Free Written in Blood by Diane Fanning

the green haze of the lens. What he saw created explosions of anxiety inside his head—twenty-five soldiers descending on his four-man patrol. “Run, now, as fast as you can. Run back to the wire.”
    They tried to retreat but were confused. They did not know which direction they should run. They lay on their backs staring at the sky, looking for a point of reference. When they saw a light on a tank flash, they determined the location of the other men and headed for it.
    Sounds of movement encircled them—they were surrounded by NVA. Fortunately, the enemy soldiers were unaware of the Marines in their midst. Any noise the men made, the NVA attributed to their own troops.
    Page and Kinsey paired up and moved toward the wire. Caught between NVA and Marines, they were hit in the crossfire. Kinsey, suffering from a concussion, lacerations and a nosebleed, lost consciousness. When he came to, Page had one arm wrapped around Kinsey’s shoulder—but Page was dead.
    Jack Peterson was wounded and moaning. Kinsey and Strickland dragged him through the wire. Jack complained about his legs, but seemed unaware of other more severe injuries. He died within a few minutes.
    Kinsey was put on a stretcher and given a couple of shots. The medics wanted to send him to the rear, but a helicopter could not land in the midst of all the fire ringing out on both sides.

    Lieutenant Michael Peterson approached Kinsey and asked, “What’s going on?”
    Kinsey jumped to his feet. “You dumb mother—you guys shot at us.”
    â€œWhere’s Page?”
    â€œI’m two hundred percent sure Page is dead,” Kinsey answered, “and your men shot him.”
    â€œI don’t believe it.”
    â€œIf you don’t believe it, then go out there and see for yourself.”
    Peterson froze in place—his face expressionless—his mind numb. He needed to take charge of the situation, but he just stared into space.
    â€œWinters!” Kinsey yelled. “Give Peterson a slap.”
    Dale Winters hauled back and delivered two hard hits to the lieutenant. Just like in the cartoons, the punches pulled Peterson back from the abyss. He yelled questions at his men, answered calls from division headquarters, called in air strikes and called for support. He rose to the challenge of leadership under pressure like an orchestra conductor pulling together the sounds of individual instruments into one harmonious whole.
    Waves of enemy troops crashed down on the outpost. Between 100 and 300 North Vietnamese soldiers peppered the small contingent with rifle fire and mortar shells. When Kinsey heard the enemy inside the line, he got up from his stretcher for good. He was determined not to die flat on his back.
    A sapper set off a trip flare when he slithered into the outpost. He was greeted with a shower of gunfire. Before he died, he heaved a grenade into the command bunker. But it was not Mike Peterson’s day to die. The pin had
not been pulled and the weapon fell impotent at his feet.
    Peterson shrieked into the radio for reinforcements. His request was denied. At C-4 base, they wanted to help, but without a cessation of protective artillery fire, there was no safe way to get additional forces to the battlefield.
    Six hours after it began, just before dawn, the enemy withdrew. Outnumbered and isolated, the men had defended their position throughout a terrifying night. The only American casualties that night were the Marines shot by their own men as they scrambled for the wire.
    Kinsey, Strickland, and two others were medevaced out with the bodies of Jack Peterson and Winfield Page. Strickland and Kinsey returned to their platoon that night.
    The base at Oceanview had not been singled out for this conflict. All across South Vietnam, bases were attacked on February 22, 1969. The second Tet offensive had begun.
    Michael Peterson emerged from that night with a Silver Star for gallantry in battle, a souvenir