The perimeter circling the airport was tight due to the lack of troops, but the periphery was expanded by sending out patrols daily. There was no 'just sitting' around.

In the 1940's, there were no surveillance satellites, so intelligence about enemy activity was obtained by foot patrols. During daylight hours, patrols were sent out on sweeps to determine if the enemy had moved in close enough to carry out a night attack.

Every day, patrols, patrols, and more patrols. Due to excessive casualties early on, patrols were counseled to use more caution and cut down on bold rashness. Ha, hold down the road kill. On extended patrols, everyone had to carry extra ammo for the weapon squad. Team effort always wins.

Contrary to the training we had received stateside, in jungle terrain, patrols moved single file, usually following a ridge through thick leafy growth. The south pacific islands have been inhabited for centuries by Polynesians and Melanesians, so consequentially there were trails criss-crossing the islands in all directions.

Friend and foe traveled the trails, so a scout had to use caution. The sarge or looie never questioned the speed. The scout could linger for several minutes to check out a strange noise, if he came to an open spot, or if several birds would flush suddenly ahead.

It was the days before 'global positioning'. If everything moved smoothly, the only time the scout would be contacted is if the looie wanted to change directions or gave the welcome order, "The smoking lamp is lit". I vowed to research that expression someday, but never did.

The camouflaged jungle mocks effort to locate the enemy crouching in its density, but in reality, the plant-life and climate are more menacing. It winds up as being a little more than "smelling the roses and enjoying the view." Mentioning smell, the smell of death permeates the air in some areas.

There was no melodramatic 'Indian lore' involved. I had not once, in two years encountered a booby trap. From past passages of patrols, etc. there was footprints, broken twigs and so on. After months of fatigue, malnourishment, malaria, and just plain depression, neither the Marines nor enemy was sharp enough to play such games. It is follow orders, slog along one foot in front of the other, and hope for sunset. This put more responsibility for vigilance upon the scout.

The sudden crackle of gunfire rids everyone of the doldrums. That's when repetition of certain training exercises kicks in and becomes a reality.

A patrol has to move to finish its mission, so whether the situation is suspicious or not, the scout has to move ahead. With the scout on point, the next rifleman would stay well behind, making sure he kept the scout in sight. The rest of the file were instructed to not bunch up and don't straggle.

With short visibility, patrols could bump into each other with such surprise that hit and run guerilla type action was short lived. At contact, the enemy released bursts of automatic fire. Without sustaining the engagement, they literally evaporated.

Whether or not your square inch is in a big war or a small skirmish, either way you can die. In no way did I aspire to become a hero. I wasn't brave enough to portray machismo … I just wanted to pull my own freight.

That's the moment of truth. It can't be called bravery ... it just boils down to the fact that there isn't time for fear ... tiredness disappears with gunfire. Call it training, adrenaline, or whatever, survival kicks in … the job gets done.

In combat zones, the troops as well as the enemy learned early on to be quiet. As I moved cautiously along, it was usually only a few birds scolding me for disturbing their domain. Being as attentive as anyone could be in such a hostile situation, abruptly I would be showered with twigs, leaves, bark, and machine gun bullets from an enemy that was resting. Truthfully, I wouldn't call that exciting.

Our training manual stated that when a scout is fired upon, everyone was to move up to his position and form a skirmish line. This never happened. Everyone would 'hit the deck' and wait for the scout's 'all clear' signal. Now that might sound derogatory toward a group of men who never once shirked their duty, but I felt proud that never once do I remember anyone vying to get my job. Time after time, the sergeant would yell, "Move'n out. Shelman, take the point."

It seemed to not matter that the enemy had automatic weapons, compared to our WW I rifles, because they sprayed instead of aiming. Lucky for me? No! That's when I half-way believed that Guardian Angels existed. I might have been lucky once or twice maybe ... but hey, not that many times in the two years spent in the South Pacific Theater.

At times, it was physically taxing for a scout. For instance, when the lieutenant would say, "take five", the patrol would hunch their combat packs up on their shoulders for a pillow and obey that order implicitly.

Then the looie would instruct the scout, "Check this side trail for a mile or so and bring me a report. Collins, tag along and watch his butt"

While everyone rested, no one gave a thought that the scout had 'charley horses' from breaking trail through rough terrain, including thick growing, head-high 'kunai' grass.

When the patrol reenters our own lines and hacks open a can of beans, then each man's conscience reaches its level.

Each man's 'after trauma' caused by this guerilla type action, can cause more stress than one the size of the 'Battle of the Bulge' where each dog soldier doesn't have a clue about the 'overall' big picture until after the war.

Like I've said, hell can break out in your vicinity, but when it's on your square inch … well, you kind'a take notice.

One thing for sure, it takes us across the comfort zone.