The jungle night is heavy with heat and tension. Somewhere beyond the treeline, a distant thud echoes mortar fire, or maybe thunder. The soldiers are tired, hunched around a low campfire or tucked in their foxholes, rifles by their sides. A battered field radio crackles to life, cutting through the buzz of insects and uneasy silence.

Then comes her voice smooth, eerie, and unmistakable. It slips through the static like silk through barbed wire.

“Good evening, G.I.s… Still awake in the jungle? Still dreaming of home? This is your friend Hanoi Hannah coming to you with the truth Uncle Sam won’t tell you.”

A pause, just long enough to let her words sink in.

“You’re not heroes here. You’re far from home, forgotten by the people you fight for. Your girlfriends? Your wives? They’ve moved on. The war goes on… but for who?”

The broadcast shifts to a haunting instrumental version of a familiar American pop song. Then her voice returns sweet and steady.

“Listen closely, boys. Not every bullet has to find its mark. Maybe you don’t have to be a name on a wall.”