Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep37: Episode 37: US Marine Horror Stories

Episode Date: July 8, 2021

Tonight's show is proudly sponsored by Manscaped: get 20% Off and Free Shipping with the code CREEP at https://www.manscaped.com/ Today’s four phenomenal military stories are ‘Ghosts of Ft. Riley’, ‘Army Scout Hunted by Bigfoot, and Vice Versa’, Artillery vs. Mythology’, and ‘Unknown Contact Over the Tonkin Gulf’, all original works by Taxi Dancer, kindly shared with me via my sub-reddit for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all.  https://www.reddit.com/user/Taxi_Dancer/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. It is said that a true soldier fights, not because he hates what's in front of him, but because he loves what's behind him. We might just see the truth in that in tonight's four stories, all by the wonderful author Taxi Dancer. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution.

Tonight's stories may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. The ghosts of Fort Riley. I completely forgotten about these events until 20 years later I hooked up with my buddy Rob when we found ourselves in the same unit deploying to Afghanistan. Fort Riley in Kansas is home of the famous US Army First Infantry Division. It's one of the Army's oldest and most haunted posts.

I was a member of the Big Red One, the nickname for the First Infantry Division. I served as a member of the division's Air Defence Battalion. We had a live fire exercise coming up. So the day before, we had a two and a half ton truck called a deuce and a half, loaded with thousands of 20mm ammunition rounds for our M163 Vulcan tracks, which we would fire a remote-controlled drones the next day. The truck with the ammunition was parted in what was called an ammunition staging area, or ASA, located somewhere deep in the forest.

The ammunition needed to be guarded at all times prior to the unit picking it up and transporting it to the firing point and me and my battle buddies Jerry and Rob were detailed to be the nightguards. We were all just privates at the time and we dutifully piled in the back of an HMM and WV along with our sleeping gear, flashlights, books and anything else we thought we needed to pass the time, along with jugs of water, a case of MREs and a cooler of iced drinks. who also armed with two hardwood batons about three feet long, just in case. The driver of the HMWV was the sergeant of the guard, named Sergeant Herring. He was a short man who was overweight, had a shape,

and had the reputation of being lazy and not a particularly effective squad leader. Sergeant Herring drove us down the hardball road out behind the battalion motor pool, which turned off onto the tank trails, which led to firing ranges and maneuver training, areas where battalions of First Infantry Division tanks and armoured fighting vehicles regularly conducted war game exercises. We bounced around in the back for a few miles over meandering fields and low wooded hills, before Sergeant Herring turned off the main tank trail to follow a smaller dirt trail which led deeper into the forest. It was four in the afternoon and the three of us stuck in the back of the bouncing cargo compartment of the HMWV said nothing, while we tried

to get comfortable and catch it now. Sergeant Herring turned around, backtracked, took different trails and then back again, obviously lost. Finally, however, he found the trail that he needed to take which led us down into a shallow valley. He was flooring the HMWV down the winding trail which was only wide enough to allow one vehicle

which jostled us around even more in the back. Recklessly, Sergeant Herring followed the dirt trail up a slight incline which led to another hardball road. The incline led to a low plateau with a square compound built on it. The compound was simply a concrete parking lot, about a quarter mile square, surrounded by two chain-linked fences topped with razor wire. Parked in the centre of the parking lot underneath the lights was a deuce and a half-truck with the ammunition.

Two one-story shacks were built outside the fence next to the gate, which led into the fenced-in parking lot, and Sergeant Herring parked the HMWV next to the smaller of the two shacks. Get your gear and get the hell out, yelled Sergeant Herring from the driver's compartment. This is going to be home until we're relieved tomorrow. Me, Rob and Jerry jumped out of the back of the HMWV and gathered our gear. The door to the small shack opened, another squad leader,

a lean, good-natured staff sergeant, with a handlebar staff, named Staff Sergeant Sleet, came out saying, You're late, Sergeant Herring. It's almost 18,100 hours. My guys are going to miss dinner, Chow at the mess hall. Did you get lost again? No, I did not get lost, said Sergeant Herring, offended. But we just smiled and nodded at Staff Sergeant Sleet,

behind Herring's back. Three other soldiers emerged from the larger shack, which turned out to be the Guard Shack. They were friends of ours from Starrant. Staff Sergeant Sleet's squad who'd had the day shift guard duty. We exchanged greetings as they piled into the HMMWV to go back to the main post at Fort Riley. Their duty day completed. Staff Sergeant Sleet climbed into the driver's seat and said,

Hey, Sergeant Herring, first platoon would be coming to relieve you at 0800 tomorrow. They'll be bringing out hot chow for breakfast. Staff Sergeant Sleet then yelled back at his team. Hey guys, we weren't going to make the chow time tonight, so pizza's are me. Sergeant Herringard lost again. The soldiers in the back of the HMMWV laughed as staff Sergeant Sleep pulled away from the compound. As they turned onto the dirt trail, my buddy Paul, who was sitting in the back of the HMMWV, suddenly yelled me, Rob and Jerry.

Hey, watch out for ghosts. They say this SAA is haughty. there watching the vehicle disappear, and I turned to Sergeant Herring and said, What did he mean by this ASA is haunted? Ah, nothing, it's nothing, replied Sergeant Herring, sounding angry and flustered. Sergeant Herring pointed at the largest shack and said, Throw your gear in there. That's where you three will be spent in the night. You'll each be doing roving patrols around the perimeter of the fence in one-hour shifts. You, Sergeant Herring pointed at me.

I saw how you laughed when Sleet said I got lost. You pull first guard rotation. Get out of it. Do we have radios? I asked. You know, in case of ghosts. Knock it off, said Herring. We don't need comments because there's no such thing as ghosts.

In other words, Sergeant Herring had forgotten to bring the radios, meaning we had no communication between the ASA and our headquarters, if something unexpected should occur way out the head. in the middle of nowhere. Herring gathered his gear, including a small portable television, a cooler, and a mini-grill and stomped off towards a smaller guard shack

that was meant for the sergeant of the guard and had electricity in air-conditioning. Jerry and Robb took out gear and walked towards the guard-shack while I secured one of the wooden batons and began my patrol around the perimeter fence. Each side of the fence was a quarter-mile long and a small path circled the outside

of the fence locked. The guard shacks were located on the eastern side of the fence. The north and south sides were clear of foliage and the plateau dipped steadily about 10 to 20 feet down towards the forest. On the west side, however, the forest grew right up to the fence line. I began walking around the perimeter, enjoying the sounds of nature, the cool breeze and the crimson skies as the sun slowly set in the west. When I turned the corner to walk the west and side of the fence, however, the tree seemed to swallow all light, and it felt colder, although there was no breeze. Also, there didn't seem to be any animal noises, such as birds chirping. I completed that quarter-mile stretch, and when I emerged on the north side of the fence, the bird's chirping

noise returned. I completed the circuit about four times before my hour was up, and I returned to the guard shack where Jerry was getting ready for his shift. I didn't see. I didn't see a circuit about say anything about how weird I'd felt walking the quarter-mile section of the western perimeter and just rolled out my sleeping bag on the bare concrete floor. Heated up an MRI meal of tuna with noodles and washed it down with an iced soda from the cooler while talking with Rob about when he was going to get up with that exotic dancer from Tiger Island in Junction City. An hour later, Jerry had completed his shift and Rob left to take his turn. It was getting darker and there was no electricity in our guard check, so Jerry and I just sat around eating

snacks or Jerry bugged me about when I was going to get up with that exotic dancer at Tiger Ireland in Junction City. At 9pm, Robert completed his shift and I got up to begin my second guard rotation. Rob handed me the baton and a flashlight. Here, he said, you'll need this. Hey, thanks, I said. Then I noticed that Rob seemed a bit nervous. You all right, man? I asked. Yeah, answered Rob. It's just that the flashlight seems to go dim on the western perimeter,

where the woods go all the way up to the fence. Probably just because of the trees. Yeah, probably, I said. Maybe it's ghosts. I stepped outside of the shack and breathed in the warm night air, grateful for the breeze. The moon was out and full, which bathed everything in a soft light. The lights inside the ASA were lit and shone brightly down on the ammunition truck.

