfired, giving Harrison the split-second edge he needed to bayonet the soldier to death. The nightmarish event changed Harrison forever.
    “Who wants first guard?” asked Smith.
    “How about giving it to the bush killer?” offered Harrison.
    “Yeah,” said Scoggins, “he sure as hell won’t crash tonight.”
    “Okay you guys, so I was nervous. That was my first contact.”
    “Man, that wasn’t shit,” chided Harrison. “The only thing we did was scare the crap out of those Gooks. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
    “Tell me something,” I said curiously, “I’ve been in the field for two weeks now and still don’t know what the