Answer: please mark me brainliest
My first day began. A tremendous blast blew me out the door onto the dusty ground outside. Checking that I was not wounded, I rose quickly and ran toward the site of the explosion, sirens screamed red alert... incoming rounds.
As I got closer the smoking, black crater I felt a warm liquid running across my head, shoulders and down my arms. Still feeling no pain of my own, it dawned on me that body parts were raining down from the sky, landing on my head and shoulders.
I stopped. To my right lays a torso heaving one last, reflex-driven sigh. To my left was a writhed man screaming and clutching the remains of his arm.
Feet pounded by as braver men than I ran to assist their fallen comrades. I couldn't move.
The telegram went out that evening to six sets of devastated parents and spouses with the dreaded introduction; "We regret to inform you that your son, (name of deceased), was killed in combat operations in the Republic of Vietnam in the service of his country...."
But it was not an incoming enemy mortar round that caused the carnage I witnessed that day. A despondent GI, very high on pure heroin, chose to commit sucide and in the process, and take some of his comrades with him.
He was cleaning his weapon by a table with five other soldiers that returned from a night of duty on our defensive berm. There was another man about my age, that removed a hand grnade from the case in the center of the table, pulled its pin, then put it back in the box, detonating the entire batch.