Lights were also on in Sergeant Herring Shack, although he'd pulled down the blinds. God, even at this distance I could hear the sounds of a porn movie being played on his television. I shuddered and hoped he'd also locked the door. The perimental lights were on and shining brightly on the north, south and east sides of the fence. but for some reason the lights on the west side had failed to come on when i turned the corner of the western perimeter everything seemed to go pitch black i could clearly see all sides of it but the western side of the perimeter was totally dark even with the moon fully shining i turned on the flashlight that roy had given me sure enough it was weak as if low on battery the fence was on my right and the forest was to my left as i walked to my left as i walked to my left as i walked that portion of the perimeter. The flashlight barely illuminated the path and trees five feet in front of me,

and the whole time I felt as if I were being watched by something. I cursed at Paul for putting the thought in my head that this place was haunted and secretly hoped that he caught an STT from that exotic dancer from Tiger Island. The quarter-mile walk from the dark western perimeter seemed to take hours, but eventually I made it to the corner where the forest was no longer at the fence line and the perimeter lights worked. The sun shone brightly in the sky and for some reason my flashlight shone a powerful beam of light again.

Curious, I turned around and walked back the way I'd come. My flashlight dimmed like before. Stupid flashlight. I completed my four circuits around the perimeter fence, northeast, south and then west, but always dreading that west side. Now, as I said earlier, it felt as if someone or something was watching me from somewhere inside the inky black void at the forest. At 10 p.m., my shift was up, and Jerry met me at the shack, ready to take his turn as the roving guard. The sound of that porn movie was still coming from Sergeant Herring's shack, and Jerry rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"'Ham, three hours straight,' he said, and we both laughed. I handed Jerry the baton and told him about the flashlight issue but didn't mention how creeped out I'd felt walking the western perimeter. Jerry thanked me, warned me that the MRE chili mac that Robbaked for dinner was causing him to pass gas in his sleep and then put on headphones before beginning his guard ship. I walked into the now-pitched black guard shack and felt my way to my sleeping bag.

Although I thought I was too wired up to sleep, I quickly did so. I woke up at 11pm when Jerry's shift was over. Listening to Rob tell Jerry that the MRE tuna with noodles that I'd had for dinner was making me pass gas in my sleep. It was dark inside the shack, save for the moonlight streaming in from the windows and opened door. Jerry responded, but sounded rather worried, scared even. Jerry mentioned hearing something on the western side of the fence, but he couldn't make it out. He said it sounded like horses and the thunder of hooves, but it sounded faint.

Feeling somewhat vindicated, I said to Rob as he left for his patrol, Oh, don't let the ghost get you. Midnight came quickly, and I was pulling on my boots to begin my shift. Of course I would get the midnight shift. I met Rob at the front of the shack, and perhaps it was a trick of the light for the moon, but at that moment Rob was the whitest black guy I had ever seen. He didn't look at me, but he kept staring out at the western perimeter. Man, there is definitely something out there, Rob said.

Every time I wore that part of the fence, the flashlight got dim and I kept hearing something. Something, I said. I haven't heard anything. You will, said Rob. Sounds like, I don't know, like horses and yelling, but really faint, just like. Jerry said. Go get some sleep, man, I said as I nervously took the baton and the flashlight from Rob. I'll take care of Casper for you. I have to warn you, though, that he might want to keep the window open, that MRE spaghetti and meatballs that Jerry had for dinner is making him pass gas in his sleep.

So now it was my turn, it was midnight. Admittedly, with some trepidation, I walked the south perimeter fence and turned to walk the west and side. Once again as soon as I turned the corner, my flashlight dimmed as I walked that dark quarter-mile corridor. I felt as if I was not even there, as if I was somewhere outside myself and I was watching me walking under water. Yes, it felt as if I were underwater, as it had grown cold in the air thick and hard to breathe. A mist had also risen up, further obscuring what little I could see ahead of me. The lights indicating the north perimeter seem miles away. Then, about halfway down, the western perimeter fence,

it heard something off to my left, coming deep from within the forest. It sounded like horses galloping back and forth. It was faint, but it was definitely there. There was also something else. It was a feeling somewhat akin to panic, but it wasn't something I was feeling. It was like I knew there was panic, but it wasn't coming from me. I completed my first circuit around the fence and almost eagerly walked at a quick pace to get to the western side.

Once again, the warm night air was replaced by an almost graveyard-like cold and mist. At about the same spot, I could hear it again. The sounds drifting in from somewhere in the dark forest of horses running. But this time it seemed closer than before. The sounds more distinct. Also, I could hear some of the horses whinnying as if they were in pain. I tried to shake it off, still arguing with myself that this was just my imagination. The thought of horses in pain suddenly made me feel sad.

I'm sorry I got you into this boy. We've been through a lot together. I'm sorry, boy. They ain't taken any prisoners. I ran to the lights, marking the North Perenter. Oh, what was that? What was it I'd just felt? It was sadness, but it wasn't mine. What was going on?

I looked at my watch under the lights. My shift was almost over, but how? I mean, it usually took me four circuits around the perimeter, but I'd barely gone too. I completed my circuit and walked past Sergeant Herring shack. Five hours of Washington, Paul? Really Sergeant Herring? and headed towards our guard shack. Jerry was already waiting for me to get back so he could start his shift.

Anything new and exciting? Jerry asked. You all see, I answered. What does that mean? Jerry asked, taking the baton and the flashlight from me. Did you hear something out on the western side where the forest comes up to the fence? I don't know, I answered. Maybe, but just be careful. I was sitting up.

on my sleeping bag, leaning my back against the concrete wall and trying to figure out what I just experienced. Sadness, regrets, but they weren't my feelings or my memories. I heard horses whinnying in pain, but I also swear that I heard human voices as well. About 20 minutes later, I heard a pounding on Sergeant Herring's shack. Rob and I got up and opened the door to see Jerry pounding on the door to Sergeant Herring Shack and yelling, What's out there, Sergeant? You know what's out there. What is it?

Sergeant Herring never opened the door. Instead, he yelled from inside his shack. You just shut your mouth, private, and do what you're told to do. Stop asking me stupid questions and get back out there, or I will write you up. Rob and I joined Jerry outside of Sergeant Herring Shack, and I said,

Sergeant, it's me, Private Fox. What's out of? that. What are we dealing with? Sergeant Herring cursed from behind the door. Oh, it's private fox. Private question McQuestion, Barry. I said to stop asking questions. I swear if you don't shut your mouth and carry out your orders, I will write up all of you for insubordination. Now go away, leave me alone. Sergeant Herring sounded terrified. Out of all the ASAs on this base, They had to put me in charge of this one. Sergeant Herring complained.

You'll all be fine. When it gets lighter, I'll show you. Show us what, Sergeant? I asked. I said, you'll be fine, screamed Sergeant Herring, as he finally shut off his porn movies and everything went dark inside his shack. Now, go away.

Leave me alone. Rob and I offered to go with Jerry to finish his shift, but Jerry declined. That's fine, Jerry said. I got this. At this point I could tell that Jerry was more disgusted with Sergeant Herring than he was afraid of whatever was on the western perimeter. At 2 a.m., Jerry's shift was over, and Rob got up to take his place. Jerry didn't say anything where he got back to our shack.

