Kellar

Keller
The jungle can be a hostile place at the best of times. Even worse when it's infested by these damn Commies, dug in like rats. My name is Private Harry Keller, U.S Army. I enlisted at eighteen, abandoning my adulthood, and a beautiful girl for one shot at glory. Now I'm a slave to this jungle, an M16 in my hand and the ever-present threat of a bullet in the back.

The soulless moon hung down over the canopy of the jungle, sending beams of silver light lancing down through the foliage creating shifting shadows and invisible movement. The platoon that followed the rough cut path through the trees twitched and jumped at everything, rifle barrels following their shock and surprise, trigger fingers twitching. As the woops and cries of howler monkeys ripped throughout the canopy, the disjointed line of men shifted along the path, their dark green uniforms almost black in the shadow. They did not speak. The only sound was the rasp of the nervous breath in their throat, and the jingle of the kit and ammunition hanging from their uniforms.

Harry Keller was at the end of the line, with his back to the perfect, unbroken darkness of the jungle. The rifle weighed heavily in his arms, the large Bergen on his back throwing his centre of gravity off balance, making him think about every step he took. A twig snapped to his right, and he spun around, leading with the M16, ready to turn the invisible threat into pulp. He completed his turn, and came face-to-face with a diminutive deer, stopping to graze at a fern, its eyes glinting in the pale moonlight.

The deer's head rose, its beautiful eyes meeting Keller's. He let out the breath he had been holding in an all-consuming sigh, turning back to follow the patrol. He continued to plod on, the sweat trickling from his forehead and down to the considerable wet patch around his collar. He kept his eyes fixed on the man in front, sweat-slicked palms tightly gripping the rifle. Another soft crack echoed through the night. Keller did not react at first, thinking it was just another deer. The trooper in front tripped, falling to the ground, disappearing in a pool of shadow. Harry sprinted forward, dropping to one knee beside the fallen man, reaching out to help him back up.

It was then he saw the blood. It was not like in the movies. It was wet, and sticky, spilling out like crimson paint, covering the ground like a carpet. The back of the man's head had gone, ripped out by the bullet as it whipped through the air. "Sniper!" Keller roared, pulling the plastic stock of his M16 into his shoulder, eyes hunting the vastness of the jungle before him. The rattle and chatter of machinegun fire opened up in front of him, as the Vietcong leapt from their burrows to attack the frightened GI's. The sergeant cried "Move up! Teach the scum a lesson!" But Harry did not. He stayed frozen to the spot, like a cat ready to spring.

He waited, hearing another twig snap, and the rustle of ferns. There. "Got you ya sonofabitch." Keller muttered softly, squeezing the trigger. The weapon hurled itself back against his shoulder, discharging a spray of hot lead at the target. There was a piercing scream and a thud, followed by a dying rasp. The rest of the night passed in a blur for Harry Keller. In the years to come, he would always remember that first kill.

Dear Marlene
They say you always remember your first. I will. I didn't even get to see his face. I heard him though. That scream ran right through me. I've been in this damn jungle a month now, and have missed you for every waking minute. We had Breybuck's funeral today. They had to wrap his head in cotton to keep it all together, poor bastard took one in the face. The priest read a few verses from the good book, something about us walking through the valley in the shadow of death, seemed very poignant to me, what with us being constantly under the shadow of those damned VC. One or two will pop up around the perimeter every so often. We only know they've been there by the blood and bodies.

We don't here much from home besides letters. CO banned the use of radios to keep noise discipline, and as such, all our news comes from you.

I hope this letter finds you well my darling, and that mom and dad are okay. I'm going out on patrol again, so I'll write when I get back to the billet.
Love, Harry.

The rain thundered down, turning the already soft ground into a veritable swamp. Olive drab tents began to sink and subside, sending their occupants spilling out onto the ground, like birds nests falling from trees. Third platoon stood in two ranks, water dripping from their rifles, raising a heavy clatter from their steel helmets. Newly promoted Corporal Harry Keller stood at the left of the second rank, the butt of his M16 in the crook of his arm.

The jungle would be hell today. Well, more hellish than normal. The mud would cling to boots, the rain would mask noise. How many would they lose today? How many more helmets would hang upon makeshift crosses by nightfall? Keller was broken from his reflections by the roar of Sergeant Ross, a brawny Texan, with a thick neck and ham-sized fists. With every mangled world, he jabbed the cloying air with the point of his machete. “Awlraight Ladies. Listen up. We’ll be patrolling sou’-eas’ up to Hill 103, and then north around the road and back to here.” The squad nodded silently, as the rain continued to fall.

