At a small firebase, they had been overrun during the night. They had taken casualties but had held their position. In the morning, the choppers came and took out their wounded and dead. The firebase was nothing but a clearing in brush jungle on a hill. The remaining members of the platoon ate their C-rations in silence.
Several of the wounded ended up in an aid station. It was further south, down country. One of these men lay on a cot. He and the other seriously wounded would be transferred to a hospital ship. The surgeons had only been able to stabilize his wound.
As he lay there, he thought about the night’s fighting. He remembered the shouts, the explosions lighting the dark, and the screams. Everyone had fought like a devil, and no one had thought he would make it. He wondered how many had, feeling sick about it.
Copyright 2013 George Lowell Tollefson