I simply shook his head as Rob went out the door. I'm not sleepy, I said. You want me to come with you? with you? I'm good, answered Rob as he took the baton and the flashlight from Jerry and disappeared out the door. Jerry rolled into his sleeping bag, lost in thought. Although we were all experiencing the same phenomenon. We were soldiers with a job to do and we would do what was required of us. There'd be plenty of time to sort out what happened later. I couldn't sleep so I went outside to get some fresh air. Loud snoring.

was coming from Sergeant Herring Shack. I looked at the fence line and saw a figure standing under the lights at the south perimeter at the corner. It was wrong. He was standing stark still, staring west into the thick forest. I walked up behind him.

I'm at you six, Rob, I said, so as to not startle him, but he still jumped at the sound of my voice. Why are you doing here? he said. You still got another 30, minutes before you have to be on shift. I can't sleep, I answered. I can't move, said Rob. I can't bring myself to turn this corner and walk down that path. Come on, I said, leading the way. I'll go with you. As soon as we turned that corner, the flashlight

went dim again, and the mist seemed to be chest high now. The temperature seemed to be dropping the further we went down, the fence line, until again, near the middle. middle that part of the fence, my fingers began to feel numb from the cold, as if I'd been submerged in ice. Stop, stop, stop, whispered Rob. He shone the flashlight into the prevailing darkness, but it barely illuminated the trees, which seemed to reach out at us. Do you hear it?

I nodded. This time the sound was unmistakable. Somewhere out in the distance of that solid black forest, A battle was taking place. The thunder of horse's hooves. The yelling of men. The battle cries of Native Americans. The screams of the dying.

It was all there just beyond the reach of the pathetic illumination from our flashlight. I had an overwhelming sadness come over me. Somewhere brave men and horses were fighting and dying. Somewhere out there. Then it was gone. Rob's flashlight shone in full brilliance, illuminating the surrounding woods. The mist was gone as if it had never been there,

and the cold air was replaced by a cool early morning breeze. I also realized that it had become easier to breathe again and that the heaviness seemed to have been lifted. Rob and I looked at each other, the sadness also seeming to have vanished. We simply shrugned. I did my 3 a.m. guard shift around the perimeter, but nothing unusual happened,

nor did anything unusual happen on either of Jerry or Rob's subsequent shifts. As promised, at 0-800 in the morning, first platoon arrived with hot breakfast chow and time to take possession of the deuce and a half-truck, and all of the 20-millimeter ammunition. The sun was rising in the cloudless blue sky, and it promised to be a great day of shooting our Vulcan cannons. Sergeant Herring finally opened the door to his shack. appearing to be nicely rested

and helped himself to the lion's portion of the breakfast chow while complaining to the first platoon leader about how he doesn't get this new generation of lazy young soldiers. In fact, Sergeant Herring helped himself to so much breakfast chow that Jerry Rob and I had to content ourselves with hot coffee and dry cereal. Eager to get out of the ASA, Sergeant Herring yelled at us to get our gear and get in the back of the HMWV.

Jerry Rob and I, I just stared at him. Sergeant, I said. Last night you said you'd show us what was out there when it became light. Show you. Show you what? Stuttered Sergeant Herring. I didn't say I was going to show you anything.

Sergeant, said Jerry. You told us you'd show us what was out there in those woods. Sergeant Herring cursed again. Private, I am ordering. you to. Hey, isn't there a grave around here? interrupted Lieutenant Cook, the first big platoon leader with the Ranger tab. You know, Fort Riley used to be a horse cavalry post. I think it'd be a good learning moment to take these young soldiers to see the history of this place.

Don't you agree, Sergeant Herring? Yes, sir, gulped Sergeant Herring. Do you know where those graves are located, Sergeant Herring? asked Lieutenant Cook. Yes, squeaked Sergeant Herring. Well, take us there, Sergeant, smiled Lieutenant Cook. I'd like to see it.

Visibly pale Sergeant Herring led us, Lieutenant Cook and about 15 other soldiers from First Platoon out to the back of the ASE, where the woods reached the western part of the perimeter. About midway was a small trail which led down off the plateau and into the woods. If so small and narrowed the mountain, but one would easily overlook it, unless they knew exactly where to find it.

In the darkness, Jerry Robbenye was completely missed seeing it. The trail wound between thick trees and clinging vines as it descended deeper into the valley for about 150 metres before emerging into a clearing about 25 foot square. There, in the middle of the leaf-strewn clearing, the true grave markers each topped with the brass image of a horse. The names on the plaques had faded, so I couldn't read what was. was inscribed on them. The morning sun shone down through the trees upon this quiet and solemn

place. Sir, said Sergeant Herring, buried here at two horses from General Custer's cavalry troop. They were killed at the Battle of Little Big Horn and brought back to Fort Riley to be late to rest. And there you have it. Sergeant Herring had given us the answer to our mystery. none of us ever talked about what happened during our guard duty that night as a soldier you learn to accept things as they are whether they be normal or paranormal so long as nothing gets in the way of accomplishing the mission it's just something that happens which soldiers have to adjust to performing our duty Hey guys, how's your beach body treating you? Manscapes here to ensure your post-quarantine body is ready for the wild. Don't be that guy at the beach with a bear rug on your chest. Look, the least you can do is make sure you're hairless.

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to include Vulcan gunner, stinger gunner, artillery gunner, and combat infantrymen. My favourite MOS server definitely has to be Cavalry Scout. As the name implies, an army cavalry scout is the eyes and ears of the manoeuvring combat battalion. We usually operate alone and far ahead of the main combat force, oftentimes behind enemy lines. Using stealth and silence, we locate enemy positions, determine where they've laid their minds, locate their barriers and ambush positions,

and find ways to outflank their defensive positions. To be a scout, you have to be able to act independently and confidently, because more often than not, army scouts will usually be outnumbered and surrounded. Conducting reconnaissance behind enemy lines is not a job for everybody, but if you're daring and crazy enough, it's a job that a select few would really enjoy. The one skill that an Army Scout needs, above all else, is the ability to read a map. Determine your coordinates on the ground and have the ability to navigate stealthily to your objective. A scout is virtually useless if you cannot read a map and ends up getting lost.

As such, a large part of a scout's treading consists of land navigation in all terrains, weather conditions and environments which include forests, dense woodland, deserts and swamps. While I was training to be a scout, our class was dropped out in the middle of a dense forest somewhere in Pennsylvania at 11 o'clock at night. It was a cool November evening and the only illumination came from the full moon which shone brightly in the sky. There were 16 of us who'd advanced to this phase of training, including one guy who was a former US Navy seal. We were each given a map, a compass, a red lens flashlight, water, night vision goggles, NVGs, and four hours to find at least four out of five points located on the map. Each point we had to find was located somewhere inside the black forest that surrounded us.

Our point consisted of nothing more than a wooden pole sticking out of the ground with an ammunition can at the base. Inside the ammunition can was a description of an enemy position. For example, the description might read, enemy machine gun position facing north. The scout would then have to write down something like, At vicinity grid, AA, 12345, 67890, there is an enemy machine gun position facing north. Besides the darkness, there were several other factors working against us. For one, some of the points were located relatively close together,

separated by about 20 metres or so. And this meant that the scout had to track precisely to the correct point or else risk navigating to the wrong point. Also, all 16 of us were given different points to navigate to, so there would be absolutely no helping each other. This was strictly an individual training event, and it was timed. Anyone who failed to successfully find their four out of five points in the designated time would have to come back tomorrow evening and try again.

And finally, we were told that there were several enemy soldiers out there somewhere in the forest who would be hunting us. If one of them caught us, we would be brought back to the start point and have to do it all over again. The land navigation was a densely forested area, roughly ten square miles and was criss-crossed with streams which we would have to navigate in the dark. A dirt road surrounded the entire area, and if a scout came to a dirt road, he knew he'd reached a boundary. Also, if a scout became completely lost in the dark, he was to make his way to a dirt road and wait for a pickup, and the joking and insults which were sure to follow.

