While the anxious female Guardsman dropped down on her knees and flipped open the cover of the receiver West tore his eyes off the paratroopers, reached down and grabbed a box of 7.62mm four-in-one link. Turning, he handed it to Tillman, who cracked open the metal container, jerked a one hundred round box out and frantically tore it open. West stood up as Fran took the end of the belt of ammo she was handed, laid it across the open receiver of the machine gun, and slapped the weapon’s cover closed. With nothing to do West watched with growing alarm as the paratroopers continued to close on their position like a wave rushing in from the sea.

Troopers on either side of Randy Wahler saw the silhouette of a Guardsman suddenly rise up out of the ground and turn toward them. None waited to see if he was armed or a threat before they dropped down onto their stomachs, brought their own weapons up, and snapped off the safeties. Caught off guard, Wahler looked at his men, then up at Chester West who stood less than hundred yards away from him. Dropping to his knee, Wahler brought his own rifle up and paused. The inevitable question, asked by so many who find themselves in an awkward position raced through Wahler’s mind. “Now what?”

From the recesses of his racing mind a part of the operational briefing popped to the forefront. Standing up, Wahler forced his face into what he thought was a most appropriate expression, and yelled out at the lone Guardsman. “We are members of the 17th Airborne Division. Drop your weapons and put your hands over your head.”

When the figure did not respond, Wahler considered repeating his demand, but then abruptly stopped when he saw the movement of two other guardsmen. As a paralyzing chill ran down his spine, the company XO watched as a machine gun was manhandled around into position to sweep the area where he and 1st Squad were standing.

Pausing in her efforts to reposition the M-60 from where it had been overlooking the road to where the line of paratroopers had appeared, Fran Meranno looked up at West. “Get down, you damned fool,” she shouted. Not bothering to see if her boastful companion had complied, Fran turned her attention back to the gun. Dave Tillman had already taken the traverse and elevation mechanism off the tripod’s cross bar so that the weapon could be more easily rotated across the field of fire. Ready, Fran wrapped her hand around the trigger grip, leaned her right shoulder into the gun’s short stock, and brought her left hand up. She rested it, as well as her right cheek, against the weapon to steady it.