Chris shifted his pack, standing up as the all clear was sounded. No casualties among them, other than the dead in the choppers. It was a relief because there was no time to call for help, like the Sarge said and they were humping it out of there. Through the jungle. He hated the fucking jungle with all the shit in it that could kill a man. If it wasn’t a booby trap or a VC ambush then it was snakes, poisonous ones that could drop a man with one bite before he could take seven steps. And tigers. Fucking tigers, man. Then there was the black ants that stung like fire and leeches the size of his palm even monkeys throwing their own shit. Fuck this place. Fuck Charlie and fuck LBJ. 

Keeping himself slightly behind and aside from Bobby D., Chris scanned the vegetation for any movement, the slight breeze hardly stirring the humid air. His glasses slid down on his sweating face and he had to scrunch his nose to push them back, keeping his hands on his rifle. His radio was still silent, no one had tried to raise their platoon, no one seemed to be missing them yet. He glanced at his watch, wondering just how long it take for them to do something about the downed choppers. He was glad to have the Sarge at his back, someone who had been through the shit longer than anyone. 

As they entered the forest, the chirruping of jungle birds that flitted among the higher branches and the buzz of insects filled the hot, damp air. [i]“Fuck you! Fuck yoooou!” [/i] the infamous lizard started up its call as the soldiers shouldered their way through the brush, the hooked claw like thorns snagging at his fatigues and exposed skin. It seemed like even the wildlife resented the American presence in this primeval land. He would he more than happy to leave, fuck you very much. He had waves to ride and beer to drink and a pretty girlfriend back home. He did not need this shit though apparently Uncle Sam felt otherwise. 

Chris was thirsty but he was wired too tight to pause and drink, blinking through the sweat that stung his eyes. He would glance at the ground, around the forest floor for any wires or strange mats of leaves that might mask a tiger trap. Those were nasty things lined with shit smeared sharpened bamboo stakes. The young man kept his head on the swivel, as Sarge told them too, watching the jungle as it closed in around them.