Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep330: Episode 330: Military Special Ops Horror

Episode Date: April 9, 2026

Today’s phenomenal selection of military special ops horror stories is written by the marvelous Taxi Dancer, kindly shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission.  https://www.reddit.com/user/Taxi_Dancer/

Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Navy SEALs and SAS stories captivate us because they offer a glimpse into the extreme physical and mental toughness required to perform daring, high-stakes missions in hostile environments. These elite warriors embody courage, discipline, and resilience, often facing impossible odds with precision and skill. The intensity of their operations, combined with the secrecy surrounding their missions, taps into our fascination with danger, survival, and the idea of ordinary people, achieving extraordinary feats under immense pressure. Their stories thrill us by showcasing the limits of human insurance and the thrilling unpredictability of covert warfare, as we shall see in tonight's two tales of terror.

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. Bamby and Thumbar versus the Big Bad Wall. Does anyone remember watching one? of the final scenes of the Lord of the Rings trilogy where Frodo and his fellow hobbits, Samways, Matthew and Perry, I'm not sure about those last two, well, they're just sitting at a table

in the middle of the festivities. All of the other hobbits were celebrating the near impossible victory over the forces of evil, while Frodo and his buddies were just sitting there, stunned and shocked that they were still alive. This short scene that only lasts a few seconds is my favorite scene of the whole trilogy, because that one scene shows exactly what happens when soldiers return from a year of war. We would oftentimes meet at a drinking establishment and sit in stunned silence, amazed that we were still alive after all of the horrors we'd experienced. This was the case not too long ago when I was with a few buddies. We were sitting in an unmanned gentleman's club out in the middle of the El Paso Desert. Weird as it may sound,

after coming home from a year of serving in the Middle East, we felt comfortable in that lonely out of the way drinking establishment out in the South Texas Desert. This is not my story, but the story of my buddy, Eduardo. My name is Eduardo Ocostabambino, and I was born in Costa Rica. When I was 10, my family immigrated to the United States, legally of course, and moved to northern New York State where my father worked one full-time job and two part-time jobs to support the family. My mother was going to school to become a nurse, so that's why my father was working so hard.

He didn't want my mother to have to get a part-time job so that she could concentrate on becoming a nurse. Well, I helped out as well, getting my six-year-old sister ready for school in the morning and picking her up in the evenings once I was done with the school day. We were renting a modest three-bedroom, two-story house within walking distance at the hospital where my mother was working as an intern. My father drove to and from his many jobs in an old red and rust-colored Dodge pickup truck. Looking back at the time, we were by no means wealthy, but we were not.

were happy, we never lack for food, family support, and love. One thing about our family was that we all felt immensely privileged and blessed to be Americans and living in the greatest country in the world. My father always said that we would not take one dime of government assistance or support, as receiving supposedly free things from the government actually enslaved you to the government. We'd seen it all too often in South America. What the government gives, the government will take away, leaving you, no choice but to think, act and vote the way that the government wants. We saw that mentality

here in America as well, but like I said, my father was determined that our family would be a success without any government handouts. America was the land of opportunity, but success wasn't an entitlement. Success was there for those willing to put hard work in and apply their god-giving gifts and talents, and that's exactly what my family did for many years. Now, flash-forward eight years and my family was able to move to the suburbs and was even able to purchase a bigger house. My mother was a now a full-fledged nurse at the hospital where she worked caring for newborn babies and infants. My father was able to purchase the grocery store which she'd worked at so many years from the kindly old gentleman who owned it as he was ready to retire.

After only two years we were ready to expand to two stores. My parents' persistence and determination have paid off and although we weren't what most folks would call filthy rich, we weren't exactly hurting for money either. My mother's salary paid for the mortgage on our house, and the profits from our family business paid for all the bills and upkeep of my father's new Dodge Truck and my mother's Honda SUV. Everything else went into savings and the college fund for me and my sister. When I turned 18, it was a very proud day for my family and I.

Dad always said, from now on it will be a tradition in our family that we serve this great country which has blessed us so much. Before our kids leave for college, they must serve a few years in the armed forces of the United States. There you will meet other people of other nationalities and customs. You will serve together and become a team together. You will adapt and overcome many challenges together, and when you leave the military, you'll see how America is such a great melting pot of people, cultures and ideas. When you take that experience to college, you'll be all the more better experienced

and mature than your peers. Well, I was prouder still the day that I graduated from the US Marine Corps boot camp at Paris Island, South Carolina. The training was tough, but the training had to be tough if you wanted to earn the right to be one of the few and the proud. I'm only five foot five, but I was also a fast runner, and I could navigate any obstacle course with ease, so the drill sergeants gave me the nickname Bambi. I'd lost about 15 pounds during my time there, but it was replaced for

with rock-hard muscle and the confidence to know that I was the deadliest weapon on the battlefield. Standing there, sharp and lean in my dress blues with my fellow platoon of Marines, I still remember the look of immense pride in the faces of my father, and my mother and my little sister. Those looks turned to complete horror on that terrible and tragic morning. My father said that he was looking for locations to open a third store in New York City, when he saw the smoke rising from the island as the buildings collapsed. The United States, my country, the one which had taken care of my family and protected us with freedoms that are not enjoyed by so many others had been attacked. We were at war.

