The jungle was thick with heat and tension, the air suffocating as it clung to George's skin. His body, weathered by years of combat, moved on instinct as he crouched low behind a fallen log. He could hear distant gunfire, shouts, and the rustling of leaves stirred by movements unseen. This war had become his life, far longer than he’d ever imagined when he first enlisted in his twenties. Now, at forty-two, it felt like there was no end.

The dirt caked on his hands, the scars hidden beneath his uniform—these were reminders of how long he’d been in this hellish place. Seventeen years in the Army, almost half of them spent in the unforgiving jungles of Vietnam. George couldn’t remember who he’d been before the war anymore. The young, hopeful man who had once enlisted with dreams of duty and honor had been replaced by someone else—someone hollowed out by the relentless violence.

His thoughts drifted back to home, where he had left behind a family—Linda and Jeremy. How long had it been since he had last seen them? Time blurred here, the days blending together in a haze of sweat, blood, and gunpowder. He remembered Jeremy as a boy, clutching a baseball glove, looking up at him with wide, admiring eyes. Now, his son would be grown—no longer a child who needed his father, but a young man, likely learning to navigate the world without him.

Guilt gnawed at George every day, a constant companion that no amount of firefights could drown out. He had missed so much—birthdays, anniversaries, first steps, first words—all sacrificed for a war that never seemed to end. His heart ached, heavy with the regret of choices made long ago. Maybe I should’ve never signed up. Maybe I could’ve been there for them. These thoughts plagued him whenever the fighting paused long enough for him to think.

Suddenly, movement ahead caught his eye. A young soldier—Tom, barely out of his teens—was out in the open, standing there like a deer frozen in headlights. His face was pale, his eyes wide with terror. George’s stomach twisted. He knew that look all too well. The boy had no idea what to do.

"Tom! Get down!" George hissed, but the kid was too scared to hear him. His eyes were locked ahead, paralyzed by the chaos around him.

Without hesitating, George threw himself into action. He moved quickly, years of training guiding him as he crossed the clearing toward Tom. He could hear the gunfire growing louder, bullets whipping through the air like deadly whispers. He didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was getting Tom out of there.

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When he reached the boy, he didn’t waste time shouting orders. Instead, George grabbed Tom by the collar and dragged him behind the nearest tree, throwing them both down into the mud. "Stay low!" George growled, feeling the tension in his chest rise.

Tom looked up at him, shaking, barely able to catch his breath. “I-I’m sorry, Sarge,” he stammered, his voice cracking.

“Keep your head down, and you’ll be fine,” George replied, his voice surprisingly calm despite the chaos. He knew this jungle, knew how to survive it. But just as he reassured Tom, he heard the sharp crack of a rifle. Before he could react, a burning pain tore through his side, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

The world seemed to tilt as George gasped in shock. His hand instinctively went to his side, where warm blood poured between his fingers. His vision blurred, the edges of the jungle fading in and out as pain ripped through him. The bullet had hit deep—too deep. He knew it. The searing agony spread through his body like wildfire, and it was all he could do to stay conscious.

Tom’s face swam in front of him, panicked and desperate. “Sarge! No, no, stay with me! Sarge, please!”

George could barely hear him. His mind was already slipping, the sound of gunfire and shouting fading into a distant hum. Every breath was a battle now, each one more painful than the last. He could feel his life slipping away, the weight of it pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket.

Through the haze, George’s thoughts returned to Linda and Jeremy. His chest tightened, not from the wound, but from the realization that he would never see them again. I’m so sorry, he thought, his heart breaking. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I didn’t come home.

Tears welled up in his eyes, mixing with the dirt and sweat on his face. His hand trembled as he tried to pull himself up, but his body wouldn’t respond. The pain was too much, and the strength was draining from him too quickly. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the earth like a final offering to the war that had taken everything from him.

Tom’s voice was still there, frantic, but George couldn’t make out the words anymore. His vision narrowed, the edges going black. All he could see was the jungle, the trees swaying gently in the wind, indifferent to the life that was slipping away beneath them.

George’s breathing slowed, each inhale more shallow than the last. His chest heaved, struggling against the inevitable, but he knew it was over. Regret washed over him like a wave, pulling him under. He wished he could have done more—fought harder, lived better. He wished he could have been the father and husband they deserved.

His last thought, before the darkness claimed him, was of Jeremy’s face, smiling, just as it had been all those years ago.

And then, silence.