From my crèche in an outcropping of rocks, I watch the Viet Cong approach the crossroads. Turn left, I think, centering my crosshair on his chest, and I might let you live. Otherwise you die.
He stops a moment, rifle clutched across his torso, glances furtively left and right, and continues straight ahead.
I draw a breath, listen to Schreiber’s voice—“Do you like to kill?”—and squeeze the trigger. I feel my weapon recoil. A moment later the VC falls onto his back and lies still.