I was attending the Mountain Warfare Training Centre in Bridgeport, California when I got word that my unit back at 29 Palms was going to war to hit back at the bastards who killed thousands of innocent people. Well, to tell you the truth, I think at the time we all wanted. We all wanted, to go to war. We were Marines, damn it. If you attack our country, we'll blow yours to hell. On my last phone call home, before leaving for Afghanistan, my mother was sobbing, telling me to be safe and come home when it was over. My sister was also crying, but I told her to be brave and assured her that what I was doing was to keep her safe. But what really broke my heart was my father's voice. He'd always been so confident and strong. He always knew exactly what to say to give me

confidence. However, in a shaky voice, you could only say, I love you, son. Cannot be underestimated the horrors and atrocities that the enemy had afflicted upon the people of Afghanistan. Men, women, children, babies, whole families and even entire villages were wiped out by the Taliban. So I had absolutely no sympathy for them when we called in tactical airstrikes, and our H-1, Viper attack helicopters rained brimstone and health. fire on them. In combat the Taliban were complete cowards, hiding behind the very same women and little girls that they've been brutalising. Now I'm not a politically partisan man, so I don't care what anyone thinks about the merits of going to war to fight global terrorism. But I will say

this. Even if the terrorist attacks of 9-11 had never occurred, we still needed to be in Afghanistan to wipe out this Taliban cancer which was torturing and killing these young girls. I would not let that kind of sick depravity of Sharia law come to America and hurt my mother and little sister. I was part of a reconnaissance squad in my battalion's reconnaissance platoon. A squad usually operated in six-man teams under command of a sergeant, and all four of the teams were there under the command of a lieutenant. We were operating in heavy mountainous terrain, just east of Bagram Air Base in Parwan Province, patrolling the steep rises, the jagged hilltops and valleys,

and the numerous cave systems, relentlessly looking for the elusive enemy. At least two or three Taliban mortar positions have been shelling Bagram air base at night, so we were just being sent out to find them. My six-man recon team consisted of our team leader, staffed Sergeant Perez, a short stocky, by the book marine with a permanent buzz cut who was originally from Mexico City, Mexico, completely fearless and a natural leader. Sergeant Perez was a former drill sergeant, who'd volunteered to deploy to Afghanistan.

Our radio operator was a young Filipino private first-class named Lampas, who was originally from Davao in the Philippines. Because he was the newest member of the team, Lampas had to hump the radio. The team's M-249 squad automatic weapon gunner was Big Lance Corporal DeLine, a young black marine from Brooklyn, Illinois. We had what is called a L-AV-25 attached to our squad,

A Lav or light-armoured vehicle is an eight-wheeled armoured reconnaissance vehicle that mounted a 25-millimeter chain gun and two smaller machine guns mounted on a turret. The Lav's commander was Sergeant Big MacArthur MacArthur, the only Marine in the squad who was shorter than I was. But the white Marine from Claucer, Michigan, was built like a brick wall. He'd been preparing to become a wrestler on our U.S. Olympic team, but put that aside to come to Afghanistan to fight the Taliban team. Terrorists. Corporal Pinkerton was the only other white marine in the squad. He was from the small town of Weig, California, and yes, he was a stoner before he joined the Corps, and found that he had a knack to fix just about anything that had gears and wheels. And I was a squad's grenadier. My M-4 rifle had what was called an M-203 grenade launcher slung under the barrel of the rifle,

which could launch a variety of 40-millimeter grenades at the enemy. Over my vests, which carried my rifle ammunition, I also wore a second vest which had small compartments for my grenades. I had H.E., high-explosive grenade rounds, incendiary rounds, smoke rounds, and even CS-tier gas grenades. I was like the squad's mini-artillery. The M-203 was breech-loaded, meaning that you had to break the M-203 in half, load a single grenade into the rear of the launcher, then close the launcher again. When firing the M-203, it gave off a soft, but satisfying thump noise. As such, the M203 was affectionately known as the thumper, and because I still retain my nickname from basic training, my weapon and I were known collectively

as Bambi and Thumpur. Our recon squad could lay down a tremendous amount of firepower, and we confidently piled into our L.A. V. 25 and left Bagram just before midnight, headed into enemy territory, which we called Indian Country. Guided by the moonlight and his night vision devices, Corporal Pinkerton drove us over the rocky terrain as we rumbled roughly due west towards the jagged stone mountains about four miles distant. We had another recon team which was operating north of us while several other teams were airlifted and dropped on the ridge line, so we weren't alone on this operation. But at this time, the US was still in the process of bringing in more Marines and army grunts

into the theatre, so we were pretty spread thin. our objective was to observe a trail that our drones had discovered which wound up on the narrow trails into the mountains which ended at the mouth of a large cave hidden under a rocky overhang the cave was located about 300 feet above the valley floor and Pinkerton was able to get us up a narrow goat trail for about 200 feet before we had to pull off the trail the goat trail was too narrow for the lav to go any further sergeant McCosting guarded the lav back into the crevents about a hundred feet and facing back down the trail we'd just gone up inside that little rocky crevice our giant lav was swallowed up in darkness even if the talavan had night vision devices they would have been hard pressed to see our armored transport staff sergeant Perez had lampus deline and me quietly dismount from the back ramp of the lav as we would have to climb the rest of the way to our objective he told sergeant mccostin and court

Corporal Pinkerton to stay with the lab and keep the gun turret pointed down the trail. Since the radio on the lav had a greater range than our man portable radio, the lab would also act as a communication relay between our squad and bug ramp. Using our night vision devices, Perez led us slowly and cautiously up the rocky trail, carefully looking for signs of booby traps and cautioning us whenever the trail became so narrow that a wrong step would send us tumbling over the edge. Staff Sergeant Perez moved stealth as if he'd owned the entire mountain, spoke with the confidence that made us all believe that we were the masters of this valley of death. We moved slowly, less than an arm's length from the

