The jungle was too quiet.
No birdsong. No insect chatter. Just a thick, unnatural stillness pressing in on all sides. The kind of silence that tightened the throat and made your skin itch like you'd been seen. Men of the 173rd Airborne Brigade moved in cautious lines, boots sinking into the soft, damp earth, rifles slick with sweat and mist. Every few steps, one of them would glance sideways into the trees, half-expecting the foliage itself to open fire.
They were young — barely more than boys, walking heavy under rucksacks and pretending to be men. No one dared speak above a whisper. Somewhere in the line a man's lips moved, shaping a tune too quiet to hear. Another tapped his magazine, counting rounds he already knew were there. Little habits, small and human, to keep the fear from taking shape.
Above them, the teakwood canopy loomed, blotting out the sky. The light barely filtered through, and what little made it down came in thin green shafts that looked like they might cut. Shadows stretched long and lean between the trunks, bending perception. The air felt crowded. Watched. Every man felt it in his gut: the enemy was close.
One paratrooper adjusted his helmet and muttered, “Feels like they already got us in their sights.”
Another spat into the dirt without looking up. “They're out there. Just waiting.”
Still, the line pushed forward, inch by inch. Every sound — the slosh of a water bag, the creak of webbing, the snap of a single twig — landed like a gunshot in the silence. Somewhere ahead, a bird called out, sharp and sudden, and half the squad froze in place, their hearts hammering against bone.
Then nothing. Just quiet again.
The men tightened their grips on their rifles. Eyes scanning the green wall ahead. No one said it aloud, but every last one of them knew: the next sound might be the one that started it. Hill 65 was waiting.