I trudged through the thick, hot as hell jungles of ‘Nam. Me and my crew were stationed near Hanoi, and me and Jon had the lovely job of jungle patrol.  Mud sucked at my boots and the mosquitoes bit at my ass.

“Damn mosquitoes,” I said to no one in particular.

Jon just shrugged. He seldom talked.

The rest of our team was sittin back at camp. Probably smokin’ to be honest. Lucky motha*******.

I heard a hushed rustling in the bush. I lifted my loaded M16 and aimed vigilantly down my sights towards the muffled sound. I stayed calm and collected as Jon pulled out a thermal scanner.  He whispered to me,“ Chas alfa 3 o’clock,” our code for guerilla (chas and guerilla mean the same thing, but the VC don’t know that) at 3 o’clock.

The sniper sprang up fast as lightning, firing a quick shot at Jon. The erratic bullet connected with Jon, embedding itself in his arm.

“****! he screamed as he clutched his arm instantaneously. I aimed my gun at the chas. He leaped, bounding like a gazelle from his hiding spot and bolted through the thick jungle. I squeezed the trigger as the gnashing volley of bullets flew towards the guerilla. Three bullets connected with his right leg, and two more in his ribs. I darted after him. The filthy sonuva ***** was lying wounded on the dirt covered floor of the jungle.

The VC mouthed something, but I couldn’t understand him. I pulled out my nine millimeter pistol and aimed at his bridge. I pulled the trigger.

I tied a tourniquet on Jon's arm. 

“Yall’ right, Jon?” I asked. He nodded, and we marched on.

As we trekked through the dense jungle, Jon said to me, “I didn't know it was possible to drink your air.”  It was true, the air was ludicrously humid. I chuckled. I was glad Jon was feeling better and that he had lightened our moods.

At 1800’ hours, we headed back to camp. When we reached base, Matt handed us both a can of peaches.

“Welcome back,” he said.

I grunted and sat, scarfing down my peaches ravenously. Jon lay down in front of Eric, our corpsman.

The next morning at 0800 hours we headed out, legs marching and arms swinging monotonously for days upon days. Dust clung to our faces, which were sweaty as hell. The humidity increased each day as the monsoon season neared. On the third day of marching, Alex said the temperature reached 119 degrees.  Thermometers could not truly measure the heat though. No instrument could determine the true heat level. Only experience.

On that third day we set up base, and Matt pulled out his sentry guns, including 50 cals. As Alex threw down sandbags, he slipped into a punji trap (some called it a pangee trap, nonetheless it was a contaminated spike filled pit) and yelled out to Eric, his longtime best friend. Eric bolted to Alex.

“Alex!!” he screamed. “Stay with me, Buddy!! PLEASEEEE, you can do it, Al!” Eric's voice was desperate and had a tone of true sadness.  In ‘Nam, GIs built strong bonds that even death couldn't break.  Alex and Eric had a bond much like the bond between me and Jon. 

I saw tears well up in Eric’s eyes. His lips were trembling, and his face was gaunt. He began to cry but stopped himself after a minute.  He had a job to do, and that was to save his pal.  He reached down and told Alex to grab his hand.

“Alex, it could be contaminated, don't!” I yelled. 

“I don't give a ****, Colonel! Alex still has a chance!” He screamed at me, his lips still trembling, shaking erratically.

At that point I couldn't do anything. Eric brought Alex to a stretcher. Alex had wounds all over his feet and legs. Instantaneously, Eric went to work on Alex. Alex’s vitals didn't seem to be great, but Eric worked furiously on his legs, tying tourniquets and bandaging the wounds. When Eric was done he lay down next to Alex, and we all slept.

The next day, Alex died from the contamination from the punji trap. We sang to the tune of John Brown, replacing John Brown with Alex Rose. It went like this;

Alex Rose's body lies a smoldering in the grave

Alex Rose's body lies a smoldering in the grave

Alex Rose's body lies a smoldering in the grave

But his soul goes marching on

Glory, Glory Hallelujah

Glory, Glory Hallelujah

Glory, Glory Hallelujah

But his soul goes marching on

Eric blamed himself, but we all knew there was nothing he could have done.  Eric was silent for days; all he would do was nod his head or shrug.

It had been a week after the day Jon had been shot when Eric was coming back from patrol with Ben.  Ben was carrying an unconscious Eric.  He said to me one word, “Heatstroke.”

I called over Dan, our other corpsman, or medic, as it is a more common name. Dan checked Eric’s temperature. It was 110.6 degrees.

“The blood in his brain is literally boiling. How he survived I have no idea. We have to set up an LZ and evac him to the States,” Dan informed me.

“No can do, Dan, we can’t risk getting a Huie to pick him up. It’s too dangerous,” I replied.

“He’s got about a day of life left in him.”

“I say we put him out of his misery,” Derek chimed in.

“Not happening,” I responded, “We are going to take him with us, and when his time comes, it will come.”

“Yes sir.”