Marine in front of us. Private Lampas was behind Perez with the radio, and the lion was behind Lampas with a squad automatic weapon, while me and my trusty thumper brought up the rear. We finally got to a somewhat level plateau on the ridge, and wisely Perez decided to move us off the trail which leads to the mouth of the cave. He had us form a tight perimeter as we scanned our objective. The cave was about 75 feet from us. It was actually at the end of a cul-de-sac where the goat trail ended at a steep drop. The cave was surrounded on two sides by the sheer rock walls and where the steep drop-off directly to the left of the cave mouth. This meant that there was only one route in and one route out of the cave. A rocky overhang extended about eight. A rocky overhang extended

about eight feet beyond the ceiling of the mouth of the cave, meaning that it would have been very difficult to spot the cave entrance from the air. We need to go to a position above the cave on the rocks opposite where we can observe. Sergeant Perez whispered, I'll go, Sergeant, I said, having just gone to the mountain warfare course. Okay, Bami, said Perez, hand me your weapon so it won't hinder you, and be careful. I handed my weapon off to Deline and backtracked about ten. ten feet down the trail, where I remember seeing a path which led up the side of the trail.

This side path was even narrower than the one we were on, and the footing was even more precarious, as the loose gravel and stone threatened to twist feet and ankles. Finally, however, I came to a rock ledge about five feet high and hauled myself up and over, hugging the ground once I'd gotten up. I discovered that I was on a relatively flat surface, roughly ten feet long by four feet wide, and surrounded on three sides by rock outcroppings that were between three to four feet high. About fifteen feet below me, and about a hundred feet away, was the mouth of the cave. This couldn't have been a more perfect spot to observe what Captain Taliban and his band of merry lunatics were up to.

I climbed back to the spot, and carefully made my way back down to the squad where I reported to Sergeant Perez what I'd found. Ah, good work, Bambi, Perez said. Stay close behind me and let's go check it out. I guided Perez up the same narrow path that I'd taken with Lampas and Deline following close behind until we finally made it up to the rock ledge. Perez hauled himself up and, staying low, pulled all of us up on the ledge.

Ah, this will do just fine, he whispered. Pambi, you hunker down on the left and scan everything forward and to our left. DeLine, get in the middle and train your SAW at the mouth of the cave. Lampas, I need you to keep an eye on the trailer, make sure nobody can get him behind us. Here, let me have the radio.

They had taken us almost an hour to get into position and staffed Sajun Perez called Sergeant McOstyn back at the LAV, telling him he was set. McCostin reported that one of our recon squads to the north of us had spotted suspected enemy movement in a shallow ravine between two low hills. Good copy, said, Perez, keep us informed of any movement coming up the trail, out.

We hunkered down on the hard rocky plateau, trying to get as comfortable as we could while making as little noise as possible. It was a cold night on that ridge, and winds would periodically whip up, making the night air even colder. At first I thought they were crazy to issue us Generation 3 cold weather gear for the desert, but now I knew why. But even with the thermal underclothes. Fleece jackets, a wool, balaclava, and our uniforms. It was still rather chilly. We were all lying prone on the cold ground, peering over the rocks and looking down at nothing but an empty cave mouth at the end of a lonely trail, while our brothers in another squad were in contact with possible enemy forces. It was about two in the morning, and my eyes were getting

crossed, looking through my NVGs into the dark. I could feel myself dozing off when, suddenly behind us about two miles from our location a bright light followed by white smoke seemed to loom out of the ground and ascend into the air headed towards baghra the taliban fired a chinese one-two-two-millimeter surface to service rocket at the base whispered Perez we watched helplessly as the unguided rocket looped and descended towards our base seconds later four bright orange flares blossomed in the sky above the taliban launch site as the Americans mark the enemy position. In the clear night, we could see flash its weapon fire in the distance, the noise of a firefight going on. All this was soon drowned out as red lights, resembling laser-like fingers of death,

reached out of the sky and struck the Taliban positions. The noise like a bus saw ripped the air, and we could even feel slight vibration on the ground as thousands of rounds of hot lead rained down on the Taliban. "'Looks like Spector is up tonight,' said Perez, grinning. Spector's the code name for one of our AC130 transport planes, modified to carry an astonishing array of weaponry and firepower, which the US Air Force rains down on the bad guys.

Soon, however, the brief light show was over, and just as quickly as it had started, the valley was now deathly quiet again. Sergeant McCostin called staff Sergeant Perez from the lab, saying that the Taliban had gotten off one of these three missiles that they'd intended to fire at the base and that some of Captain Taliban's merry lunatics were headed eastwards in our general direction. Perez said that was a good copy and instructed Sergeant McCostin to keep us updated before turning to us and saying, Heads up, Maurice, we may have hostiles approaching soon. All of a sudden, all our thoughts of getting a few minutes of sleep went right out the window.

Our weapons were all locked and loaded, and my thumber had a full. 40mmy-high-exploasive grenade already loaded into the breach. I thought for a moment and decided to silently eject that HE round from my grenade launcher and placed it back into one of my pouches. I reached into another pouch and pulled out an incendiary round and loaded it into my thumpur. If the Taliban were hiding one-two-two-millimeter rockets in that cave, an incendiary round would ignite the propellant,

causing the rocket to explode. We lay there motionless, Another three hours, as no further action had taken place anywhere in the area. It's just after five in the morning, and the darkness around us is ever so slowly, lightening into a dark purple sky. We got movement to our direct front, whispered Sergeant McCostin from the laugh. I count five, six, seven, or at least a dozen personnel moving up the trail towards your position. They seem to be armed with AKs.

