[legendsport]

Same Song, Different Tune
1 — New Year’s Fire

Camp Evans, Quảng Trị Province — January 30, 1968

The generators never stopped their low mechanical growl. Inside the 3rd Battalion, 7th Cavalry’s operations tent, the sound blended with the hiss of radios and the clatter of typewriter keys. Major Mike Barrell leaned over a map pinned beneath empty coffee cups and rain-spotted acetate.

“Looks quiet out there, sir,” Sergeant Collins said, stifling a yawn. “Maybe this Tet truce thing’s for real.”

Mike smirked. “I’ll believe that when Charlie sends flowers.”

He signed a logistics report for Lieutenant Colonel Hal Kurtz and rolled his shoulders. The air felt heavy enough to bend steel. He checked his watch—just past 2100. Back home in Georgia it would be morning. Ruby Lee would be starting her day—packing Sarah’s lunch, chasing Jake to finish his cereal before the bus came down the dirt road. He pictured sunlight through the kitchen window, the way it caught in her hair when she turned to wave goodbye. For a heartbeat he could almost smell the coffee. Then his nose had its say as the smell of damp canvas and diesel fuel reasserted itself.

A dull pop echoed from the hills—artillery or thunder, hard to tell. He took a drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring, and exhaled into the canvas gloom. Mike had been in and out of Vietnam since 1965 and he knew it almost as well as he knew his home back in Georgia. This stillness felt wrong. Quiet never lasted here.

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Chicago, Illinois: Morning, January 30

Snow rimmed the windows, muting the city below. Gladys Barrell poured coffee and opened the Chicago Tribune. The headlines spoke of weather and politics, not war, and she was grateful.

On the sideboard three photographs stood in a neat row:
• Dan Barrell, presenting the Whitney Award to his brother Bobby back in the Forties - baseball’s golden age caught in silvered paper.
• Mike, square-jawed in uniform, sunlight glancing off his helmet brim.
• Steve, grinning in his Boston Centurions warm-up, one hand on a basketball, all energy and promise.

She straightened each frame—a morning ritual of order against the day’s uncertainty. WGN radio chattered about lake-effect snow and last night’s scores. When the announcer mentioned that the Centurions were facing the St. Louis Rockets tonight, she smiled faintly. “Play well, Stevie,” she murmured. Then she turned off the radio and let the silence settle.

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St. Louis, Missouri: Afternoon, January 30

The Rockets’ old barn smelled of popcorn grease and damp concrete. Steve Barrell dribbled once, twice, feeling the pull in his taped finger. A month on the injured list had dulled his timing; tonight he needed to shake off the rust and remind everyone—including himself—that he still belonged.

“Good to have you back, Barrell,” Coach O'Connor called. “Let it fly early.”

Steve nodded. The finger throbbed as he rose for a jumper, but the ball kissed the rim and fell clean through. The sound eased something inside him.

A trainer nearby skimmed the Post-Dispatch. “Another story about peace talks,” he said. “Guess they never talk long enough.”

Steve didn’t answer. He’d stopped believing the headlines months ago. The war was chewing up boys even younger than the rookies jogging past him now. Saying it aloud never helped; better to keep shooting.

By tip-off, the ache in his hand had faded beneath the rush. Boston jumped ahead early and never looked back. Steve hit four of seven from mid-range, the finger screaming by the final buzzer. In the locker room, teammates joked and sprayed liniment; the trainer flipped on the TV for the late news.

“Breaking news from Saigon tonight... enemy forces have launched surprise attacks on several cities across South Vietnam…”

The laughter died. The screen showed tracers streaking across a black sky, smoke rising from the Embassy wall. For a moment no one moved. Then someone switched channels, the same pictures everywhere.

Steve wrapped his hand in ice, staring at the screen long after it turned to commercials. The world had changed between one headline and the next.

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Camp Evans — Near Midnight, January 30 (Vietnam time)

Rain drifted in from the hills, turning the dust to mud. Inside the Tactical Operations Center - the TOC - the radios crackled with overlapping voices: reports of rocket fire at Phu Bai, mortars pounding Quảng Trị City.

Mike bent over the map again, marking each contact with a grease pencil. “Confirm coordinates. See if Brigade’s hearing the same at Huế.”

Another transmission broke in, jagged and frantic: “…enemy inside the wire... repeat, inside...” then static.

Outside, their own artillery thundered in reply, shaking the ground underfoot. The Tet truce was over. Mike ordered full alert and stepped into the rain. The horizon pulsed with red light. Somewhere out there his companies were already in the fight.

