Commando

The helicopter never touches the ground. It never has. Not for my grandfather in the jungle, not for my father in the desert, not for my brother still out there somewhere—and not for me.

We drop fast, ropes burning through gloved hands, boots hitting dirt already moving. Blood, sweat, and tears built us long before this mission. Every challenge, every failure, we were taught the same thing—overcome it, or it buries you.

They say there’s always a bullet with your name on it. Out here, you believe it. It’s just a matter of time.

I’m proud to wear this uniform for my country. I’ve earned medals, even the highest, but they don’t weigh as much as the faces of the men beside me—my mates, my band of brothers. We fight together, bleed together, and sometimes… we don’t all come home.

That’s the hardest part. Not the missions. Not the fear. It’s leaving behind my wife and kids, knowing each time might be the last. And losing mates in battle—that stays with you longer than any wound.

I’m trained for this. Hand-to-hand, weapons, survival—I know how to endure. I know how to win. And I won’t lie—I love the smell of gunfire, the clarity of combat.

But war isn’t for the light-hearted.

Battle after battle, it leaves its mark. Scars you can see. Others you carry in silence. A heavy burden passed down, like everything else in my family.

The helicopter lifts before we’re even done breathing.

And we go again.

We slip into the jungle as if the darkness itself had swallowed us whole. Every step is measured, deliberate—boots finding only soft earth, never snapping twig or rustling leaf. The air is thick, damp, alive with the quiet hum of insects and the distant, watchful calls of unseen creatures. No one speaks. We don’t need to.

Ahead, the canopy knits tightly overhead, choking out what little moonlight dares follow us. Our world narrows to shadows and shapes, to the faint glow of a covered wristwatch, to the steady rhythm of breath controlled under pressure. We move in formation, each of us a fragment of the same intent.

The objective lies deeper—beyond the ridge, past the river bend where intel says the patrols thin. Still, we trust nothing. Every silhouette could be a sentry, every silence a trap. Fingers hover near triggers, not out of fear, but readiness.

We are not here to fight. Not unless we must.

We are here to finish the mission and vanish, leaving nothing behind but the jungle’s memory of ghosts passing through.

Then before arriving at our L Zee contact came without warning. Enemy forces opened fire, and the trail erupted into chaos. Men on both sides fell wounded, others were killed, and the air filled with shouting, smoke, and the crack of gunfire. Still they pushed on, driven by survival and the hope of reaching the helicopter before the jungle closed in around them. Dragging our fallen with us we push on as no man will be left behind. I can taste blood in my mouth as I load the dead n injured on to our chopper. No 1 talks.