Looks like they've been wounded. Roger, whispered Perez into the radio handmike, relayed to headquarters that we have and maintain observation. Perez handed the mic back to Lampus and said, Stay alert, Marines. We have movement coming up the trail. It's still too dark to see without our NVGs, and the suspected Taliban approaching the cave entrance were lighting their way using cheap flashlights. Sure enough, there are about a dozen men armed with AK-47s approaching the cave,

two of them lying on makeshift stretches. And the men were carrying anything larger than AK-47. They had no mortars or rockets. Now the rules of engagement at the time were pretty sketchy since it was legal to own AK-47s. We couldn't just assume that these were Taliban. We actually had to see them commit a criminal act before we could do anything. And for all we knew, these could have just been local farmers who got caught up in the fighting, and were just trying to get away.

Maybe this cave was where they hid from the Taliban. Despite everything that was going on, despite the fact that thousands of innocents had died in the 9-11 attacks on America, we still insisted on giving everyone the benefit of the doubt here in Afghanistan. Everyone was considered innocent until they overtly show that they intend to commit a hostile act. The armed men seemed to show no concern about being tactically silent and weren't worried at all that they may have been under observation by US Marines. The heavily bearded young man who seemed to be the leader of the group

tried to usher the men carrying the two stretches into the cave. Strangely, however, some of the men seemed reluctant to enter the cave and had in fact dropped the two wounded men on the ground. The leader loudly chambered around into his AK-47, yelling in Pashtun and pointing towards the cave entrance. The yelling went on for several seconds before the men who refused to go into the cave finally relented and they all disappeared into the entrance.

What do you make of that, Sergeant? whispered Deline. Different families, different factions, different tribes, said Perez. All these people know is conflict and strife. Do you think they're Taliban? said Lampas. Maybe, said Perez, or maybe not. If they are friendly, we're obligated to help their wounded.

Stay calm for now. Another five minutes passed, when a loud barking roar, something like a dog's bark combined with a bear's ground, boomed from the cave. Several men screamed, and we could hear the frantic, undisciplined sounds of AK-47 rifle fire coming from inside, followed by the flashes of muzzle fire. The earlier argument had seemingly reached a boiling point, and the two factions of the same group turned violent against each other. But instead of hearing voices of rage, it seemed like all of the men shoot. shooting inside the cave were filled with voices of fear this lasted for several seconds as the sounds of men fighting and apparently dying abruptly ceased along with the rifle fire then there was silence as something big but unseen seemed to be stirring inside the cave sergeant Perez are you in

contact it was Sergeant McCosting calling from the laugh negative replied Perez we're fine apparently there was some kind of altercation inside the cave and a lot of shooting call this in to bagram roger said sergeant mccostin wait one several minutes passed as mccostin reported the incident back to base meanwhile we kept our eyes laser focused on the cave whatever was moving around in there perhaps a wounded man but stopped ecuadas wants us to maintain observation secure the position radio of McCostin from the laugh. Governmenty commander is sending up a relief platoon later in the morning once it gets lighter. Seems like they're still clearing the area from last night's attack.

We sat for an indeterminate amount of time as the sky slowly went from a dark purple to a dark blue with hints of red as the sun began clawing its way into the sky. Still, everything was silent inside the cave. We need to go in there and see what's going up, said Bres. They may be injured people that need assistance. Bambi, take point. I'm moving, Sergeant, I said. Happy to be able to get up and stretch my aching back and leg muscles.

Deline, say praise. Take slack. Moving, Sergeant, as he hefted to his SAW and followed me. Soon we were all down from our elevated perch and moving back down the narrow path towards the main trail. It was lighter now, so the going was smoother and faster, though no less precarious. We no longer needed our NVGs to see the path ahead of us.

Sergeant Perez stopped us at the point where we stepped onto the trail. Deline, said Perez, take up a secure firing position here and watch our backs. We may be coming out of here in a hurry. I'm on it, Sergeant, said Deline, as he scooted a few feet back up the path to where he was in some cover and could watch the cave. Let's move, instructed Sergeant Perez, and all three of us combat rushed across the train. and stacked on the right side of the cave entrance. Even standing outside, we could smell the scent of blood and carnage wafting from inside the cave like a slaughterhouse of raw flesh.

I was in front, with Staff Sergeant Perez directly behind me and Lampas behind him. Perez said nothing, simply holding up three fingers. Two fingers. One. Go. Just at we trained, I went in first, swiftly covering everything. everything to my front and to the left with my weapon. Simultaneously, Perez came in behind me and swept right

while Lampas immediately followed and swept front to rear. All of a sudden, behind me I heard Lampas retching as he stepped back. Oh my God! he whispered, horrified that he just stepped into a pile of human entrails. My eyes began adjusting to the darkness inside the cave, and I heaved as I saw bodies and pieces of bodies stacked up like cordwood next to a wall, deeper inside the cave while all around us piles of innards and guts had been strewed across the floor and walls there was blood and streaks of blood everywhere without realizing it I'd lowered my weapon and was walking deeper into the cave

hold your positions hissed Perez take a knee and scan your set something seemed to fall from the heights of the cave ceiling something big and hairy that smelled of wet and moldy fur It landed directly behind me And I felt something slam into my back And ribs like a baseball bat I went flying into the side of the cave wall And slumped down with my ears ringing

And the wind knocked out of me I turned around and propped my back against the wall My head spinning Whatever this thing was Had its back towards me now It was covered in short fur And easily stood above eight feet tall From behind I could see that it had canine like ears

and legs like a dog or a wolf, and arms that were hideously long and muscular. The thing was facing Perez, who tried to raise his M4 to fire, but the thing backhanded staffed Sergeant Perez so hard that he was sent tumbling out of the cave. I watched in horror as Perez's body tumbled over the ravine and fall from view.