Ross turned, waving his brawny arm towards the treeline, hooking his machete into his belt. The platoon followed, clearing mud and grime from the actions of their weapons, coaxing metallic noises from the actions as fresh magazines were slammed home. The mud sucked at Keller’s boots as he took up position behind the sergeant, keeping a little to the left, allowing him to fire past his leader. As the men marched into the misty humidity of the dense jungle, the Howler Monkeys and Orangutans raised a mournful funeral dirge, like banshees guiding a coffin into the grave.

They marched in silence. Today, only the clatter of the rain off leaves and helmets kept them company. The mist swallowed the up, drawing them further into the oppressive humidity. The rain began to peter off, slowing to a drizzle. With that, the hot sun returned to the jungle, throwing white hot lances down onto the forest floor, burning away the mist and attracting the mosquitoes and flies.

Keller slapped his neck, quickly ending the life of an inquisitive fly, leaving a red mark and a dark smear. He tramped onwards, rifle at the ready, eyes alert. Directly in front of him, Ross brought his arm up, fist closed. The platoon came to halt, dropping rapidly into firing positions, ready for anything. Flicking a glance over his shoulder, Keller assessed the disposition. The group was spread out in a loose wedge, mirroring a flight of geese in formation. Harry was at the point of the vee,with Ross beside him. In front of them lay a raging river, a thick undulating snake of water, slashing through the jungle like a machete. Tall trees bordered it, looking down like over-bearing adults glaring at their offspring. At the break in the trees, a mismatched trail of stones marked a crossing point.

Ross waved his raised right hand forward, indicating that the platoon should begin to wade across the river. He crouched behind a large rock, guarding the rear as his sergeant stepped into the ice cold water. He pulled the rifle into his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the opposite treeline. The wind whipped the foliage back and forth, hiding any movement a watching sniper would make. Ross was now half-way across the river, the squad in a straggly line behind him. As he put his foot down, his face twisted up into an expression of pure agony. The VC had buried sharpened bamboo stakes in the riverbed, designed to pierce and anchor if stepped on.

Ross toppled backwards into the water, struggling and thrashing in an attempt to free his impaled limb. The squad stood stock still, like rabbits caught in the glare of car headlights. The rat-at-at of machine-gun opened up on the opposite bank, breaking the stunned surprise that had settled over the platoon. Sergeant Nolan Ross was the first to die, a line of bloody craters stitching across his chest, throwing him back into the river. Some of the squad turned, raising weapons, in a futile attempt to engage the unseen enemy. They were thrown aside like dry wheat, the bullets cutting through their fragile bodies. The last to die was Private David Harris. He ran back through the river, chased by the clatter of the bullets. He almost made it to the bank where Keller had taken shelter. The bullets stitched up his spine to the back of his head, blasting off his face from the inside, showering Keller with blood and bone.

The lifeless corpse dropped at his feet, the blood seeping back into the already blood-soaked river. Keller waited in silence, with only the sound of his rapid breathing to keep him company. Two figures, dressed in the garb of traditional fishermen emerged from the opposite treeline, woven hats shadowing their features. They could have passed for locals, if it were not for the large machine-gun one of them carried by a battered wooden handle. The barrel still glowed red, smoke curling from the muzzle-break.

A killing rage came over Keller, swamping his normally rational mind with thoughts of death and destruction. He pulled the stock of his M16 against his hip and squeezed the trigger, emptying the magazine into the two men. They jerked and twisted as the bullets pounded into them, before collapsing into the river bed like puppets with their strings cut. Keller only stopped firing at the battered corpses when the gun clicked empty.

Dear Marlene

Everyone is dead. My friends and my enemies. I couldn't help them. I hid and watched while they were blasted to dust by the gunfire. They are still bringing the bodies in, hidden under white sheets. That does not hide the blood. It stains and corrupts the purity. I hope God saves their souls. No-one else will.

Remember when me and Alex decided to sign up? We were all full of piss and vinegar, inspired by the glory, and the promise of saving our country. We made a mistake. It is hell out here. I know that if the commie bullets don’t get me, then my mind will be lost.

I miss you so much Marlene. I can’t even remember the last time I saw your face.
Keller.