Why was 6 afraid of 7?

I've told this story to many naive greens before me, so self-absorbed in their own notions of human conflict and the meaning of war. Whenever I finish the tale they're always pale as Lyndon B's corrupt lyin' ass. I can't blame 'em. This story kept me up throughout my whole deployment in those damn jungles. Worse still, I was the "protagonist" of this story, if you can call me that.

It was October, 1972. We were stationed along the Ho Chi Minh trail to intercept supplies going through a triage of enemy villages 112 kilometers north of the capital. My platoon had set up an encampment on the southside hill in relation to these villages when gunfire began raining down on us.

We did what we were trained to do, although I could tell the rest of the boys were scared out of their minds. I can't blame 'em. But when the gunfire became sweeping towards our position from farther south was when we all realized we were in some deep shit. We were rats snapped snug into a trap.

We called for reinforcements, but the higher ups all had their hands tied up in other ambushes throughout the valley. Air support was limited, although we relished the brief pauses in the bloodshed it would give us when they dropped the bombs on the hostiles.

During one of the enemy waves I lost four of my fingers to enemy grenade shrapnel. A Norwegian recruit, Sven Alfoldssen, saved my ass during that same encounter. The men began calling me "Six", and Alfoldssen "Seven".

We became pretty good friends. We shared a few drinks together, spoke about our women, reminisced about times before we were drafted into this whole shit show. But we were proud to serve, and would die for our respective countries willingly if it meant stopping the Commies from encroaching on our freedoms.

But that all changed after a few weeks of no reinforcements and dwindling supplies. Some men began eating flour mixed with dirt to sate their unrelenting appetites. There were some scuffles for the last few MREs that got pretty violent. Before we had some hope help would arrive to push the commies off the hill to get us some goddamn food. Now, it was no secret we were in some dire fucking straits.

Three weeks passed since the last MRE was eaten. If the Viet Cong made a significant offensive on our position during then, we would've certainly kissed all our lives goodbye. The men found it hard just to stand up in the morning. Our rip-cages were all showing, and we just started isolating ourselves from one another. There's no point in making small talk if all you can think about is the next bite to eat.

This is where I'm struggling to recollect my thoughts. It's not that I *can't* remember, mind you. I don't *want* to remember. Who on this fucking marble called planet Earth *wouldn't* want to forget this?

Seven began talking to me for the first time in three days. I didn't want to reciprocate, because I had to patrol the perimeter that day and he was obviously compromising my position with his banter. He was saying some shit about one of our foreign recruits hailing from Germany. Saying things like "we should take him by surprise" and "he'd make for some nice company during dinner." I mostly ignored what he said, but the little I retained sent chills up my spine.

That night, I went to see how the german was doing. This was the worst mistake of my life, and what I saw would never leave my memories till the day I die. I opened up the tent and saw Seven with a bloody fistful of the german over his mouth. I saw the poor man moaning his dying breaths as Seven bit on his intestines. I'll never forget what the german said. *Nein ... Nein ...*.

In absolute rage, I grabbed a nearby rope and strangled the cannibal Seven to death. I strangled to death a man who was once my friend. When the deed was done, the german had already passed. I cried, holding his bloodied head in my arms.

I couldn't find a dogtag on the german's body. Seven must've thrown it away somewhere in some inane attempt to cover-up his crime. The rest of my comrades, upon hearing about what happened, began calling the poor soul "Nein".

Reinforcements and supplies arrived a couple days afterwards. After a few weeks in the hospital, we were sent back into the thick of it all. War is like that. It never forgets, but also never cares.

I've told this story to so many naive greens during my time in these jungles. This story kept me up through it all, and not in a good way. I'll never forget what I saw that night. When I saw how Sven ate Nein.

(TL;DR: Because Seven Eight Nine)