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Tay Ahn Special Forces camp, Republic of Vietnam, 1967. A keen observer sitting on the edge of a passing cloud could look down and make sense of this moment and all that follows. A trail oxbows down a steep hill and then straightens as it runs east along the valley floor out to the coastal plain. Elephant grass covers the hill and valley floor, and from the vantage point of the cloud, the trail looks permanently etched into the eight-foot tall grass. The observer sees two lines of men running head-to-head at the last bow at the foot of the hill. One hundred men in khaki uniforms and pith helmets of the North Vietnamese Army snake down the hill, eastward. The men are evenly spaced along a line that crooks back on itself at each bow. In the middle of this khaki line, arm and hand signals followed by scurrying about show the commander’s position. Compression in the forward elements shows the NVA have quickly stopped, one at a time from the lead on back, piling up closer to each other than they ought to be. With quick licks of its green tongue the serpent assesses whether prey or danger.

Along the trail to the east of the bow a shorter line of twelve men in tiger fatigues moves west, likely a patrol out of the Special Forces camp at Tay Ahn. Two of the men are taller than the others. The tall figure in the rear runs forward in a stoop to where the one in the middle crouches low. Some motion and quick signals between them, then both stand upright and simultaneously heave grenades into the hot stream of green tracers, putting into it all their weight and arm-length leverage. The grenades arch high towards the cloud, appear to stand still at apogee and then plunge downward, picking up speed. Both explode in puffs of uneven blue-gray smoke behind the serpent's head. The green licking stops as the head jerks back into a knot.

After throwing grenades, Jud and I jump for cover on opposite sides of the trail. But the damned grass is so dry and thick we can only lean back into it at best. The boom and shrapnel from our grenades have stopped incoming fire to our immediate front, but from much farther up the hill sporadic and poorly aimed AK-47 fire continues. Disoriented rounds snap and hiss through the tall grass above us. Jud and I look into each other’s eyes and I see we interpret the faraway AK-47 fire in the same way. NVA. New guys, needlessly popping off rounds like that, foolishly hoping for a little luck, maybe even nervous and panicking a bit.  Probably a company or so. If we have wounded or causalities, we’ll likely pull back and double-time to friendlies at the Tay Ahn west outpost.

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• Over the Line
• Caribou Park
• Silent Night
• The Opening
• Clouds
• Learning to Pray in a Very Tight Spot
• Language of Rivers
• The Home Front

© Copyright 2004 Keith R. Parker