You've gotten a few letters like this before. You know that the contents will be stamped with a big red "Secret" or some bullshit like that. It's always the same. Blow this up, rescue this shithead, or kill this slope. You blow into the envelope and let the contents slip out. It's a simple letter on very light onion skin paper:
You have been in country for a few months now on your second tour. In your field of specialty, you have become one of the best and you have performed your duties with honor. You are ordered to report to Nha Trang for reassignment and briefing. You will not require any equipment, except for your own protection during transit.
Signed,
Lt. Col. Starks
DIA 2-EX Chief of Operations
It's what you've been waiting for. You've been sitting in Saigon smoking grass and drinking shitty rum that they call "whisky". The sweat drenches you day and night, the stink and annoying insect whirr of motorcycles wafts constantly into your room. You've descended in and out of a drunken hazy madness as the months have gone by. As you have stumbled into and out of bars, the constant sing-song of prostitute's offers and the tough bullshit-smelly swank of GI's who are fresh from the jungle mingles with the latest hits blasted over the loudspeakers. Fresh from the jungle . . .
You remember the jungle and the incessant heat and sweat. The same sweat that you feel in the city, but the danger and the adrenaline of the jungle keeps ice in your veins, ice in your spine, and it flows into your heart. The ice cools your mind and makes splashes of blood, tattered limbs, strewn organs seem like art. The cold crept into your heart as friends were felled and as enemies were vanquished; the cooling sensation turned to frosty smiles, smiles that reached into your heart with the deepest pleasure possible. The pleasure was knowing that you had won to live another day, a day on patrol.
On patrol in the jungle, you and your men moved silently and slowly. The paths, roads, and hills had to be kept clear. "Clear for what?" you often asked yourself. But the answer soon was self-evident. Clear to say that we kept them clear. The jungle, like a big green envelope, kept its contents from prying eyes. Your boots stepped slowly upon paths and your eyes searched for traps, for enemies, and for anything that you could use. Some called the jungle suffocating with its deep smell and massive humidity. But most that survived that first year came back for another. That same jungle that men feared and despised was addictive and it always beckoned them back. The jungle beckoned you back again.
The orange light of dawn permeated the room through a trick of light. The mist that envelops the city in the morning reflects the light around and making a glow throughout everything. You button your shirt and walk into the morning light, buttoning the holster of your sidearm. The courier awaits you leaning against a jeep with joint in hand. He gives you a big grin.
"So did you think about the Panama, man?" he whispers excitedly, "Man its far out shit, we can give you a special discount. I mean like for the Special Forces, a special discount! Get it man? A 'special' discount!"
You laugh at his joke, politely, and climb into the jeep. Your cock and balls feel tight and move up about an inch, in response to your heart beating in your throat. A mission. Into the Jungle again, you think about the first time you had this feeling. When you were coming back to the jungle from a hiatus, you had it. It reminded you of the feeling of a first date with a woman who you wanted badly. It reminded you of seeing her again and again, each time the feeling came back, the tightness and the beating heart. Compare it to love? You thought it was sick at the time, but now you just accept this insight. Did you "love" the jungle and the missions it gave you?
Through the streets of Saigon the jeep races. The courier, ignores you now concentrating on dodging Asian traffic at mid-morning. The smell of two-stroke engines, dust and garbage fills your nostrils. The courier floors it at every opportunity. Ubiquitous motorcycles jump out of the way, following the Asian rule of the biggest vehicle gets the right of way. He brakes or dodges only for The big military vehicles or the occasional bus.
The eyes of the VC were all around you. You knew who they were. As they recognized your American nose, deep eyes and straight posture, their stares and gazes of hatred let you know who they were. Some motorcycles come close to the jeep and then recognize the patches on your city uniform. Some eyes go wide, some stares get harsher, and some eyes become narrow and say to you the same thing that you are thinking: "I'll see you in the jungle."
You arrive at the helipad and the courier escorts you to the aircraft. His salesmanship is off now that many staff are about. The chopper is already warmed up and ready to go. The hum of the rotors and the buck of the Huey slowly coax you into a nap. The occasional crack of suppressive fire punctuates your dream but soon you are drifting into the DIA HQ in Nha Trang. . .
You clamber into another jeep and it drives into the jungle. After 20 minutes you arrive at an installation. Heavily fenced and ominous, you are surprised that it is not heavily guarded. The courier stops about 100 meters from the entrance and nervously says, "This is where you get off."