Disclaimer: I don't own House, MD, or the characters.

Warning: Parts of this story may be difficult to read. Individual warnings are posted on the more controversial chapters. Any resemblance to actual people and happenings is a coincidence, which means purely unintentional. This story is not intended to provide a record of battles or events.

Chapter 1—First Blood

A blue-eyed sergeant snickered as the Marine Corps barber sheared off the hair of the man next to him. The man was wincing and twitching as his golden-brown locks fell to the tile floor. His nametag read Wilson, and the sergeant made a mental note of this, hoping the man wouldn't be in his squad. He didn't want to waste his time with someone who cried over a haircut. They left the barber shop and moved on to uniforms.

"Double check that helmet," the sergeant said, addressing Wilson. Wilson looked at him, puzzled, then back at the green, metal helmet in his hands. It was dented on the right-hand side. He walked off to find a better one, leaving the nosy sergeant to his own devices.

"When we get there," the CO screamed over the din of the airplane engine, not loud enough to constitute the yelling, "there will be absolutely no horseplay, no talking, no fraternizing with gooks, absolutely no talking to women or children! You will proceed directly to your choppers where your weapons await! Am I clear?"

A strong "yes sir!" answered the CO, who just laughed and went to the section of the plane reserved for officers. Wilson looked towards the bathroom, but the line already stretched to the middle of the aisle.

"He meant all of that," a voice said, followed by the sound of a page turning. Wilson jumped; had the blue-eyed sergeant been there before? He dimly recalled the man's laughter during the haircut, and his dented helmet. "These women have STDs that eat penicillin for breakfast."

"You've been here before?" Wilson asked, now eagerly turning to the scruffy man.

"Yeah, second tour. I signed up for it the first time, and now I'm here because of the draft."

"I signed up."

"You're an idiot. You should've gone to college."

"I was in pre-med."

"Was?"

"I thought it was unfair that people who couldn't afford school were forced to fight."

"Until now, that is."

"I'm starting to have second thoughts."

"What's your name?"

"James Wilson."

"You're in my squad. Try not to die."

Before Wilson had the chance to ask the sergeant's name, he was gone. The newspaper had been left on the seat, neatly folded next to the arm rest. The plane began to plummet down to earth, and the CO who had given out the airstrip-conduct orders was now barking at the recruits to get off the plane and board their designated helicopters. The heat of the day suffocated the troops as they deplaned. Wilson felt as if a hot, wet sock was being forced down his throat as he struggled into one of the choppers.

"Get in here, you moron," the blue-eyed sergeant grumbled, yanking Wilson into the helicopter by the collar of his jungle jacket. He tumbled onto the floor of the chopper and hastily found a seat between a black man and a thin, spry white man.

"Put your headset on," the black soldier said, pushing a clunky pair of headphones into Wilson's hands. He took them, and warily removed his helmet to put them on. The noise emanating from the helicopter engine dimmed.

"We're going to Khe Sanh," the sergeant's voice said through the earphones. "Make sure your gun's loaded before we get on the ground. You'll probably come off shooting. Follow me to the base, and don't try to find a short cut. We can't land directly at the base; it's too foggy. Reset your watches, also. It's oh-six hundred hours. Day's just starting."

Anti-aircraft rounds suddenly started to slap off of the sides of the helicopter. The recruits held on tight to the seats and handles as the little chopper swerved and shook, careening through the air, desperately trying to flee. There was a bang, a flash, and the anti-aircraft guns ceased. The smell of napalm and burning jungle quickly abolished any relaxing thoughts in the young men's minds.

"Landing," the sergeant said, "leave the headsets. Get your guns!"

The helicopter started to shake. The squad grabbed their guns and jumped out of the chopper, desperately running after their leader.

No shots rang out through the jungle, and no voices. Mortar holes, left over from earlier in the war, had created small, foul-smelling ponds that dotted the jungle floor; Wilson struggled to swallow the nausea as they walked past them. No animals crawled through the trees. The men were completely alone, with only their wits and their rifles. The sun had begun to set behind the hills before anyone caught sight of the base.

