For What It's Worth: A Quest in Completely Normal Vietnam

There's something happening here.

Music's barely heard over the roar of a helicopter's rotors, breaking gravity's pull by sheer force and American ingenuity. The UH-1, lovingly nicknamed Huey, keeps you afloat, rumbling and roaring in its path over the achingly hot jungle beneath. Fatigues supposedly rated for the environment turn the heat from killing to merely punishing, aided further by the gale-force wind of travel.

The music is all there is to focus on, really, the jungle below breaking up the numb feeling of existence outside its wet and miserable embrace. Breath feels heavy in the humid air and your body aches with past exertion and injury.

But what it is ain't exactly clear

There's a man with a gun over there

Telling me I got to beware

Cam Rahn base comes into sight, the concrete intermixing with dirt and pulsing with the sun-gifted temperature. The ground comes fast, the pilot having landed at this Godforsaken patch of hell so many times they can do it practically by eye. Asphalt black consumes everything and the radiation from it spills sweat from your brow.

I think it's time we stop

Children, what's that sound?

Everybody look, what's going d-

The music cuts out, leaving only the dozen myriad noises of a base infested with soldiery. A man in a dress shirt and black pants looks like the CIA's best attempt at a normal human. Barely even showing his innate lizardness he grins a sickly sweet friendly, talking in the whiny, college grad voice you've come to expect.

"Staff Sergeant Stafford! Great to meetcha!" Yankee lilt to his tune, typical "My name's Agent Hunt!" The spook extends his hand, skin red under the gentle caress of daylight. Taking it with a crisp manoeuvre the handshake is rough, without a good grip and is shaky from dehydration he hasn't solved.

"Follow me! Let's get under some shade!" He walks over to an open-air bar, sitting at an empty table, plastic chairs holding up your weight as you sit down. A local waitress in a too-short skirt and too-tight top setting down beers while sticking her assets in both of your faces. Agent Hunt smiles up and towards her with the look of a man who has gone soft with luxury.

"What're we talkin' about, then?" You cut through this pleasantry and try to avoid staying in the open for a moment longer. "Huh, southern? That wasn't on your file." This new information unsettles him, sparking up that inch of fear every agent you've seen gets when things change. "Well, uh, so." He coughs, buying time, "So, we are gonna outfit you with a small squad." He pushes over a paper displaying mostly blacked-out information.

"You are gonna go up and past where we stopped the Tet Offensive, and then you are gonna swing into Cambodia on foot, roger?" You frown at that, senses sparking back to life as he interests you, "Cambodia, sir? Wasn't aware we were at war." The response appears to be funny, judging from his laugh. "Straight-laced are we? Cambodia is supporting the VC. The Ho Chi Minh trail runs up and down it, letting them move wherever the fuck they want, however they want, whenever they want." Taking a drink of the fruity local liquor, he settles into the next conversation.

"In Cambodia, your job is to get actionable intel on the Ho Chi Minh trail and bring it back to us. This'll let us actually engage with the situation instead of sitting on our asses doing nothing." His mouth runs through the words, evidently practised in front of a mirror for this conversation. "Support will be slim, but I can pull a few strings here or there."

Not really something you can refuse, and you don't really have that urge anyhow. "Sure thing." Trying to get through this meeting faster so you can get away from here, you spur your body into motion to put a hand on the table and stand, jungle fatigue sleeves rolled up to your biceps to defeat the heat, "Let's show you your men, yeah?"

Rising up and letting his voice fade into the background, you make it to the barracks in that blur of motion when the motion stops mattering. At some point the spook drifts away from you when the building ahead comes into view, sinking into the nothing of a crowded base before you push in the creaky door of a barracks that, from the outside, looks filthy and ill-kempt.

The door pushes open to reveal the presence of five Soldie-There's a Marine in your barracks. "Marine!" You bark, dragging the skinny, short and blonde man's attention away from his illegal card game with your soldiers. "The fuck you doing in my barracks!"

Your sight clarifies enough to notice the crust of filth between the lovely tiles of this personal barracks. The Marine's boots make it worse as they lie unshined and untouched by a brush or boot shine. "Assigned to this unit, Sir!" Tiny details on his worn face reveal a failed shave. "I work for a living Marine!"

