The jungle chirped and rustled around the soldiers as they marched, backs low and heads up. They were approaching their target now, individual troopers on high alert as they scoured the surroundings for anyone who could give the game away. For NCO Dinh Van Ty, this meant his bayonet unfolded and safety off, the soldier making sure to keep his finger outside the trigger guard. His boots squished down into a patch of deceptively soft and deep mud, and he flicked it off with a scowl on his face. Looking behind him to confirm that everyone in his squad was following him, he saw that all were present.. Well, all bar the old man.

"Remember! Ho Chi Min is smiling down upon all of us!" He spoke in a whisper, yet one loud enough for everyone around him to hear, pausing and listening as he heard a rustle. His head snapped forwards, the rustling in the trees revealing itself to be just the bastard scout they were stuck with. He wasn't sure why they needed this old man to guide them- their maps were perfectly accurate, but he wouldn't complain. It would make the unit seem disjointed, and that wouldn't do.

The two exchanged nods, and they continued on even further, until the trees began to become further spaced apart, the faint sounds of a town now being audible. The rattle of wheels over poor quality roads, the chatter of people going about their business, the 'wap' of axehead against wood... All familiar, and yet with a strange twist to the peasant boy.

Indicating for the rest of his squad to go down into the earth and crawl forward, Ty spared a look to his left and right. Barely visible, other soldiers were doing the same, camouflaged helmets and mud-rubbed barrels blending in with the undergrowth.

Rooftops came into view, proper rooftops, not thatched farmer's houses or fishing huts. Concrete and brick, even paint here and there, but more importantly, soldiers. Bastard AVRN, betraying their own people just so they could be fucked by the Americans. Dark green uniforms, much like the one he was wearing, and wooden stocked guns. Unlike his, these were no Chinese or Russian, no, these were American. M1 Garands and Carbines, one holding a bolt action rifle with a scope attached to it, a cigarette in his mouth.

He counted them silently. Four with the rifles and carbines. The marksman. One with a heavy-looking machine gun, the bipod unfolded, A patrol nearby- two holding sub machine guns, the strap clinking against the drum barrel of one of them, one holding a double-barreled shotgun, and one more with a rifle, a stubby little grenade attached to the end of it. The gun was, no doubt, loaded with blanks. He couldn't recall ever having received a range for that particular device, but he was in no hurry to find out.

They had to do this right. The obvious targets were the sniper, machine-gunner and rifle grenadier. Then the man with the drum-barrelled submachine gun, and those with a rifle or carbine. Lastly the man with a shotgun and the one holding a compact-looking submachine gun, the stock folded inwards.

First, he checked his fire selector was on the 'semi automatic' mode, then he turned to the scout, the older man's black pyjamas fading into the shadows of the underbrush. Waving him over, Ty indicated to the growth above them. "Think you can climb up there and make sure that sniper never gets a chance to fire?"
Regardless of answer, there was more to be done. To the twin brothers, he pointed at the patrol, which was meandering slowly along the road. "Suppressing fire on them when I blow the whistle." To the rest of them... "Pick your targets and make sure they do not rise again once they have fallen down. Our cause is the right one."

Now they just had to wait for the rest of the forces to be prepared.

"There's a path up," the old fighter agreed. His face was seamed and weathered with the experience of life, but he was eager for the fight like the younger men, even if he knew what the fighting would be like, "It's camouflaged."

It was old guerrilla skills to stake out the hunting ground, and he knew the hills in this area pretty well. He'd never be a map reader, but he was a guide with intimate local knowledge. He hunted water buffalo, boar and goat in these hills, emerald green and pinkish-tan, rustling with a bit of wind that barely relieved the heat. The Central Highlands were at the tail end of the rainy season, which made it easier for these young patriots to infiltrate in over the border. There was an old network of guides from the French colonial dayes and they knew the routes and the game. Some of them were working with the young men of the area to provide training and get them ready for the war of national liberation against the colonialists, but others, like him, were assisting the People's Army with setting up the necessary security to move men and equipment through Laos into Kontum province. By night, there was digging and tunnels, set up to provide a secure and hidden place for the soldiers to sleep by day, and a place to cache the weapons.

