Platoon Page #4

A large RIPPING SOUND as the wind blows down a big tree branch

onto the jungle floor. He starts, peering out. Nothing. He

looks at his watch again.

CHRIS (V.O.) (CONT'D)

... I guess I have always been sheltered and special,

I just want to be anonymous. Like everybody else.

Do my share for my country. Live up to what Grandpa

did in the First War and Dad the Second. I know this

is going to be the war of my generation. Well here I

am - anonymous all right, with guys nobody really

cares about - they come from the end of the line,

most of 'em, small towns you never heard of -

Pulaski, Tennessee, Brandon, Mississippi, Pork Bend,

Utah, Wampum, Pennsylvania. Two years' high school's

about it, maybe if they're lucky a job waiting for

'em back in a factory, but most of 'em got nothing,

they're poor, they're the unwanted of our society,

yet they're fighting for our society and our freedom

and what we call America, they're the bottom of the

barrel - and they know it, maybe that's why they call

themselves 'grunts' cause a 'grunt' can take it, can

take anything. They're the backbone of this country,

grandma, the best I've ever seen, the heart and soul

- I've found it finally, way down here in the mud -

maybe from down here I can start up again and be

something I can be proud of, without having to fake

it, maybe ... I can see something I don't yet see,

learn something I don't yet know ... I miss you, I

miss you very much, tell Mom I miss her too - Chris.

He moves towards Junior, shakes him, but Junior seems to be out

of this world.

CHRIS (CONT'D)

Wake up!

Junior opens one dead eye.

CHRIS (CONT'D)

It's your shift, man ...

Junior scowls, swears, looks around for his rifle in the mud.

Chris crawls back to his position, curling himself up in his

soaked poncho, teeth chattering from the cold, rain splattering

over him. A long beat. He sighs, the sigh kicking off the next

image.

EXT. CHRIS' POSITION - NIGHT

Chris jerks awake - very suddenly, very frightened. THE RAIN HAS

STOPPED. The jungle sounds are loud. Cicadas, night animals,

water dripping hypnotically from leaf to leaf. And the whirr of

a million mosquitoes out after the rains, chewing at Chris' face.

He looks around, startled.

Tex is asleep. Junior is asleep. What happened? He looks at

his watch. The mosquitoes are eating him alive. He buries his

head in his green towel which he wears around his neck, but he

can't see. A beat. He moves again, miserable from the bites.

Another beat. Then suddenly the sounds of the jungle shift -

some of the animals dropping out. A different tone. A piece of

wood is stepped on, a rustle of bush ...

Chris sees something, lifts an edge of the towel to peek out.

A shoadow of a figure is frozen there in front of him about 15

yards. It looks like a man. But it doesn't move. At all. It

listens.

Chris, his heart in his mouth, tries to peer through it. It's a

bush. It has to be. No human being could stand that still. His

heartbeats are up. The moments take forever. But deep down -

somewhere in his psyche - he knows who it is.

The figure now shifts, ever so slightly - and moves. It IS a

human being. Oh my God!

Chris looks around. Tex seems like a mile away. Why doesn't

anyone fire! He casts a desperate look at his rifle, at his

grenades encrusted with mud, but in spite of all his training, he

is frozen with indecision and fear at the sight of his enemy.

The figure seems to whisper something back, then turns and comes

down the trail. Now a second and third figure appear behind him

- all in helmets and packs. All coming right past Chris'

position. Ten yards. Nine.

Chris is rigid with terror. Stark eyes. Pleading with Tex to

wake up, but out of reach. He is about to have an anxiety

attack, his heartbeats so far up he is sure they will hear him.

The first figure is now directly in front of Chris on the trail,

looking left and right. A rattle of his equipment, a creak of

leather. A smell. The man's face now catches the moonlight and

his eyes come around on Chris.

Oriental eyes. Looking right at him. Startled. Chris staring

back, hypnotized. It all happens very fast. The figure murmurs

something in Vietnamese. A warning. He swivels.

A flash of muzzle fire. A raking cough of automatic fire. A

grenade explosion.

Chris is hurled to the ground, helmet bouncing off, scattered,

confused, jarred. All hell breaks loose around him with NOISE

and SHOUTS.

Tex, kissing the ground, is yelling at him.

TEX:

THE CLAYMORE! GET THOSE F***ERS!

Chris, not knowing what he's doing, is fumbling with the claymore

handles, presses them. INSERT: They won't give. He tries again

and again to the squeeze the life out of them. Tex is screaming

at him.

TEX (CONT'D)

THE SAFETY! TAKE THE SAFETY OFF YOU ...

Lunges over and grabs the handle from Chris. Clicks the safeties

off and blows them.

Three EXPLOSIONS rip out into the night - and one of the ENEMY is

caught in a brief instant looking like an X-ray, his body lifted

and swirling in the air, then enveloped in swirls of smoke.

Chris, trying to keep up, grabs his M-16, lays out a stream of

fire. The sound all around him is deafening.

EXT. GARDNER'S POSITION - NIGHT

Gardner, freaking out, stands crouched, confused, tries to run,

collapses.

EXT. O'NEILL'S POSITION - NIGHT

O'Neill throws a grenade, wild.

EXT. CHRIS' POSITION - NIGHT

An explosion. Chris hits the deck.

Tex is now on the M-60 machine gun, yelling at Junior who is

cringing on the ground.

TEX:

Feed me!

He lays out red tracer bullets like laser beams, then suddenly

reels back, whiplashed, screaming. A grenade explosion rocks

them.

TEX (CONT'D)

AAAAAGHHH! MY ARM! MY ARM!

His hand and wrist are gone, his face in the dirt. Junior is

fumbling around, trying to stay down and help him at the same

time.

JUNIOR:

(grabbing Tex's gun)

DOC! GET UP HERE! TEX IS HIT!

Chris, looking out to his front, has no clue what's going on.

Except the fire is slacking. Relayed shouts of 'Medic! Medic!'

Other SHOUTS.

SHOUTS:

HOLD IT UP! HOLD IT UP!

The firing has ceased. A silence, punctuated by occasional

shouts and fast moments, has enveloped once more the cemetery.

Doc crashes through the bush, kneels over Tex, who continues to

howl in deep pain.

TEX:

(freaked out)

MY ARM! JESUS F***ING CHRIST!

DOC:

Easy Tex easy boy!

Trying to sound calm but his voice is on the edge, examinging the

mutilation with a pen flashlight, he whips out his morphine in a

big hypodermic.

VOICE:

(next position)

Doc over here! Gardner's hit.

DOC:

'Right there.

As he slips the morphine into Tex's arm.

TEX:

(muttering at Chris)

... godamn! Godamn! DUMB F***ER, DUMB F***ER!

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