"Okay," the sergeant said, stopping at the base of a hill and turning to face his men. There were twelve of them all together. "This is our hill. Foreman and the short guy," the sergeant made a vague hand motion at the black soldier and the man next to him, who was six inches shorter and had a large nose, "repair the razor wire. I want a good perimeter, because the assholes here before you left a nice, big mess. The rest of you need to get up top and start digging. Fill up sandbags, fix up the bunkers. This hill is ours, and it's up to you what kind of cover you get. I'd recommend deepening the trenches by at least a foot."

The group split up before the sergeant finished talking, hurrying to dig trenches and repair the razor wire perimeter. Some men dragged crates of ammo and mortars into the ammo dump, others stockpiled boxes of rations and other supplies. They stacked the heavy, clay-filled sandbags on top of each other, leaving gaps for windows, and layered sheets of plywood on top of them for a crude roof. Corrugated steel was used for gutters for the anticipated rain, pieces of unidentifiable, blasted-apart materials scattered outside the perimeter as a deterrent.

"What's the purpose of using hills?" Wilson asked, sitting on the earthy trench floor, next to the sergeant, who was mixing a canteen of coffee.

"Some almighty jackass in D.C. thinks that the NVA is going to try to regain the base at Khe Sanh. So they gave us some high ground in exchange for defense. I can't believe you actually signed up for this crap."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Do us all a favor, and think your next decision through."

"Who are you?"

The sergeant wiped the mud off his nametag.

"Sergeant Greg House," he said.

"What happened to your other squad?" Wilson had probably only spent a grand total of ten minutes with this man, and could already tell that he would be a headache.

"A squad of NVA's snuck up on us while we were asleep. I was in the john while those damn gooks cut their throats." He took a pill bottle from one of his cargo pockets, and swallowed four of the pills.

"What's a gook?"

"A Vietnamese soldier. Men! Get over here!"

The squad dropped their conversations and ran over to House.

"We have a few ground rules to go over," House said, "no saluting. Keep your helmets buckled and flak jackets zipped up. Take care of your feet before your toes rot off. Don't move around too much during the day. You all got that?"

The squad nodded, self-consciously checking their zippers and helmet straps. They were terrified, eyes never lingering in one place, shifting their weight nervously. House was grateful that their rations came with gum. He figured it would relieve some of their tension.

"One last thing," House said, "I don't care if you're black," he pointed at Foreman, "short," at Taub, "a total idiot," Wilson, "or…" He looked at the middle-Asian man, "Kutner-ese. You're all here for the same reason. Even the skinny white kids. Right now, you're all morons. Some of you are going to die. I don't care what you ware, so don't expect to be treated different. We all use the same john, eat the same crappy food, wear the same clothes, make the same pay. I don't care if you make cracker jokes, I don't care if you make Jew jokes, don't act like a bunch of stupid kids. You're men. Am I clear?"

There was a murmur of 'yes, sir' and the men dispersed. House went back to his bunker and swept the dust off one of the racks.

"Is it okay if I stay here"? Wilson asked, timidly peeking into House's bunker. "Everyone else sort of paired off."

"I don't care," House said, dropping his backpack onto a dirty cluster of crates. He picked up his binoculars and stared out the crude window. "Get your rifle and get everyone into fighting holes, right now. Be quick, and keep your head down."

Wilson picked up his M-16 and darted into the trench. House readied his M-60 and a shotgun, just in case. He stuffed a knife into his boot and ran down the hill, into a fighting hole.

"What's going on?" Kutner hissed, annoyed at House's sudden intrusion. The M-60 machine gun was enormous.

"I caught some movement outside the perimeter," House said in a low tone, "Keep your eyes ahead and keep down." Ignoring his own instructions, House raised his head out of the hole. "Taub!"

"Sir?" Taub asked, his voice spewing from one of the other holes. His common sense had told him to keep low.

"Get somewhere out of sight. You're the sniper, right?"

"That I am. Where?"