The instructor gave me a list of five points, and I went to the front of the HMMWV and used the hood as a makeshift table. Using my red lens flashlight, I plotted all five points on my map. This was perhaps the most important part of the process, because if a scout plotted his points incorrectly on the map, he would never find his points, especially in a pitch black forest.

After double and triple checking that I had exactly corrected my plotted points, I studied the map to see what terrain I could expect. Two of my points were located on small hilltops. Two were located in a valley which would require me to cross two streams, and one was located near the boundary next to the dirt road. that last point was farthest out but also the easiest to find all my five points were located in an area roughly three miles square and my plan was to find that last point first

then work my way back to the start point the only variable that I could not control were the enemy soldiers who'd be hunting us after assuring that my NVGs operated correctly I secured it on my forehead satisfied that I had all my gear secured to make as little noise as possible, I stepped off of the dirt road and plunged down to the black forest. Immediately unseen branches, like skeletal fingers,

reached out from the darkness to scratch my face and hands. I was only 20 metres inside the woodline, but already the sounds and activities behind me had all but disappeared. I slowly knelt, closing my eyes and letting my eyes. ears see into the darkness. To my left, about ten metres away, one of my fellow scouts was also moving through the forest to find his points. Further ahead of me, I could hear movements somewhere in the forest, a skittering noise running through the undergrowth, perhaps a raccoon or some other rodents. The fallen leaves on the ground crunching underfoot would give away

our movement. We'd have to be extra careful and stealthy to avoid attracting attention. I got up and continued walking towards my first point, counting my steps so that I could judge how far I'd travelled and keeping my eyes on my compass to ensure that I was heading in the correct direction. I was suffering from tunnel vision, as I could only see what was directly in front of me. I had almost no peripheral vision because of my own VGs. The terrain was steadily sloping downwards as I descended into the valley. Occasionally I would stop and kneel to scan my surroundings to see if I was being followed. so far however it was all quiet it appeared that i was alone on this stretch of forest at the bottom of the valley the ground became muddy and at one point i sank to the top of my boots in cold mud a stream about eight feet wide crossed in front of me

i debated on whether to cross the stream or find a way around it farther upstream by a few hundred meters i heard a loud splash followed by a soldier yelling oh son of the Well, I chuckled to myself and silently climbed down into the stream. Looking left and right to ensure I wasn't spotted, I climbed over a few fallen tree branches and waded into the water. It was ice cold and came up to my knees, but at least the running water was washing the mud off my boots. Upon reaching the other side, I climbed up the muddy shore on the opposite back. Stopping briefly to make sure that I was undetected,

I haul myself up on an embankment and wet, cold and muddy continued up the slope with the valley. Fortunately, since it was November, mosquitoes or any other buzzing insects were a minor annoyance. However, as I walked up that slope, I slowly began to realize that I hadn't heard any buzzing insect noises at all. If you've done this job long enough, you begin to develop what I call a warning radar, a sense that there's something just not right with your surroundings. You learned to trust your warning radar, and I could swear that I was being watched. This annoyed me more than anything,

because I was the one who did the stalking. I did not like being stalked. At the top of the slope, I got on the ground and scanned the area again. Yep, where he was. About 50 metres to my right front, crouching behind a stand of trees was an enemy soldier. He was looking away from me, probably trying to stalk at the other soldier

who'd yelled when he fell into the stream. Night sound carries further, so I very slowly crawled back down the slope and walked another 50 metres away from the enemy soldier and climb the slope again. Scaling the area around me, I found that the path ahead was clear. I pulled out a poncho from a small pack on my back,

can cover myself with it. Pulling out my map, my flashlight, I determined how far of course I'd gone and adjusted my heading and pace-kill. Satisfied that I was still heading in the right direction, I put the poncho away, and slowly stood up to proceed ahead. Suddenly, far off to my left,

I heard the enemy soldier yell. You've been catched, Scout. Return to the star point and restart your mission. I chuckled again when I heard the voice of the Scout who'd fallen into the stream yell. Oh, son of up! I continued walking through the forest and the trees eventually thinned out.

I stopped again and took a knee behind a fallen tree, listening. My internal warning radar was giving me the all clear. I closed my eyes and let my ears see for me again. Ahead of me, I could hear the low rumbling of an HMMWV.

Just as I calculated, the dirt road, marking the perimeter was about 200 metres ahead of me. I waited until the sound of the HMMWV had passed by. Then I made my way to the road, stopping just inside the woodline. I looked right, sure enough, only 20 feet away just off the road was my first point. Cautiously approached the wooden pole and grabbed the ammunition can and took it back into the tree line.

I crept open the ammunition can, and the noise of the metal can open. seemed to scream in the dark. I cursed, but apparently nobody heard the noise. Covering myself again with the poncho, I took out my flashlight and copied down what was written on the enemy description in the can. The vicinity grid P.B. 335444459 is an enemy patrol near the road.

I put the ammunition can back at the point and walked back into the forest. An hour and a half had passed and I had found. on my first point. I had another two and a half hours to find at least three more points, but those would go quicker. My next two points were south of me, almost in a straight line on the slopes of a hill.

Although it would have been easier to walk along the crest of the hill to get to my next point, I didn't want to risk being silhouetted by the moon, so I stayed below the crest of the hill where the trees were thicker, but the movement was slower. I paralleled to the top of the hill for about 300 minutes, until I came to the spot where my second point should be. Below crawling to the top of the hill, I scanned around with the NVGs.

I was off by about 50 feet. But there was my second point sticking straight up in the middle of a clearing. I was about to get up and approach the point when my warning radar went off inside my head. I was not alone. I knelt back down and scanned the forest area surrounding the clearing again. A faint scent of feces, like cow dung, wafted across the clearing. There, 75 metres at my one o'clock, a figure looking like he was wearing a sniper's gilly suit,

was peering out of the forest. It wasn't one of my fellow scouts, because we didn't have the gilly suit camouflage, so it must have been one of the enemy soldiers. Boy, did he stink. I hated to think what he'd fallen into. Unfortunately, he wasn't looking in my direction. I observed him for a few ten seconds. Then he stood up and turned to leave.

Whoa, that guy was huge. I waited a few more seconds until I couldn't smell him anymore. Then I entered the clearing to retrieve the ammunition can. A vicinity grid PB 3-0-9-6-887 is an enemy anti-tank. tank emplacement at the top of the hill i came off the top of the hill grateful to be back inside the thick tree line but the leaves crunching under my boots sounded like the roar of jets in that dark and lonely forest every crunching seemed to shout hey there's a scout right here crunch crunch crunch crunch i stopped suddenly and slowly got down on my belly the footsteps were behind me

approaching my position stinky enemy soldier in the gilly suit was stalking he must have been beyond 75 metres for me because I didn't smell him if I'd had the time I would have evaded around him but another 30 minutes had passed

and I needed to get to my third point I needed to get to where the trees weren't so thick so I made my way back up the slope I was able to fast walk and jog across the crest of the hill for about a quarter mile The bad part was that, because I'd chosen to go back up the slope, the full moon had illuminated me that whole time.

