It was another turbulent day in the summer of 68. Student protests raged from the Sorbonne to Berkeley. In the US, civil rights demonstrations and anti-war rallies were turning violent. Martin Luther King was dead; Bobby Kennedy would be soon. In South Vietnam, hundreds of other Americans were being killed each month. Soldiers patrolled the streets of Saigon, Paris, and Washington while Soviet troops prepared to invade Prague. But in the outskirts of a nameless village south of Chu Lai, a young US soldier had thoughts for nothing but the picture in his hand.

The long legged brunette looked at him from the photo with an impish, inviting smile as she leaned against the door of a familiar, ’62 Chevy Bel Air. One hand held a set of keys against her freckled cheek while the other seemed to toy with the almost, but not quite, unfastened snap of impossibly skimpy cut-offs. In between, an unbuttoned olive-drab, US Army fatigue shirt was spread just wide enough to give a teasing glimpse of the swell of her firm young breasts.

The soldier holding the photo smiled. He’d taken the picture. It was his shirt, his car and, most importantly, his girl.

Not for the first time, it occurred to Mack Floyd that there were better places to be and things to do than play soldier here in Vietnam. His first choice being the back seat of his car, making love with the girl in the photo, Donna Lynn Riser.

He was tired of death; tired of trying to kill unknown men who kept trying to kill him. He wanted life, and peace, and Donna Lynn.

As he stared at the picture, Memories of the last time they had used the car’s big backseat flooded Mack’s mind.

Seconds after reaching their favorite parking spot, they were both nude. Mack stood beside the open back door, looking in at Donna Lynn’s slim, petite body stretched out on the big backseat, her skin glowing in the car’s soft dome light …waiting for him.

“You know,” he said, “don’t believe I’ve ever made love to an engaged woman before.”

Donna Lynn’s face broke into a big smile as she glanced at the diamond ring he had given her that afternoon. “Well, don’t tell my fiancé. He’s a big, strong soldier and gets very jealous.”

“He’s also very damn lucky,” said Mack, responding to a beckoning gesture from Donna Lynn by moving in beside her.

With an electrifying jolt of sexual energy, their nude bodies came into contact. Slowly, almost tentatively, he pressed his lips against hers. Soon, his fingers were roaming over the contours of her body, massaging her breasts, caressing her hips, and then stroking her silken inner thighs. Finally, his fingers slid up and took possession of her most intimate flesh. Her body arched up to meet his gentle touch. The feel of Donna Lynn’s skin, the taste of her lips, the sight of her blatant need, the intoxicating aroma of her aroused body, it almost overwhelmed him.

After a last kiss, he began working his lips over her trembling body, feasting on her creamy flesh like a starving man gorging at a table filled with gourmet delicacies. He dined contentedly on her milky breasts and swollen nipples. Then he kissed his way down past the erotic expanse of her flat belly and the curve of her slim hips. Moments later, his tongue was tasting the moist delights of her innermost regions.

Still, he wanted more. Not just wanted, but needed, to totally possess this woman he loved so much.

They’d made love continuously since he’d come home on leave. But tomorrow, he’d be gone and it would be twelve months until they would once again be together. For the rest of the night, he wanted to make memories for them both.

Mack felt Donna Lynn shudder under one of her odd, preliminary orgasms, sort of like the tremors prior to an earthquake.

"Now, Mack," she gasped in a low, husky whisper. "I need you now."

Mack looked up and studied her face. Wordlessly, he nodded in agreement and moved up into position. After one last intoxicating kiss, they surged towards one another until their two bodies once again melded into a single being.

For them, no world existed but this backseat, no time other than this incredible moment. Most of all, for Mack there was no woman other than this one, the one he loved, the one he already missed.

Within seconds, they were completely tuned into one another. Desire, need, lust, longing, plus a totally unrestrained love pounded through every fiber of their heaving, writhing forms. They wanted nothing more than to keep making love for the rest of the night and then for the rest of their lives.

A rising tide of passion swept them along until Donna Lynn erupted in a long, awesome, shuddering, orgasm. Warm juices flooded over Mack’s balls even as her hips instinctively continued moving in rhythm to his movements.