Lampas was to the creatures left, and he opened up with his M4. At this close range, Lampas couldn't miss, as he put at least five to six rounds sent a mass of the creature. However, the creature only looked annoyed as he swiped at Lampas.

Lampas jumped back and slipped on the same pile of entrails he stepped in earlier. With the Lampas now on his back, the creature stalked towards him. I reached for my weapon and found that I didn't have it anymore. Looking around, I saw that I dropped it right where the creature had hit me.

My thumpur was laying at the creature's feet or paws or whatever those massive things were. Still groggy from the blow I'd taken, I drunkenly ran forwards towards the creature and died from my weapon and fell far short. The creature closed in on Lampas as Lampas struggled to pull his K-bar from its sheath. Suddenly the entrance to the cave darkened as another figure entered.

Son of her, yelled a line as he lifted his S-A-W and put an eight-round burst directly into the creature's guts, then another, then another. The creature led out a pained howl and jumped nearly 15 feet towards Deline, knocking the SAW out of Deline's hands and slamming her into the ground. Deline's distraction gave me the seconds I needed to get up and grab my thumper. Charging at the creature from behind and to its left, I screamed a battle cry of wha!

So I rammed him as hard as I could with the entire right side of my bowels. body. To my surprise, the creature went off balance, but so did I. I was now lying about eight feet in front of the creature, with Delin and Lampas standing behind me near the mouth of the cave. I was again on my back, lying in a pile of human gore as I levelled my weapon up at the creature. I could now get a good look at its face. It definitely had canine features, with a short snout, wide jaws and horrifically sharp and blood-stained teeth. get down get down i yelled at lampas and deline what are you said deline oh shit yelled lampus the creature opened its more wide in an angry growl just as my weapon went thum it was late in the

afternoon when we were all finally piled into the back of the lav corporal pinkerton driving us all back to bagram after his long patrol a platoon of marines and some army ear EOD guys had arrived later on in the morning and together we estimated that there were the bodies of at least 10 to 12 Taliban fighters inside that cave. We knew they were Taliban because the EOD guys also found fragments of at least two Chinese one-two-millimeter rockets and three Russian 82-millimeter mortars as well as some destroyed RPGs. They also found the rear hindquarters of what had to be a huge dog, which they assumed the Taliban were using as a watchdog to guard their stash of high explosives. When it fired my 40mm incendiary grenade at the Taliban fighters who were shooting at us, it set off their munitions and pretty much blew them all to hell. At least that's what stuff, Sergeant Perez told the intel guys when they questioned us about the engagement, and the rest of us backed up Perez's story.

I really don't know how long I was unconscious after I force-fed that creature with an incendiary grenade. I only remember waking up and being dragged across the grand and out into the sunlight by Lampas and Deline. Delion came running when he saw Perez was being tossed out of the cave like a rag doll and over the side of the ravine. Fortunately, Perez fell on a lead just six feet below the ravine and was groggy and woozy when we finally pulled him back up the trail.

Since it was likely that the Taliban would use this cave again after we'd left, Staff Sergeant Perez suggested that our EOD guys blow the living crap out of it and the guys were more than happy to oblige. They wired C4 all over the unexploded Taliban ordinance inside the cave and wired the overhang with the entrance and detonated the charges in a booming explosion that knocked my lungs into my skull. It was beautiful. When the smoke cleared, it was just a pile of rocks where a cave used to be.

The four of us were sitting in the back of the lab as we rumbled towards the base. Staff Sergeant Perez's arm was in a sling from his fall, and I had a nice big bandage on my head from where I was hit. Deline was scooping spaghetti and meatballs from an MRE into his mouth, and Lampas nearly threw up again. Oh man, how can you eat that? Lampas said. Deline shrugged. I'm hungry. Mama Deline always told me that fighting werewolves is hard work,

so eat as much as you can when you can. I shook my head and leaned back, closing my eyes and letting the rumble of the lav's engines rock me to sleep. I think that the song coming up weakened that creature, said Lampas. That's why we were able to hurt it. What do you think it was, Sergeant? asked a line. Stavrege as paragmatic as he was stoic, simply shrugged.

I don't know. I don't care if you're some mythical bulletproof wear whatever the hell you are. If a Marine thumps an incendiary grenade down your throat, you're a rug, baby. I've since been promoted to the rank of star. staff sergeant and because of that I'm required to surrender my beloved thumpur for a regular M4 rifle. I haven't though. No, I've kept my same thumpur through one combat tour of Afghanistan and three to Iraq. So sleep well because Bambi and Thumper got your back. A prayer before dying. A few years ago I was a staff sergeant serving as the battle captain on an isolated base in the western province of Herat in Afghanistan.

As a battle captain, I was in charge of the base security and defenses, and as such I had several assets with which to conduct base security operations. We usually had two American up-armored Humvees, armed with M-240 B machine guns, and one M-A-T-V-MARP, mounting a 50-Cal heavy machine gun patrolling the four-mile perimeter of the base at any given time. I volunteered to take the night shift from 1800 hours in the evening to 0,700 in the morning, as the evening hours were when the excitement usually happened. We also had 25 guard towers surrounding the perimeter of the base, which we also had to keep an eye on. They were manned by Afghan soldiers, and the Afghan National Army wasn't particularly attentive or competent or even friendly at times.

