I am with my old platoon in Cambodia on LZ Ranch. We are pressed up against the berm. An attack is coming. My M-16 is broken. There is no trigger or clip. A sergeant offers me his weapon, but I refuse, saying he is the better soldier. I help to invent a catapult that hurls a half dozen grenades at a time. However, the device is faulty. Ed W. uses it to initiate the attack. The scene changes. We are in a village. An old VC hides in a hut hoping to escape. I throw him down and sit on him. He is taken prisoner, but will not speak. I devise a way to torture him. We dig a vertical hole, bury him up to his neck, then place a clear plastic cover over his head. We will urinate on him. But the VC is stubborn and will not speak. He accepts that he will die. Then there is shooting and we rush for cover. I find a Viet Cong who resembles Richard B., my best college friend. He attempts to steal American weapons from a display, but grabs an umbrella instead. I tell him to give up. When he refuses, we fight. Each time I stab his belly he says, "Kill me." I feel terrible. It is as if I knew this man. When he weakens, I take him in my arms and call for help. His stomach leaks on me. I am crying. I am saying, "Oh God.... Oh God." American soldiers arrive. They look perplexed and awed. We march to a hospital.