I will add this. If you want further details of the incident, they are available in my book, "Crimson Mongoose: The Private War in Nicaragua", published by Fer De Lance Press International.
I'm not here to sell anything, but here's an excerpt, used by permission.
I surveyed the village where my group was spending their earnings from the mission. Drinking and philandering, regrouping. What the hell? They earned it. Three weeks in the jungle. Our guide gone the first day, we got to wear most of his organs when he tripped that Bouncing Betty.
CA357 was swilling p*ss warm beer, and sharpening his Randall. Good kid. No formal military training, he grew up in Asia, wealthy parents, but not wealthy enough to keep the local Yakuza from wearing his gaijin azz out on the regular.
That's when he found a sensei that took pity on him, and schooled him in the Black Arts. He could do things to a man with a potato peeler that bordered on the Satanic.
Cpt. Tango slumped in a bath tub, Felita washing him in coconut milk, and removing sheets of skin from his feet. Jungle rot. Three weeks in jungle boots, so humid, and yet the canvas dry rotted off.
He reeked of the coconuts. From this point out, for all commo on alternate freqs, he would be code name "Coppertone".
I chewed on the sweet cheroot, hadn't realized it went out. Lighting it with my trusty, battle scarred Zippo, I queried, "Tango, you have the gear secured?"
"Don't git yer panties in a wad, Colonel. I lashed it to the raft, it's secured."
I viewed our watercraft, and the raft that was moving away from it, out toward the sea. I arched an eyebrow.
"Did you secure the raft to the craft?"
No such book, and no such publisher. I'm going to politely ask you gentlemen to stop this whole act. You're invading on a perfectly good thread with your nonsense. This is your warning.
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