They sometimes seemed more of a danger to themselves and the enemy, as they often accidentally fired their weapons inside their guard towers, injuring themselves or their fellow soldiers. Other times they would shine signal lights into the villages a mile or two outside of the base to be answered by signal lights shining back towards the base, a tell-tale sign that we had enemy insurgents wearing ANA uniforms. Oftentimes I'd take a hum-Vee with light shut off and position myself to observe portions of the perimeter to see if I could catch insurgent signal communications from the base. We also had aerial surveillance assets in the form of predator drones from the nearby special forces camp. We operated out of a small one-story building called the Joint Defense Operation Center, or J-Doc,

which was located in the Afghan National Army part of the base. A brief description of the base may be in order. The base used to be one of the largest airfields built by the Soviets during their invasion of Afghanistan decades earlier. The majority of the base was occupied by the Afghan army. and was used as basic training centre for new recruit soldiers. A motorised battalion of Italian soldiers also shared the base with us. The Italians using the Hesco barriers to build a virtual castle around their portion of the base. The Italian perimeter had Hesco barriers rising as high as 15 to 20 feet,

complete with built-in fighting positions. We Americans held an inner portion of the base, surrounded by Hesco barriers which stood 8 to 10 feet tall. We controlled the airfield and conducted all air operations. Like I said, the base was very isolated. In fact, we were closer to Iran than we were to the nearest friendly operational base in Afghanistan. The main instrument we used for nighttime surveillance was called a raid camera, or the eye in the sky. It was a highly sensitive camera which could see miles and miles around the base,

through most weather conditions, including through a sandstorm. The camera was secured on a rotating turret and mounted. on a pole that stood two stories above the ground. The system was in place behind the J-Doc and monitored 24-7 by American civilian contractors. Enemy forces who believe that the night kept them hidden never realized that we could see them as if it was full daylight.

Well, it was midnight on a chilly November evening where the skies clear and bright with stars. It was a strangely peaceful and beautiful night. The Taliban hadn't lobbed a rocket at us in days. On nights like this, I love going outside of the J-Doc and climb the low amount of dirt surrounding the building and just look up at the stars. There was absolutely no light pollution here, and the galaxy seemed to open up like a universe-side stage of innumerable stars and galaxies. I stood there for only a short while, when the door to the J-Doc opened and light poured out. Sergeant, I think you need to see this.

It was my friend, the tall, skinny civilian. in contracts are monitoring a raid camera. I followed him back inside and walked with the raid camera monitor. What you got, Roy? I asked the young man. Take a look at this, he said. I was scanning the village

about two clicks to the north. The Italians are conducting recon in the area and I caught this. On the screen, clean-shaven young man dressed in white robes was kneeling next to a low stone wall. He was rocking back and forth, as if he were pressed.

late-night prayers i asked maybe answered roy but he's not facing the right way also i caught him on the thermal site if i go to ire sites there's nothing there roy switched to the various other night vision options available on the camera but the strange apparition only appeared on thermal sites could be a malfunction i asked possibly answered roy But I did a diagnostic test earlier this evening. Everything checks out. All of a sudden, a force, some unseen force, came down on the young man's neck and severed his head.

The head bounced off the low wall and rolled a short distance from the body, which had slumped to the ground. Roy cursed and panned back for a wider angle, but there was no one around the now dead young man. I got on the radio and called the American Tactical Operation Centre, or to talk to see if we had anything in the air over the village like an Apache or a predator. Unfortunately, we didn't have anything up that night.

However, the talk informed me that an Italian dismounted patrol is not very far away. Roy picked up the Italians on the raid camera, about half a kilometer from the wall, and I directed them into a skirmish line which would allow them to catch anyone who committed the murder. The Italian platoon manoeuvred professionally and with great skill as they are approached the low wall surrounding the village and fanned out to catch any insurgents trying to escape. But they encountered no one, either entering or leaving the village. And soon, they were at the exact spot where the body lay. Negative contact, said the Italian lieutenant. Your people are right there, I answered. Do you see the body? Negative, came the reply from the

Italian platoon leader. There is no body here. You're less than ten feet from the body, I said. Your radio operator is practically standing over it. I am sorry, answered the lieutenant, but we see no one here. Sergeant, said Roy, take a look at this. Roy pointed back towards the monitor. The body of the murdered young man had disappeared. While they did not see a body, the lieutenant and his radio man admitted to feeling a numbing cold in the area where the young man was apparently murdered. I called off the search and the Italian platoon returned to base shortly afterwards. But later in the morning, when the sun crept over the mountains,

the Italian lieutenant brought his platoon back to the village and met with the village elder. The lieutenant came to the J-DOT later in the day and told me what had transpired. When the lieutenant met the village leader, the elderly Afghan man said that the young man we'd seen being murdered was his son. Before we came and drove off the Taliban, the Taliban had come to the village and executed the village leader's son as a warning. I apologise to the Italian lieutenant for sending his platoon on a wild goose chase, but the lieutenant just laughed it off.

This valley is full of ghosts, my friend, he said. Believe me, I know. Oftentimes on clear evenings between midnight and 0200, we could see that young man on the RAG camera getting executed over and over again. After a while, Roy just stopped scanning that sector, and I was okay with that. What is killing all these soldiers? Every American military unit that deploys to serve overseas has its fair share of good NCO leadership. That's a non-commissioned officer, a sergeant,

and almost every unit has that one NCO who stands out to be the very best. This NCO is the person who is extremely competent and confident, a generous mentor to the people that he leads, a loyal supporter to his NCO peers, and the invaluable advisor to the officer in charge. This one particular outstanding NCO was the go-to person when other NCOs needed information or advice, and in our particular case, the outstanding NCO in our unit was my friend, the Sergeant First Class named Tommy. Tommy and I were sitting on a long, comfortable wooden bench in front of the barracks and relaxing after a particularly long day of patrolling. We were back on a long, elevated wooden deck which ran down the entire length of the barracks, and we rested our feet up on the wooden railing which bordered the deck. The selling sun cast the sky in brilliant and fiery shades of reds and oranges and purples, as it sank behind the mighty mountain peak known to us Americans simply as Big Duke.

