Nathan was looking around as the man’s voice trailed off. Though the event was far afield and hadn’t touched them, its importance had managed to rattle his platoon. “So,” Nathan found himself muttering, “this is what leadership is all about.” Taking a moment to ratchet up his own courage, Nathan summoned up his most commanding voice. “It doesn’t matter what it was,” Nathan snapped. “What’s important is that we get off this drop zone and seize our objective before the Guard has a chance to sort themselves out. Now, get yourself squared away,” he yelled as his flashing eyes swept the area where his men stood gaping at the burning M-1, “and get a move on. There’s work to be done.”

Seeing Dixon’s statement as a verbal reprimand, Randy Wahler took up the challenge. “Right,” he choked, as his eyes turned toward the north, where their objective lay. “Lieutenant Dixon, finish rallying your platoon. I’ll take your 1st Squad and start for the road overlooking the ammo site. I’ll set up a base of fire and wait for you.”

Though he was miffed that the XO was inserting himself into the running of his platoon, Nathan said nothing. This was neither the time or place for a turf battle between two officers. Besides, with two years’ experience as well as being the second in command of the company, Wahler was more than within his rights to do so. With a nod the young platoon leader bid the company XO adieu and turned to get his other squads formed up and on the move.

From his position along West Gowen Road, Chester West stared at the pillar of smoke. Stricken with the same nervous apprehension that had given Nathan Dixon’s platoon such pause, he all but forgot about the paratroopers who were busily assembling on the broad, open plain that lay to their south.

Fran Meranno, the senior enlisted soldier there, hadn’t. As a mother of two she had learned how to subordinate one’s own fears and apprehensions and concentrate on what was important. At that moment a thin raggedy line of paratroopers advancing on their position with weapons up and at the ready was, by far, of greater concern to her than a burning vehicle way over to their right. “CW! Crack open the ammo and get it over here,” she shouted as she and David Tillman scrambled to tear the cover off the M-60 machine gun. With a shake of his head, West looked over at them, then out at the paratroopers who were now less than two hundred yards from them and closing fast.

“Ah, shit,” West groaned. “You don’t think …”

“Shut up, West,” Fran snapped, “and give me the ammo.”