"The Good Lord is watching over us Lilly".  I glance at his face and quickly scan about, but I don't say anything. Instinct, respect for him, and superstition for the deadly forces that surround us keep my mouth shut. Not wanting to put a barrier between us, I look back at him. "I'm telling you Lilly. The Good Lord is watching over us".
   I want to say something to Pratt. I want to ask him who ultimately made this war, or any other for that matter. Of the men who've been killed so far, who was watching or not watching over them? Though I'm focused on survival, such questions have been welling inside me lately and threaten to distract. At any moment, desperate action may be all that will keep us alive. Each second passed is irrelevant, because as long as we're here the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) will be wanting to change that. As enemies, we're dedicated to destroying each other. I push down on what's welling so it can't interfere with what I must do, but it seems it's growing.
   We've been at Khe Sanh about six weeks. Sandbagged bunkers dot the red dirt everywhere except the airstrip and roads. Trenches line the perimeter of the base and detour into most of the bunkers. It's as if a huge pencil, in playing connect the dots, has gouged the trenches and made an image for someone high above. Maybe the NVA in the surrounding mountains see it that way. If so, you can tell they're not amused by the way they shell us.
   Pratt is from Moorefield, West Virginia. The last of twenty children, he is used to being without comforts. His family had the things necessary to survive; they just didn't have much else. Most of the time as a child he went barefoot. He and his brothers often hunted on the surrounding land for the family's meat. Meals were at 6 a.m., 12 noon, and 6 p.m. sharp. Anyone not on time did not eat. Even as a young boy Pratt would wash his clothes in the creek and hang them on the line in summer, or over a dining room chair in winter, to spare his mother some work. His father was 72 when he was born. At 80 he decided he no longer would walk behind a horse and plows and moved his family into town. The Pratts knew and worshipped the Good Lord. They had hard times, but they always looked to the Good Book for their guidance and inspiration. Their lives were anchored by faith. I like and implicitly trust this intelligent man.
   Pratt is about fifteen yards from me pouring water into a canteen cup from a two-foot high olive green water can that's shaped like a Zippo lighter. I'm sitting in the shade of a lean-to that's made of three angle irons joined together at right angles with wire. The uprights of the joined irons have been driven straight into the earth to support the crosspiece. It resembles the front of a soccer goal. Tied to the crosspiece is one edge of a poncho. It's stretched on a slant to the ground to make some shade. I'm writing another of those "I can say anything that doesn't say anything that might cause my folks at home to worry” letters.
   We are instantaneously rearranged by the impact of a rocket. It outruns its own sound, so there is just an explosion between us. The force throws Pratt onto his back with the ten gallons of water pressing on his chest. I find myself on my shoulder blades looking past my crotch at the sky. If my feet had not hit the cross piece of angle iron, I would have gone around completely. One piece of shrapnel has hit that iron, while two more have gone by me and through the poncho. The bad news is, we didn't hear it coming. The good news is, it hit between us and, as usual, threw most of its shrapnel forward in a cone pattern – missing us.
  None of this holds our attention. What's done is done. Our minds and bodies are jelling with the same thought. Whether rocket or artillery, they always shoot at least two. With more on the way we have to get below ground before they hit. Wordless, we race for the trench. It seems that panic explodes like a cannon, branching through my body like lightening when I tune to my rear for an instant. I can't go fast enough. Not getting in that trench with a close one is a death sentence. I know that I've got to dive so I hit just before the forward cut line of the trench to get below ground level fast. Broken bones are acceptable. Being torn apart by the blast and red hot metal from what's coming at us must be avoided. Pratt and I dive simultaneously, bounce over the front edge, and drop hard into the safety of mother earth as a rocket screams overhead and slams into the earth shaking the ground with its deafening blast. Luck is with us! It was a little high.
   Pratt crawls quickly up to me. I think he's concerned for my well-being. Both of us are breathing heavy from fear and exertion. Our hearts are racing. He comes close to my face. "You see Lilly. I told you. The Good Lord is watching over us!”

Written by: Jerry Lilly