We were serving as NATO peacekeepers, and were stationed at the main American operating base called Camp Bondsteel in Kosovo. The summer was coming to an end, and with it our year-long deployment was also coming to a close. The weather was pleasant, and the colours in the sky, mixed with the high clouds, painted a breathtaking picture from our vantage point on the hilltop. Tommy pulled the pipe from his lips. Oh, I'm really going to miss that view, he said, leaning back on the bench and exhaling. I nodded in agreement.

We have to come back to Kosovo someday, but not as peacekeepers, but as visitors. We did so much good here. I want to see if it lasts. We stared at Big Old Mount Duke for a while, and I said, Okay, explain to me the difference between a 2-2-3 ball ammunition round and a 5-56 ball ammunition round again. Aren't they the same? Well, I knew that Tommy Light talking about everything, guns, weapons, and ammunition.

In fact, he was once an army snubes. sniper. I needed to get him talking about something so that I could ask him the question that I really wanted to ask him. Tommy smiled as he took another puff from his pipe. Ah, the 223 and the 556 round are visually similar. The difference is in the grain used to propel the rounds. The 223 is optimized for the civilian market, while the 556 is strictly used for the military. Our M4 and M16 rifles can fire both kinds of ammunition. but in the civilian version of our rifles, he should only fire the two-two-three round. Hmm, I nodded.

You learn something new every day. Well, at least I got him to start talking. Now, I have a question for you, said Tommy. Why do the Russians have 61mm and 82-millimeter mortars? Because the Russians are sneaky bastards, I said. Americans have 60-millimeter mortars and 81-millimeter. motors. If we capture Russian mortar rounds, we can't use them

because they're exactly one millimeter bigger than our mortar tubes. But if Russians capture ours, they can use them against us. I've trained you well, my young Jedi, said Tommy, and we both had a good laugh. Great, now,

maybe I can get to talk about what I really wanted him to talk about. Hey Tom, I said. Is everything okay? I mean, are you going to be okay? So there it was. I'd said it. Ours was a very close-knit unit and bad news traveled fast.

A few weeks ago, Sergeant First Class Tommy received a letter from his wife back home. She'd been cheating on him while he was away and had cleared out their bank account. She also threatened to divorce him and take away his two daughters in his house as well as half of his retirement pay. Tommy, for the past year,

served his country, his battalion and his friends with courage and honour, would be going home completely broke. Tommy took a long puff of his pipe and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipates. He smiled. Ah, brother, he said, an hour ago all of my earthly problems went away. Huh? I said. I turned to Tommy wondering what he meant. I was about to ask him what he was talking about when Tommy interrupted me. Let me ask you this, brother, said Tommy. Are you going to be okay? Getting a video call on Skype from your new wife telling you that she's been cheating on you has to be tough. Believe me, I know. What? What did Tommy know? An hour ago after I'd submitted

my daily patrol report to my team commander, I went back to my living quarters to talk to my wife on Skype. At 23 years old, she was taking. years younger than me. We were only married two weeks before I left at Kosovo, so we really didn't have time for a proper honeymoon. I saved enough money during my deployment for us to have an awesome honeymoon in Europe, which would culminate in a trip to Ohio to visit her lifelong friend which she'd grown up with. She was usually happy to talk with me, but today she looked depressed and near tears. What's wrong, baby? I'd asked.

Are you okay, sweetheart? "'Yes,' she cried, "'but you won't be.' "'As it turns out, almost since the day I left, "'she'd been cheating on me with her lifelong friend "'and was now planning to move in with him "'and eventually marry him. "'They just needed money,

"'money which I unknowingly provided to them "'every time I sent my paycheck home to my wife. "'I stood up and stepped towards the railing. "'How did Tommy find out so fast? "'Well, I knew bad news really travelled quick in our union, it but this was ridiculous. I looked off into the distance, admiring the view. Damn, I was going to miss that beautiful sight of the sun setting behind Big Duke.

I'll be fine, brother, I said. Are you sure? said Tommy from behind me. I don't want you to do anything. Well, you know. Yep, I knew. Suicide takes more American soldiers' lives and enemy bullets. Trust me, I said. I love my wife, but I love my life as well.

She isn't worth me hurting myself. I'm so glad to hear that brother, said Tommy. I just needed to make sure before I go. I turned around. What did you mean by that? An empty bench stared back at me. All of a sudden, I heard the wailing of sirens coming from the barracks row behind me. Emergency vehicles and medic humvees were turning the corner as soldiers ran from

their barracks rooms. I jumped the rail and ran around my barracks towards the sound of the sirens. They gathered in front of Sergeant First Class Tommy's barracks room and about 20 soldiers were crowded outside. A squad of MPs were pushing us back, keeping us from the door. What's going on? I yelled. A young female specialist from Tommy's team, tears in her eyes and crying inconsolably said, it's Sergeant Tommy. He shut himself with his own sidearm they found divorce papers next to his body what i said but i was just no damn it damn it damn it well even after he died tommy was concerned about his friends even in death he wanted to make sure that his friends would make it home safely later on at least three other soldiers claimed to see sergeant

first-class tommy he was checking on them giving them advice and encouraging them to continue to be great leaders of our young soldiers. If you're sitting there safe and sound and sleeping around with everyone and their brother while your soldier is overseas serving his nation, then you are the one who's killing us. Every time a soldier leaves the wire to go on patrol, he risks his life.

