Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to times thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
- Sonnet 18, William Shakespeare

There are four of us in that sweltering bunker; SGT. Eddie Devaney, Trenton, New Jersey, myself and two newbies just in from the real world. It's April 16, 1970. We're playing low-stakes poker under a single hanging light bulb, shirtless, enjoying the fruits of good fortune; of Victor Charlie's misfortune. A bit of last-minute providence means we've surged ahead in the monthly body-count race, earning ourselves a second stand-down in as many months. It'd looked as if Delta Company had it sewn up, but we'd lucked out pulling that last ambush. It was an ambush alright; a clear, starry night, two squads of Alpha Company strewn across a low valley spilling out of Cambodia. A dozen VC stumbled right in, small men in black pajamas beneath straw hats, slouching along in floppy tire-tread sandals holding hands and giggling quietly. Few escaped under the glare of flickering parachute flares.

We've just drawn cards when the birthday-cake-sized satchel charge spins in from the dark night. Devaney and I react instinctively, toppling chairs and scrambling for the bunker door, the newbies confused and rooted. The blast blows me clear, dazed and head-ringing, I stagger to my feet to be instantly engaged by a screaming, bayonet-wielding enemy. I embrace the lithe youngster, kicking and grappling until we go down in a pile and I'm able to subdue him. Complete chaos erupts, the generator going up and the world suddenly black.

I run, weaponless, NVA sappers seemingly humping in from every direction. I dive into a blasted bunker, quickly playing hot potato with an interminable succession of hand-made concussion grenades until my nerves can no longer keep pace and I huddle into a corner as several detonate ineffectively in the roofless hooch. I've ceased to even hear them, kicking away the sputtering fuses, blinded by silent flashes. A VC soldier abruptly joins me and we wrestle over his AK until he releases it to produce a knife and I'm able club him with his own weapon and escape the claustrophobic hole. I rush through a melee, seeking escape, desperately shooting anything that moves.

Two hours later it becomes eerily quiet, but for the occasional animal groan or child-like whimper. I fall into an empty mortar pit to catch my breath, feeling consciousness slowly ebbing away, fighting it, but surrendering to it in slow increments.

* * *

It's July in the real world, in the northwestern Colorado of my youth. The extensive burns on my torso have healed, but there's debris to shake from the bed sheets each morning, sand and fragments sloughing from my skin still, that will continue to do so for years to come. My left eardrum has been successfully reattached, my hearing not 100-percent but intact. I sleep irregularly, holding onto myself tightly through the night, awaiting daylight, when it's safe to let myself go once more. There's a morning, a month after my return, when my lovingly naive baby sister ventures to serve me breakfast in bed, entering silently and waking me tenderly. I send the tray of food scattering and nearly choke the life from her before I'm jolted to by her gasping sobs. My father tries to talk to me, only to be run from the room with vial curses and incriminations, my mother in the door having a nervous breakdown. I only want to be left alone. I sense I am now feared by my own family.