He slithered through the greenery patiently, deliberate about where he placed his feet. There was still moisture left over from the day's rain that'd soaked them, but it muffled the crackles and masked the sounds of movement -- water drops coming down tended to make a degree of disturbance in the greenery, as did the wind that cooled them. The trail he found was an overgrown one, so he had to move carefully, but he managed to sidle his way into position on the younger man's orders, with his Mosin, an old warhorse with an iron cap on the buttstock, which was a replacement lovingly made from local wood when the old one cracked from local moisture, in hand. He'd checked the barrel carefully, intimiate with the weapon's workings. It was important machinery, a valuable resource that was cared for lovingly. The old canvas sling was long gone, but the metal parts were oiled properly and kept very clean. The ammo too, was wrapped away in a rubberized pouch, kept very dry and away from mud. It wasn't a fancy weapon; it was designed in a far off land for peasant soldiers, and it filled the same function here. The younger men had the newer weapons and the enemy had a scoped rifle...but the man was the one who pulled the trigger, and if that man wasn't good quality, it didn't matter.

The arthritis created a dull, persistent pain in his shoulders and one of his ankles, a result of the weather shifting a bit, but he pushed that all down. Later, he'd rub down with hot towels and try to treat as best he could, but for now, he could fight. And with the worn-smooth wood of his rifle against his cheek as his eyes automatically adjusted to the primitive sights of his rifle, he was as ready as he'd ever be.

He didn't bother to think much of the Japanese or the French that came before, and when this man in his sights was dead, he wouldn't think much of him either. He was fighting for his home; he'd been forced to work on plantations and give up his village's wealth to corrupt Saigon-appointed mandarins. These incompetents came and beat one of his sons, in fact. He had a score to settle, and these traitors were just another enemy in the way of his nation's peace and prosperity...

Ghe crawled into position, although he noted that the Degtyaryov would more than likely silence the entire patrol, he had concerns that the grenadier could somehow find cover from the hailstorm of bullets, and deliver a nasty surprise later in the assault. He nodded at the gunner's assistant and eyed the grenadier before focusing his attention at his own targets. The heavy weapons were obvious targets of priority, but the sapper remembered one thing that the enemy seemed to have an abundance of: radio-operators and officers.

Knowing what to look for, it wasn't too hard to figure out which one was roving between the heavy weapons, being followed loosely by another rifleman lugging a large pack with an antenna sticking out. The patrol likely had one too, but again he was hoping that a good belch of fire from the young machine-gun team could silence them all.

Not taking his eyes off the two he began to unfold his spike-bayonet, and seated it firmly into the wet soil until it could support the rifle's wieght without leaning. He then took his left hand and braced it against the buttstock of his SKS, lining up his shot at the radioman first, and glancing around to note locations of the machine-gunner and other riflemen within the village. He'd have to trust the two young farm-children with a machine-gun. Although he would be a hypocrite to critisize, as he looked and often acted more like a french colonist who'd woken up and simply put on the wrong uniform that day; albeit on the short and scrawny side.

"Rappelles toi, Pas de tirs d'avertissement." He quietly reminded their guide as he made sure the burlap strips of cloth from his helmet concealed his face, and his smirk. He knew the old man wasn't going to miss, at least not intentionally.

Quy Phan perked up when Van Ty pointed at both him, and his twin brother Tu, and instructed them upon their orders. Suppress the treacherous patrol of Southern Vietnamese, and Quy nodded as he shifted the weight of his DP-28, checking the bipod again while starting to make his move. "Of course, Sir!"

Quy whispered proudly, knowing he had to keep his voice down but determined to see their way of life protected. This was the first step, as Quy had been told countless times, and regardless of whoever would come from the outside, they would protect what they believed in. Quy didn't even need to glance to know his brother was keeping up with him as the pair moved towards the flank of the group of soldiers they were moving with. During training, he'd been instructed in a manner of suppressing fire that involved sweeping the automatic fire across the enemy ranks, the direction dependent on whether they were on the attack or defense. In this case, he would be swinging the fire outwards towards the back of the patrol, starting forward.

Settling into position on the flank, Quy unfolded the bipod and braced the DP-28 in position, resting his spare pan magazines of ammunition beside him. It would be easier for him to reload the thing, well, faster more like, and he could just grab them and get moving again if the call went for it. Tu was down on the ground beside him, AK-47 trained in the same direction as his brother's DP-28. He would be making more precise bursts of fire compared to Quy's more enthusiastic treatment of the machine gun he was given, and could fire off a fully automatic spray to cover Quy while he reloaded. The two worked well together, having grown up with each other and joined at the same time. With that, the two Phan brothers were in position and awaiting the whistle to commence firing.

The heat of the jungle was sweltering, but comfortable to the young fisherman. He’d grown accustomed to the heat much as a northern person adjusts to the frigid temperatures in winter. The heat was not a factor in his behavior nor his comfort for that matter.

