The Night Patrol, Laos 1962 Poem by John F. McCullagh

My point man had died where he stood.
The rest of my squad dove for cover.
My helmet had tumbled and fallen
and I clung to the ground like a lover.
The lifespan of a second Lieutenant
is measured in minutes I’m told.
I rolled and I rose to my knees.
I fired a mag from my piece.
There was movement out there in the trees.
Visceral fear shook my knees.
Novak had tossed a grenade.
In seconds a blast splintered wood.
The bark of three M-60's. then
cut through the growth like a scythe
The foe, in black silk pajamas,
In violence departed this life.
My radio man slid up beside me
Headquarters was on the phone.
I told them one dead and three wounded.
I sensed we were still not alone.
We established a defensive perimeter
and waited for dawn to arrive.
Our camouflage, soaked by the rain,
clung to those grunts still alive.