All of them were huge.
Just before the sun glinted over the horizon, the mosquitos mounted a final offensive, attacking me from all quarters. There was no way to swat a thousand ace flyers, so I didn’t swat any. I just allowed the repellent and clothing to do the job.
After a while, I looked through the hordes of mosquitos at the foliage around me, and I discovered the red ants. They, too, appeared to have heard the dinner bell. It amazed me that such little creatures showed no fear of such a large beast as myself. I looked forward to killing some of them.
A couple hours went by, and things had changed. The mosquitos had retired to who-knows-where, somewhere to escape the heat of the day. Eleven enemy dead—red ants—lay at my feet. Eight had died without warning; the other three, well, suffice it to say that their deaths had been drawn out and painful because each one had put a round of teeth in me before his capture. I went down in their books as a WIA; they went down dead.
I looked over at ADJ3 Bucklew, who was visible to my left about ten meters away. He was hard to see through all the vegetation and cammo paint, but I knew exactly where to look. Besides that, I could smell him. I stared at him for a full minute, fully aware that I was gazing at the nephew of the famous Captain Bucklew of World War II.
Eventually, Bucklew’s head slowly turned toward me. He looked for a few seconds, then his white teeth flashed behind a big, silly grin. I smiled back, then stuck out my tongue at him.
The temperature rose toward a hundred degrees. Insidemy long johns, I felt like a baked potato wrapped in tinfoil. Still, I was grateful, for without the long johns, the mosquitos would’ve drained me dry. As it stood, I believed I’d lost only a pint of high octane.
Bucklew abruptly waved at me and signaled that it was time to move. I crawled out of the mud and waited for the lieutenant. Two minutes later, I was back on point and guiding the platoon north. Our planned mission was to follow the creek to the Rach Long Vuong and a checkpoint we’d designated Tijuana, then circle east with the river to checkpoint San Diego. From there, we were to recon six hundred meters southeast before setting up an all-night ambush site on the riverbank at Los Angeles.
Suddenly the rains came. Hard. I didn’t mind, though, because the mosquitos were awash. My body and my clothing needed a good rinse, anyway. I couldn’t stand myself an hour earlier, but I had put it out of my mind then. I wished I had some shampoo and soap.
In the downpour, my vision was limited. I glanced behind me at Meston, who was right on my tail. I turned away and continued guiding the procession.
As point, I was supposed to look for the enemy himself, his footprints, and the little gifts he leaves for nice guys like me, namely, booby traps—all shapes and sizes.
One of the friendliest booby traps was the “toe-popper,” a small pressure-activated mine that usually only blew off the foot of the unfortunate who stepped on it. Punji stakes, barbed sticks planted in a camouflaged hole, also were partial to American feet. The ones with a nastier streak were those dipped in dung, designed to infect through intimate contact.
The booby traps that were totally antagonistic and anti-American were those made to destroy whole bodies:antipersonnel mines similar to our M18A1 claymore mine, specially adapted grenades, and many other types of mechanically and electrically initiated booby traps. These were set off by stepping on them or just barely moving one of them, tripping a wire, or by the concealed enemy himself. Oh, the joys of the point man.
Upon reaching Tijuana, Mr. Meston motioned for me to leave the water’s edge and to take a shortcut over some higher ground toward San Diego. I checked the compass on my watchband, took a reading, then steered the platoon due east through the jungle. There was less muck throughout the shortcut, but I knew the vacation would be
Just before the sun glinted over the horizon, the mosquitos mounted a final offensive, attacking me from all quarters. There was no way to swat a thousand ace flyers, so I didn’t swat any. I just allowed the repellent and clothing to do the job.
After a while, I looked through the hordes of mosquitos at the foliage around me, and I discovered the red ants. They, too, appeared to have heard the dinner bell. It amazed me that such little creatures showed no fear of such a large beast as myself. I looked forward to killing some of them.
A couple hours went by, and things had changed. The mosquitos had retired to who-knows-where, somewhere to escape the heat of the day. Eleven enemy dead—red ants—lay at my feet. Eight had died without warning; the other three, well, suffice it to say that their deaths had been drawn out and painful because each one had put a round of teeth in me before his capture. I went down in their books as a WIA; they went down dead.
I looked over at ADJ3 Bucklew, who was visible to my left about ten meters away. He was hard to see through all the vegetation and cammo paint, but I knew exactly where to look. Besides that, I could smell him. I stared at him for a full minute, fully aware that I was gazing at the nephew of the famous Captain Bucklew of World War II.
Eventually, Bucklew’s head slowly turned toward me. He looked for a few seconds, then his white teeth flashed behind a big, silly grin. I smiled back, then stuck out my tongue at him.
The temperature rose toward a hundred degrees. Insidemy long johns, I felt like a baked potato wrapped in tinfoil. Still, I was grateful, for without the long johns, the mosquitos would’ve drained me dry. As it stood, I believed I’d lost only a pint of high octane.
Bucklew abruptly waved at me and signaled that it was time to move. I crawled out of the mud and waited for the lieutenant. Two minutes later, I was back on point and guiding the platoon north. Our planned mission was to follow the creek to the Rach Long Vuong and a checkpoint we’d designated Tijuana, then circle east with the river to checkpoint San Diego. From there, we were to recon six hundred meters southeast before setting up an all-night ambush site on the riverbank at Los Angeles.
Suddenly the rains came. Hard. I didn’t mind, though, because the mosquitos were awash. My body and my clothing needed a good rinse, anyway. I couldn’t stand myself an hour earlier, but I had put it out of my mind then. I wished I had some shampoo and soap.
In the downpour, my vision was limited. I glanced behind me at Meston, who was right on my tail. I turned away and continued guiding the procession.
As point, I was supposed to look for the enemy himself, his footprints, and the little gifts he leaves for nice guys like me, namely, booby traps—all shapes and sizes.
One of the friendliest booby traps was the “toe-popper,” a small pressure-activated mine that usually only blew off the foot of the unfortunate who stepped on it. Punji stakes, barbed sticks planted in a camouflaged hole, also were partial to American feet. The ones with a nastier streak were those dipped in dung, designed to infect through intimate contact.
The booby traps that were totally antagonistic and anti-American were those made to destroy whole bodies:antipersonnel mines similar to our M18A1 claymore mine, specially adapted grenades, and many other types of mechanically and electrically initiated booby traps. These were set off by stepping on them or just barely moving one of them, tripping a wire, or by the concealed enemy himself. Oh, the joys of the point man.
Upon reaching Tijuana, Mr. Meston motioned for me to leave the water’s edge and to take a shortcut over some higher ground toward San Diego. I checked the compass on my watchband, took a reading, then steered the platoon due east through the jungle. There was less muck throughout the shortcut, but I knew the vacation would be
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