We're on a light patrol in Song Be, must have left our packs and gear back at the NDP. It's hot, we're thirsty and sweated up, so the stream crossing (is that a VC bridge or just fallen bamboo), the stream crossing looks good. The water is cool and clear and hits the spot even though our wet feet will turn white and wrinkle up until our boots and socks are dry. That's Lloyd Edge, aka 'Butch' in the lead, red haired Steve York behind him humping the gun on the base of his neck. Gary Williams, from the great state of Tennessee poses mid-stream while I take his picture; I've already made it to the other side. When everyone has crossed I put the camera away and ask someone to pour water on my head. So someone does that and it feels good, real good. The water sluicing over my hair, the water sluicing down my sweat soaked fatigues, the water pouring into my aid bag, no matter, the bandages are already wet. Clipped to my pistol belt, next to the forty-five, a few grenades. Never know when you might need one. In fact, point man Larry Roy once yelled, "Doc, throw me a grenade," when the bad guys surprised us good. So I tossed him one and he lobbed it just right and after the muffled BOOM we thought everything would be OK. But then we heard a Chicom's fuse snap and moments later the tumbling stick fell short and blew up the gun, the barrel torn and twisted, kicked up dust and leaves filtering down. It got real quiet. Then the second Chicom, the second one landed among us and everyone scuttled away. BOOM. The blast lifting us up, throwing us down, Wilson getting it worst. Later, the medivac crew ran out of stretchers so we loaded him onto the bird with my hammock. Thirty years later we met up in Michigan. He said the chopper flew to Quan Loi but that incoming started as they touched down. He said guys off loading the wounded dropped the litters and ran. So Wilson and the other WIA's are lying on the strip until the shelling stops. It was crazy. He says after the attack the LT runs out to the tarmac and gives him a paper plate full of greasy fried chicken and a can of Coke. Wilson so hungry he eats the food, drinks the Coke, then stands up. Unbuttons his bloodied pants. He can see his combat boots through the dime sized hole in his pecker. "But they did a good job sewing me up," he says, "Everything works just fine."

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