Disclaimer: The characters from Platoon belong to their creators, I only own Bonnie.
Author's Note: This story is going to deal with some sensitive topics(such as drug use) and will probably contain some racists terms, it can't be helped. If I want to stay true to the atmosphere of Vietnam, they're going to be used. I hope you enjoy it.
June, 1967:
Drugs in 'Nam weren't hard to find, specifically marijuana. It was sold on every street corner disguised as a carton of American cigarettes like Camels or Marlboro, but to find the good stuff you had to ask Alice. Rumors flew inside the Army camp packed from one end to the other with the boys from the 25th Infantry Regiment that Alice was a French prostitute left behind once the French Garrison deserted the godforsaken jungles of Vietnam. Supposedly she killed two Viet Cong with her bare hands by luring them into a brothel.
Some called her the White Rabbit, some of the new guys called her baby, but they only made the mistake once. The rest just settled with Alice since no one dared to called her Bonnie. Her fierce nature made her protective, not only of the men from Company B, but also of herself. Staff Sergeant Robert N. Barnes had never laid eyes on a woman like her in his life until his umpteenth rotation into the jungle in April of '67. For as long as he'd been a soldier no one had the balls big enough to disobey him, except for this gypsy woman. A thorn in his side she might have been, but life without her in Hell would've been impossible.
Bonnie "Alice" Brighton had been on her own since she was seventeen. An American citizen alone in a war-torn nation with a communist regime so strong they destroyed anyone or anything that stood in their way. Including her parents. Her father had been a traveling doctor, delivering what medical care he could to third world countries in Asia when he met her mother, Jacqueline Mercier. Once she was born, the two decided to stay and carried on his work throughout the country. Her father refused to abandon the people he cared for, standing his ground in front of the Vietnamese.
She supposedly took refuge in an abandoned French whorehouse before the Americans made their grand arrival in '65, making a simple living in the nearby village by helping with the sick children and delivering babies. They paid her what they could until she stumbled upon the miracle drug of marijuana that grew everywhere in the vast open fields, it was just as easy to come by as rice. Once the American military began building their camps, before their nurses arrived, she tended to the wounded. Though her story changed from soldier to soldier. No one really knew the truth.
Across the base, the lights were out but the muffled twang of Merle Haggard crept through the window of a nearby hooch, which Bonnie knew could only belong to her good friend Bunny. The wooden shacks, also known as hooches, were large enough to fit around twelve soldiers each. Bunny bunked with the rest of his squad such O'Neil, Barnes, and the other "lifers." The ones who chose this life over whatever struggle they came from.
The walls of the hooch were decorated with Confederate flags, windows were lined with strings of Christmas lights, candles burned on the various shelves which were littered with empty beer cans and a few liquor bottles. Scattered across the floor were Vinyl covers, crinkled up Playboy magazines with the covers ripped off and hung on the walls. It was their home away from home, allowing them the space to breathe.
Out of the corner of her eye, Bonnie caught the swift movement of a shadow lurking by the wooden door of the shack. The shuffle of feet could be heard in the still night followed by the metallic clink of a cigarette lighter. Up ahead, the flame illuminated the distinct face of none other than Staff Sergeant Barnes. The darkness hid the profound scars that adorned half of his face.
"What're you doin' up so late, girl?" He drawled, stepping out of the shadows. His piercing gaze drifted over her soft curves and lingered briefly on the hand-me-down olive-drab trousers and scuffed black combat boots. From a glance the uniform looked new and crisp, but up close he noticed the worn knees and how they sat just right on her slender hips. He noted a fading splatter of blood by the front pocket which began to resemble the shade of mud. It had spread into the fiber of the fabric, scrubbing no longer made a difference. The sleeves of her green undershirt were long gone, leaving much of the skin beneath exposed. His dark eyes landed on her copper curls that seemed to burn bright even in the shadows. The tousled locks were held out of her face by a crimson bandana which he immediately knew belonged to Lerner. She had been down with the rest of smokers in the designated head shed.
Like an oracle hidden away in a mountain cave, she could always be found in the stoner's den, a bunker cradled subtly in the corner of the large camp. With the troops came the men who didn't run out to join the war effort, the men who had been drafted. ones who were more interested in the women who hung around on the coattails of the camp and the drugs that ran wild in the streets. They believed the war to be senseless, but the men to their left and right kept them fighting. They just needed to survive thirteen months. Thirteen long months.
"Just takin' a walk, Sarge." Bonnie's voice was cracked and hoarse from exhaustion as well as barking orders at the nurses over the noise of the choppers that carried the wounded. Her words melted together smoothly. Their prior interactions had been short and comprised of conversations about the wellbeing of the men in his platoon. He wasn't much of a talker, though in truth, neither was she but she always noticed the flicker of fear in his eyes when the Medics told him they would do what they could. That the young soldier, fresh in from the world, wasn't likely to make it. That flash of panic when he was told the bullet had punctured the soldier's lung. Then, finally the brief trace of grief when the boy took his last breath. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she noticed the tick in the hard line of his jaw, his intense gaze welded on her. Since her first steps on the base camp, she had never been intimidated by any of the soldiers, not even the grittiest officers except the man towering over her. "What about you?" She responded apprehensively.
