Alone in the woods, he slipped ahead of his platoon and found the enemy waiting. Then he attacked.
There was no time to shout, no time to run. He saw the grenade, saw where it was headed, and chose to meet it himself.
The attack came without warning—gunfire and explosions ripping through the barracks. He had a clear path to safety… but turned back instead.
Surrounded and under fire from three sides, the wounded lay exposed. He ran into it—again and again—refusing to leave anyone behind.
The hill was alive with fire from hidden positions. He didn’t wait—he charged straight into it, one foxhole at a time.
The perimeter had been breached, and the guns were under attack. Through fire and chaos, a corpsman moved from man to man—refusing to stop.
Three men lay wounded in the open under relentless fire. He went out to them—again and again—until the fire finally took him. 19 March 1969
