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rising and from the air, the terrain would be light enough for the choppers to find this bowl of pea soup.
    Dawson and I decided we’d gotten to a place where the terrain was rising on all sides, so we stopped and listened for the beating chopper blades, which we hoped we could hear over our heavy breathing.
    We waited. It was ten minutes after rendezvous time, but that wasn’t a worry. The chopper pilots were always wary about these pickups in the middle of nowhere, and they tended to dally and recon a lot. There would be two Hueys to pick up ten men, though there were only two of us, and there’d be two or more Cobra gunships flying cover. If they drew fire, they’d try to suppress the fire, and sometimes they’d come in under fire. But not always.
    It was now fifteen minutes past rendezvous time, and Dawson said, “They’re not coming. They didn’t hear from us, so they’re not coming.”
    I replied, “We’re here at the prearranged spot
because
they didn’t hear from us.”
    “Yeah, but—”
    “They’re not going to leave us.”
    “Yeah, I know … but … maybe we’re in the wrong place.”
    “I can read a fucking map.”
    “Yeah? Let me see the map.”
    I gave him the map, and he looked at it intently. Sergeant Dawson had a lot of good skills, but land navigation was not one of them.
    He said, “Maybe we should go on to Bravo.”
    “Why?”
    “Maybe the choppers saw gooks on the ground.”
    “Unless they’re getting shot at, they’re coming in. Take it easy.”
    We waited. Dawson asked, “You think she’s out there?”
    “We’ll find out.”
    We waited and we listened. At 0630 hours, we heard the distinct beating of helicopter blades against the cool morning air. We looked at each other, and for the first time in a long time, we managed a smile.
    We could hear the choppers get closer, and I knew the pilots were worried about putting down in a mist-shrouded area where they couldn’t see the ground. But they’d been briefed that it was elephant grass, easy landing, and the downdraft would clear the mist for them. Still, we had no radio contact so they wouldn’t know who was waiting for them on the ground. I thought about popping a green smoke canister, which meant all clear, or a yellow that meant caution. That would tell them we were waiting, although it would also announce our presence to people who didn’t need to know we were there.
    Dawson said, “I’m gonna pop smoke. Pick a flavor.”
    “Wait. They need to get closer. They don’t want more than three minutes between smoke and pickup, or they get pissed off and go home.”
    I listened to the approaching choppers, counted to sixty, then popped a yellow smoke canister. The billowy plume sat on the ground in the damp, windless air, then began to rise into the mist. At some point, it must have broken through the top of the gray fog because very quickly the sound of the choppers got very loud. A few seconds later, I could see a huge shadow overhead, and the mist started swirling like a tornado was coming through.
    The first chopper was twenty meters away looking very ghostly in the gray mist as it settled toward the earth. The second was about twenty meters farther.
    Dawson and I sprinted toward the first chopper, making hand signals toward the crew to make them understand there were only two of us, and waving the other chopper off. Someone understood because the second chopper lifted off before we reached the closest one. Our chopper hovered five feet off the ground, and I slapped Dawson’s ass indicating he was first. He reached up and grabbed the hand of the crew chief. His feet found the chopper skid, and he was in the cabin in about two seconds. I was right behind him, and I think I actually high-jumped into the cabin, calling out above the noise of the blades and engine, “Only two! Eight dead! Go! Go!”
    The crew chief nodded and spoke into his radio mouthpiece to the pilot.
    I sat cross-legged on the floor as the chopper