text: [Themes: horror, historical, war, horror]
  
  "Wait, so how long have you been doing this?"
  
  Putting down a Polaroid photo of a blonde woman leaning against a Mustang, you lift your head to see who's talking to you. He's a fresh-faced teenager, eighteen or nineteen years old, and he's looking at you with this absolute shit-eating grin. You deign to give him a response.
  
  "Since 1965. I was one of the first Marines to land on the beaches of Vietnam, at Da Nang."
  
  "Holy shit!" He bumps his friend with an elbow and points at you.
  
  "Hey look, old Gramps has shown up here!"
  
  You grit your teeth against the sound of the whirring helicopter rotors, ten thousand feet up in the sky. The other troops in the helicopter talk among themselves, laughing and sharing profanities. Some of them jeer at you, a relic of the earlier stages of the war. They've just finished boot camp and are full of all that restless energy from getting plenty of sleep, exercise, and three hot meals a day. Hell, some of them bet that they could single-handily win the war now they're in 'Nam.
  
  You turn your attention away from them and look down at the land below you. The vast, sprawling jungle stretches before you, it's green immensity blocking any view of what lurks underneath. It's a dark place, one of the last untamed areas of the world. However, you feel an unnatural bond to it. While other men have faltered and deserted, you've returned to it, to the crucible of this war, again and again.
  
  The helicopter descends towards a small outpost, a "firebase" dotted with large 155mm howtizers. As the 'copter's landing gear touches the ground, the cannons unleash a devastating barrage, shaking everyone inside. One by one, the troops get out, covering their ears. You stuff the photo in your pack and prepare to do the same, but the pilot calls out to you.
  
  "Hey Sergeant! Be careful, it's pretty bad out there, from what I hear."
  
  "Alright, I got it. Thanks for the lift," you respond.
  
  "Roger that. Welcome back to the jungle."
  
  [Author's Note: February 7, 1968 You are a hardened Marine Sergeant returning to the jungles of Vietnam in the wake of the Tet Offensive. In command of a new platoon, you ready to face the challenges and horrors of war once more. However, the jungle may contain more secrets and dangers you would expect... Entry for Mizal's Welcome to the Jungle Contest. Special thanks to @enterpride for proof-reading and feedback!]
  
  > Continue
  You head over to the barracks, where others like you are hustling to find their assigned platoons. Inside, a single ceiling fan provides the only relief against the heat, which is magnified by the army green walls. You are surprised to see someone you recognize among the rows of identical bunk beds.
  
  A powerfully built dark-skinned man scowls as he glances at his cards in an intense game of poker with a few other Marines. The pot seems to consist of pornographic photos and a generous amount of alcohol. Once he sees you, however, he drops his cards and grins.
  
  "Johnny, what are you doing here!" he yells, getting up and hugging you.
  
  "Corporal Bronski," you say with a smile, "I should be asking you the same." You are stifled by his monstrous embrace. No one calls you "Johnny" other than Bronski, and when someone does, they'll be counting their bruises the next day.
  
  "Johnny, I thought you were on leave for at least another few weeks. Why are you back in the bush?" he asks you.
  
  "The moment I arrived at Okinawa, I got called back. Well, I thought, there goes my hopes of scoring with some of the Japanese girls!"
  
  Bronski lets out a deep belly laugh and bends down, clutching his knees. You smile politely as you wait for him to catch his breath.
  
  "Oh, that makes sense. You see, the Gooks broke their own damned truce for the Tet holiday, and they're attacking us almost everywhere. Some of them even made it into the fucking U.S. embassy. We held them back though, and now we're gonna strike at them. I think you can ask the Lieutenant if you wanna find out more."
  
  "Lieutenant?" You look around the barracks and see only about twenty-five men total, counting you and Bronski. "This is barely a squad, let along a platoon. What do we have a Lieutenant for?"
  
  "Well, most of 2nd platoon is either AWOL, in the hospital, or dead. We've been trying to get replacements, but without much luck. We've got you, which is good, but they also flew in the Lieutenant, fresh from the Naval Academy to command this 'platoon'."
  
  The Marines at the poker table clamor for his attention. "Hey, we gonna finish this game or what?"
  
  Bronski looks at them, then back at you with a smile. "Why don't you join us for some poker, like back in the old days."
  
  When you were a lowly private, you and Bronski gambled and whored and drank. It passed the time and was hell of a lot of fun. However, you're now a Sergeant; you've got responsibilities to put in order.
  
  "Bronski, we should probably first talk to the Lieutenant before do anything else."
  
  "Come on, Johnny, just a round. I'll introduce your new men, too."
  
