clothes on under it, so I shed the large green nylon suit and stash it in a thick clump of bushes. My lighter clothes are camouflage colored, with dark green and black patches all sewn into a patternless network. The legs and arms are lined with dozens of zippered pockets, full of maps, ammo, a compass, some rations. I have a canteen on the small web-belt around my waist. Fresh water. Not much around here I'll bet. Have to try and conserve what I have. Let's see if I have everything. Pistol, map, flashlight. My HT-1 emergency radio is in my breast pocket. Fred said they pin-pointed me from the air when I landed so I suppose the huey will be along shortly to make a radio contact. I'll have to wait till morning for the rescue, though. Not enough light left for it now. Hope they don't give me away to the V.C. when they pass over. I move off into the brush, quietly moving each foot to a preselected spot on the ground. Around me, the jungle sounds swallow up the occasional snappings of twigs beneath my feet. The sun is going down, and I head due south. The azimuth line on my compass shows me the way with a luminescent, greenish finger. I've found the grid on my map that is marked Z-26, but I need a better bearing than that to guide the chopper in. The whole grid is about five miles square. I'm sweating now, making a conscious effort to control my temper. The underbrush is thick and clinging like the air. Prickly, million-spiney branches rub against the back of my bare hand, shredding it a little at a time into a raw mass of bloody tissue as I try to protect my face with it. Sticks and branches poke me in the eyes and cheeks as I get too close to the bushes. Small vines and long stinging nettles around the stems of the ferns catch on my boots and belt, and grab, pull me and twist me around until I want to reach out and yank at them with curses; the sweaty heat makes me seethe and churn inside, and pounds in my temples. I want to yell and curse. Sweat flies have found me now, and buzz all around my face, making so much noise that I feel all the world must be able to hear me. Every noise seems to echo for miles. As the sky darkens, I come across a well-worn trail, hardened into the lush undergrowth by thousands of feet and cart wheels. I'm making slow progress, so I pause and sit just this side of the trail behind a large thicket, and pull the map from my leg pocket. I have to know where I am so I can make headway to a good landing zone. I could climb a tree and look around, I suppose, but I would probably be spotted from the ground and shot. Anyway, I have to worry about getting across the trail without being seen. Many patrols have been blown to pieces on these trails by unseen hands firing hundreds of deadly bullets. The trails are not usually visible from the air because the thick trees and brush extend up to eighty feet above the ground, blocking them from even the keenest eyes. I pull out my canteen, sip once to clear the phlegm and dry spittle from my mouth, and again swallow, slowly, soothingly. The water seems to soak immediately into my clothes through my skin. Take a salt tablet to retain water. Got to keep from getting dehydrated. After laying on my hip by the trail for nearly thirty minutes, I discover no one in the vicinity. Slowly, uncertainly, I raise from my back to my knees, lift one foot flat on the ground, crouch, look again into the dim light streaming between the trees, and move slowly into the path. It's only about four feet wide, but it takes me forever to place the knobbed soles of my boots on the hard spots on the ground so no track will be discernible to a wary V.C. They know these trails like I used to know the hollow out behind my house. Every new mark is important to them. I move quickly into the underbrush, manage to scurry about sixty yards into the bush and find a hollow in the ground behind some large ferns. I decide to settle down and try to rest for the night. There's no one around here anyway. Then I hear muffled voices in the distance. V. C. A lot of them about sixty yards away on the trail. I smell the smoke of a wood fire. I'm probably right in the middle of their central meeting ground and cooking area. I should be at least two or three miles from the spot where I landed by now, so maybe they've lost my trail. There are hundreds of little shacks under the trees around here, made of branches and leaves. One of the guys back in the barracks showed me a picture once. Dirty little pantry houses are the V. C. storage places for rice and fish rations. I sit motionless in the darkness. The jungle here is hot, alive. It is not at all quiet as I had expected; the chirping of a million cicadas and the buzzing of the sweat flies, the rustling of the small rat deer in the ferns all drown out the harsh rasping of my breath. I want to cough and clear my throat, to sneeze and get the snuffiness out of my nose, but I can't afford it. My legs start to ache. I stare unseeingly at the greenish dial of my watch for a few minutes, numb with the strain of it all. It's 2200 - time to fire up the HT-1. I pull the zipper around the pocket in front of my vest, and pull the small blue radio with its blackened antenna into the night. That black antenna is the only smart thing the Air Force ever did. I