He thought of Ruby Lee again—probably making lunch now, maybe catching the news on the radio after feeding the chickens. He wondered if she’d felt the earth shift, the way he just had.

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St. Louis: Late Night, January 30 (U.S.)

The locker room steamed with sweat and liniment. Reporters scribbled notes about Boston’s win. Steve sat at his locker, unwrapping the tape from his finger, eyes on the flickering TV in the corner. The anchor’s calm voice carried an edge he’d never heard before.

“Fighting is reported in Saigon and other major South Vietnamese cities tonight…”

Players drifted closer, silent. When the broadcast cut to commercials, someone muttered, “Hell of a way for them to celebrate New Year’s.”

Steve shut off the set, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out to the quiet tunnel. Outside, sleet tapped the pavement like static. He whispered to no one, “Hang in there, Mike.”

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Chicago: Morning, January 31 (U.S.)

Snow whispered against the window as Gladys turned on the radio. The announcer’s voice was clipped, uncertain.

“In Vietnam, widespread fighting continues this morning in Saigon, Huế, and Quảng Trị…”

Her coffee went cold in her hand. She turned up the volume, straining for details, but the sentences blurred into static.

The phone rang; she snatched it up.
“Mom, it’s me,” Steve said, his voice tinny from a hotel line.
“Oh, Stevie—thank God. I saw the news.”
“Yeah. Nobody knows much yet. They said Huế and Quảng Trị.”
“Your brother’s near there, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I think so.”

A pause, long and heavy.
“I’ll call again when I’m back in Boston,” he said.
“Do that,” she whispered. “And pray.”

After the click, she set the receiver down and looked at the photos again: Dan & Bobby, Mike, Steve - generations caught between pride and worry. She reached out and touched Mike’s picture. “Hold on, son,” she said.

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Quảng Trị Province: Dawn, January 31 (Vietnam)

Gray mist hugged the paddies as the helicopters dropped low. Major Mike Barrell clutched the doorframe, headset pressed tight, rotor wash whipping his face.

“Two minutes!” the crew chief shouted.

“Copy,” Mike answered. “Red Three, stay tight; we’re going in hot.”

The Huey flared over the landing zone; bullets sparked off tree trunks. Mike jumped, hit the mud hard, and waved the men forward. Another chopper corkscrewed down trailing smoke. He sprinted to it, dragging the wounded crew chief clear, calling over the net, “Evac priority; two urgent, one routine.”

Gunships roared overhead. The air smelled of fuel and burning leaves. He shouted orders until his voice vanished in the noise, until there was nothing left but motion and command.

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Boston Logan Airport: Evening, January 30 (U.S.)

Steve stepped off the plane into a swirl of sleet. Every television in the terminal blared the same images: smoke, gunfire, chaos. Passengers stopped mid-stride. An older man muttered, “My boy’s over there.”

Steve adjusted his grip on his duffel and caught his reflection in the glass, healthy, free, carrying a gym bag instead of a rifle. Guilt flickered through him, uninvited. He pushed through the crowd toward the taxi stand as the announcer’s voice chased him down the concourse:

“American commanders call the attacks widespread and coordinated. Casualties remain unconfirmed…”

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Chicago: Night, January 31 (U.S.)

Gladys sat in her armchair, the television casting cold light across the room. Walter Cronkite’s voice filled the silence.

“The situation remains confused tonight. Fighting continues in Huế and Quảng Trị…”

She pulled her shawl tighter. The wind rattled the windowpane. In the blue glow, Dan’s photograph seemed almost alive. She could almost hear him say, “It’ll work out, Gladie. It always does.”

She clasped her hands and whispered, “Please, Lord. Bring him home.”

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Quảng Trị Province: Dusk, January 31 (Vietnam)

The light faded to a bruised violet over the ridge. Mike crouched behind a sandbag wall, helmet tipped back, notebook balanced on his knee.

We’re holding near Quảng Trị. Heavy contact but spirits good. Tell Ruby Lee not to worry.

He folded the page, slid it into his breast pocket, and watched a medevac Huey lift off in the fading light. The rotor wash scattered dust and ashes, turning the horizon to haze.

When the sound finally died, the jungle closed in again. Somewhere across the ocean, his mother might be watching those same blades on her television, hearing the same dull rhythm in her chest.

Mike exhaled, exhaustion catching in his throat. “Same song,” he murmured, “different tune.”

The jungle answered with silence.