  > stay for a round of poker
  It's been a while since you've spent some quality time with your fellow Marines, so you can't refuse. The men cheer as you take a seat at the poker table, and Bronski claps you on the back. You find yourself caught up in the game, so when you find you've run out of money, you're surprised to see that a few hours have passed.
  
  "You gonna bet something, old man?" The platoon machine gunner, Lance Corporal Simmons, grins at you with his heavily scarred face. Getting a face full of shrapnel from a mine earned him the nickname "Capone," but his attempts to make you uncomfortable fail miserably.
  
  You pull out your Polaroid photo of the woman leaning against the Mustang, and place it into the pot.
  
  "Who's that?" says PFC "Doc" Roe, who's really grating on you. The pampered college boy keeps spewing out how he's a conscentious objector. With his freckles and blue eyes, it's hard to take him seriously though.
  
  You're a bit drunk and your lips are loose. "She used to be my wife," you say, "but I don't need to see her face anymore."
  
  Bronski looks at you sympathetically, and clasps your shoulder with his hand. The veterans around you nod their head and keep quiet, not willing to press you for more information. A silent agreement among soldiers. However, the privates keep bitching about the sun, the food, and the local girls. Some things never change.
  
  Doc Roe goes on, "Like I was saying, this war is injust. We shouldn't be going to foreign countries and bombing and killing people, while sending our own boys to die for nothing."
  
  "Shut the hell up, will you! Pussies like you can't handle the Marines. I'd personally like to go out there and shoot me some commies," says Private Lering, his skinny frame betraying his boisterous ego. The two go back and forth, until you are ready to strangle them. However, someone in the room shouts.
  
  "Atten-hut! Officer on deck!"
  
  Everyone in the room immediately springs to their feet. The new Marines adopt a clumsy parade rest, but the vets don't bother. You get up and waver a little, unbalanced from the alcohol you've drunk.
  
  A young man, dressed in immaculately pressed fatigues and shined boots walks into the barracks. He stares at you with a cold grimace. Light reflects off his rank: a single gold bar, or "butter-bar." He must be the Lieutenant.
  
  "Sergeant, I've been waiting for you to report to me in my quarters, yet you failed to show. I come here and see you gambling while drunk and convorting with the other enlisted. You have failed to act as a responsible leader and broke several military regulations as well!"
  
  Anger flares up inside you as the Lieutenant continues to rip into you. Who is this boy to insult you: a soldier who's a decade his elder with three years of combat experience? Your men hide looks of disgust as well. You're one of them, the Lieutenant is not. After the Lieutenant is done yelling at you, he moves on to Bronski, who seems to have broken rules since the moment he arrived here.
  
  The Lieutenant finishes his tirade by saying "you two are a disgrace to the entirety of non-commissioned officers in the United States Marine Corps. It is because of men like you that we are not winning this war!"
  
  Fuck that. The kid probably has never seen combat before in his life. You stay quiet though, and quickly sober up.
  
  The Lieutenant sighs, sliding a piece of paper over to you. Orders.
  
  "We are to participate in a helicopter assault at 0430 tomorrow. Get your men ready. I'll check in the equipment in four hours, there better not be a single defect." He spins around and marches away, his boots sounding against the hardwood floor.
  
  You look at Bronski. "He's quite the officer, ain't he?"
  
  He replies, "Look, I'm sorry about the Lieutenant, but it isn't the first I got you in trouble with your superiors. Plus, he's like that to everyone."
  
  Laughing, you say, "Ok, that's fair."
  
  You push away your feelings about the Lieutenant as you and Bronski get to work. You muster your half-drunk men and begin preparing equipment, but you are pissed when you find out many can't even disassemble an M-16 rifle. Bronski has the patience to help out, but you mostly yell and intimidate. Part of you is still mad from being scorned by the Lieutenant.
  
  "What do you mean you can't clean your weapon? What are you gonna do when Charlie's on your ass and your rifle jams?"
  
  Luckily, your hope is restored when you walk past Simmons. He sits in front of you with the various parts of his M-60 machine gun spread out and oiled in record time.
  
  "Well Simmons, you've got here a pretty display, but can you use it?"
  
  "The Lord trains my hands for war, Sergeant."
  
  Well, at least there's one part of your platoon that not totally FUBAR. After somehow managing to pass the Lieutenant's inspection, your men go to bed. They seem jumpy, as for many of them it would be their first taste of the jungle. You can only hope it will not be their last.
  
  > The Assault
  In the darkness of early morning, your platoon pile into helicopters, burdened by packs weighing excess of a hundred pounds. C-Rations, ammunition, explosives... you doubt command can confidently resupply you. As they take off, a sense of dread comes over even optimistic men, crammed together in the helicopters. Several take out rosaries and start praying, while others take final glances at pictures of loved ones back home. Some close by glance at you for reassurance, but your grim face offers none.
  