While she still reeled from the force of her orgasm, Mack began building toward his own release, slamming into her with savage thrusts, savoring the feel of her hot slick flesh clutching at his hard cock as she urged him on TO, to…

Someone yelled, “Get your squad saddled up, Mack. Time to earn our big paychecks,” And his mind snapped back into gear.

Another case of gross daydreamus interruptus by the Army, thought Mack, as he clambered to his feet. Once again he vowed that the day he got back to Donna Lynn, they’d finish all those interrupted dreams.

###

Today’s plan called for his recon platoon to leave their current shelter in a jungle-like wood line and cross a large expanse of dry rice paddies to a village. The word was it might be a staging area for the Viet Cong or the North Vietnamese Army, maybe both. If everything went right, the infantry company and the troop of armored personnel carriers left back in the wood line would then move out and join them.

For the officer in charge of the operation, the plan had the advantage of protecting the men in his own company while risking a handful of troops. Vietnam was a numbers war. Should recon get shot up, the casualties wouldn’t be figured against his unit’s body count.

It was a scheme Mack and the other men of recon knew all too well. They were the eyes and ears of the battalion, experts at operating alone on intelligence gathering operations. Ambushes, snatches, tracking, manning listening posts at night and observation posts during the day were all considered good missions.

No one thought today's assignment, serving as scouts for a regular infantry company, was a good mission. They were now under the direct control of another unit's commanding officer. Whenever that happened, they became expendable.

Halfway to the village, things started going wrong. A high-pitched shriek from somewhere ended in a sickening explosion followed by a geyser of dirt, smoke, and death. Unable to tell where the fire was coming from, twenty-four men dove for the only available cover. After that, it was a matter of praying they’d guessed right and put rice paddy dikes between themselves and a body bag.

The platoon began checking in. "What the hell was that? Where's the son-of-bitch? Is everybody all right?"

"Hardcore" Harding, the unit's platoon sergeant, yelled over from a nearby rice paddy.

"That thing's gotta be a goddamn recoilless rifle, Lieutenant."

First Lieutenant Dale Lester never stopped scanning the terrain. "Roger that, shit. You got any idea where the hell it's firing from?”

"Can't be sure, sir. But they've probably got it set up on that hill over there on our right flank."

Mack forced himself to lift his head and look for the hill. There was a second explosion followed by an eruption of sporadic small arms fire from the village to their front. But he’d seen a flash.

“I think Hardcore’s right, Lieutenant. I spotted something looked like a small back-blast. Probably about two-thirds the way up the hill, just left of that dead tree.”

Dale Lester studied the hill and then the surrounding terrain. His platoon, a group he and Hardcore had molded into a first class recon unit, was pinned down in the open. Meanwhile, Delta Company and the supporting armored personnel carriers were back in the safety of the wood line and didn't seem anxious to risk exposing themselves by providing fire support. "Looks like it’s command decision time, Big Mack.”

Mack, whose name and size had made the nickname inevitable, wiped sweat and dirt off his face and nodded.

"If we stay put and call for help that recoilless rifle will pick us off," said Lester. “Heading towards that automatic weapons fire would be dicey. Going back’s not much better. So that leaves….

His words were cut off by another incoming round. Mack had an idea, but wished he hadn’t. “Lieutenant, my squad’s closest to the hill. What if the platoon lays down covering fire long enough for us to shag ass over there? If it’s just the weapons crew, odds are they’ll ‘di di’ when they see us coming.” What he didn’t need to say, what both he and the Lieutenant knew, was that if the crew didn’t leave and the position was defended, the squad could be in a world of hurt.

Lieutenant Lester glanced at Mack, then surveyed the situation. “Okay. Go get your squad moving. We’ll do our part here.” He looked away and began yelling orders to Hardcore.

Mack rose into a crouch and hurried toward first squad, his unit. The sound of another incoming round sent him diving back for cover. It exploded along the base of the dike being used by second squad, the squad of Sergeant Andy Andrews.

