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The jungle chirped and rustled around the soldiers as they marched, backs low and heads up. They were approaching their target now, individual troopers on high alert as they scoured the surroundings for anyone who could give the game away. For NCO Dinh Van Ty, this meant his bayonet unfolded and safety off, the soldier making sure to keep his finger outside the trigger guard. His boots squished down into a patch of deceptively soft and deep mud, and he flicked it off with a scowl on his face. Looking behind him to confirm that everyone in his squad was following him, he saw that all were present.. Well, all bar the old man. 

"Remember! Ho Chi Min is smiling down upon all of us!" He spoke in a whisper, yet one loud enough for everyone around him to hear, pausing and listening as he heard a rustle. His head snapped forwards, the rustling in the trees revealing itself to be just the bastard scout they were stuck with. He wasn't sure why they needed this old man to guide them- their maps were perfectly accurate, but he wouldn't complain. It would make the unit seem disjointed, and that wouldn't do.

The two exchanged nods, and they continued on even further, until the trees began to become further spaced apart, the faint sounds of a town now being audible. The rattle of wheels over poor quality roads, the chatter of people going about their business, the 'wap' of axehead against wood... All familiar, and yet with a strange twist to the peasant boy.

Indicating for the rest of his squad to go down into the earth and crawl forward, Ty spared a look to his left and right. Barely visible, other soldiers were doing the same, camouflaged helmets and mud-rubbed barrels blending in with the undergrowth. 

Rooftops came into view, proper rooftops, not thatched farmer's houses or fishing huts. Concrete and brick, even paint here and there, but more importantly, soldiers. Bastard AVRN, betraying their own people just so they could be fucked by the Americans. Dark green uniforms, much like the one he was wearing, and wooden stocked guns. Unlike his, these were no Chinese or Russian, no, these were American. M1 Garands and Carbines, one holding a bolt action rifle with a scope attached to it, a cigarette in his mouth.

He counted them silently. Four with the rifles and carbines. The marksman. One with a heavy-looking machine gun, the bipod unfolded,  A patrol nearby- two holding sub machine guns, the strap clinking against the drum barrel of one of them, one holding a double-barreled shotgun, and one more with a rifle, a stubby little grenade attached to the end of it. The gun was, no doubt, loaded with blanks. He couldn't recall ever having received a range for that particular device, but he was in no hurry to find out.

They had to do this right. The obvious targets were the sniper, machine-gunner and rifle grenadier. Then the man with the drum-barrelled submachine gun, and those with a rifle or carbine. Lastly the man with a shotgun and the one holding a compact-looking submachine gun, the stock folded inwards.

First, he checked his fire selector was on the 'semi automatic' mode, then he turned to the scout, the older man's black pyjamas fading into the shadows of the underbrush. Waving him over, Ty indicated to the growth above them. "Think you can climb up there and make sure that sniper never gets a chance to fire?" 
Regardless of answer, there was more to be done. To the twin brothers, he pointed at the patrol, which was meandering slowly along the road. "Suppressing fire on them when I blow the whistle." To the rest of them... "Pick your targets and make sure they do not rise again once they have fallen down. Our cause is the right one."

Now they just had to wait for the rest of the forces to be prepared.