  The helicopter ride was smooth until the end, where you braved light anti-aircraft fire on landing. Small explosions of black smoke dot the sky as the helicopter descends. Your squad is unscathed, but another helicopter's rotor is hit by the flak. It trails black smoke as it swirls out of control, going down in a great fireball in the jungle. There's no time to mourn as rest of the helicopters land and men start getting out. Mortars go off in the landing zone, their deafening explosions halting your disembarking men in their tracks as they squirm for cover.
  
  "Get moving! Get to the tree-line or we'll be sending you home in a plastic bag!" you yell while dragging the less courageous soldiers out of cover.
  
  "Shit Sarge, I don't wanna die here!" one says, with tears dripping down his dirt-covered face.
  
  "Then pick up your feet and keep moving!"
  
  With Bronski's help, you push them into the jungle. As the squad enters, the towering trees block the daylight and they are plunged into darkness. Suddenly, it falls silent. You feel swallowed up by the rainforest, as if it were a great beast that forced you into its giant maw. Counting your men, you are relieved none were hurt, aside from a few damaged egos.
  
  "It didn't look like much from the air, but now the jungle makes me feel so... small," says Doc Roe, though he quickly draws the attention of a jeering Private Lering.
  
  After marching for a while, you receive orders over the radio for your first operation. A search-and-destroy mission, you have to relocate your men twenty miles to arrive at the objective. The Lieutenant navigates with a map and compass, confident that he is on track. You arrive at the bank of a small river, with no choice but to wade across.
  
  "What the hell! You make us go through twenty miles of thick jungle, you give us mosquito repellant that doesn't even work, and now this?" says Lering. You silence him with a glare. Leading the squad across the river, your men keep complaining about the conditions, the conscripts making the most noise.
  
  You mutter to Bronski, "And this is even before they get malaria and dystentry."
  
  Once you get to the other side, you are covered in leeches. The city boys in your regiment start screeching at the sight of them, but Lance Corporal Simmons simply walks over and burns them off with a cigarette. You continue forward, water sloshing in your boots while your wet fatigues stick to your body- they'll never dry in a climate like this.
  
  The Lieutenant splits the platoon into two, him leading one half and leaving you and Bronski with the other. His detachment is to attack an enemy village harboring guerillas, while your men entrench and cut off escape routes. Finding a nice vantage point, you keep your men in a small grove of trees, concealed by the underbrush. The Lieutenant's squad leaves you and your men behind. Anticipation quickly turns into boredom, as they say: ninety percent of war is waiting for the other ten percent.
  
  After a few hours, you hear something moving through the forest around a hundred yards to the west. You set your binoculars on them, but you can't see what's making the noise.
  
  "Is that the Lieutenant and his men?" whispers Bronski.
  
  "I don't know," you reply. "They went to the east, but they could've circled back here."
  
  Your men, readying their weapons, look at you expectantly. Fear and excitement can be seen in their eyes.
  
  "What are your orders, Sergeant?" one says.
  
  You doubt that they're friendlies moving in the brush, but you can't be sure. However, you are set up in a perfect ambush position, and whatever's in there can't see you. With a single word, you can launch a heavy wave of automatic fire at the potential enemies. Your eager men await your command.
  
  > say "Hold your fire"
  Raising up your right palm, you whisper "Hold your fire!" Your men look at you, confused. Keeping your focus at the possible enemy location, you call for the Simmons and the anti-tank team to ready their heavy weaponry. A few minutes pass, the air filled with tension as your men take aim. Then, out of the brush a few figures emerge. They are well camouflaged, leaves and branches covering their bodies. Viet Cong scouts, you think. They search the area, but can't discern your presence. They gesture behind them, and are followed by almost two dozen more men. They walk quietly out of cover, crouched to the ground. It is the perfect opportunity.
  
  "Now!" you yell. You and the rest of your squad opens fire. Most of your men fire their M-16s in automatic, spraying at the enemy. You know better though, and take accurate single shots. Simmons' machine gun cuts through the enemy, who fall like scythed wheat. The launcher roars and a high-explosive rocket impacts the center of the enemy column, sending dirt and body parts into the air. The Viet Cong are massacred before they even have a chance to fire back. The shooting ends as quickly as it had begun. In the silence, you hear moans of pain from the Viet Cong position, but your men did not receive a single casualty.
  
  "What do we do with the survivors?" asks Corporal Bronski. You flip over one who's still alive, checking for insignia, symbols of rank. Nothing.
  