The patrol of Northern soldiers quietly assumed a hasty ambush position ordered by their patrol leader. The sergeant encouraged the men by reminding them of their obligation to the people; their nationalist sentiments. The Southern men were merely puppets serving the demands of their imperialist masters. Nga recalled the Japanese when he was young, very unforgiving people, believing they were superior and the French when he was a teen. They were accommodating to say the least, but nonetheless, they were not Vietnamese. They were foreigners. They have all been foreigners for centuries. This latest version of masters, the Americans were not better or worse than the previous landlords and needed to understand the Viet people could and more importantly should govern themselves. Nga honestly did not understand why it was the Japanese, then the French and now, the Americans. Apathy prevented him from understanding. He knew why and what for he was fighting. He understood he would have to kill a few of his Southern brothers in the process. They apparently did not understand their crimes against the people they were committing. Hopefully, the survivors will learn the lessons of the dead.

He found a position behind a large tree, providing him with more than adequate cover. Leaning to the right of the tree, he spied over the top of his rifle at the trail in front of him; watching for movement. The NCO in charge of the patrol indicated this would be the spot for the ambush.

As Nga lay on the ground, he could not help experience an overwhelming sense of fear for what was about to happen. He was very frightened about this impending battle, even though he knew he was in the right. The nagging fear was always there. For the soldier, it does not matter if the size of the two forces numbers over a hundred thousand or just under ten. It remained a frightening undertaking. Nga did not want to die. He thought about Mai; her beautiful eyes, pretty smile and smooth skin. He desperately longed to return home to his fishing village. How easy life was back then when casting nets and hauling fish were the most difficult things he had to do all day. What a life it was, spending ones days on the open water and the evenings with the woman you loved.

Nga heard the voices of the enemy and the whispers of his comrades. He believed something was about to happen. He did not want to speak in fear of alerting the enemy to their position. As the enemy patrol drew near he could see their uniforms, lighter in green than their own and their camouflaged colored helmets; mottled greens and light brown or tan in color. Their weapons were much different than his own. He knew right away that his Soviet built assault rifle was better superior than the antiquated American rifles these men carried. Nga was confident this would be a bloody massacre. Nga observed the expressions on their faces. They did not appear frightened as he was. They were determined. Is as though their foolish beliefs were just as important to them as his were to him. He scanned down the sights of his rifle deciding which person would receive his first bullet. It was both frightening and thrilling all at the same time. He could feel the endorphins coursing through his veins. He was ready.

Everyone was ready. There would be no more waiting. Ty reached up and placed his whistle between his lips, the metal cold and unyielding. Then, in one smooth action, he pulled the trigger and let out a short, sharp blast, the latter somewhat masked by the noise of the bullet rushing out from his gun. The slide pulled back, and the steaming-hot excess was ejected into the jungle. Initially, he thought he had missed, but then he watched as one of the riflemen dropped his weapon, grasping at his throat where blood trickled down.

There was a split second of silence, and then the jungle exploded with noise, bullets rattling everywhere. Ty flicked the fire selector and focused on spraying down the various riflemen atop the building, trusting in his men to take care of other threats.

The old man's shot tunneled through the young ARVN soldier's breastbone, resulting in a spray of blood and the young soldier in his OD green uniform crumpling. He cycled the bolt out of instinct while still feeling the recoil from the old Russian rifle. He felt the whizz of bullets his way as the BAR gunner started to engage him with a steady stream of fire. He was old, not stupid, he'd picked terrain that he could hunker down in when he took the shot. He could feel the wood splinter around him as the bullets thwocked into trees with a sickening sort of finality, at a lethal velocity that simply tore the jungle apart around him.

Then the others engaged with this group of ARVN, and the pressure came off him. So he got into a slightly different position and waited patiently. The auto rifleman wisely took good cover from where he was so he couldn't get to him, but then...

...ah, there was one. A man with a radio, the antenna folded but still very obvious. That was the truly dangerous one, in his experience. He shot once, it hit close but not quite, and then the man started to hunker down. He kept firing, again and again, trying to keep the man pinned down, perhaps so a comrade with a grenade could finish him off. The radioman wasn't foolish, he knew where the fire was coming from and didn't intend to expose himself. Meanwhile, another rifleman, perhaps with a garand, was engaging him with rapid fire, but his aim was slightly off, or perhaps he had not zeroed the rifle as well as he should...

