Platoon Page #6

KING:

Yeah, just stole me some from the Top's supply but

he's stealing it from us anyway.

(sees somebody coming)

Chucks are coming. You better 'didi' man.

Too late. Sgt. O'NEILL, the redhead lifer accompanied by Spec 4

SANDERSON, a big handsome blond kid, not too bright in the face,

both slightly drunk, come around a corner, beer cans in hand.

O'Neill sees Chris immediately.

O'NEILL

Hey Taylor - you back?

CHRIS:

(pause)

Uh, looks like it?

SANDERSON:

(spotting King's beer)

Where'd you get that beer King?

KING:

(a funny look)

I found it ...

SANDERSON:

You found it? ... Bullshit! You going on report.

Gimmee that sh*t.

O'NEILL

Awright, come here both of you. You too Taylor

(wags his finger)

Got a little special job for you.

They advance toward him reluctantly.

CHRIS:

I got light duty, Sarge. Doctor said to take it easy

couple days.

O'NEILL

(laughes)

... ain't that tough sh*t now.

EXT. THE OUTHOUSE - DAY

A wooden cabin with some half-dozen seats built over half barrels

cut from empty oil drums. A guy is in there, pulling up his

pants.

Chris, King and Crawford, a California blond with a handsome

honeyed look, are sweeating heavily as they roll the barrels out

from under the outhouse, the smell of human waste strong. A hot

midday emptiness, nobody around except the flies.

KING:

(pissed)

... Motherfuckah, motherfuckah, I'm too short to be

dealing with this sh*t! They keep f***ing with us

man, no letup ...

CRAWFORD:

(equally pissed)

Politics man, f***in' politics. That O'Neill man got

his nose so far up Top's ass he gotta be Pinocchio...

KING:

Forty-two days man and a wakeup and I'm a gone

motherf***er. Back to de WORLD.

(dreaming in his eyes)

CRAWFORD:

Broke a 100. Got 92 to go. April 17. DEROS man.

California this summer. Waves are good they tell me,

surfin's gonna be good ...

KING:

March man in Tennessee, sniff the pines ... sniff

that crossmounted p*ssy walkin' down by the river.

What you got Taylor?

(a snicker)

Let's see three hundred and WHAT?

CHRIS:

... 32. 332 days.

CRAWFORD:

(groans)

Oh man! Sorry bout that. I can't even remember when

I was 332. You gotta count backwards like you got 40

days in - think positive.

KING:

(to Chris)

How the f*** you get over here man, you look like you

educated ...

CHRIS:

I volunteered.

KING:

You WHAT? Say 'gain.

CHRIS:

Yeah, I dropped out of college and told 'em I wanted

infantry, combat, and Nam ...

He grins, finding their reactions funny. It's also the first

time we've seen Chris crack a smile.

CRAWFORD:

You volunteered for this sh*t man?

KING:

You a crazy f***er, givin' up college man.

King has long sleepy eyelids and cat's eyes, a large pink tongue

and big white-edged cotton picker's nails - a lazy, gentle

nature, content with the world.

CHRIS:

Didn't make much sense. Wasn't learning anything ...

(hesitates)

And why should just the poor kids go to the war - and

the college kids get away with it.

King and Crawford share a smile.

KING:

What we got here a crusader?

CRAWFORD:

Sounds like it.

They pause, wipe the sweat off. King lighting up a half-smoked

joint, hitting a few puffs, eyes shooting around, making sure

he's not spotted, passing it to Crawford.

KING:

Sheeit, gotta be rich in the first place to think

like dat. Everybody know the poor always being

f***ed by the rich. Always have, always will.

Noticing Chris is having trouble with his neck, picking at his

bandage.

KING (CONT'D)

You okay man? Neck botherin' you?

CHRIS:

Nah ...

KING:

Here have some of this. Won't feel a thing.

Chris looking at the joint, a little apprehensive. He's never

smoked.

CHRIS:

No, thanks ...

KING:

Go on, whatcha gotta lose, yo' here now ...

CRAWFORD:

Kills the smell of sh*t anyway.

The joint proferred. Chris waits a beat, shrugs, takes it,

smokes.

KING:

Suck it in. Hold it ... That's it. Now let it out.

Chris blows it out.

CHRIS:

Don't feel it.

King and Crawford chuckle, go on rolling the cans.

KING:

Dat's what they all say.

CUT TO:

EXT. OUTHOUSE - LATER - DAY

King, Crawford and Chris pour kerosene over the cans at a secure

distance from the outhouse.

King lights it. The cans pop and start crackling. A line of

burning barrels. Rings of dirty black smoke rise against a soft

blue sky.

They watch, stoned. Chris turns to both of them.

CHRIS:

... you know that night we got hit ... I ...

(ashamed)

KING:

F*** it, don't mean nothing, no such thing here as a

coward, done your best man, next time y'do better.

CRAWFORD:

History, man, history.

Chris surprised at their attitude. The joint suddenly hits him,

a look in his face, eyes looking around different. Over at King.

CHRIS:

(deadpans)

I think I'm starting to feel that stuff ...

Crawford laughes.

KING:

(laughes)

Yo getting there Taylor. You be cool now and I'll

introduce you 'round to some of the 'heads'.

CHRIS:

What are the heads?

KING:

(laughes, walks away with Crawford)

Later ...

Chris alone, breathes deep, feeling the full effect.

EXT. BASE CAMP - NIGHT

A relief against the long harsh, hot day. We see lights on all

over the camp, sounds of music, laughter from the barracks.

INT. UNDERWORLD HUTCH - NIGHT

King leads Chris down to a specially constructed cellar-like

hutch dug deep into the ground on an isolated edge of the

battalion perimeter. Ammo casing and canvas are piled over it,

and sandbags surround it. From the outside very little sound can

be heard as they go down through a trap door made of ammo crates.

Past a lookout (Adams) pulling security, hitting a joint but

alert. King motions to him, it's cool.

Inside is another world. Chris looking around amazed. It's like

a private cabaret for the 'heads' who are there cooling out.

Boxes of food from the States, beers, whiskey bottles, crates

functioning as tables, hammocks hanging from poles, electric

fans, tape decks, paraphenalia.

The boys are all dressed up in their Saturday night rags. The

clothes are clean, the headbands, the medallions are out,

anything distinctive and individualistic. On the tapedeck,

Jefferson Airplane's 'Go Ask Alice'.

To Chris it is a new world. And RHAH, the resident head, sitting

there in all his finery puffing a huge burning red bowl in a

three foot long Montagnard pipe, seems to be the lord of final

judgement in this smoky underworld.

Across his naked chest, birds and snakes are tatooed. Around his

neck a black skull and white ivory cross side by side. On his

knuckles 'Love' and 'Hate' are tattooed. In his eyes, a dancing

Satanic fire. A poor rural Southern white, in his grizzled late

20's, he could be a Biker King. Giving Chris the once-over.

RHAH:

Whatcha doing in the underworld Taylor?

KING:

(smiling)

This ain't Taylor. Taylor been shot. This man Chris

been resurrected ...

Chris wondering what he's doing here. His eyes roving over

LERNER, CRAWFORD, MANNY, FLASH, FRANCIS, HOYT, TUBBS, DOC, other

from the Platoon, about 9 or 10 of them.

Rhah eyes him back, hands him the bowl.

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