  "He doesn't have a uniform. These ones, we don't take prisoners," you reply with a grimace. As the sun starts to sets, a few more shots ring out, ending the suffering of the Viet Cong.
  
  > Continue
  You regroup your men as dusk comes upon you. Private Lering boasts about his marksmanship, while Doc Roe shakes his head in disgust. The other Marines are shaking from the adrenaline of the fire-fight, silent about the things they have done. Today, they have finally killed- a baptism of fire.
  
  You are concerned about the whereabouts of the rest of platoon, led by the Lieutenant. Confiding in Bronski, he assures you that they will found, eventually. As he says those words, a flare soars up the sky, basking the jungle with a blood-red light.
  
  Bronski snorts. "See, I told you."
  
  You fail to see the humor of the situation. "What is that kid doing! He's revealed his position to everyone in a ten-mile radius!"
  
  The squad marches over to a small clearing containing a single wizened tree, which is the center of a hastily built camp. Green tents flutter in the wind, barely held down by spokes, while the musty smell of gunpowder lingers in the air. By now, a thick fog has covered the jungle.They find their counterparts entrenched in the ground, along with a visibly shaken Lieutenant. They raise their rifles at the sight of you until you yell and reveal yourself. His eyes dart all over until he finds you, and he sighs with relief.
  
  "Sergeant, thank god you're here! When the mist came, we heard sounds from all around the jungle. My men fired at them, but we hit nothing. I have no idea what they are!" Well, at least he didn't friendly fire at you.
  
  He starts rambling, "We were supposed to attack a guerilla-controlled village, but I didn't find it. I checked my map, but I have no idea where we are! And my compass..."
  
  He takes it out. It's needle is erratically spinning, deciding on five different Norths in a few seconds.
  
  "Sir, you have to calm down," you say authoritatively. "These men's lives are in your hands. Once you panic, they will follow. We'll try the radio and contact friendly elements."
  
  You walk over to Private Lering, who's skinny frame strains under the weight of his heavy backpack radio. He's in the process of bartering his chewing tobacco to a larger Marine so that he wouldn't have to carry it, but he quickly snaps to attention at the sight of you. "You catch any signals on that radio?"
  
  "Sorry Sergeant. Nothing but static." You curse the obsolete radio your platoon has recieved. Reassuring the Lieutenant, you advise him to stay bunkered down here until dawn, which he agrees. You walk back to see your squad struggling to set up their own tents. Simmons smokes a cigarette, cradling his machine gun while laughing at the display.
  
  "Good shooting out there, Simmons. I'd say that you were single-handily responsible for wiping out half of the VC."
  
  Simmons' smile fades. "Well...thank you, Sergeant."
  
  "Simmons, your shooting made it so not a single one of our men was hurt. You should be proud."
  
  "I don't know, Sergeant. I keep thinking now, when this war is all done and over, how will I feel when I look back on what I've done? How am I going to tell my family what we did here?" You don't answer back, but give him a reassuring pat on the back. You've been having these thoughts with increasing frequency, but they haven't been as distracting to you, as you have no more family to justify yourself to.
  
  A piercing scream drives you awake. Rifle fire erupts soon after, but as you poke your head out, you fail to see what is being fired at. You rush out with your M-16 towards the screaming, barely keeping your footing under the dim moonlight.
  
  You arrive to find one of your Marines with a rusty metal object embed in his chest. His hands are wrapped tight around the wound, unable to stifle the blood, which flows in rivulets down his uniform. He looks at you with milky eyes, cloudy as the suffocating mist that surrounds you. He gasps for breath, pronouncing barely coherent words. You hesitate, not sure of the best course of action. You don't see the infiltrator who stabbed this man, but you know he must be close by. However, your fellow Marine is dying in front of your, and a medic may take too long to arrive.
  
  > call for a Medic and Search for the Infiltrator
  You don't have any medical experience, and may do more harm than good. "Corpsmen!" you shout, calling for Private "Doc" Roe to come help. There's nothing for you to do here, so you grab your rifle to try to find what attacked your men.
  
  Venturing outside of the platoon's perimeter, you look for imprints in the ground or broken twigs, anything that would suggest someone infiltrated here tonight. Nothing. Just as you give up the search, the surrounding mist thickens and engulfs you. A burning sensation wraps around your throat as a chill in the air makes you suddenly cold despite the jungle heat. You fall to the ground gasping for breath, strugging against the invisible vice-like grip around you neck.
  
  As you start to lose consciousness, you see a tall figure standing above you, his features blotted out like ink. All you can see is a green beret on its head, as well as two fiery orange eyes staring at you with contempt. A Green Beret- they're supposed to be on your side!
  
  Your last words before you die are "Why?"