Platoon

FADE IN:

A QUOTATION AGAINST A BLACK SCREEN:

'REJOICE, O YOUNG MAN, IN THY YOUTH ...'

The sound now of a C-130 air cargo plane roaring over us and we

cut sharply to:

EXT.AIRSTRIP - BASE CAMP - VIETNAM - DAY

As the C-130 coasts to a stop, the hatch rotating down on a hot,

dusty lifeless airstrip somewhere in Vietnam. Nothing seems to

live or move in the midday sun.

TITLES RUN:

A DOZEN NEW RECRUITS step off the plane, unloading their duffel

bags, looking around like only the new can look around, their

hair regulation-clipped, crisp, new green fatigues fitting them

like cardboard.

CHRIS TAYLOR is just another one of them - as he turns into a

tight closeup, to look at a motorized cart pulling up alongside

... He's about 21. Newmeat. His face, unburned yet by the sun,

is tense, bewildered, innocent, eyes searching for the truth.

They fall now on a heap of BODY BAGS in the back of the cart.

Two soldiers begin loading them onto the plane. Flies - hundreds

of flies - buzz around them, the only cue to their contents.

GARDNER:

(next to Chris, Southern accent)

That what I think it is?

SOLDIER 1

(a look)

I guess so ...

An uncomfortable look between them.

SERGENT:

Okay, let's go ...

As they move out, Chris' eyes moving with the body bags being

loaded onto the plane. Moving over now to a motley HALF DOZEN

VETERANS bypassing them on their way to the plane. They look

happy. Very happy, chatting it up.

They pass the newboys - and they shake their heads, their eyes

full of an almost mocking pity.

VETERANS:

Well I'll be dipped in sh*t - new meat! Sorry bout

that boys - 'sin loi' buddy ... you gonna love the

Nam, man, for-f***ing-ever.

Chris looking at them. They pass, except for the last man who

walks slower than the rest, a slight limp. His eyes fall on

Chris.

They're frightening eyes, starved, hollow, sunken deep in his

face, black and dangerous. The clammy pallor of malaria clings

to him as he looks at Chris through decayed black teeth. Then

the sun flares out on him and he's past. And Chris looks back.

Disturbed. It's as if the man was not real. For a moment there.

As if he were a ghost.

Chris walking, duffel bag on the shoulder, looks up at the

lollipop sun burning a hole through the sky. A rushing SOUND

now. Of frightening intensity, an effect combining the blast of

an airplane with the roar of a lion as we hardcut to:

EXT. JUNGLE - SOMEWHERE IN VIETNAM - DAY

The sun matches the intensity of the previous shot as we move

down into thick green jungle. We hear the sound of MEN coming, a

lot of men. The thwack of a machete. Brush being bulled. We

wait. They are getting close.

The CREDITS continue to run.

SUBTITLE reads:
December 1967 - Bravo Company, 25th Infantry

Division - Somewhere near the Cambodian Border.

A sweating white face comes into view. CHRIS - cutting point.

Machete in one hand, whacking out a path for the platoon, M-16 in

the other, he looks like he's on the verge of heat exhaustion.

Breathing too hard, pacing himself all wrong, bumping into

things, tripping, not quite falling, he looks pathetic here in

the naturalness of the jungle. An urban transplant, slightly

neurotic and getting more so.

His rucksack is coming apart as well, about 70 badly packed

pounds banging noisily.

Behind him BARNES now comes, the Platoon Sergeant. Then the RTO,

his radio man, humming lightly. Others are behind, the column

snaking back deep into the brush.

We cut around some FACES of the Platoon - all to be seen later.

Young faces, hard and dirty after weeks in the field, exhausted

yet alert, fatigues filthy, slept-in, torn, personalized, hair

way past regulation length, medals, bandanas. A jungle army.

Boys.

Chris glancing down at his raw bleeding blisters. Transfers the

machete to his other, slightly less blistered, hand. The kid

cuts on - struggling but trying, on his last reserves of

strength, smashing almost straight forward through brush, not

even bothering to look ahead. He smells something, looks around,

slows his pace, eyes working ... around to the base of a tree.

He moves past it.

And as he does so, the camera from his POV comes around on a dead

decomposing 10-day-old GOOK - eyes starting from its sockets,

worms and flies feasting.

Chris draws his breath in, terrified. Barnes suddenly appears

alongside, his hard humourless eyes looking annoyed from the gook

to Chris.

BARNES:

What are you waiting for? He ain't gonna bite you.

Move out.

Chris looks at him with pent-up hatred and crashes on.

EXT. PLATOON PC - DAY - MOVING

At the COMPANY PC, CAPTAIN HARRIS on the radio.

HARRIS:

Bravo Two, Six. What's the delay up there, move it

out on point. We've got a link up at Phase Line

Whiskey at One Eight Zero Zero, over.

EXT. PLATOON PC - DAY - MOVING -- MORNING

At the PLATOON PC, LIEUTENANT WOLFE sweats heavily as he speaks

in his radio. He is also new to the field, a dark little feisty

guy, about 24, very hairy, especially in the eyebrows, an intense

get-ahead look.

LIEUTENANT WOLFE

Two Bravo, Two move it out. Six says we're jamming

'em up back there. Over.

Barnes, upfront, turns to SAL, his radio man, under his breath.

BARNES:

Tell that dipshit to get f***ed. Get that other

freshmeat up here. Gardner.

As Barnes picks up his pace, irritated now at this reprimand from

the CO - coming up on Chris, who is soaked now from head to foot

in sweat, dizzy, feeling sick, about to vomit.

BARNES (CONT'D)

What the hell's the matter with you Taylor! You a

sorry ass motherf***er. Fall back.

He grabs Chris's machete out of his hand and bulls his way into

the foliage, tearing it apart, setting a new pace.

Chris being bypassed by the column, their eyes on him. He is

swatting at the red ants that are all over his neck.

GARDNER, another new recruit, fat, hustling up to replace him.

A big and black medic - DOC - comes over, gentle eyes and manner;

with him is Sergeant ELIAS, concerned.

DOC:

You okay?

CHRIS:

Ants. I got ants on my neck ...

(shaking them out)

DOC:

(helping him)

Yeah, black ants are killers, you look sick man. You

need a little salt.

(reaching into his satchel)

Sergeant Elias, a handsome, graceful dark-haired Indian kid of

23, the squad sergeant, is taking items out of Chris' pack - air

mattress, extra unnecessary clothing, extra canteens, grenades,

gas mask, books.

ELIAS:

(shaking his head, amused)

You're humping way too much, troop, don't need half

this sh*t. I'll haul it for you but next time you

check it out with me okay?

Chris nodding, grateful, panting.

The men passing, watching. Chris sorry about this, trying to

keep up face.

BUNNY, a young 18 year-old with an angel's face, is pissing in

the dead gook's face.

KING passes, glances at him.

KING:

You're a sick mother Bunny.

Bunny laughing about it.

Chris standing there one moment, fighting for his breath,

suddenly passes out, going over with his 70 pound rucksack,

hitting the ground with a loud bang.

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