Hey, I got another one, I got another one.

Okay, I'll do at 9 o'clock. The

The guy I'm gonna' ... The forest dripped with stifling humidity.

It was midday, but the thick canopy of leaves above gave the world beneath it an eerie feel as of a bad dream.

Forest creatures grunted occasionally in the distance,

and branches randomly rustled overhead from birds bouncing across them.

In that dark place, though, the birds did not seem like lively things, and their

songs did not lighten the hearts of the men on the ground. They seemed instead like stalking

shadow figures, lingering just outside of one's field of vision, informing other stalkers of where they

could find prey. The men sat ragged and pouring sweat in the damp soil, six men all leaning back onto each other and facing outwards, rifles at the ready as always.

They'd been hauling their rucks through the dense jungle for two days already, behind enemy lines and free from any spot where they could make safe contact with their outpost if they needed to. Six men from

the 101st Airborne. Six men sent to die for their country in the black jungles of Vietnam.

For all the tension that hung as an ever-present thread in the air, the forest then was peaceful for

the men. But it was a deceptive peace, and they knew it, hence the tension.

Each soldier felt as though he walked through an ancient and overgrown temple of pagan worship

to a wicked deity who always lusted for blood. They had walked for miles with the heavy packs

and would have preferred to keep walking, but the rest was necessary. So they sat uneasy and vigilant, constantly wiping sweat that pooled around their eyes.

Into that quiet, a clatter started to rise from a thick grove of brush,

some 50 yards up the hill in front of them.

They leapt to their feet and sprang for what little cover the trees and deadfall could offer them.

Once hidden, they glanced at each other in confusion.

The Viet Cong would not make such a noise, but the northern army would make far more noise.

...