It is hot and foggy and threatening to rain when the big transport plane touches down and the men begin to spill out onto the airstrip. Birds call in the treetops at the runway's edge, and somewhere a radio plays. The soldiers fall into line and heads for the long, low line of buildings on the other side of the airstrip; they turn their backs on the jungle.
The last man out of the plane does not. Instead, lighting a cigar, he surveys the green and alien and deadly world at the pavement's edge.
And then, very slowly, he grins.