Also, my pace count was off, although I knew that I was still headed generally in the right direction to my third point. I ran down the slope and back into the woodline again, stopping to see if stinky enemy soldier in the gilly suit would follow me. Satisfied that I lost him, I began searching the area for my third point. because i had made a detour up the slope and had lost my pace count i was not as accurate in positioning myself close to the third point i just knew it was around here somewhere here in a fifty-meter radius the bad thing about nvg's is that one that gives the wearer an amazing ability to see in the dark it also severely limits the wearer's depth perception i found the point literally by accident when i inadvertently kicked over the ammunition cap The loud clang echoed in the night. I shook my head, cursing my bad, good luck. Pulling out my flashlight again,

I copied down the enemy description that was inside of the ammunition can. The vicinity grid PB 2.8-8-3-4-7-5 is an enemy command post. I returned the ammunition cam back to the point. I was turning to go to my fourth point when I could make out the faint smell of cow dung again. Oh man Any me stinky soldier in the gilly suit

Sure was fast for a big guy As well as being persistent It was almost two in the morning now Which meant that I had a little over an hour To find my fourth point If I had any time left I'd look for the fifth point Which was only a quarter mile from the start point

I turned due south And headed back down into the valley The whole time my warning radar Was going off in my head Sometimes I thought I could smell the cow dung, and I secretly wished that stinky guy stalking me would fall into the stream. The trees were much thicker towards the base of the valley where the stream ran, so it was much darker with very little moonlight shining through, but it was still pleasantly cool, although I was hot and sweaty by this time.

I calculated that I was at the bend in the stream, about five hundred metres away from where I had first crossed it. This fourth point was weird because it looked to be directly in the stream on my map, meaning it could be either on the bank or in the stream. I wasn't looking forward to searching both sides of the stream, but I didn't have much choice. I knew that my fourth point was here somewhere close by. I silently searched my side of the muddy stream, first for about 50 metres. The rippling of the water's mast any noise I made, but it also masked. the noise of any approaching bad guys as well.

Finding nothing on my side of the stream and once again climbed down an embankment and waded across the icy cold water to the other side and began my search again. I searched for another fifty metres and still saw nothing except mud and fallen trees. I was beginning to doubt that I plotted this point correctly when I looked at the stream again

and noticed something that I hadn't seen before. In the middle of the stream was a narrow dry spot of land like a miniature four-foot square island. In the middle of this little island was my fourth point. I waited back into the water and after I covered myself with my poncho, I quickly opened the ammunition can. A vicinity grid PA-095-8-2824 is an enemy submarine base. Really, I thought. a submarine base whatever

I closed the ammunition can and set it back down and the smell of cow dung seemed to hit me like the heat you feel when you open a hot stove I cursed even though I'd found the necessary points that I needed

I still had to get back to the start point without being caught or else I'd have to do this all over again how did stinky guy keep finding me Very slowly, I knelt down on the island and crawled backwards into the freezing water. That smell was all around me, and there was a noise like branches breaking on the bank, followed by splashing sounds only 50 metres to my left.

The moon shone down at the place where there was a bend in the stream and outlined it was a big, big, stinky enemy soldier guy. Most of my body was submerged in the water, with my eyes. upper body hugging that little strip of island in the middle of the stream. I looked up at the guy who was 50 metres away from me and I got. What I had at first thought was a gully suit

was actually fur. It was a good seven and a half to eight feet tall had a gorilla-like face and was covered with dark thick fur. The creature stood in the middle of the stream, looking around and seeming to sniff at the air. I thought, I'm being stork by a Sasquatchfoot, or whatever the heck they're called. But since I know where you are and you don't know where I am, I guess I'm stalking you there. I began wondering if I'd actually packed more beefsticks in my pack since I saw a commercial once on television where the Sasquatchfoot thing seemed. to like beef sticks.

All of a sudden, in the distance, came the blaring of multiple horns, which seemed to echo all around the valley. I cursed again. It was a warning signal that all scouts had 30 minutes to finish finding their points and returned at the start line.

By this point, I was more annoyed than I was frightened. I was wet, cold, irritated, and muddy. Fortunately, I'd rep my waterproof notebook with all my plot points inside of my watchproof poncho and kept it on the small island and out of the water. Still, I only had 30 minutes to make it back to the start line.

The tall, dark and stinky was standing in the middle of the stream looking around him like a lost grandpa at the mall. Oh, that big hairy mordingleberry was going to cost me getting my recon scout qualification. It seemed like I lay there for hours, but in reality it was probably only a few. few seconds. After the horn started blaring, big stinky seemed to land her huff and ran back up the embankment from which he'd emerged. I waited for the smell to dissipate before hauling myself

out of the stream and double-timed it back to the start point. Although I was the last scout to return to the start point, I was feeling pretty good when our trucks brought us back to the barracks. Two scouts had got lost and had to be picked up by the side of the road, and two other scouts failed to find four of their five points. These guys would have to try again tomorrow night. Well, only one guy, the foreman Navy SEAL, found all five of his points. And, well, although I only found just enough points to pass the course,

I did also stalk a bigfoot. How many other cavalry scouts can say that? Artillery versus mythology. My mother had arranged for one of my cousins to pick me up from the International Airport in Manila during my last visit to the Philippines. Being Filipino myself, it seemed like every time I returned

to visit my parents' native country, I am introduced to hundreds more cousins and relatives which I never knew I had. I'd never met this cousin, whom I'll call Juan, who came to pick me up on a warm, tropical evening. It was near midnight, but Manila was still alive with the lights and sounds and hustle and bustle

of a crowded metro city. My cousin Juan, a slender young man sporting a military-style haircut, picked me up in an older model van and after tossing my baggage in the back we began the long and slow trip out of the city I was on block leave from the army having just returned from a deployment to the Middle East and I came to the Philippines to relax and to get away from all things United States military as we made our way slowly through the congested midnight streets still filled with shoppers vendors tourists and partygoers my cousin asked me what I do in the US Army

good five-hour drive to where I'd be vacationing near the beaches. I told him that I served as a platoon sergeant in an artillery unit. I'm also known as the chief of smoke, or simply smoke. My cousin Huang got very excited to hear this. As it turns out, he was also an artillery crew member in the Philippine Army, and he anxiously invited me to visit his artillery unit before my vacation was over. Naturally, I accepted the invitation, as I was quite anxious to see my fellow Filipino 13 bravos. That's the US Army designation of an artillery soldier, see them in action. Yes, I came to the Philippines to get away from things that go boom really loudly, but I just couldn't pass this up. Towards the end of my vacation, my cousin Juan again picked me up, all dressed

and looking tactical in his Philippine Army battle dress uniform and took me to the base. I was very excited to see how the Filipino artillery units operated compared to the way we operated in the American artillery units. For one, I noticed that the Filipino battle dress uniform was pretty modern, resembling our own American uniforms with a similar digitized camouflage pattern, much like the ones our US Marines were. Their equipment load out was also basically the same as ours, with modular load-bearing vests of ammunition pouches, grenades, first-aid kits, and water. while their individual weapons ranged from 556 caliber M16s and M4 rifles, with the designated sharpshooters,

armed with the 762 caliber M14 rifles. All in all, I judged the individual Filipino artillery soldiers to be just as motivated, competent and professional as the best soldiers that served in my unit. My only disappointment was with the old equipment that the Filipino artillery men were using. Their main artillery gun was an old American M101, 105 millimeter, told Howitzer.

Long retired from service with the United States Army, the M101 first saw service in 1941 and was now considered a museum piece by most of the Allied countries which used them. But the M101 Howitzer still soldiered on with the Philippine military, and in fact the artillery piece which many of these young soldiers operated were the same artillery pieces which their fathers had operated, and their grandfathers operated before the military. them. In addition, their methods of emplacement and laying the gun battery, that's setting up

the firing unit, then positioning the gun tubes to fire on the enemy, hadn't changed much since the 1960s. On average, it took 15 to 20 minutes to get the unit into position and set up with artillery shells and ready to fire at the enemy. By contrast, the modern United States military using sophisticated GPS, satellite and target acquisition systems could set up, acquire the enemy target, fire and destroy the enemy, and leave the firing position in a fraction of that time. I was issued a Philippine military vest with body armour and a Kevlar helmet and accompanied the unit to the field where they set up to fire a battery of four howitzers. Given the fact that they were issued ancient equipment and were using outdated fire procedures,

the unit still performed admirably with what they had and were able to put steel on target as quickly and as accurately as was possible. The unit commander was an air assault qualified officer named Captain Caincles, who was justifiably pleased with his firing battery. From emplacement to rounds impacting on target, the unit averaged only ten minutes. This was a remarkable feat given the equipment they had to work with. Later in the day, we returned from the field to the main base, where the unit cooks served the soldiers a meal of a curry made with goat, a soup made with noodles and a type of Vienna sausage, oh, and a generous portion of rice. After lunch, the soldiers began the task of cleaning and doing maintenance on their howitzes.

