Han Chien saw the Imperialist machine catapult out of the sky, trailing a swirling line of black smoke. Others carried on their airborne journey, stopping only briefly to contest the undeniable might of the People. 

"Papa," came a small and squeaky voice to his right. 

Han Chien turned and looked down; it was Vong, his six year old daughter. 

"Vong!" he snapped, "why are you not with your mother and sisters?" Vong flinched at her father's temper, and he sighed. "You know it is not safe when the alarm goes off. The Imperialists are here, and they would do unspeakable things to little girls like you. Go, and do not leave the tunnel until the all clear is given."

She gave a teary-eyed nod, and then hurried back towards the village. Han sighed a second time, she was much too young to understand the world into which she was born. Still, if she didn't learn soon, then it was only a matter of time before she blundered into an American's rifle scope. 

Americans. Han's fists clenched at the mere thought of the word. 

"Commander!" shouted someone from behind, and Han spun with his sidearm half way out of its holster. He was in no danger, not here, he knew that perfectly well... but old habits died hard. 

A young man in the green of the NVA was cycling down the roadway, flailing a palm full of papers. "Commander Chien!"

"What is it?" Han called back, walking to meet the rider half way. 

"Divisional orders, sir," replied the young man, coming to a halt. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and then held out the papers to Han.

Han snatched them from him, and after a few seconds of glancing over the scribbled text, he nodded. "It will be done," he said. 

The rider turned back, and rode off the way he had come. Han meanwhile turned and marched himself into his village, where a loose row of the People's faithful stood to rigid attention, dressed in their peasant garb but each holding a Type 56 assault rifle against their chests. Their faces were young, but their eyes were full of the kind of determination one would only find in Vietnam. 

Han walked in front of them, appraising them with his eyes, pacing backwards and forwards as if making a muted speech. But no words came, for there were no need for any. His men knew the glory of their existence, and he knew they'd die to the last if it meant taking an Imperialist with them. 

At last, he stopped, straightened up and said just a few brief words. "We check the crash site for Imperialist dead. Survivors must be taken alive if possible." He turned and pointed a hand out of the village, an extended finger lining up with a small pillar of rising smoke just beyond the river. "Let's go."

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Han and his twelve martyrs traversed the shallow river with ease; it was something they practised daily. Once on the other side, they climbed the shallow slope that led into the vegetated hill side. The pillar of smoke became lost behind the thick canopy, but Han didn't need to see it anymore, he knew where the Imperialist machine had crashed. 

The Viet Cong section spread themselves out in a thin line, six paces between each man. Weapons were held lazily by their waists; they didn't expect anyone to have survived the crash, indeed, they rarely did. Their approach from the west was slow, their march clogged by the jungle's harsh terrain. The midday heat beat against them, and the humidity reduced their clothes to sopping rags. The life of a Viet Cong guerilla was a hard one, but one Han and his men had mastered. 

Through a gap in the trees, Han could see the mangled tail fin of the Imperialist machine. He held up a hand, bringing his section to a stop. 

"Tang, Mach, Chiem, go ahead and search the site. We'll keep watch, in case the Imperialists return," Han said. 

The three men grunted, and shrunk away into the dense undergrowth. The remaining ten men took the opportunity to catch their breaths, and sat themselves down. Han passed around their only water-filled canteen, and mused at the Americans' stupidity. They were so arrogant! They thought their machines and their weapons gave them strength... hah! True strength came from the kind of courage one needed to watch their peoples die by the thousands, unflinching, kept secure in the belief of an inevitable victory. The kind of courage that made one smile in the worst conditions. Han had that courage, and he was confident. 

Perhaps too confident.

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The Huey had snapped itself against a thick Spanish joint fir tree; the tail laying twenty feet away from the body. All things considered, the Huey's human cargo had fared well. Six men clambered from the smouldering wreck dragging their gear with them, coughing and cursing as they tried to marshal their situation.

Sergeant First Class Ryan Davis poked his head back into the mangled body of the Huey, and grimaced. Seven men were strewn about the place, some without limbs, some with grievous shrapnel and bullet wounds - but dead all the same. He didn't bother to check the pilots, because a blackened hole was all that remained of the cockpit. 

They'd spun in the air a several dozen times as their bird plummeted towards the jungle below. By luck, the Huey had struck the Spanish joint, breaking its disastrous momentum and allowing the body to hit the floor in a controlled way. Well, as controlled as a pilotless chopper could abide. 

If it weren't for that damned NVA flak round, they all might have made it out. Everyone seated nearest the cockpit was dead, absorbing the shrapnel and saving the guys further along the seating. A few bullets perforated the Huey too though, and no doubt they'd of been fatal to someone - flak or no flak. 

Ryan turned and looked at the survivors, taking in their faces. Second Lieutenant Myers wasn't among them, and a quick double take of the Huey's interior confirmed the worst. He stepped back out of the smouldering wreck, but before he could start organising the men into some semblance of order, something moved in the corner of his vision. 

He wasn't sure what, but in 'Nam you didn't take chances. Not with Charlie the way that he was. 

His frantic hand waves sent the men throwing themselves to the ground where they were covered by the thick shrub of the jungle floor, and Ryan himself ducked down behind the Huey's crumpled form. His finger flicked the safety off on the rifle he clenched tightly in his hands.

Three black-clad figures entered the rough clearing carved out by the Huey's descent. They stood tightly packed, peering over the scene with casual awe - excitement even? But they hadn't spotted the American soldiers just fifteen feet away, partly because they weren't expecting survivors, but mostly because a downed American helicopter up close was quite the sight.