Mortars sounded, echoing in the distance and driving through the broken earth a reverberating hum that beckoned the coming of a Viet Cong assault. The cacophonous booms in the distance grew nearer with each deafening blast.

Privates Collison and Berrill, huddling, hearts a-pace, in their foxhole, clutching their M-16’s like magic shields against the onslaught outside, stared at each other wide-eyed, knowing with certainty, that in a few short minutes, shear holy hell would be raining down on them.

“Fuck this, man. Just fuck this. This is fucked. It’s fucked!” Private Berrill wasn’t dealing particularly well with the stress of the situation. He was rocking back and forth in the hole, gripping his assault rifle with such intensity that the flesh above his knuckles had stretched a bright white, and his fingertips had spread out flat, hard, against the dark, cold metal of the gun’s housing.

Private Collison leaned over to comfort his ailing comrade. “We know what to do man,” he began, placing one hand on Berrill’s trembling knee. “We’re in the thick now. But they prepared us for this. We can handle ourselves. We just have to stay here, and take out anything that emerges from that tree line.” He gestured out the six-inch tall slit that ran the length of their hole, providing the two young soldier’s only vantage to the forest around them.

“Prepared us?” Berrill shouted incredulously. “You can’t prepare someone for this shit!”

Collison was massaging Berrill’s knee and thigh more aggressively now. “You just have to calm down man. Things are about to get hot. And I need you. I need you with me, okay?”

Collison was searching Berrill’s wide, frantic blue eyes, hoping to see through past the fear to the man underneath. His grip on the young infantryman’s leg finally accomplished its task of calming him enough to think more clearly.

“Okay. Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” Berrill replied finally, huffing with each word and twisting his tightly clinging fingers around the grip of his weapon. “I’m here, man. I’m good. We’re good. We’re gonna be okay.”

“You’re damn right we are,” Collison affirmed, shooting Berrill a confident smile and landing a hardy slap atop the young man’s thigh. Berrill returned the grin and gave Collison a quick nod of his head, jostling his drab green standard issue helmet down on his brow, to let the other private know that he appreciated his efforts to abate his freak-out.

The two then each returned their gaze to the forest line extending across the clearing a few hundred yards in front of them. The dark, deep night jungle was lit up like a lightning storm by the constant flashing and flickering of exploding flares and mortars in the distance. The sounds of bombs exploding, small arms firing, and tree trunks snapping filled the cool night air with a bevy of bone-rattling noises.

Collison, too, was terrified. He had never been in a true firefight. All he could do was think back to his basic training. The instructor had intoned over and over again, “Your weapon is your life. Your weapon is your life.” And that was all the young soldier could focus on now, as he clung to his assault rifle and peered out into the jungle, teetering with the anticipation of a North Vietnamese army emerging from those trees.

The pressure of the situation was unbearable. His whole body felt as though it was going to burst. But what could