I took that time to walk around the huge concrete bay where the unit held their formations and admired the many pictures, banners, and citations that the unit had earned, which decorated the walls. One picture in particular caught my eye, and I had to do a double take to ensure that what I was seeing was real. The picture was taken inside that very bay, with six soldiers standing side by side in front of a wall. The soldier in the middle I recognised as being Captain Cangles, although at the time the picture was taken he was a lieutenant. My cousin Juan was standing to the far right. What was shocking was that mounted on the wall above the six soldiers was a giant wing. The wing was coloured dark grey, almost black and it seemed.

to be covered in coarse fur. The wing was withered, resembling that of a bat, only it extended beyond the six soldiers standing underneath it. Assuming that each of the soldiers took up two feet of standing space, I'd estimate that the bat-looking wing in the picture measured about 14 feet long. Not wanting to take any soldier away from their duties, I waited until later in the evening when the unit's first sergeant, First Sergeant Gompullas,

and several other sergeants invited me and my cousin out for dinner and drinks at the base NCO club. Over a plate of grilled steak kebobbs and a nice bourbon on the rocks, I asked First Sergeant Gompolis about the curious picture that I'd seen in the bay. To my surprise, they talked about how they acquired the wingers nonchalantly as one might describe their morning commute to work. This was the story that was related to me that night. Back when Captain Cangles was a lieutenant, the unit went out for about a week of training in one of the more remote islands in the southern part of the Philippines, where suspected insurgent fighters were said to be operating. It was a heavily forested area with several mountains and hills where almost anything could hide. The unit made a base camp in a clearing about two miles from the nearest village and began conducting artillery training, firing rounds into an uninhabited impact area which had previously been considered.

cut out of the dense jungle. On the fourth day of training, the village leader and several farmers came to the base camp and demanded to see Lieutenant Kangles. The village leader accused Kangles that his men had stolen several chickens and a goat from the village the night before, and demanded repayment. Immediately, Lieutenant Kangles formed his unit, and a thorough inspection was conducted. The unit first sergeant said that no soldier left the Penreum until the previous night, and no evidence was found of the missing chickens or the goats.

Despite this, Lieutenant Kangles gave the villagers as much rights and canned goods as they could carry, as he didn't want any troubles with the local population who could have been sympathetic to the rebel insurgents. However, late the next day, the village leader returned and again accused the soldiers of stealing. This time more goats and chickens were missing with many chicken coop smashed. Lieutenant Cangles again protested the innocence of his soldiers, assuming that the village leader was just using that as an excuse to get more free food from them. However, Lieutenant Cangles agreed to send first Sergeant Gompulles and fire the soldiers, including my cousin Juan, to the village to investigate.

The six soldiers, along with the village leader, were loaded on two military trucks and driven back to the village. Once there, the soldiers could feel attention. in the air, and the village of roughly 200 inhabitants was clearly on edge. The first sergeant radio back to Lieutenant Kengel's at the base camp, that indeed many chicken coops were smashed and that the pen which held goats was also destroyed. Lieutenant Kegles radio back, telling First Sergeant Gompalis that the perpetrators may be rebel insurgents, that they may be trying to make the villagers hateful of the soldiers.

The captain warned the soldiers to be careful and watch for any signs of insurgent movement when all of a sudden a scream echoed throughout the village that alerted the soldiers a young woman crying hysterically ran from a small home and into the arms of the village leader it took a few moments to calm the young woman down as she screamed and pointed back at her house made of bamboo and fatch in the native language she cried over and over again she's gone She's gone. It took her. The young woman turned out to be the village leader's daughter,

and the person missing was her newborn little girl. The Filipino soldiers raced to the rear of the hut to find a huge hole torn into the back of the thatch wall, where the baby was apparently sleeping. On the ground, the soldiers found evidence of claw marks. Whatever had done this had done it only a few minutes before the soldiers had arrived. First Sergeant Gompalis radio back to the king. captain, explaining the situation as well as his intention to look for the baby.

Lieutenant Cangles, cautious that it may be a trap to lure the soldiers into the forest, taught them to stay put until more soldiers could arrive. However, Juan heard the sounds of a baby crying somewhere in the distance, seeming to come from deep in the forest. It was getting darker by that time, with only about an hour of daylight left. First Sergeant Gompalis again radioed the lieutenant, pleading with him to allow them to search for the infant before it became too dark. This time, Lieutenant Cengles agreed,

but ordered them to remain in constant contact with the base. The soldiers plunged into the forest, trying to follow the fading sounds of the infant. Since this was only a training mission, the soldiers were armed only with one magazine for their rifles, containing just five rounds. The faint sound of a crying baby was combined with the sound of giant wings,

flapping, which at time seemed to go silent as if whatever was flying had settled in the trees. To their northeast were steep hills, shrouded in dense vegetation, and to the west was a wide river which flowed from north to south. For a moment the flapping noise and the rustle of tree branches seemed to be coming from the soldiers east, meaning that whatever it was was headed towards the hills. The soldiers had already been running through thick and humid jungle for about a mile, scanning the treetops and listening for noise, but after a while the flapping noises ceased, and the jungle became quiet again.

The soldiers stopped in the thick jungle, forming a perimeter and listened. They were at the base of the hills. Three quarters of a mile to the west was the river. The soldiers were sweating and tired, having had to manoeuvre around the vegetation and fallen trees in their desperation to find the infant. Once again it was Juan, who had to be.

heard the crying. Somewhere on the steep hill above them was the faint sound of a crying baby. As the sun crept lower and lower over the horizon, the soldiers began ascending the hill, grabbing roots, vines, and branches as they pulled themselves ever upwards. Though completely exhausted, the further up they climbed, the louder the cries of the baby were heard. They finally came to a somewhat level ground where the baby could be heard only a few dozen meters away, that they couldn't see her due to the incredibly thick vegetation. Suddenly, they were met with a sound like rushing water, and something monstrous black wings broke through the dense foliage.

Juan got the best glimpse of the thing, describing it as standing roughly five feet tall, with the face that looked to be a combination of an old hag and a bat. The thing looks somewhat human, with female features, but with legs and feet like a bat. and it was covered in dark fur. This was the only good look that the soldiers got of the entity, as the rest of them only saw a dark shadow as it passed overhead.

