A Night in the Jungle

You lied. It wasn’t what you said at all. Private Jones’ words pierce my ears as I suddenly turn around. Who do you think you’re talking to, maggot? I say. He stares me down. I am in my command tent, ready for bed. The only light I have is a kerosene lamp that casts eerie shadows across the tent. Somehow he has survived. I know why Private Jones asks this question. Why did you lie?! The impertinent swine’s words ring out. His voice is steady, but I can hear the anger behind it. I try to cover it up. I don’t know what you are talking about, I say. He glares at me in hate. You lied, he says through clenched teeth, you lied to them. All of them are dead for all we know. My heart sinks; he knows. I furiously try to abstain from jumping up and stomping his guts out until he coughs blood. Now listen here, Private. If you say one word about this I will have you shipped back to the lousy, flea-ridden town where you came from! You signed up to fight! To obey! Not to snitch! My words fail to make him back off. I know he does not condone my actions, nor would any soldier under my command. Instead, he pulls out something from his uniform and tosses it to me. It’s a note from Private George. No, not a note. It's a diary entry, and it looks like it has been ripped straight out of a journal. George’s journal. I slowly skim it, my eyes widening in horror as I realize what has happened.

August 9th, 1962.
I’ve run off and am making it back to the main camp in Ho Chi Minh. I am bleeding my guts out and spilling them all over the jungle floor. Why would the captain do this? So many dead... so many...

His writing is cut off, because the rest of the page is splattered in blood. My plan has failed. Private George survived. I ball up the paper quickly and reach under my desk to pull out my glossy black hand gun. It’s always loaded. I treat it like an actual human being, unlike the grunts in my camp. Quickly turning around, I aim at Private Jones... except, he’s not there. No footprints in the mud. Nothing. I run outside into the balmy summer night in Vietnam. The whole camp is quiet. Too quiet. My eyes focus on the scene and I realize everything has been destroyed. Tents are ripped and bodies are everywhere. Flies buzz. A chopper sounds in the distance. My platoon has been dead this whole time. Private Jones’ body lies nearby, with a gaping bloody hole in his chest. Was he a ghost? I may never know. Now I know that only Private George has survived. The chopper is closer now. Then I remember. It hits me like a train. I was responsible for all this. I caused all this suffering. I remember the recoil of my M16 rifle as I stared into their eyes full of fear. Ratatatatat! The rattle of gunfire from a single weapon echoing throughout the jungle. Now my own eyes are open in fear. I make a quick survey of the area, and lo and behold, Private George cannot be seen. The last thing I hear is the sound of an American chopper sounding overhead. The last thing I smell is the humid Vietnam jungle, and the stench of rotting flesh. The last thing I see are the blinding searchlights, and the lone pair of bloody footprints, no doubt George’s, heading away from camp, towards his salvation. 

~ Justin J.

Author's note: This story tells more about the psychological side rather than the physical side of the Vietnam War. If they didn’t die, many U.S. soldiers would often come back with severe injuries or PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). In the story, the captain is driven crazy and slaughters his platoon (if you didn't figure that out already). Soldiers were under fire and shelling daily, and that did not help with the fact that they were isolated deep in the jungles and mountains of Vietnam. It was really a combination of isolation and threat that ultimately drove the soldiers, or in this case the captain, crazy. It goes to show just how much war can affect a person, mentally and physically.