Private First Class Phong was scared out of his wits. His comrades were laying down a heavy base of fire. As soon as he heard the sergeant’s whistle and initial shots, he knew it was time to shoot. Everyone else in the platoon knew it was time to shoot. It took a moment’s hesitation before he caught on to what was going on. The Noise was more than boisterous. He scanned down the sights of his Kalashnikov rifle placing an enemy combatant on the business end of his rifle. The distance could have been more than a hundred meters. Nga slowly pulled the trigger to the rear, feeling the weapon discharge its first round. He eyeballed his intended target who was in a kneeling position atop a building. The man held an American built Garand Rifle, but Nga did not know what it was. He did not move, but kept firing his rifle in the direction of his platoon. Nga aimed again and squeezed off a second round. The kneeling soldier winced to the right, but continued to fire. Each time he squeezed the trigger Nga was overwhelmed by feelings of anxiety. Just as the explosion of the bullet erupted, the anxiety was depleted. Then it returned as he adjusted his aim to take a third shot. This time, he hit his mark, the man falling backward onto the roof of the building he was kneeling on.

Once he achieved his first kill, Nga felt both satisfied with himself and grief for the death he caused. He successfully quelled his foreboding thoughts, continuing to aim and engage targets. Bullets splintered the tree he laid behind causing him to recede back out of sight. He was in no hurry to die; at least not today. Nga then shifted to the left side of the tree, scanning for targets on the left. He found three more and attempted to engage each in succession. After firing the third round, he felt a stinging sensation in his left buttocks. He didn’t think much of it continuing to shoot.

Phong Nga’s adrenaline surged through his veins, making him feel like a Vietnamese superman. A .30 caliber projectile skinned the flesh of his ass and he did not know it. He continued to provide fire for the platoon until told to cease fire. As soon as he dispatched a Southern dog, he would find another and begin shooting. A second bullet knocked his dark green sun helmet off his head. The helmet was completely shattered with a hole in the middle and a crack to permanently make it unusable. Fortunately, the bullet that shattered his helmet missed his skull.

Ghe was startled to see someone had dared shoot at his target, although it was his own fault for not taking the shot himself, as nobody had claimed any targets as their own. He quickly glanced around at other known targets, a southern rifleman was being doggedly singled-out, the sniper was obviously down, and the enemy patrol had melted out of his sight; either towards cover or to their graves. Then, as effective aimed suppressive fire was finally pouring in, an sudden realization had occured to him as the enemy fire did not appear to actually wane.

His realization was that the enemy was able to take shelter in those concrete houses, unseen, unengaged. He also noticed the officer had fled into a building, a tall one, and was being careful to avoid windows. He knew he had to crush the resistance up-close, playing at this as though a shooting-gallery was just going to eventually make themselves the easier target. They must advance.

At first he crawled, with his bush-rag of a helmet-cover concealing his face, hiding the fear in his eyes from sight. Then he began to use the huts for concealment, and began moving along in short rushes, crouching along low-walls. The grenades at his thigh were prepped, but the Simmonov rifle was alway kept paramount in his hand whenever he peaked around cover, noting that as long as he kept the rifle and uniform out of sight, he looked like just any other scared person. This is how he worked around the flanks of the machine-gun, flicked out his spike-bayonet, and infiltrated the machine-gun nest to take the deadly gun for his own use. Of course, the current user was not permitted to have much say in the matter after he put several rounds into the man. It was a big belt-fed thing with a stock slapped on as an afterthought, clearly an inferior American design. But before he could use this weapon against them, there was that pesky radio-operator to deal with, he pulled a greande from his thigh, wrapped the primer-cord around his middle finger, and gave it a quick toss in his direction, but making sure he'd either have to leave cover to reach it, sit there and hope he didn't get fragged, or abandon his position.

Phong Nga watched Ghe Tou Vinh slide from cover and crawl forward. ‘What does he know that I do not?’ Assuming Ghe knew something Phong did not, he followed the sapper out of cover, trying to hide in the underbrush as much as possible. The group advanced about a hundred meters when the American built .30 caliber machine gun opened up on them. Phong Nga was not advancing any further. Whatever gains his Sapper brother made they would be lost on Private First Class Phong Nga from Nghệ An Province, a coastal fishing village where he learned to fish with his brothers on their father and uncle’s fishing boats.

A three-round burst struck the hapless rifleman. The first round struck the crown of his skull and penetrated deep into his throat. The second round struck the left side of the top of his skull and ripped the lower half of his mandible of as the projectile exited his head. The third round struck him in the shoulder and penetrated past through his lungs tearing through his bowels, ending its track in the meaty portion of his thigh.

Phong Nga would never get back to his boyhood sweetheart, Dung Mai. He would never fish the Tonkin Bay with his father, uncles and brothers. His body lay still in the heat of the jungle within an ever-widening pool of blood rapidly coagulating in the omnipresent sun baking the earth. It was the end of the Young man’s life. His head barely recognizeable from the spattering of bullets that ripped it apart.