Captain Leroy Scott sat up against the bamboo tree and looked through the rest of the forest. Darkness glared. The sun was blocked by the foliage above him. Smoke poured through causing his eyes to water with unending intensity. Shots still rang out in the near distance.

"We need reinforcements," Specialist Brent Griffin called through the portable radio.

Static flowed aimlessly through the other side of the metal speaker.

"Sir. Our communications are jammed, sir," Specialist Griffin said.

Capt. Scott only looked at him and nodded his head. He grabbed onto his right thigh and felt the liquid squirting between his fingers. He didn’t have to look to see that he was going to bleed to death.

It was Vietnam, 1972, and Capt. Scott’s platoon had walked right into an ambush. His men were crowded around him on the perimeter of what they thought would be their safety zone. The sounds of M-16’s waned. Russian-made SKS’s continued to fire at the same hot intensity as before.

"We need your orders, Capt," Specialist Griffin said from his side. The nineteen year old saw that his commanding officer—just five years older—was shot. He had the presence of mind at least to understand if they didn’t do something, the rest of them would be shot, too.

"You give the order to pull the men back, Griffin," Scott finally said. He searched for strength long and hard. "You pull them back and get them out of here."

Scott barely heard the whooping shouts from Specialist Griffin’s mouth.

"What about you, sir?" Specialist Griffin asked. "How do we get you out of here with your leg?"

Only four men remained from the platoon. Scott watched them with vivid lucidity as they ran past him, retreating. The enemy continued to fire—short and stocky Vietcong. Specialist Griffin was soon gone with them, taking the portable radio, taking Capt. Scott’s only chance of survival.

Scott had his helmet, the chin strap off, and he still had his .45 automatic. He took the gun from his shoulder holster and snapped the safety off. He watched through the dark rising smoke—grenades that had been shot at them from inside the forest. It was a miracle that he or anyone else in his platoon made it this far. There was a rapid explosion of gunfire behind him and then nothing.

Quiet finally resumed. It was dreamlike. The smoke rose. Thin rays of light came through the forest canopy from the slanted afternoon sun. Scott focused hard on the forest in front of him. His ears attuned to every movement and sound. He cocked his Colt .45 and waited.

There was no way they were going to take him alive. Not after all he had heard. There would be no need for the rigorous training he had received to keep himself from giving away allied positions and strategies.

Movement finally came. Captain Leroy Scott picked the .45 up with the last of his strength and fired three rounds into the oncoming figure. The enemy fighter fell—dead. Another one fell moments later and then a barrage of SKS and Ak-47 fire ripped through Scott’s final position.

Captain Scott lay slumped over, his head fallen between his legs, his lower back tight against the bamboo. He was a war hero—his body never to return home.