The next evening at 1600 hours, Eric died. We again sang to the tune of John Brown, this time with Eric Stone. We slogged on through the dense jungle, our legs like jelly from the endless marching, climbing treacherous hills, dealing with the intense heat, hot as the sun, and enduring the stupendous amount of dust and humidity.

I heard a loud popping sound. Sniper fire. The VC just fired erratically to fray our already damaged nerves. But this time the sniper fire was actually a warning for a deadly firefight.

Nate pulled out a thermal scanner.

“Chas alfa 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, and 10 o’clock,” he whispered. He pulled out a heavy machine gun while I grabbed my SK-57. I pulled the trigger and sprayed a round of bullets towards where Nate had told me the VC were. Jon threw an MK2 ‘nade into the brush, my ears ringing, brain rattling after the explosive BOOMing sound. VC uniforms and chunks of flesh went flying. Matt was chugging away with his 50 cal. Kaine, our pilot, was firing shots at the chas with his AK.

I heard Dan say, “ Man down!” but I kept firing, trying to get the guerillas to run. Derek pulled out an M16 and was shootin’ down guerillas one by one. After a few minutes, the VC were on the run.

“Sir, I have terrible news,” Dan said to me, “ We have lost Derek, Nate, and Matt.”

“Those filthy mother****as are gonna pay for the hell they have caused. I'll make sure of it if it’s the last thing I do, goddamnit,” I replied.

We again sang to the tune of John Brown, this time using the names Derek Kiter, Nate Kioning, and Matt Carr.

We continued to hike through Nam, closing in on the massive bunker that was our destination. Luke and Kaine went out on a reconnaissance mission. They returned at about 0700’ hours the next day. Actually, Kaine returned.

“Where’s Luke?” Dan asked.

“The ****ing VC got him. I’m gonna ****ing kill every last guerrilla,” Kaine responded. His eyes were bloodshot. Dan, Kaine, and Luke had a strong relationship.

“I tried to save him; I’m sorry Dan. I’m sad about his death too. Everyone is.”

Dan and Kaine were quiet for a while. We again sang, using Luke Sommer. Four of us were left. Four GIs against over a hundred VCs and a mission to blow up their biggest base. We were ****ed.

We trudged on again. It had been two weeks since the day Jon had been shot. I was determined to blow up that goddamned place if it was the last thing I ever did.

The next day we were caught in another firefight. Kaine was firing off shots from his sniper rifle. But another sniper got the better of him. That’s when I snapped. A red haze filled my vision. I clutched my SK and ran out into the frontline of the fight. I blasted VC only pausing to switch clips. I pulled out my nine millimeter and obliterated guerillas. There was no stopping me. I pistol smacked a Charlie and fired a bullet straight at his goddamn face. Finally, the motha****** ran, more scared than a zebra being chased by a lion. I sprinted after them, seeking vengeance. I wanted them dead. All of em. Dan yelled for me stop, but I chugged along, out for blood. They would pay. Finally, Dan caught up to me, turned me around and slapped me. 

“What the **** are you doing!?” Dan screamed at me incredulously. “You'll get your ass shot!”

“They need to ****ing pay. Those damn chas will pay for the casualties they've caused!” I yelled.

“Casualties are a fact of war, Colonel! You should know that!”

“I do, but I've finally snapped. They are damn ghosts. We are fighting a war against GHOSTS!!! Those VC are killing dishonorably. They MUST PAY!” My eyes were bulging from my head, bloodshot.

“And they will pay, once we blow that base.”

“You're right, Dan, let's get to work on doing just that.”

After five more days of hiking we reached our 5/6 point to the base. There were just three of us against a **** load of guerrillas and a job to blow up a base in the capital of NV.  THE CAPITAL! The heart of NVA and VC activity. Damn, we were screwed.

Three days later, Dan died. A sniper had gotten to him. I was sad to see him go.  Me and Jon sang again, this time using Dan Spring. Now it was just me and Jon. This was gonna be difficult. Extremely difficult. Eight of some of the most elite men in the military killed off by monsters, ghosts, guerrillas, the most dishonorable wraiths in the universe. I ****in hated those assholes. They needed to die.

The next day me and Jon had to deal with a firefight.  A short one though. I exterminated the demons one by one. Still hurting from Dan's death, I raged again. Again that red haze filled my vision.  I murdered those guerillas like an Ancient Roman would murder a pig. With no remorse or regret. Without a shadow of a doubt, I killed them. Blasting them apart with my SK. I hated them so much. Jon kept on hitting the VC, but when most of the action had died, he watched in grotesque horror as I murdered them. I used every weapon I had. I used my knives, my SK, my nine millimeter. I even slaughtered some of them with my machete.

“Michael, that’s enough, they've left,” Jon said to me.

“No! They have to die!” I shouted.

“Michael! Your becoming a savage beast. Halt your actions and get your ass over here before you get it shot!”

I grunted and headed back to Jon.

“What would I do without you, Jon?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I don't know, but we should rest.”

He was right; I was more than fatigued.  I was tired to my core.  My bones ached and my brain ceased to think. The clout of wanting to sleep overcame my desire to trek on to reach our destination, and we slept.

