SMASH TO BLACK. THEN—
A DEAFENING WHIRR OF ROTORS.

EXT. KHE SANH COMBAT BASE – 1968 – LATE AFTERNOON
A Huey kicks up red dust as it lurches down, spitting shrapnel wind across the jungle perimeter.

CHUY-GRIND — real name RAMON RIVERA, 19, too skinny for the flak vest he’s wearing — steps off, duffel slung over one shoulder, jungle boots too clean. His gaze drifts — up, around, then inward.

Everywhere: motion.

Marines digging, sandbagging, smoking. Machine guns in bunkers. Stacks of 155 mm mortar shells.

Bodies moving like they’ve been here forever.

Nobody looks up.

A gravel-throated INTAKE SERGEANT (40s) from Service Battery waves them forward.

INTAKE SERGEANT
Let’s go, ladies. Welcome to scenic Khe fuckin’ Sanh.
(points)
You piss here, you shit there, you die—anywhere. Got it?

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

They march past tents barely standing. A CHAPLAIN blesses dog tags.
A CORPSMAN sits on an ammo crate, cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling into the humid air. With one hand steady, he threads a needle through the torn heel of a boot — stitching leather as casually as flesh.

Overhead — a B-52 drones, invisible, felt in the gut.

MARINE #1
(quiet)
This don’t feel like a base…

MARINE #2
It ain’t. It’s a trap with a runway.

They pass a burnt-out Amtrac — now a latrine.

A small, hand-painted sign stuck in the mud reads:
KHE SANH — HELL’S WAITING ROOM — POP. VARIABLE

INTAKE SERGEANT
This here’s the 26th. You’re fire support.
If you’re lucky, you’ll just be wet, bored, and terrified.

He stops in front of a sandbagged bunker entrance.

STAFF SERGEANT MOONEY (O.S.)
(calling out from inside)
Rivera?

CHUY-GRIND
(ducks inside, removes helmet, stands at attention)
Yes, Staff Sergeant?

STAFF SERGEANT MOONEY (30s), lean and twitch-wired from too much combat, points without looking.

STAFF SERGEANT MOONEY
Echo Battery. Tunnel rats. Spotters. Couple lifers.
One guy thinks he’s Jesus. Don’t ask which.

Chuy-Grind nods. Expression unreadable.

He looks past the wire. Jungle. Fog. Distance.

Nothing moves — and somehow, that’s worse.

MOONEY
You’ll get oriented tomorrow.
(beat)
If we’re still here.

He disappears deeper into the dark.

CHUY-GRIND just stands, still holding his gear. The wind carries the distant thump of mortars — soft, like a heartbeat buried in mud.

He exhales, then steps back outside.

Same jungle. Same fog. Same distance.

CHUY-GRIND
(to no one)
¿En qué me metí, mami?

He lights a cigarette. Long drag.

Slings his gear. One step toward Echo Battery — then stops.

From his chest pocket, he pulls a worn, blackened rosary, the beads slick with grime.

He grips the crucifix. Presses it to his lips.

CHUY-GRIND
(whispering, in Spanish)
Santa María, Madre de Dios… ruega por nosotros pecadores… ahora y en la hora…

The last line falters.

He looks up — not at Heaven — just at the gray, shrunken sky. War makes the sky smaller.

Rosary back in. He walks toward the dark.

BLACK SCREEN
A soft hiss — like tape winding up.
Then —

DISTANT GUITAR RIFF
(faint, growing)
Some folks are born, made to wave the flag…

Silence.

Then again — warped, like it’s echoing inside a helmet.

VOCAL HOOK (V.O.)
It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no senator’s son…

FAINT STATIC.

A single, muffled gunshot.

FADE OUT.

INT. BEXAR COUNTY JAIL – HOLDING CELL – DAY
Chuy-Grind sits on the edge of his cot. The tremors have started—his hands twitch, his jaw clenched tight. Sweat beads along his brow despite the chill in the air. He’s deep in it now—alcohol withdrawal setting in hard.