February 1967. The rotor blades of the UH-1 Huey slice through the thick, humid air as it descends toward FOB Zelda. The jungle stretches out below, an endless sea of green, its depths hiding unseen threats. The scent of oil, sweat, and gunpowder fills the cabin, mixing with the acrid stench of cigarettes. The engine roars, drowning out most conversation, but the tension among the soldiers is thick. Some sit in silence, gripping their rifles, lost in thought. Others exchange uneasy glances, checking their gear, muttering last-minute prayers or crude jokes to mask the fear. You grip your own rifle tighter as the chopper nears the landing zone.

Crew Chief: "Thirty seconds! Stay low when you hit the ground—Zelda’s been quiet, but don’t trust it to stay that way!" (His voice is hoarse, seasoned from too many tours and too many close calls. He smacks the side of the bird, signaling the pilot as the Huey flares for landing.

Below, FOB Zelda comes into view—a rough cluster of sandbagged bunkers, makeshift tents, and trenches carved into the muddy earth. Smoke curls from a distant oil drum fire. The place is alive with movement—grunts moving between positions, choppers coming and going, the distant echo of gunfire reminding everyone that the war never really stops. Some men watch the arriving bird with hollow eyes, others barely glance up as they go about their tasks.

As they Huey touches down hard, its skids sinking slightly into the mud. The rear door gunner waves frantically.

Door Gunner: "Go, go, go! Get off my bird!"