push the receive button as I place the small ear piece in my ear, and I hear the faint 18 sound of the HUEY radio operator calling out into the darkness. "Hello Sunflower, this is guilded cage calling. Please acknowledge. Sunflower, this is guilded cage, come in please. Over." A click sounds in my ear. It's too far away for me to get a clear message through, but I can at least let him know that I'm still alive and kicking. "Hello guilded cage, this is Sunflower here." My deep husky voice startles me as it rings through the trees, and I cup my hands tighter around the small mouthpiece. "Hello guilded cage, this is Sunflower here, far by." "Hello Sunflower, this is guilded cage. Reading you weak with a lot of garbage. What is your present position? Over." Damned if I know. My hands are sweating profusely now; my voice cracks and trembles as I try to whisper my message. "Hello guilded cage. I'm approximately three miles south reported touchdown site. Repeat. I am approximately three miles due south of reported touchdown site. Over." The operator's voice is excited now; he knows he is getting close to me. He speaks very slowly to make sure I understand. "Roger, Sunflower. Will fly due south to get a fix on you." I wait for perhaps thirty seconds, and then I hear it. The slow, pounding drone of the helicopter engine shouts to me as it approaches my position at tree top level. I hear the transistors come awake again. My gut turns over inside of me. "Hello Sunflower. Hello Sunflower. Are we getting close? Do you read me?" The tension is almost too much. I want to retch. I wish I were up there at twenty thousand feet between my wings again instead of here in this hot stench. I shakily push the red button into its socket. "Hello guilded cage. This is Sunflower. I read you five-by (loud and clear). Expect you are about forty yards from my present position. Over." My voice is catching more now. I almost forget to breathe. "Caution, guilded cage. Several Victor Charlies in the immediate area. Perhaps two companies. Watch for ground fire in this area. Over." A few sporadic shots ring out and the huge engines roar to life anew and the big bird rises straight up out of gun shot range. "What are you doing down there, Sunflower, having a picnic?" I flinch. "Important. Will repeat message. Pickup at 0600 hours in landing zone four hundred yards due west of your present position. Repeat. Pickup at 0600 hours in landing zone four hundred yards due west of your present position. Do you read me. Over." "RRRoger, guilded cage. Loud and clear. See you at 0600 hours. And for hell's sake don't stop to eat a big breakfast!" "Check, Sunflower. Out." The whole transmission has taken about two minutes. Eight more hours of waiting, listening, hiding, and sweating. I try to lie back and rest, but I can't seem to doze off. Questions keep running over and over through my mind. Was I spotted by the V. C? What if they find me? Why haven't I seen any? Did they find my flying jacket and parachute by the rice paddy? I wonder what John Wayne would do here. Hell. Cap'n Pheeney'd die if he knew all his survival training classes ended up with a course in John Wayne. I can see Wayne slashing his way through the underbrush with a large machete or something, hacking and smashing at the vines and branches. Hollywood is a long way from here, though. My mind clouds, and I lay back and doze off. Next thing, I sit up; it's light. I throw a quick glance at my watch. 0445. Early to be so light. I hear a whoosh overhead and a powerful whump as an artillery shell pounds into the jungle. One, another, several whoosh over me and explode a quarter mile away from me. Maybe they think I called in this fire power. Even if I could, which I can't, it's good to keep them jumpy. Good to have them think the ARVN is stronger than it is. Better get moving. I reach into my right chest pocket and pull out several pieces of chocolate wrapped in foil. I uncrinkle the foil and lick the chocolate off. It's all melted, but it tastes wonderful. A few swallows of water, a salt tablet to keep me from getting the cramps, and I'm ready to move. I raise myself up on my knees, look cautiously around through the thick underbrush, and move my weight onto my left foot. With both hands on my knee, I manage to assume a crouched position and start moving through the large ferns and briars. My knees ache terribly, probably from the impact of my jump into the rice paddy. Pain stabs like poisoned darts up my legs into my hips. It hurts terribly to walk for the first few steps. I am very silent now, moving with deliberate stealth from foot to foot, never crackling a twig, never breaking a branch. Patiently, I brush the vines and stickers away from my face with the reddened back of my hand. The sweat flies buzz around in front of my face. I want to swat at them, but I don't. I have covered nearly two hundred yards. Slowly, I stop. I smell smoke close by. As I peer through the underbrush ahead of me I spy an old man sitting hunched over a pot that sits boiling on a small fire. He is small, leathery brown with a knot of wrinkled skin at the back of his neck. He sits with his balding head, covered with a few sparse white hairs, hung close to his bare feet and between his knees. I stop motionless, 19