The Skyraiders came in again and again, each run spaced ten minutes after the last, according to my Gus Grissom wristwatch. They came in low, right down the river, opening up on whatever they saw there, then pulling up and making their way back around. All of that activity I judged by sound alone. There was nothing to be said over the radio because there was no enemy fire, and nothing to be seen of the enemy except now dead bodies hidden by the heavy undergrowth. There was no way to see through the jungle from where we’d taken up positions. We were there to secure the base of the cliff while Kilo company continued to climb down in single file on the switchback paths that had probably been worn into the faces of hard stone well before any force was at war with any other force in the region, if there was ever such a time.

I pulled back from my view of the carnage at the bottom of the cliff. I was in a small clearing that was nothing more or less than a beaten down spot cushioning the actual ground an unknown distance further down. If needed at the base of the cliff, I’d be called soon enough, I knew.

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