The bark comes free before you know what is what, "My name is Staff Seargent Stafford! You, Marine, are a bag of fuck up!" His eyes are wide, but his position is perfect as you shock training back into his undisciplined hide. "Half-Right, Face! Front Leaning Rest Position, Move!"

His mind races to understand the command as he performs it, dropping to his front, just to your side. You glare over to the rest of the dregs in the barracks, noting badly kept uniforms, unmade beds and unshaven faces.

"The rest of you!" You roar across to them, "Clean this barracks! Sooner you get done, sooner he stands up!" Crouching down next to him, you count it down, "Down!" Watching every motion for the most minute failures while the rest of the soldiers scramble to clean and wash and fix this place.

You shout yourself hoarse for what feels like forever, but is just an hour of their time in reality. The Marine struggles to get another push-up out, a puddle fully formed beneath him. "On your feet Marine!" He leaps up to the position of attention, finally experiencing relaxation in his arms.

"What's your name!" Lowering your voice but keeping the tone aggressive, you demand an answer. "Private First Class Richy Montemarano! Staff Sergeant!" He screams back, fully aware that the time of fun-loving play is gone. His small, thin yet wiry physique combined with the physicality he displayed is admirable.

"You fucking Italian, Private? Do you have an affinity for the works of Mussolini?" You rumble. Getting into his face and asking calmly, "Are you a fascist, Private?!"
The last line is said with force, stumbling him verbally. "No, Staff Sergeant!" A blustered response, dragging the Boston out of him.

"No what, Private!"

"I am not a fascist, Staff Sergeant!!" Finally, he finds his real voice again, "Fucking excellent. Now, fix your rack!" Turning towards the rest of the soldiers who have cleaned the bay to a reasonable extent, "Mop up the damned mess!" Gesturing harshly downwards towards the pool of sweat staining your tiles.

As they move with gusto, cleaning your floor, you gently communicate, "You are now mine, and the luxuries you were so privileged to enjoy are now gone, Soldiers and Marine!" Stomping around and inspecting the creases on the beds, flipping them one by one as you note the failure to fold them correctly.

"Forty-Five degrees soldiers! Your drill sergeants failed you!" Standing up after flipping the last sleeping position, "Don't you worry, we will make time for lessons. Zero-Three wake-up, tomorrow morning! Get your affairs in order." With that declaration, you observe the growing looks of horror on their five faces before spinning on a heel and marching out of this place.

Back in the saddle.
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With the declaration given, it's time to decide exactly how hard you are gonna push them. The technical manuals suggest mild exercises in the morning cold so as to prepare them for their days, but you'll be dragging them across miles of jungle in the deepest VC territory imaginable.

Time spent training is time you can't spend sleeping, resting and preparing yourself, but that's a cost you'll have to measure against the rewards. Three weeks are all you have, according to a note under your door one night.

[X] Push it to the limit, walk along the razor's edge. Every waking moment of theirs for the next three weeks will be torment, unlike anything they have seen. You will be their closest companion. Every single waking moment is yours, and the rest is a privilege you will take at a moment's notice. Endurance, shooting, basic soldier tasks. They will be perfect. No matter how many late nights and early mornings it takes from you. (+50 Personal Stress, ??? Soldier Stress, Soldier Statistics increase by 1, 4 Secondary Actions.)

[X] It's gonna be a hellish workweek, but they can keep their breaks. Zero-Four to Nineteen-Hundred, Monday through Friday, but they can have their breaks on weekends. You are gonna drive them into the ground, but let them stand up. It'll be a luxury compared to the real work, but at least easier on you. (+25 Personal Stress, ??? Soldier Stress, Soldier Statistics stay the same, 6 Secondary Actions)

[X] Take it easy. Zero-Nine through Seventeen-Hundred, they'll have their last few weeks of peace. Maybe they'll freak the fuck out less in the field. They'll get soft in the process, but it'll let you get side work done, perhaps the difference between life and death in the field. (+10 Personal Stress, ??? Soldier Stress, Soldier Statistics decay by 1, 8 Secondary Actions.


Statistics exist on a 1-10 scale, the average person is a 2, the average professional is a 3 and the average expert is a 4. Some select individuals rise to 5 for a time, but rarely perform at that level for long.

Strength is the ability to exert or survive force, whether that is a physical, mental or social force.

Coordination is the ability to deftly manoeuvre and manipulate people, situations, combatants or weapons.

Intelligence is the ability to carefully proceed and engage with a subject, take a careful shot or find a way through a dense trail.

