The Memoirs of Sam Renier

Chapter 26: Bloodthirsty Bay

August 17th, ’68.
It was hot -- goddamned hot! The friggin’ mosquitos were a big as a man’s hand, and thirsty
like a Democrat is for my paycheck! Goddamned deskbound generals said the
quinine tabs were six month backordered. Colin McSanchez
died of malaria last night. He got feverish, went nuts, and tried to kill us
all! I had to empty an entire magazine of .223’s into him just to put him
down. Colin was like a son to me -- too bad I don’t like kids!

CenComm ordered us to recon with some
goddamned pinko commie reporter from the Washington
Post. Just what BravoDelta needed -- some whiny,
reefer-smoking punk with a camera who’s just gonna
call us "baby killers". Hell, when the VC jackasses send toddlers out
with bombs ta kill us, what the hell do they think’s gonna happen? The
Jane Fonda-lovin’ creep’s wearing a
Hawaiian shirt. Here’s hopin’ he catches
a bullet!

Wan Sun village was
some sort of dope packaging town -- sending crap to America for the hippie junkies to
snort or smoke before they burn Old Glory and their draft cards. Well, BravoDelta Group can make these VC smugglers start smokin’ reefer. . . in HELL!
We rolled in, and the first thing that happened is some strung-out VC whore
comes up and says, "me give you good time - ten
American Dollars, all I want". Yeah, right. She only had track marks going
up both arms and both legs, and looked like she weighed about 70 pounds.

"Go to hell,"
Pedro Kirkwood said. I would have said it first, but ol’
Pedro beat me to the punch.

She pulled out a shiv and tried to stab Corporal Kirkwood right in the
throat. He pulled his pistol out and shot her square in the face. Too bad ‘bout ruinin’ her
good looks. Right.

"This is an
outrage!" I heard the reporter/spy yell, and I heard the snapping his
camera’s autowinder. Fortunately, the
camera’s not the only piece of hardware around here with an
"auto" function.

I toggled the machine
gun over to full auto and let this pinko eat 25
rounds, right in the belly. Aid and comfort to the enemy. That’s a
treasonable offense, and I ain’t gonna waste time with some trial. No sir! Friendly
fire’s a cryin’ shame.

The heroin factory had
some of the most walking-skeleton-looking VC I’ve ever seen. Business tip
for ya, Charlie: Don’t sample the merchandise
if you’re sellin’ poison! They were so
strung out that I figure’s they were lookin fer Nirvana. BravoDelta Group
just showed them the Great Shining Path of the American Machine Gun, and sent
them into the next life, post haste! Say what you want about BravoDelta: We’re big on religious freedom.

We torched the heroin
factory. Just to be on the safe side, we burned the whole damn place to the
ground. Screw’em all!

Semper Fi,
baby!