Climbing over a small rise, the soldiers emerged into a small clearing to a shallow cave. Around the cave were the carcasses of half-feet and raw chickens and goats. Inside the cave in what can only be described as a nest of straw, scrap cloth and dead foliage, lay a little baby girl. Her thin clothing was ripped and she'd suffered several scratches

and appeared too tired to even cry anymore. First Sergeant Gompilus immediately scooped up the baby girl in his arms, comforting her as she coughed and whimpered. All of a sudden, shots were fired as the soldiers began firing down the hillside. First Sergeant Gumpalus rushed over to see what his soldiers were shooting at. The thing was gliding downwards,

away from the hill and towards the river. If it gets across the river, we won't be able to track it again, yelled Juan. The thing set down on top of a thick strand of trees, less than a mile away, apparently injured by the shots fired from the soldiers. First Sergeant Gumpalus handed the baby over to Juan, then grabbed the radio from one of the other soldiers. Fire mission, fire mission, fire mission, fire mission. He yelled back to the artillery base.

one round shell high explosive fuse air burst at this point lieutenant canals could have questioned first sergeant gompalis as to why they were firing outside of the designated impact area he could also have questioned why they were firing an airburst an artillery round time to explode in the air he did neither trusting in the judgment of his combat experience first sergeant and ordered his unit to execute the fire mission shout out the old Lieutenant Kegles into the radio as one M101 how it's of belched smoke and fire. Meanwhile, the thing was half walking, half crawling towards the deeper woods, flapping its wings again as if to try and fly. The soldiers up at the cave held their breath as the creature disappeared into the woods, followed by an explosion in the trees 50 feet above where the thing had vanished under the vegetation. Just as the last fading rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, the dark shape emerged from under the smoke,

the scream eerily human sounding coming from it. The black shape attempted to flap its wings as it tried to cross the river. Instead, all that could be heard was a loud splash. As soon as the soldiers returned to the village, they quickly brought the baby girl back to the base camp, along with the village leader and the greatly relieved mother. The medics examined the baby girl

and cleaned and bandaged her wounds. Despite being a bit dehydrated and scratched and bruised, the baby girl would make a full recovery. Lieutenant Cangles filed a report with the battalion command and assigned a squad of soldiers to watch over the village for a few days, but nothing more unusual occurred. Over the course of the next training period, soldiers returned to the village to help repair the damage to the chicken coops and the pens which held the goats. They also repaired the home of the baby girl, whom the soldiers nicknamed Lucky. star. The display of artillery gunnery by First Sergeant Gumpalus was nothing short of spectacular, as hitting a moving target with just one round was amazing. Three days later, fishermen fishing the river found the wing washed up on the shore and brought it to the

soldiers. The soldiers eventually brought the wing back to base and mounted it on the wall. The thing started to shrivel up and stink as it was exposed to constant daylight. So, a day and a half later, the soldiers took it down and burned it, and that was that. Still, the nonchalant way they described the incident fascinated me, as if this was just one aspect of life being a soldier in that part of the world. For their part, the Filipino soldiers were just as fascinated by my apparently nonchalant description of being surrounded by thousands of terrorist insurgents when I was on an isolated base in Iraq only a few months earlier. We Americans faced ISIS. fighters, and the Filipino soldiers face big, creepy batwoman monsters.

There's no big deal either way when you've got an artillery on your side. Unknown contact over the Tonkin Gulf. My heroes have always been those brave men and women who've actually gone out and been there and done that, and who overcame incredible odds to inspire the world. The young Jewish girl who hid with her family in an attic in Amsterdam and wrote in her diary about the horrors of Nazi socialist depression before she was found and killed. The frightened young American soldier who climbed atop a burning American tank destroyer and single-handedly fought against an assault force of Hitler's best soldiers.

The bold African-American doctor who gave his life in pursuit of his dream of racial equality in America. Those courageous first responders who gave their lives to save innocent lives during the 9-11 attacks. The little Afghan girl who was shot in the head by the Taliban because she wanted to go to school and survived to become a champion of the right of those little girls

to go to school. These people are my heroes. Not the grotesquely overpaid athletes who chase balls around a sports field or the Hollywood action stars who make millions of dollars shooting hundreds of bad guys in their movies then preach to us about gun control.

I know an elderly gentleman who comes into our local watering hole every once in a while and orders exactly three mugs of beer before he leaves. Although he's in his late 70s and hunched over with age, he is still rather tall and imposing. Despite his imposing size, he's quiet and reserved, never raises his voice and is in every respect quite unremarkable. Then, on Saturday evening, his elderly soft-spoken mum. came into the bar wearing a green t-shirt, bearing the screen-printed image of a U.S. Navy F.A. crusade a fighter jet.

The big U.S. Navy air show was going on that weekend at Naval Air Station Oceania, showcasing the U.S. Navy and U.S. Air Force's latest and most modern fighter jets and attack bombers. The Navy was celebrating 100 years of naval aviation, and vendors were selling T-shirts with images of various historical and modern U.S. Navy fighter planes. Ah, the Crusader was the US Navy's first supersonic jet and was designed to be an air superiority fighter used to defend the naval fleet against enemy fighters. The F8 Crusader fighter served as the U.S. Navy's primary air superiority fighter during the Cold War, and squadrons of F8 Crusaders were extensively deployed with the U.S. Navy and U.S. Marines during the Vietnam War,

where their kill record against the most advanced enemy communist fighters could not be matched. Though we have many advanced fighter aircraft, such as the Air Force F-22 Raptor and the Navy F-18 Super Hornet, my all-time favorite jet fighter is the F-8 Crusader, which was designed in the late 1950s. I took a seat next to the elderly gentleman and passed him a mug of beer, telling him that I really liked his shirt with the image of the F-8 Crusader. He smiled as he accepted the beer which I'd bought for him, surprised that someone as young as I would recognize the old fighter jet.

Yep, he said. It's been a while since I strapped into the old crusader. I was a gunslinger, this long term for an F8 Crusader fighter planet. From 1962 to 1972,

did a few tours of Vietnam. I usually don't splurge on myself, so my wife bought this for me at the air show today. Whoa, I thought. Did this gentleman just say he piloted my favorite fighter yet of all time during an active war time situation i smiled feeling truly honored to be in the presence of one of america's war time heroes everyone knows you as bud i said

but what's your real name sir ah serge he said bud was my old call sign when bud told me his real name i paused that name sounded familiar but i really couldn't place it Later that evening I looked up his name on the internet and was pleasantly surprised and shot. The old, unassuming, quiet gentleman that everyone only knew as Bud was not only an F8 crusader fighter pilot who served in Vietnam, he was also a MIG killer. In 1967, while on a mission somewhere over North Vietnam, he was attacked by communist enemy MIG-17 jet fighters. Now, at that time, the MIG-17 fighter was the absolute very best dogfighter that the communists had, and four of them attacked Bud. He held them off flying with extreme skill and managed to blow one of the enemy fighters out of the sky using two sidewinder air-to-air missiles. The rest of the enemy MIG-17s fled the area as quickly as possible, fearful of falling to Bud's sidewinder missiles or his 20-millimeter cannons.

Now, one of my favourite quiet time hobbies is putting together and painting plastic model kits of various different fighter jets and armoured vehicles. It was a relaxing hobby that I picked up when bad memories of Iraq and Afghanistan haunted me at night. I bought a plastic model kit of an F8 Crusader fighter, which I built and then painted. To top it off, I found the distinctive squadron markings in aircraft identifies of Bud's F8 Crusader. and essentially built a small-scale version of the actual fighter that he flew during the Vietnam War. Finally, I mounted the model jet on a wooden plaque, which I painted to look like the deck of the carrier that Bud had flown from. The next time I saw Bud at the bar, I presented him with his gift, and for the first time since

I'd met him, I saw the old war hero smile. Is that my squadron? he said placing the model carefully on the bar and looking over every detail of the fighter look at the tail number sir i said that is your fighter bud pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket and looked at the tail number clapping his hands ho that was my tail number he then looked at the number painted on the simulated deck of the aircraft carrier Ah, number 31. The USS Bonn-Hourg. He sat for several seconds, smiling and nodding,

memories of his service coming back to him. Ah, thank you for this, Sarge, he said. You are more than welcome, my friend, I responded. Thank you for your service. So your hobby is model kits, but said. After my time in war, My stress relief was painting. I had to stop after a few years after my eyesight started to get bad.