The next day we reached the hill that marked that we were within a mile of the base.

“Alright, Jon, let's blow these bastards out of Vietnam,” I said to Jon.

“Hell yes, Colonel,” he replied.

After three more hours of marching, we were 100 yards away. Jon and I crawled to the first explosive point where we set our first charges. So far we were undetected. We crawled on to the next barracks to set our second pair of charges.

A VC yelled something at Jon. I was on the other side of the barracks, and I crept up to the chas. I put my arm under his and lifted it so he couldn't use his SKS, the Chinese version of an AK. I reached under his other arm with my knife and shanked him in the heart.

We slogged on, hitting each explosive point. After four hours of stealthily and vigilantly planting the explosives undetected, we had one more area to hit. The control room. The most heavily guarded place in Hanoi. As Jon and I crept up to the door, I pummeled the nearest guard. I took his uniform and kept the cap low.

As I moved on I heard Jon yell to me.  “Michael!” his voice was scared. He sounded like a little kid. He turned from a 23-year-old A-Team explosives expert to a five-year-old. I turned, hoping my best friend was okay. What I saw was the most wretched sight I had seen even to this day. A knife was embedded in his stomach. Blood was gushing from the wound like water gushing from a river. Again the red haze filled my vision. I bolted to the VC who was stabbing Jon.

I uttered to him one word in a voice cold as stone: “Die.” I pistol smacked him and grabbed my own knife. I stabbed him in the head and tore him apart. I made sure the guerilla suffered. I tortured him. He had to pay for hurting Jon. It was the goriest and most gruesome sight ever. Blood covered my hands and went all the way up to my arm. I ran back to Jon. He was lying on the ground, wounded. Blood kept pouring out of the wound.

“Jon, stay with me. Buddy, you have to. You gotta stay alive. Keep it together, Jon. Please, you have to,” I said to him as I bandaged the wound.

“Michael, leave me. You have to finish the mission. I will not be the reason the mission is compromised. Go,” he said to me.

“No, Jon, I’m going to stay with you in your last moments.”

“Tell my ma I loved her. Give her my tags.” He handed me his Dog Tags.

I was sobbing. “I will.”

“Michael, fight strong. Give those mother******* VC hell, alright?”

“You got it.”

“Michael, I love you man. You’re the best. I couldn't have a better best friend. And tell my girlfriend Janie that I’ll miss her.”

“I will,” I managed to choke out through sobs.

“Now go,” he demanded.

“Bye Jon. I love you, man.”

“Bye Michael. I’ll remember you in Heaven. I love you to death, now go.”

I left. My eyes were red and stung. It was a mix of my raging red haze and the fact that          they were bloodshot.

I reached the final explosive point. I planted the last charges. By now the red haze made it so that everything was red. I sprinted as fast as my legs could carry me. Gripping my SK, firing with precision, veins bulging, I obliterated every chas in my way. I ditched my empty clip and replaced it instantaneously, firing more shots at the imminent VC. Once I was outside, I ran, legs churning, arms pumping, to the Extraction LZ, where I would be lifted from Hanoi.

I radioed Pilot Lieutenant Jameson. “I need a medevac now!”

Jameson responded, “What was that, Johnson?”

“I need to be evac’d now!!”

“On my way sir.”

I hit the dirt and took cover. I quickly bandaged myself as my body was riddled with bullet holes. I crouched and returned fire to the incoming VC. I then realized that I hadn’t hit the detonator. I pressed the button on the cylindrical detonator. I lay prostrate on the ground. Even behind cover I could see the blinding light that was bright as the sun. I heard a loud KABOOM, louder than 10,000 rockets.  The base had been annihilated. Chunks of flesh flew, and tattered clothes lay strewn about. I kept firing blindly into the crowd of VC that had managed to survive. I hated this war. I hated the goddamn VC. I hated everything about Vietnam. I remember one of my sergeants at boot camp yelling at my class, “AMBUSH IS MURDER AND MURDER IS FUN!” and I had ambushed the VC. I don't know if I could say it was fun. But it sure as hell felt good to murder those damn VC.

Jameson piloted a grey, noisy Huie. I ran to it, blind firing behind me. I ran out of ammo and grabbed my M16. I slid behind cover and continued to kill the VC. The huey landed, and Jameson yelled to me to get the hell in. I bounded to the chopper and leaped in.  The chopper returned fire against the incoming VC, and we lifted off, heading back to HQ.

As I sat I sang the John Brown song, replacing John Brown with each of my fallen men, ending with Jon Smith. As I finished my melancholy humming, Jameson’s radio crackled. He just nodded his head. I saw true despair in his face.

“Saigon fell to the NV,” he said in a sad tone, “It’s over.”

I took the news in silence. I hated this goddamn war. I hated it with everything in me. And as I sat in silence, I thought to myself, Maybe Jon and everyone else wouldn't be dead if we hadn't fought this war. But they had fought valiantly with me, in the war against the Ghosts.

Over and out, Colonel Michael Johnson.

-Jaiden Johnson