July 9, 1968.

Woke up from a horrible dream. Realized that I was still in the jungle-- the real nightmare. I know this insanity has to end soon... but when? All around me, there's death. Horrible wails. People being blown to bits. Gunfire. Legs shot off.

Akers died yesterday. Shot up by the enemy. But instead of bullets being fired, I heard drums. Fast, tense, shuffling, skipping drums. Lots of them-- snares, bass, toms, the works. Like firepower.

Until last night's three hours, I hadn't slept a wink in five days. When it happened, my wires were a mess, my brain barely functioning. It took me a minute to understand what had happened. Blood... my god there was so much blood...

Even now, I can still hear those drums... nervous, strung-out... chaos with order. The sound is evolving today. A jazzy stand-up bassline, plucked with perfection. An occasional reverb- drenched clank. Eerie sound effects. And all I can think about is the sight of Akers soaked in his own blood. Yes... this is the real nightmare. Right here. In the jungle.

-Ryan Schreiber