Tucked away in their hammocks beneath the dripping rain-forest canopy, the Viet Cong guerrillas could hardly believe their ears. Out of the night sky came an ominous, warbling whine, like bagpipes punctuated with cymbals. It was Buddhist funeral music—a dissonant dirge cascading from the darkness. Then a snatch of dialogue between a mother and child: "Mother, where's Daddy?" "Don't ask me questions. I'm very worried about him." "But I miss Daddy very much. Why is he gone so long?" Then the music and voices faded slowly into the distance, and the platoon settled back to a restless sleep.
It was, of...
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