The smell of whiskey hung heavy in the air between them as he offered her a cigarette to ease the growing tension. "I don't sleep much," he shrugged his shoulders. "I ain't gonna hurt ya, Red."
Bonnie cocked an eyebrow at the nickname. "Who said you could call me Red?"
"What am I supposed to call ya? Alice?" He took a long swig of Jack Daniels. "Bonnie?"
Bonnie grew silent. "Red works." She took the bottle half full of warm whiskey from his hand, letting it slide like syrup down her throat. "Somethin' you wanted to talk about?"
"Just wonderin' what all the fuss is about. You runnin' around here like ya own the damn place." The words slipped from his lips just as easy as the smoke. He was the man in charge. The top dog. The highest point of the totem pole, at least in his own mind. He snuffed out challenges without lifting the toe of his boot and she was no different. He exuded authority, relishing in the power.
"And what if I do own the place?" She contested, taking a step forward to ensure they were toe-to-toe. Her arms crossed over chest as she suddenly became aware of their close proximity. Her heart pounded in her chest.
Barnes had to hand it her, she wore confidence like a damn medal of honor. "They said you was stubborn." He flicked the butt of his cigarette into a puddle of water by his feet.
"And they told me you were self-righteous." She responded, savoring the last bit of her cigarette. "Looks like they were right."
Self-righteous or not, his loyalty was to his men. Not his country. Not the men in pressed suits who sat up in the White House, watching the atrocities from their comfortable office chairs while the news made them out to be murderers and baby killers. The anti-war movement in the states had grown into a monster. "Looks like it." He huffed, enjoying another mouthful of whiskey. He sloshed the liquid that remained in the bottle. "Ya want it?"
A small smile crept up to her lips. "How 'bout we share it, Sarge?"
"And who said you could call me Sarge?" He asked, amused by her shy grin.
"What am I supposed to call you?" Bonnie leaned back against the sandbags stacked against the side of the shack. "Sergeant? Bob?" She snatched the bottle eagerly from his hand.
"Sarge works just fine." He nodded his head respectfully, lighting another cigarette. The night air was thick and muggy. A sharp breath escaped his lips as he wiped the back of his neck with his green undershirt and tucked it safely into his back pocket. "Hard to find peace and quiet in this damn place." He grumbled as heard the faint sound of machine gun fire far off in the thick canopy.
To Bonnie, the peace and quiet was suspicious. Even if it was quiet in the perimeter, the sound of rounds popping off could be heard in the distance. Sometimes the mortars could be he miles away up by the mountains. After spending years in this place, peace and quiet made her uneasy. "You're right about that." She sighed. As slivers of silver moon beams peeked out from behind the dense cover of clouds, she studied the deep lines of his scars that started above his right eyebrow. Sergeant O'Neil told her he took shrapnel to the face during his first trip into the bush after the Americans invaded. That shoulda killed him, she thought to herself.
"You shoulda seen the other guy." Barnes jested, noticing the flecks of gold in her emerald green eyes as she observed his scars. "Ya know, you seem like an educated girl… What you really doin' here?"
She listened to the rumors, choosing wisely to keep her story to herself. They weren't wrong, not all of them. Her father had been a doctor, but he met her mother in New York after returning from the mess of the second World War. He served four long years as an Army medic in the European theater, saving as many lives as he could. His passion for medicine carried him from place-to-place around the world, but it wasn't until the age of fifteen she had been able to travel with him.
Her family started in the remote islands of the Philippines making their way to Vietnam. They were trapped as soon as they arrived, but that didn't stop her father from trying to save the lives of the innocent. He made arrangements for his wife and teenage daughter to be airlifted out of the country, but the North Vietnamese found them before they even had the chance to pack a bag. She did her best to block out the rest, though she remembered clearly the sight of her parents laying still on the hard ground with eyes open wide with blood trailing across the floor. It stained her hands, her dress and her hands as she tried desperately to shake them awake, but after five years she could hardly remember their faces…
"Same thing you are." She placed the glass bottle carefully in his hand. "Just tryin' to survive." Survival was the primal motivation of all human beings. It was the only thing that kept her going most days, but it wasn't just her survival. She was here to save lives. All she wanted was to make it out of this jungle alive, but do it in such a way she honored her father and his years of hard work. She wasn't a solider nor would she pretend to be. "Have a good night, Barnes." His name rolled off tongue with natural ease. She pushed off the wall of sandbags with a sigh and rendered him a two-finger salute as she worked her way back to across the camp to her makeshift shack. For the first night in almost two years, she relished in the chirping of the crickets drowning out the drone of constant machine gun fire. This was peace and quiet, she thought.