Platoon

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 shit - new meat! Sorry bout that boys - 'sin loi' buddy ... you gonna love the Nam, man, for-fucking-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 fucked. 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 motherfucker. 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 shit. 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.

ELIAS

(concerned)

Hold it up.

On Chris - his eyes opening. He seems all right.

CHRIS

(trying to get up)

I'm okay ... I'm okay.

Chris crumples backwards. Elias helps him.

EXT. COMPANY PERIMETER #1 - DUSK

The COMPANY - about 100 men who seem insignificant amid the size of the surrounding jungle - is digging into a perimeter of some 100-yard radius. A RESUPPLY CHOPPER lifts off in a flurry of blowing leaves. Bare-chested soldiers chop down trees, clear fields of fire, set out claymores, fill sandbags, chow down. Little fires snake up against the greying red horizon.

EXT. COMPANY PERIMETER 31 - DOC'S POSITION - DUSK

We cut close on a pair of grungy feet - the staple of the infantry - moving up to DOC, the Medic, bandaging them for FU SHENG, a Hawaiin kid.

EXT. COMPANY PERIMETER #1 - RHAH'S POSITION - DUSK

Rhah sets his tripflare. Crawford, with him, putting out a claymore.

EXT. COMPANY PERIMETER #1 - RODRIGUEZ - POSITION - DUSK

Back in the perimeter RODRIGUEZ sets his M-60 in the newly dug foxhole. SAL, next to him, is shaving in his helmet.

EXT. COMPANY PERIMETER #1 - KING'S POSITION - DUSK

KING looks like a king. A lion of a black man but with a sleepy, gentle face, not to be roused, is painfully trying to scrawl a letter home with the pencil held awkwardly, mouthing the words. FRANCIS, a young baby-faced black with long lashes and soft eyes, peeks over his shoulder, shaking his head.

FRANCIS

Shit, King, it ain't d-e-r-e man, it's d-e-a-r, and Sara don't have no two r's in it, fool. Shame on you.

King shrugs, a sleepy stoned voice.

KING

Don't matter, she knows what it means ... an she don't read too good nohow ...

EXT. COMPANY PERIMETER #1 - COMPANY PC - DUSK

Sgt. Elias washes himself, attentive to his body, slender and well-muscled, and extremely handsome youth. Of Indian blood, with long black hair, generous smile, wide facial bone structure, gypsy eyes, and the cleanest white teeth, he could be a young Greek god. He is given somewhat to panache, a silver wristband on his arm, a bandana of black parachute silk hanging from his neck, his fatigues tightened down at the ankle, he pulls his pants down, checking for crotch rot, applying talcum powder to the area, his buttocks facing us.

LERNER, a white kid, 19, from Florida, stopping to admire the frontal view.

LERNER

Mumm, any time sweetheart.