The platoon hadn’t even moved 100 meters when it, too, was ambushed. The three lead men went down in the opening spray of enemy fire. Everyone else dived for cover — except Tom Bennett. Perhaps it was because this was his first firefight. Maybe he didn’t really understand the danger. More likely, he just wanted to help his injured buddies.

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Ignoring the near-constant fire, Bennett snaked his way forward. Completely oblivious to the enemy rounds snapping through the jungle all around him, Bennett gave lifesaving first aid to the three wounded men. Then he boldly carried each casualty to a defiladed position of relative safety.

As the firefight continued, the young medic dashed back and forth across the battlefield. Whenever there was a cry for help, he was there, patching up a wound, offering words of comfort. At least twice more he ventured into the open to pull a casualty to safety. Bennett’s gallant conduct inspired all around him.

When the enemy finally pulled back, Bravo was left with five dead and six seriously wounded. Medevac choppers made it in before nightfall to pull them out. The nervous infantrymen dug deep holes, fearful the enemy might attack them during the night. Bennett, however, spent most of the night above ground, double-checking those who had been wounded and not evacuated. He ministered carefully to them, assuring them they’d be all right.

Sergeant James McBee, Bennett’s platoon sergeant, approached Captain Cowsert that night, saying: Sir, the men have asked me to put Corporal Bennett in for a Silver Star. He’s been doing an outstanding job today. He took a lot of risks to help the guys who got hit. In fact, I had to kind of chew him out for taking too damn many risks.

What’d he say? Cowsert asked.

He said he wasn’t afraid, replied McBee, who would be awarded a Distinguished Service Cross for valor during that fight. Said he was trained to be a medic and he was just doing his job. Said the Lord would protect him and if he died it would be God’s will.

Cowsert slowly shook his head. Okay, I’ll write him up, he assured McBee.

The next day the men of Bravo Company continued to push downhill. Several times they spotted small groups of NVA shadowing them, but the enemy soldiers always fled before the infantrymen could draw a bead on them. The grunts started to think they’d get down the mountain without further action. Then, around 1600 hours, they were hit again. B-40 rockets suddenly slammed into the column of men. Numerous AK-47s blazed away, their pinpoint accuracy dropping infantrymen into the tangled undergrowth. The noise was deafening, with screams from the wounded adding to the din.

Through all the carnage Bennett kept up his work. Ever fearless, constantly ignoring the danger, unmindful of the deadly slugs filling the air, the former campus religious leader slapped bandages on wounds, injected morphine to dull horrible pain and offered words of encouragement. Don’t worry, you’ll be okay, he assured the wounded.

By nightfall the firing had died down. Bravo’s survivors were exhausted. Bennett, his eyes red from the lack of sleep and the sting of cordite, was up all night treating his many patients. It pained him deeply to see his new friends so badly injured, but he never faltered in his care.

As dawn broke on February 11, enemy snipers took potshots at the embattled members of Bravo Company. Several more grunts fell, and Bennett instantly moved to their aid. Sergeant McBee warned him repeatedly to be careful.

A recently arrived private — so new to the platoon that no one even knew his name — suddenly cried out. He’d been hit by a sniper’s round. He lay about 30 feet from Bennett. As Bennett looked toward the casualty, McBee grabbed him. Don’t go out there! He’s gone, the sergeant warned.

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