I looked at Nguyen. His features remained as impassive as ever in the face of our dire situation. We could not get to the end of the bridge without being carried down past the tank into the rapids below that led deep into enemy held territory unless Kilo Company had moved in to support our rear and there was no indication of that. We had no radio. I had my .45 and my K-Bar knife while Nguyen had an M-16 and his own exotic knife. We didn’t have our packs, or anything else, and we were laying on the flats next to a river that was about to become the most perfect and deadly field of fire the NVA had ever seen. The light was fast improving, and it wouldn’t be long before we started to take the kind of fire we would not be responding to, other than to get hit and die. The Skyraiders would come back but they’d be too late. What remnant of my company was left on the other side of the river couldn’t be expected to hold the fire back from what gave every evidence of being an entire regiment of well-equipped and experienced enemy troops.

Nguyen’s limited English didn’t call for my coming up with a cool sounding plan. There was no plan, and Nguyen didn’t need one. Without saying anything he eased to his feet, crouched down and headed off across the open sand and mud flat toward whatever crease might exist between that surface and the bottom of the cliff to our west. I followed. Both of us ran low and bent over at first, but after only a few yards abandoned the idea of trying to avoid bullets that would be delivered by automatic weapons, if they were to be fired at us at all. No zig-zagging was going to save us from machine gun fire at close range, and the longer we were exposed the more likely it would become that we wouldn’t make it to any kind of cover.