Note: Due to a copying error the original page was only partially reproduced. I have attempted to reconstruct the narrative, placing the likely words in brackets. I am in Viet Nam, in the midst of [an attack]. These are not the primitively devastating 120mm rockets of Quan Loi fame (Rocket City); instead [they are] scaled down ICBM's. They whoosh through [the sky] as if in slow motion like the outgoing 155's [on LZ Compton] and LZ Ranch. I am running for cover, anticipating the  [force] of the blast and the whizzing shrapnel. As the missiles. [explode] I see the shrapnel and dive through a window [into] a subterranean room. I have taken a few pieces [of shrapnel] in the sole of my boot and one or two small fragments in the arm (as on July 15, '70 in Cambodia). More rockets fall, pounding away; the sharp explosions [are] followed by blinding flashes of skittering light. At one and the same time I sense the overwhelming terror of a direct hit, and yet I have so far escaped the unyielding terror and panic that accompany such occasions. Then I am with my platoon and the Lieutenant informs me that I should not be ashamed of my cowardice. I am to be relieved and sent elsewhere. The others too act [as though there is ] no call for shame. But their [comments] and remarks serve only to [highlight] my feelings of humiliation.