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base.
    â€œThis is it. Let’s go,” La Zang yelled to his platoon. “Everyone, grab your gear and follow me.”
    My father grabbed his M-1 and small pack and took off after La Zang, who was in a dead sprint toward one of the helicopters. Their unit jumped in and took off.
    Throughout the flight, my father closed his eyes and prayed. Two weeks removed from a stone age village, he now flew over the jungle, headed straight east. He’d never even ridden in a car, let alone a helicopter.
    A short time later, the chopper dropped.
    â€œGo, go, go,” La Zang yelled.
    When they landed at the primitive base camp, my father had never been so glad to see solid ground. La Zang gave their unit eight hours to rest and eat.
    It would be the last time my father would sleep for another two days.
    My father’s first mission as part of an elite guerrilla fighting squad of twenty soldiers set the tone for his four years in the army. His platoon was ordered to go to a hill overlooking the Ho Chi Minh Trail and wait. Communist soldiers were supposed to come down it sometime that day, most likely in the morning.
    â€œOur instructions are simple,” La Zang explained to his platoon. “General Vang has ordered us to keep them from reaching their destination no matter the cost. Get some rest, brothers. You’ll need it.”
    The platoon marched a full day and night through the jungle to the rise overlooking the trail. My father spent the entire timepraying to God and to his ancestors for protection.
    His prayers were answered. The unit managed to reach its destination without being fired upon.
    As they waited for the enemy to arrive, they rested to regain their strength.
    A heavy fog hung over the valley below. They could hardly see anything. A rumbling sound came from a distance.
    La Zang stood, motioned to his unit, and passed the word: “It’s time.”
    They attacked, taking the Communists by surprise. A fierce fight ensued. My father and uncle’s platoon inflicted a great deal of damage on the enemy and drove them back.
    Grenades filled the air. Explosions went off all around my father, who would later call it the worst day of his life. All around him, Hmong soldiers lay wounded or dead. He came upon one soldier whose face had been blown off. Other men lost arms and legs to land mines and mortar shells. He had never witnessed so much death.
    The worst was yet to come.
    My father looked over just in time to see an explosion knock his brother to the ground. Fearing he was dead, my father rushed to him.
    La Zang was alive, but the shrapnel from the grenade had cut into his stomach. Medical tests would later show that his large intestine had been cut in three places.
    My father knew his brother would die without immediate medical attention.
    When the Communists retreated, my father and great-unclepicked up La Zang and joined the platoon heading back toward the base while a couple soldiers fell back and set booby traps to keep the Communists from following.
    About an hour later, my father heard the grenade booby traps exploding behind them. They were being chased. Though the platoon picked up their pace, the Communists closed the gap.
    Finally, my father’s platoon reached a place in the highlands where the trail narrowed between jutting rocks overlooking a cliff. All the while, they could hear the Communists gaining ground. To have any hope of escape, they had to take the trail.
    â€œThat’s it,” one of the soldiers said. “We can’t carry your brother any longer. He’s slowing us down. If we don’t leave him here, we’ll all be caught and die.”
    La Zang turned to my father. “They’re right. I’ve lost so much blood I probably won’t make it. Leave me. There’s no need for all three of us to die here.”
    â€œNo, Brother, I won’t do it,” my father said. “I will never leave you behind.”
    Then my father and his