Thin grey smoke wafted around the hooch, swirling and gathering/accumulating into niches just below the rudimentary ceiling, before seeping out into the world.
                They sat in silence, barely moving, except one. Perpetually fiddling, he moved around the small room, unable to settle, fidgeting perpetually.
                "Chill out, McCellum!"
                "Y-yes, Sarge." McCellum flicked some ash, his other hand shifting his belt slightly as he did so, stepping over to lean against a wall, but just for a moment, shifting to a spot beside a window, looking this way and that, out at the dense (surrounding) jungle.
                Tossing his half smoked butt, he made/went to get up.
                "McCellum! Fuckin' sit sit still and smoke yer fag!"
                Shifting his weight back against the window frame, McCullum bent and lit another. Tilting his head back slightly to let out a thin jet of acridity, which was now beginning to overpower the smell cordite that still hung in the air. His feet constantly shifting, he drummed his fingers ceaselessly; the nicotine not even denting his agitation.
                Tossing the (spent) butt, he lit another. Drug on it for a few seconds, and tossed it. "Takin' a leak." He jerked upright and strided out the door.
                "Stay close, this is bat country," The Sergeant called after him, rolling his eyes.
                Heading into the  trees, moving as swiftly as possible in the oppressive water-laden atmosphere, eyes darting around for traps, and snakes resting in the shade.
                Just a few yards from the clearing, warding leaves and branches from his face and body with his hands, he saw a glint of metal just feet in front of him. Parting the ferns as he stepped forward, he revealed the glint to be just the tip. The point of something two feet long, and very, very sharp.
                And inches from his throat.

                Nearby, smoke still wafted from the hooch.