You know that guy, Bob Ross, also took up Peyton after his tour in Vietnam? I did not know that, I said. He seemed so calm and general that I could watch him for hours painting those almighty trees on his show The Joy of Painting. But laughed. In the military, Bob Ross was a real hard ass. He was the mean, senior sergeant who yelled a lot and punished guys who showed up late for work.

When he left the military after serving 20 years, Bob Ross promised never to yell again, and took up Peyton. Well, the rest, as they say, is history. That's an incredible story, Bud, I answered. Well, I'd love to see some of your work someday. Sure, Sarge. But answered. But if you have any other models, I'd really like to see them. I've always wanted to go into building models, but my fingers are just too big to do any good detail work. Well, in fact, I'd converted my garage into a man cave with wall-to-wall shelves of displays of military tanks and aircraft of every type and era. In addition, I had 80 different fighter aircraft hanging down and lining the tops of the wall. Other shelves contained historical

books and references of military history and military equipment. In the middle of the floor were two overstuffed couches facing my large flat-screen television and racks of military-themed movies. And, of course, in the corner was a fully-stocked mini-bar that I had inherited from my father. My man cave was a virtual museum of American military history. I handed bud, a chilled pint of beer as I walked him into my man cave. He stopped at every diorama, studying each detail of every single. every model, including models of US M1 tanks, M60 tanks, and even the Vietnam-era M-48 tank, the F-4-Fantom-2 fighters, F-100 Super Sabre fighters, the World War II era, P-40 Warhawk fighters,

and many, many more. Ah, this is almost overwhelming, Bud said, sitting down on one of the couches. You can't take it all in at once. Well, you're welcome any time, Bud, I smiled. "'Hem,' said Bud, looking over at a display shelf on the far corner. On it I had displays of science fiction models like Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, Japanese anime, and models of the science fiction movies which were popular in the 50s and 60s.

Bud stood up and walked to the shelf. "'Oh, I haven't seen that in decades,' he said. Curious, I followed Bud to the shelf. Bud pointed to a diorama on the science fiction shelf. That's a plastic model I built of the supposed UFO that crash landed in Roswell. I said, thinking that Bud Menti saw an old 50s black and white science fiction movie that might have featured a UFO that looked like this. Yep, Bud said.

It's pretty accurate, but the one I saw didn't have the big saucer-shaped transparent top. Still, it's pretty accurate. "'I'm not sure what you mean, but,' I said as I refreshed his pint of beer. "'You actually saw this aircraft?' "'Bart nodded, still staring at the model of the UFO before walking back to the couch. "'Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. "'It was a long time ago, but I still remember. "'That there is actually a model of what we saw.

"'It makes me think that me and Boulder really did see what we saw.' I poured myself a bourbon on the rocks and sat on the opposite couch. Please don't leave me hanging, Bud. Did you also shoot down a UFO in Vietnam? Bud chuckled and sipped his beer. Do you really want to know? Of course, I said. Bud looked straightforward, as if his mind was traveling back in time.

Towards the end of 1967, our tour of duty on the bomb arm, Richard, was coming. to a close. We conducted an airstrike against communist military facilities at Hypoong Harbor near Honoy and one of our A4 Skyhawk strike fighters was shot down by a North Vietnamese surface to air missile. The Air Force Skyhawk pilot was ejected and landed in an open rice paddy. It was a race between our search and rescue guys and the communist militia to see who got to him first. We had two A1 Sandys, slow-moving, propeller-driven fighters and one jolly green-shine helicopter flying towards our down pilot to pick him up.

I was flying top cover with my wingman, Walter, over the rescue teams, protect them from the enemy migs. The pilot on the ground was hunkered down behind a paddy filled with muddy water and reported that the communists had in place several machine-gun positions inside the treeline of a hill several hundred meters away. He was taking fire from that enemy position. The two Sandys and the Jarligree and the Giant was still several minutes away, so I led Balder into a steep dive towards the enemy gun emplacements. The F.A. Crusader wasn't optimized as a bomber. It was a fighter, but we were still armed with two thousand-pound bombs.

We came in low, flying over our downpilot towards the enemy and released our ordnance on the target. We pulled up as four massive explosions burst in the jungle band. Highlands. We looked round and orbited over our downpilot as he reported that the enemy positions had gone silent. But there were still more communists approaching his position. We stayed on site for several more minutes, but having expended our bombs, we only had our guns and they had air missiles which were not very effective in hidden ground targets. Soon, however, the Sandys and the jolly green giant arrived on sight. I was almost bingo fuel, so I was ordered to return to the ship

as two F4 Phantom 2 fighters from the carrier Kitty Hawk took our spot as fighter air cover. Boulder and I were cruising at 20,000 feet, headed southeast, went feet wet over the Gulf of Tonkin towards our ship. When we were suddenly vected to change course due north, towards an unidentified aerial contact, traveling at high speed towards our ship. our fleet, around 40,000 feet. We changed course and headed towards the unidentified contact, thinking that the communists were extremely foolish to attempt to hit our ships with just a single aircraft. We opened throttle and rapidly gained altitude to meet the unidentifiedified craft head on.

Our crusaders entered a cloud bank, and when we popped out of the clouds, there it was. A silvery metallic saucer-shaped object. about a mile to our 12 o'clock high. The object was approaching the fleet at high speed, but when we saw it, it suddenly stopped in midair and just hovered. Volder was flying a half mile off my left wing, and the object was between us as we zip past it. Oh, that object was definitely solid,

and definitely wasn't anything the Americans had in our infantry. It was about a hundred feet in diameter. The top half of the source was convex, and had what looked like small rectangular potholes around the perimeter of the craft. The bottom of the saucer was relatively flat, with a small circular protrusion extending below it. It seemed to glow slightly, but I wasn't sure if it was self-generated or if its metallic surface was reflecting the sun.

Boulder and I have banked sharply and dive back down to get a better look at the thing. To our amazement, the craft simply dropped straight down to 20,000 feet. in a matter of seconds. We dived in a turning loop in an attempt to get behind the thing and broke through the clouds again. We caught up with the craft which were several miles ahead of us

and we were still approaching the fleet again. I tried tracking it with my sidewinder missiles but the craft would make these impossible moves which no human could survive. In one second it would be directly in front of us but once our sidewinder would start tracking the craft would seem

to jump a half mile left or right up, making it impossible to get a shot. By this time, we'd close to where we could get a gunshot with our 20mm cannon. You might be able to throw off a missile, but you couldn't fool bullets. I was closing to one mile of the craft with Balder still to my left, when the craft zoomed 90 degrees to the right, and in a second was at least 10 miles away before shooting straight up into the clouds. Baldwin and I landed on the bonny

little more than fumes in our fuel tanks and we quickly made our report to the CNC about our contact with the unknown craft describing every detail we could about it however our main concern was right down to American pilots still trapped inside North Vietnam about an hour later we learned that our pilot was extracted from that rice paddy

was on his way to Danang with a bullet in the leg He was wounded, but would survive, although the jolly green giant that pulled him out was shot up pretty bad. The two Sandys that were covering them also suffered damage from enemy ground fire. About a month later, Boulder and I were told that the aircraft we encounter was, most lighted the Soviet Union's newest high-speed fighter, the Meg-25 Foxbat, an aircraft which, as it turns out, looks absolutely nothing like the aircraft I saw. Bud, the US Navy Crusader fighter pilot and American War hero peacefully passed away a few months later in his sleep, surrounded by family, friends and loved ones. I was also happy to see that a few former F8 crusader pilots were at his funeral, and the one thing that they could say about Bud, besides him being an awesome fighter pilot, was that he was the consummate practical joker.

he could carry on a joke story for a days well i was tempted to ask them about bud's UFO encounter but decided against it if he was having a laugh pulling my leg then more power to him and so once again reach the end of tonight's podcast my thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen now i'd ask one small favor of you wherever you get your podcast

from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.