"A bunker or something. Make sure you stay out of sight."

Taub leapt out of his fighting hole, leaving Chase alone, and sprinted to a bunker at the edge of camp, one that had been left unused.

The countryside in front of the hill was eerily silent and the humid darkness crept up around the squad, hugging them tight. There wasn't a man on that hill whose hands were still from shaking, not knowing what House had seen.

"Here they come," Foreman muttered, steadying himself against the earthen wall of the hole. Wilson swallowed hard, again willing himself not to throw up, and pointed his rifle out of the hole. He hadn't wanted this. He'd only signed up to find his brother.

"Get down!" House barked, startling all of his men. They hit the ground just in time; a volley of 122mm mortars slammed into the side of the hill, sending hot metal shards flying in every direction. Wilson felt something burning on his arm, but shook it off. He felt Foreman stand up, but stayed down, paralyzed. He heard the hum of House's M-60, peppered by Taub's occasional shots, and the fact that he, too, had a gun occurred to him. An entire magazine was gone before Wilson even realized he was standing. Sweat poured down his chest, soaking his jacket, making his trembling hands slick. It took two tries to reload his rifle.

"They're coming up!" House yelled, "Foreman, Chase, get up with Taub! Kutner, Wilson, stay put! Everyone else pull forward! Hess, radio in an airstrike!"

The men scrambled over the hill, masked by a series of smoke grenades, bullets landing all around them. House heaved his gun, all thirty pounds of it, up to his waist and moved forward into Foreman's abandoned position.

"Keep firing," House ordered, pulling out his tripod and reloading. Wilson looked at the huge gun in horror, realizing House meant for him to take over. He'd only fired one at basic training, on a range, and had no idea what to do should it jam or overheat. House yanked the shotgun from his back and pitched a flare, momentarily lighting the hill. He saw five men advancing at the edge of the perimeter, and ran towards them, firing his shotgun. The sound of airplane engines slowly pierced the air.

"Retreat!" House yelled, turning on his heel. He grabbed his M-60 on the way up the hill, and barely reached cover before the jungle lit up into an explosion of napalm. The hill shook, and all the soldiers could do was clap their hands over their ears and stay down until the attack ceased.

"Welcome to Vietnam," House said, standing up straight. The men slowly returned to their feet, slightly disoriented. Their first day did not go as expected. "Get some chow and hunker down. Where is Taub?"

"We're alright," Chase said, appearing next to the group of men in the trench. Taub and Foreman were behind him, disheveled, weapons in hand. "What was that?"

"Napalm, I think," House said, now sitting on a crate of grenades and cleaning his weapons. "Maybe white phosphorus. I didn't get a good enough look. Too busy bouncing around and trying not to die. Go eat. Foreman and Kutner, you're on lookout tonight. Don't fall asleep or I'll put you on point for the rest of the week."

Foreman and Kutner nodded and left, making a note to get more coffee. Neither of them wanted to be first in line on a march through the jungle.

"You lived," House said to Wilson, picking up his guns and walking towards their bunker. Wilson followed him. "You might be less of an idiot than I thought."

"I just kind of aimed in front of me," Wilson said. He felt awkward around the older man, insufficient.

"Well enough not to shoot me," House carefully reassembled his M-60 and moved on to his shotgun.

"How many rifles do you carry?"

"Three, usually, and a knife."

"A knife"

"Duh. How else would I have escaped the throat-slitting? I decapitated six NVA with the knife in my boot."

"What's an NVA?"

"I stand corrected, you are an idiot." House sat on his bunk. "An NVA is a Vietnamese soldier. They're also called gooks and Congs, short for Viet Cong. I think we're mostly fighting NVA. If you don't know what that is, you can spare Foreman and Kutner a day on point."

Wilson cringed, "it's the North Vietnamese Army."

"Good job, pick out a sticker." House searched through his things and took out his day's rations. "We're going on patrol tomorrow, so eat and go straight to sleep." He opened a sickly looking package of freeze-dried 'ham' and a can of bread.