Chris a déplacé son sac, se tenant debout alors que tout était clair. Pas de victimes parmi eux, à part les morts dans les hélicos. C'était un soulagement parce qu'il n'y avait pas le temps d'appeler à l'aide, comme l'a dit le sergent et qu'ils l'ont fait sauter de là. Dans la jungle. Il détestait la jungle avec toutes les merdes qui pourraient tuer un homme. S'il ne s'agissait pas d'un piège ou d'une embuscade VC, c'était des serpents, des venimeux qui pouvaient laisser tomber un homme avec une morsure avant de pouvoir faire sept pas. Et des tigres. Putain de tigres, mec. Puis il y avait des fourmis noires qui piquaient comme du feu et des sangsues de la taille de sa paume, même des singes jetant leur propre merde. Allez vous faire foutre. Je baise Charlie et LBJ.
Se tenant légèrement derrière et mis à part Bobby D., Chris a scanné la végétation pour n'importe quel mouvement, la légère brise ne remuant guère l'air humide. Ses lunettes ont glissé sur son visage transpirant et il a dû scruter son nez pour les repousser, en gardant ses mains sur son fusil. Sa radio était encore silencieuse, personne n'avait essayé d'élever leur peloton, personne ne semblait encore les manquer. Il a regardé sa montre, se demandant combien de temps il leur faut pour faire quelque chose sur les hélicos abattus. Il était heureux d'avoir le Sarge dans son dos, quelqu'un qui avait traversé la merde plus longtemps que quiconque.
Alors qu'ils entraient dans la forêt, le piment des oiseaux de la jungle qui flétrissaient parmi les branches supérieures et le bourdonnement des insectes remplissaient l'air chaud et humide. Va te faire foutre! L'infâme lézard a commencé son appel alors que les soldats s'éloignaient du pinceau, la griffe accroupie comme des épines s'accrochant à ses fatigues et à sa peau exposée. Il semblait même que la faune déplaisait à la présence américaine dans cette terre primitive. Il serait plus qu'heureux de partir, vous baiser beaucoup. Il avait des vagues à monter et de la bière à boire et une jolie petite amie à la maison. Il n'avait pas besoin de cette merde bien qu'apparemment oncle Sam ait senti le contraire.
Chris avait soif, mais il était trop serré pour s'arrêter et boire, clignotant à travers la sueur qui lui a piqué les yeux. Il regardait le sol, autour du sol de la forêt pour trouver des fils ou d'étranges tapis de feuilles qui pourraient masquer un piège à tigres. C'était des choses désagréables bordées de bûches de bambou aiguisées. Le jeune homme garda la tête sur le pivot, comme l'a dit Sarge, en regardant la jungle comme elle s'est refermée autour d'eux.
Name: Chris Hoffman
Age: 18, born Sept. 14, 1949
Gender: Male
Rank: Private
Ethnicity/Nationality:  White
Physical Description: Standing an even six feet tall, he is lanky nearly to the point of skinny but his muscles are lean and wiry. His blonde hair cut short from basic training but it is growing out. Despite his fair coloring, he tans well from the years on the beaches, his bright green eyes standing out even behind the thick Army issue glasses. He wears his father's watch and a silver ring given to him by his girlfriend.

Skillset: Chris is trained as a rifleman and a radio operator. Naturally relaxed and calm, he deals with stress fairly well and thus makes an ideal for his job.
History:
Born in San Jose, California, Chris grew up with two younger sisters and a domineering father who pushed him to play sports that he never showed an interest in, especially football. His childhood was normal and when he was 12 he started working for his dad at his hardware shop. Chris saved up enough to buy his first surfboard which his father promptly confiscated and sawed in half with the excuse that surfing was too dangerous. Furious but unable to do anything about it, Chris pretended to be cool with it but secretly began to save up and when he was 14 got a scooter. That was when he began to run away for weekends at the beach, testing out the chilly Northern Californian waters. By 16 he was skipping school to travel down to LA, surfing and camping on the beach. His father gave him the ultimatium to move out or stay home but no more running off. Having made older friends in SoCal, Chris packed his bags and left, enrolling himself in school with an aunt's address who lived in Pico Rivera. He scraped by with odd jobs in construction and selling weed, somehow managing to graduate with a C average. His summer went by in a blur of sand, surf, and acid marked by two major instances. He met his girlfriend Diana and his draft number was called. He considered moving to Canada or Mexico, as he can speak decent Spanish since his grades were shitty and he was too broke for college. His father refused to help him pay for it, citing that he had served in the Army in Europe when he was called up. Before he knew it, Chris was having his long sun bleached hair shaved off and some dude that wasn't his father screaming in his face. He made it through boot camp well enough, he was physically fit though he struggled with tactics as it was something he was never interested in. Chris tried to get in with the Corps of Engineers but when that did not work out he decided to become a radio operator. He is currently in his second month of his year tour.
Equipment: 

 M-16A1 rifle, extra magazines
 PRC-25 field radio 
 Fatigues, boots, extra socks, bandana
 Helmet with a peace sign drawn on one side and the words "Hang Loose!" on the other
 2 WP, 2 colored smoke grenades, 2 frag grenades
 35 millimeter camera, pack of Kools containing some handrolled 'cigarettes', zippo lighter, picture of his girlfriend in his wallet, dogtags
 Army issue knife, C-rations, towel, canteens, machete, extra radio batteries (etc I'll fill in as I'm able to do the proper research)
 Looted AK-47, 3 magazines