Another immense continuous explosion, incoming detonating one of six ammo dumps within the compound. Bok clapped his hands quietly, recognizing the unmistakable chaotic concussive pattern. The fighting continued, the 165th struck from the west. Cannoneers of the U.S 1st of the 92d lowered their barrels and shot beehive rounds, 8,500 flachettes, nail-size arrows, the ultimate grapeshot, point-blank into the advancing wave of NVA bodies crashing against the wire.
Nang rose. It was time. It had to be time. Bok pulled him down. Helicopters swarmed and dove west, east. “Not yet.” “Now?” “No.” “Now?” “Soon.”
The fighting waned, the sounds of rifle reports puttered to a trickle. The mortar barrage ceased. Outgoing fire from Bu Prang slowed. Choppers went off-station, to refuel, rearm. New birds
