Three bunkers. A canal under fire. A squad pinned down. He attacked them all.
In the jungles of the A Shau Valley, his command group lay wounded around him. He rose, took control, and led the assault himself.
Before dawn near Padiglione, three enemy strongpoints stood between his platoon and disaster. He went forward alone.
Under the cliffs of Iwo Jima, the assault faltered beneath a storm of fire. He stepped forward into it—and carried the line with him.
In the dense woods outside Hue, a hidden trap clicked into motion. He heard it—and moved toward it instead of away.
Across a river under rockets and machinegun fire, he went first. Wounded again and again, he refused to stop.
Seventy-five yards of open ground. Machineguns, rifles, and 47mm fire sweeping the ridge—and he went first.
