Vietnam, a name that echoes through my veins. I was young, full of fire, and they sent me to hell. The jungle swallowed my innocence, spat out a hardened soldier. PTSD, they call it—a phantom war that never ends. The nights are the worst. The ceiling fan spins, but the ghosts remain. M16s, napalm, buddies fallen, their faces etched in my mind. I wake, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. The smell of burning huts, the taste of fear—they cling to me like leeches.