Animosity

Chapter 3 - Dog Tags

        Photo: Three black ground troops hold up a fist as a salute of solidarity. 

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        The air was more humid than I expected. It felt like I was breathing in fog, inhaling a light jungle mist deeply as I walked with a nervous stride towards the camp. My eyes were locked onto the man in front of me, stare trained on the back of his shirt as we traveled in unison, boots trampling the grass and lichen that were scattered in clumps over the green ground. My hands tightened around the rifle sitting snugly in my grasp, and I brought out an arm to brush away a low-hanging vine that was swinging slowly near my head.

I had never been in a jungle before, and this was definitely not how I imagined my first time. To travel all over the world was a dream that I had had since I was old enough to decipher the words on a map, and when I was 8, I decided that if I never went anywhere else on the planet, I'd want to go to the amazon rainforest. My dreams were consistent night after night, starring me as an intrepid explorer, saving wounded animals and snapping award winning pictures of the beautiful landscape. I had been dead-set on stepping foot inside an exotic, foreign jungle.

Except now that I was here, it wasn't as glamorous as I had imagined. The humidity was stifling, oppressive, and I was sweating through my clothes, unable to breathe normally in the thickening air. Insects buzzed past my ear, causing me to flinch and try desperately to pull my helmet farther down over my head. The other troops were having trouble too, marching with erratic steps as they attempted to stride over the uneven floor, kicking up little clouds of dirt or uprooting tiny weeds.

Devy had practically pranced back to camp, happy, in his words, to be "on the fuckin' ground again and away from you greenback saps." He had disappeared into the foliage, leaving nothing but swaying leaves behind him, and I found myself thanking God that our unpleasant exchange was short and inconsequential. The helicopter pilots were instead maneuvering us towards base, grumbling about doing Devy's job for him, but they had addressed us with neutral words and a somewhat cheery disposition, heading up the rear of the group.

The first GI in line, a skinny kid with lanky limbs whose uniform was too big for his body, reached out a hand and used it to sweep through the last layer of tree branches. Voices could now be heard, loud yelling, laughing, and arguing, as well as the drumming of feet on the ground and the chatter of a radio. We broke through the tree line and into the clearing, and my eyes instantly widened as I struggled to take everything in.

Huge, industrial tents were clumped in groups together, full to the brim with bunk beds, soldiers laying down on them or bustling around busily outside. Stacks of crates were scattered throughout camp, some open and ransacked and others still sealed shut, key words like 'rations', 'ammo', and 'uniforms' printed on the side to identify them. Hundreds of men were milling around, unloading boxes, joking with each other, playing cards or listening to music as it hummed through the radio. A long open air tent had garnered a sizable crowd around it, and as I craned my neck to look, I saw cooks with thin plastic gloves on serving food and water to the rest of the GIs.

"Sharp left for processing!" The pilot called, and our mismatched group turned quickly, making a beeline for a dark gray tent at the end of the clearing. Troops gathered outside their bunks and folded their arms across their chest, watching us with judging eyes. They looked worn, angry, and general indistinct chatter started up as they gestured towards us.

"Jesus H, they're scrawny, ain't they?"

"Welcome to Van Tien, ladies!"

"Hey greenies, suck my dick!"