Redheaded, freckle-faced Anderson Andrews, Mack's friend and fellow squad leader, son of Mr. and Mrs. Carl P. Andrews, brother of Paul and Joyce, Kim Irving Andrew's husband, and father of their three month old daughter Kacey, was killed instantly when members of the North Vietnamese Army manning a recoilless rifle on Hill 87 scored a direct hit on his position.

Before Mack could get back to his feet “Hassle” Castle was rushing to Andy’s motionless form. The expert grenadier and Andy had joined the unit the same day. They were very tight.

Everyone knew to avoid the junctions of rice paddy dikes. They were prime spots for booby traps. Hassle knew better. But maybe all he could focus on was his friend’s body.

There was a small bang and a can filled with tiny steel pellets shot into the air, then exploded at chest height. It was hard to believe how many holes that "Bouncing Betty" drilled into Hassle's dark, wiry, body.

The recoilless rifle fired another round while Mack’s squad was racing to the base of the hill. After catching their breath, they formed a ragged skirmish line and began moving up the steep hillside toward the unseen gun position. The heavy brush and stunted trees limited their vision. It all made for a very hairy climb.

Maybe that’s why they got careless. The well camouflaged firing site was undefended and deserted. For the squad, the danger seemed over. They relaxed and instinctively moved closer to talk and check out the scene.

Mack was on the radio with Lieutenant Lester when he noticed what the men were doing. With an impatient gesture, he motioned for them to move away. “Don’t cluster fuck. Spread out and watch for….”

He never finished his last command. Tony Doughty a big, pug-nosed, good-natured guy from Tennessee—so new to the unit he still didn’t have a nickname stepped on a booby-trap. His large body danced in mid-air as a sheet of flame, laced with white streaks, raced toward Mack. It was the last thing he'd see clearly for months.

When the blast slammed into him, Mack struggled to stay on his feet, in part out of pride, but also fear of falling into another booby-trap. Then his knees gave out and he crumpled to the ground.

After spitting out a mouthful of something, he made a quick, unsuccessful search for his rifle. Reaching for his canteen, he discovered his pistol still in its holster. Knowing he had the .38 Special made him feel better. It was common knowledge the VC seldom took prisoners and when they did, the captives were tortured, then killed.

He remembered to check his body for wounds an felt something warm and wet around his groin. A flash of panic ended when he discovered it was only urine, not blood.

The blast had caught him from the waist up. There were tiny pieces of metal and gravel in his arms, chest, and face. Raw powder burns also covered his face and he couldn't see. But Mack knew he'd been lucky. He was alive.

The cries of wounded soldiers replaced echos from the explosions. In front of him, someone was moaning, "Crotch, crotch, crotch." Mack rinsed out his mouth and then started crawling toward the moans.

The casualties soon turned into statistics. Tony was dead. Three more, including Mack, would require a medevac. The immediate danger of an ambush was over. Now the wounded needed moving to a flat, open spot for quick loading onto the “dustoff” helicopters.

Somebody linked Mack up with "Cowboy" Thompson. The low-key, reliable fire team leader had gotten his right leg messed up. He could see, but couldn't walk. Mack could walk, but not see. The lame soldier and the blind soldier linked arms and prepared to help one another down the hill.

"Hell of a way to make a living, ain’t it?” said Cowboy. ”But it looks like we both may have gotten our tickets punched for home."

Mack just nodded as his mind suddenly flashed on an image of Donna Lynn stretched out nude and luscious on the back seat of his old Chevy, giving him that come-hither look that could turn his bones to jelly. In his pocket was her latest letter and the old photo of her smiling and leaning against the side of his car.

He was blind and had just lost two friends and the new guy under his command. But for the moment, the sudden realization that he was a survivor overwhelmed all feelings of remorse and loss.

"Damn straight. We’re beat-up, but alive and going home. Don’t know about you, Cowboy, but I’ve got a bunch of unfinished daydreams and a girl named, Donna Lynn, to help me finish them. Hell, let's celebrate." As the two wounded soldiers began moving away from war and towards the rest of their lives, a ragged chorus of the grunts anthem, “We Got To Get Out of This Place,” floated over the world they were leaving behind.