Story:
The debris and ashes from previous bombings had blotted out much of the sun. Had the adrenaline worn out by now, U.S. Army Corporal Walton Claver would have felt the Việt Cộng's knife burning through his left deltoid again with every single pump of his M37.

Previously, all of his suburban combat training couldn't prepare him for the unarmed, yet resourceful NLF soldier from dropping down on with from a second story window, knocking him to the ground; his shotgun flew out of his arms. The communist warrior, having pinned the Corporal beneath him, brandished his combat knife and plunged it down aiming square into his back. Claver's reflexes and sheer strength stayed his terrestrial existence that day. As he dodged, the Việt Cộng's knife missed the vital organs in his back and sliced his shoulder instead. He knocked the Cộng off of his back, and ran back to pick up his shotgun. Without skipping a beat, a shell left the barrel and the pellets went into the communist's chest. "Việt Cộng, hãy coi chựng." he said to the dying man.

Continuing forward, he knows he has to patch up his wound. Now is not the time for that, though. He hears footsteps, and two people whispering something in Vietnamese. It isn't a dialect he recognizes, but he knows it isn't South Vietnamese, ruling out the possibility of it being his ARVN allies...

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