Skills exist on an identical scale.

A pool of d6s equal to these statistics is gathered and rolled at a target number of 5, each success roll of 5 and above allows one "success" to be gathered. Actions have a varying effect based on successes.






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And, of course, the side tangents before the operation start. Equipment, ammunition and everything else. Your soldiers will get their already present supplies of jungle fatigues with helmet, water canteens, a week of MRE, two hand grenades and an M16 a piece with spare nine twenty-round magazines, loaded to nineteen shots for easy feeding, per soldier.

Anything fancier, sadly, will come out of bargaining, arguing and cajoling the Quartermasters for their preciously limited supplies. All of these will need spare time that will cut into training.

Weapons

[X] The Army is currently embracing something called the M16A1, an improved rifle that can properly feed a 20-round magazine and not jam in the jungle heat, apparently. Getting a set of those early could be an advantage if digging into your innately limited time. And also get you twenty extra rounds per soldier, or marine, carrying it (Replace M16 and magazines with M16A1 and magazines.)



[X] The M60, a time-tested weapon that's served the Army for every inch of this war's real fighting. Getting your hands on one such device and a thousand or so rounds would be an extremely valuable support asset. (Replace 1 armament with M60 GMP)



[X] The perfected squad support weapon, an M79 Grenade Launcher and, of course, a few dozen shells for it. Thankfully, a patrol recently had a grenadier die, and the equipment is still in that hazy zone of not recovered on paper.



[X] Sidearms, sidearms have saved your life more than you can count. A series of M1911s, one for each soldier and yourself along with three spare magazines apiece. Both useful in emergencies and, should worst come to worst, useful in tunnel fighting.



[X] XM21 Sniper Weapon System, more or less an M14 with a scope on top. A sniper met his end two days ago in a duel, and the rifle was recovered. In heavy 7.62x51 NATO, it has twenty-round magazines and can maintain sustained semi-automatic covering fire or precision fire at a moment's notice. It would be a reasonable idea if you've got a good shooter to make it fall off the back of a truck.




Support

[X] Sleeping Gear, mosquito netting, waterproof tarps and hammocks are all crucial aspects of not sleeping on the jungle floor in the field, and if the time can be found for them, would be crucial for maintaining morale and avoiding insect bites. This would be enough for each soldier.



[X] A Navy Corpsman stepped on a mine and splattered six days ago, and his personal equipment, most importantly a full M3 Aid Bag and Surgical Kit is available for being lost in action should you handle the paperwork the right way, and talk the Quartermasters into it.


[X] The Ground Troops Variable Body Armor is a new innovation, given out to mechanized and motorized infantry units where possible due to its protective abilities. It can stop a rifle calibre round when struck from the front. Its disadvantage is that it weighs as much as the rest of a soldier's kit. A mechanized unit had a sniper take out ten folks, either KIA or disabled enough to go back home, leaving some vests free.



[X] The M1942 kit is a fancy phrase for machetes and their scabbards. It'll be a hassle getting some free from the Jungle Eaters, but well worth it in the event of encountering significant brush or foliage.

Plan Format Please.

Staff Sergeant Stafford
Wounds (STRX2+INT)= 15
Weight Capacity (STRX2+COO)X4=60kg
STR-5
COO-5
INT-5

Skills:
Long-Arms-5
Handguns-5
Heavy Weapons-5
Unarmed-5
Bladed-5
Awareness-5
Medical-3
Technical-1
Leadership-3

Weapons:
M16
Damage: 1d10+2 Wounds
Type: Intermediate Rifle Calibre
Magazine: 9 5.56 NATO rounds
Fire Rate: Single/Fully Automatic (20 shots)
Weight: 4kg (Loaded)
Ammo Weight: 3kg for 9 spare 19-round magazines
Range: 300 meters (Point Target) 600 meters (Area Target)
Quality: Unreliable (On any roll with 2 or more 1's, the weapon jams and must be cleared with a COO+Technical which has any amount of success.)

2 M61 Fragmentation Grenade
Damage: 2d6+6
Injure radius (Half Damage): 15m
Kill radius (Full Damage): 5m
Range: STR*10 Meters

Armour:
M1 Helmet
Armour Value: 3
Armour Location: Head

Other:
Jungle Fatigues
Canteen
7 MRE's

Stress: 0/100