Platoon Page #8

BUNNY:

(listening to the music)

Listen to that sh*t, that's good sh*t!

JUNIOR:

(irritated as always)

F*** that redneck noise, dude. All dem chicks be

rappin' how dey losin' der' ho's and how dey ain't

got no bread for beer. F*** dat honky sh*t. Got to

get me some motown jams, dig it?

BUNNY:

(doesn't understand a word of it)

Whaddaya talking sh*t for man. Hey Junior! Y'ever

smoke any sh*t?

JUNIOR:

Das right dude. You be tryin' to string de black man

out on dat sh*t and keep him DOWN. Time's be coming,

my man, when de black man's gonna throw off that

yoke.

BUNNY:

(lonely in his way for company)

Say I can dig it. Smoke that sh*t everything kinda

gets weird y'know?

(hiccups, sits)

Y'hear that story the gooks is putting chemicals in

the grass so's we become 'pacifists' so's we don

fight

(to no one in particular)

Where the hell's everybody, they'se gettin high

that's what - bunch of hopheads, they think they

special ...

JUNIOR:

(turns away, bored)

Don you worry Bunny, youse a killer anyway.

BUNNY:

Yeah but I still like a piece of p*ssy once in a

while - ain't nothing like a piece of p*ssy cept

maybe the Indie 500.

JUNIOR:

Youse so f***ed up man.

BUNNY:

Y'ever look at yoself in the mirror Junior, youse

uglier than a dick on a dog man.

(laughing)

JUNIOR:

Yeah, you had a piece of p*ssy on a plate in front of

you, you'd probably kill it.

BUNNY:

Sh*t, I bet I been laid more'n you have.

JUNIOR:

Sure, you probably stick it in tween her knees and

think youse there.

BUNNY:

Yeah?

JUNIOR:

Only way you'd get some p*ssy is your b*tch dies and

wills it to you - and then maybe.

Lt. WOLFE wanders down the aisle, beer in hand, slightly lonely,

bypassing FU SHENG, the Hawaiin and TONY, a mustached hairy-

browed Italian kid from Boston, who are playing some kind of dice

game. They hardly acknowledge the Lieutenant who stops by

RODRIGUEZ, the Mexican-American kid who is on his cot in his

neatly arranged area writing a letter home with a pencil, forming

his words with his mouth, as always minding his own business.

Religious objects comprise his few decorations.

LIEUTENANT WOLFE

(amiable)

How you doing Rodriguez?

RODRIGUEZ:

Good sir.

WOLFE:

Need anything?

RODRIGUEZ:

No sir.

Wolfe winks at him, continues on to the POKER GAME going on in

the center of the barracks, the main action. BARNES,

Sgts.O'NEILL and WARREN, the quiet sullen black, SANDERSON and

SAL play as ACE, the tiny radio kid, and MOREHOUSE look on; all

of them drinking beer and bourbon chasers from a bottle.

WOLFE:

(to O'Neill)

How's it going Red?

(using his nickname)

O'NEILL

Sh*t, cocksucker's got all the cards tonight.

WOLFE:

(to Barnes)

Looks like you're doing all right Sergeant.

Barnes, raking in the chips, is the big winner, a light bead of

sweat on his forehead and a somewhat glassy look to the eye the

only indication he is drunk - his shirt peeled off revealing a

muscular, scarred body.

BARNES:

Yeah, and I ain't even cheating yet.

SANDERSON:

(the big blond kid)

Have some Kentucky windage Lieutenant.

(passes him the bottle of bourbon)

Wolfe takes a nip.

BARNES:

Play Lieutenant?

WOLFE:

Nah, I wouldn't want to get raped by you guys ...

O'NEILL

What are you saving up to be Lieutenant - Jewish?

Laughes. Wolfe forces a smile, glad to move on. There is a

continual worried rodent air about him, an anxiety, a desire to

fill the vacuum in his leadership with a false masculinity.

WOLFE:

Catch you men later. Enjoy yourselves.

As he goes, O'Neill shakes his head after him.

O'NEILL

Sorry ass motherf***er ain't he. You think he gonna

make it Barnes?

Barnes plays a card, glances, a minute movement of his head.

O'NEILL (CONT'D)

Yeah that's what I figger. Some dudes you jes' look

in their faces and you KNOW they just ain't gonna

make it.

Barnes looks - with some irony - at O'Neill. The Country Western

tune has reached a crescendo whine which now mixes into:

INT. UNDERWORLD HUTCH - NIGHT

Francis, the baby-faced black, and Manny, green shades covering

his skinny face, lead with a high blues falsetto.

FRANCIS AND MANNY

(singing)

'People say I'm the life of the party cause I tell a

joke or two Although I may be laughing loud and

hardy Deep inside I'm blue ...

The Hutch looks now like a Turkish bath with minimum visibility,

the smoke fumes dense. They are all up dancing on their feet -

King, Tubbs, Big Harold, Hoyt, Lerner, Crawford, Flash, Doc,

Elias - a few light gestures with their hands above shoulder

level, passing around the grass pipes while they shuffle, fingers

clicking. The song - Smokey Robinson's "Tracks of My Tears" -

accompanies them from a vintage tapedeck.

ALL:

'... Since you've left me, if you've seen me with

another girl seeming like I'm having fun although she

may be cute she's just a substitute because you're

the permanent one ...'

King and Big Harold wave Chris into the Circle and he starts

swaying with them, feeling as if he's being accepted into a new

family.

Rhah watches it all, puffing away on his magic dragon pipe, the

shadows dancing on the walls.

It looks like a Saturday night dance party. A yearning for

tenderness, for feminity, for a moment of peace in this nightmare

life. Their eyes closed, thinking of dance partners that can't

be here tonight. Singing their souls out.

ALL (CONT'D)

'... So take a good look at my face. You'll see the

smile looks out of place. Look a little bit closer.

It's easy to trace. The tracks of my tears...'

EXT. JUNGLE - NVA BUNKER COMPLEX - DAY

An overwhelming 103 degree heat. Chris is once more on point, a

little better now but obviously struggling with a thick

unyielding bamboo thicket that forces him forward in a caveman

crouch. Napalm jelly is hanging from the trees in great canopies

of spider webs, obliterating the sky.

CHRIS (V.O.)

New Year's Day, 1968. Just another day. Staying

alive. There's been a lot of movement neat the

Cambodian border, regiments of NVA moving across. A

lot of little firefights, ambushes, we drop a lot of

bombs, then we walk through the napalm like ghosts in

a landscape ...

Chris working his way over twisted, broken stumps, branches. On

the back of his flak jacket he's written, 'If I die bury me

upside down so the whole world can kiss my ass'.

BARNES:

Pssst!

The signal for silence. Chris freezes. Barnes edging up to him.

BARNES (CONT'D)

(whispers)

Bunker ...

CHRIS:

Where?

Doesn't see it. Following Barnes' imperceptible movement of his

head.

The bunker, dug into the ground and camouflaged with brush, is

staring right at him, not more than 20 feet away. Chris is a

dead man if ...

Barnes, checking the terrain, signals radioman Hoyt.

Barnes edging up to the bunker, eyes everywhere. Chris

following. The tension builds. They come up to the edge of it,

peer in. Nothing.

Barnes walks around it, slips in from back. Chris covers him,

other guys coming up now, making a small perimeter.

Chris now starts to see things he didn't see. Right in front of

his nose - there is a trench from this bunker to another and

another. There is now in his view a complex of bunkers and

thatched hootches and lean-tos all blending into the forest. A

ghost city ...

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