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hit somewhere above his head, the concussion driving his helmet down onto the bridge of his nose. Stunned, he stopped his frantic rolling. When the pain cleared, he could hear the rattling of RPD’s somewhere up ahead, the firing of AK’s everywhere. They’d been caught out in the open. Rolling onto his stomach, he wiped the mud out of his eyes; NVA, he thought, pulling up his M-16 so he could fire it.
    “Otsun!” he yelled.
    An RPG sputtered across the paddy, exploding on a rise off the left.
    “Over there, dammit, over there! There, goddammit!” he yelled, emptying his own weapon into the hedgegrove directly in front of them. It was about fifteen meters away. The fire from the boys in the paddy shifted into the grove. Suddenly the middle of the grove exploded, sending out streaks of burning frags and bushes in all directions. “Take it!” Mayfield yelled, and springing up, still screaming, he was charging toward the grove when a round hit his pack and spun him off his feet. But the platoon was moving, concentrating their fire even while he was struggling to get back to his feet. They were moving past him; they took the grove with less than twenty boys standing. They had some cover now, but the other sides of the contact were still pouring fire into the paddies.
    Mayfield yelled for Otsun again. A corporal, covered with mud, a bandolier of filthy M-60 ammunition slung across his chest, pointed toward the front of the grove. Otsun was face down in the mud, the radio still strapped to his back. A mortar round hit behind the grove. A soldier broke for the radio. Slipping down the side of the grove he reached the RTO and was pulling off the radio when a round caught him in the head and pitched him backward. Another trooper rolled out of the tangle, reached Otsun, grabbed the radio, and yanking it free threw it into the grove. Mayfield crawled after it, checked it, and put it on its base. Hunched over, with rounds cracking through the grove, he switched the radio on to the command net. Nothing. He checked it quickly again to make sure it was working and twirled the dials. Suddenly he realized that all the RTO’s could have been killed outright or their radios destroyed. It could have happened; a waving antenna is an inviting target. They might have been the first to go. It was a good enough ambush for that.
    Mayfield pressed the button. A tracer rough spun off the top of the grove. Someone behind him was screaming for a medic. Looking out through the bushes he checked the paddy. That early mortar round had saved them.
    “River 6/River 18,” he said into the microphone. “River 18/River 6. 6/18, we’re taking heavy automatic fire; RPG’s and mortars; probably NVA. Grid 185/334 heavy automatic fire. 18/6 leaving freq to air support freq, leaving your push now.” Mayfield looked around; the gooks were in the groves in front of them, behind them, and to their flanks. “You!” he yelled, waving over one of the troopers. He sent the grenadiers to their flanks with orders to use shotgun rounds, and was giving orders for the placements of the M-60’s when the radio crackled.
    “18/6, four phantoms up at 40 right near you, switch to air-support freq code named Thunderchief.”
    Mayfield switched the dials. There was no SOP for the 4’s; you just talked to them.
    He pressed the horn button. “Thunderchief, 18.”
    “18, this is Thunderchief. Be over you in two minutes.”
    A VC moved out of the grove on their right. Mayfield was reaching for his weapon when one of his troopers stood up and emptied his M-16. The bushes around the gook were torn apart and, spinning around with the torn leaves, he tumbled into the mud. Mayfield pulled his gun closer to him, but left it on the ground.
    “18, this is Thunderchief,” the radio said. “Air currents too heavy. Diving...Now!”
    Still holding the horn, Mayfield picked a smoke canister out of his webbs, pulled the pin, and threw it out in front of the grove. He took out