He needs to focus on the mission in order to survive. If he has to worry about what's going on back home, he loses focus and he may die. It's worse when he's back in the rear and he has time to think about how he's thousands of miles away while you're destroying your relationship. I tell you the truth. The biggest killers of the deployed American soldier are your damn dear John letters. Tommy was the best of us and we miss you, brother. I pray your war has ended.

Every time I return from a deployment, I don't stay home for very long. I stay home just long enough to drop off my gear, say my hellos to friends and family, and then I have to leave again for about a month. Usually I'll fly to Germany, Hanover in particular, to blow off steam and decompress. Anyone who says that they've returned from serving in Iraq or Afghanistan and claims they don't need to blow off steam and decompress has never served in Iraq or Afghanistan. After my last tour of duty in Iraq, however, I decided to change things up a bit. Instead of flying to Hanover, I decided to take a trip to my family's native country of the Philippines.

I don't know why. I guess it was just something different to do. My mother's family comes from a place in the northern Philippine island of Luzon called Baguio City. Those who have never been there, Baguio is a remarkable place. It's a city built high in the mountains and only. four rows lead to and from the sprawling city, although during typhoon season, only two rows lead to and from it, as the other two rows usually get washed out. Starting from sea level, it usually takes between 40 minutes to an hour to drive the narrow roads that oftentimes

double back on themselves as each snakes around steep gorges, lush green rice terraces in order to reach the city and the mountains. Amazingly, entire communities and villages are built into the size of the mountain, with houses, shops and farms literally constructed on top of each other. There's almost no flat place in Baguio City. A tourist will find that they're either walking up a crowded street or they're walking down a crowded street. The giant SM mall located in the bustling shopping district is also unique in that you can walk in it at the ground floor, go up three stories and step off on the ground floor as the mall is built into the side of a mountain. narrow streets jam-packed with buses taxis jeanies and scooters go every which way in the city leading up and down and around the various schools restaurants parks and markets

being so high in the mountains the city of baguillo always enjoys relatively pleasant temperatures all year round and when the rest of the philippines is baking in the tropical heat of the summer the moderate temperatures in baguillo has earned it the unofficial title of the philippine summer but it also has its drawbacks as well as almost every day during the afternoon between 2 p.m. and 6 p.m., a visitor can expect it to rain. During typhoon season, the rains could last for days and days on end, leaving everything from the hardwood floors to the towels in your closet feeling cold and moist. My mother's family owns a rather tall house atop the tallest hill which overlooks the city. Her three-story nine-bedroom home is built literally on the same. side of a cliff with a narrow road running down the small driveway. Again, in this community, homes were built so close together that your next-door neighbor to your left could be in a house

situated on ground 10 feet above your house, or your neighbor to the right could be situated on ground 20 feet below you. On the top floor of my mother's home is a balcony, which gives one a breathtaking view of the entire city and surrounding countryside as well as the home of our neighbors, who live on a narrow cross street at least a hundred feet below us. I don't stand out on the balcony for long periods of time because I'm scared of heights and tend to get a touch of vertico if I look out at the panorama for too long. And so it was at my mother's home on top of this hill, on top of this mountain,

where I found myself after my last tour of Iraq, and boy did I need to decompress. Being trapped and surrounded by 12,000 screaming ISIS fighters and constantly being rocketed every day was no picnic i'd been napping in one of the upstairs bedrooms for most of the afternoon it started raining at around three p m and didn't start to peter off until around seven i was feeling restless and closed in since there wasn't any reliable internet there wasn't much in the way of channels to watch on television as if i could understand what they were saying anyway i was all alone in this big house with nothing to do

I threw on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt that I bought from the PX at Camp Argyz Fan in Kuwait and stepped outside. To get to the street, you had to walk down a narrow flight of stone steps, then get on the second landing and walk down another flight of narrow stone steps which wound its way down to the driveway. There was a bright red metal gate which enclosed the driveway and opened directly into the narrow street in front of the house. Once outside the gate, I turned left to where the road literally drops another 50 feet to another road below. The angle of the road is so steep that vehicles don't so much drive down this road as fall to the street below. Like I said earlier,

the houses, shops and little stalls on this hill were built very close to one another, and as it had turned out to be a clear and pleasant evening, I'd expected to see more people running about. But aside from a few stray cats and dogs, and the occasional crowing of a family rooster, I appeared to be alone on the well-lit cobblestone streets. At the base of the hill was another crowded and bustling streets. During the daytime, it was filled with automotive shops, marketplaces, restaurants, and places to purchase farming tools and equipment. However, at night, as if by magic, this is all replaced by lounges, karaoke bars, gentlemen's clubs, and places where people can dance and mingle.

Feeling in the mood for a nice bourbon and live music, I decided to walk the mile and some change down the hill to one of the nicer lounges at the base. As I said, the streets were rather narrow, and the sidewalks, where there were sidewalks, were only about two feet wide. It was unusually quiet, and the air was still as I began walking down one of the narrow streets which led down to the main road, leading down the hill. I was enjoying the peace and tranquillity. it all and the fact that i didn't have to worry about incoming rocket attacks i looked around and

marveled at how everything here seemed to look like it was frozen in time and that everything looked exactly like it did when it was first built back before world war two with the constant rains lichen moss flowers and vines grow out of the stone retaining walls which lie in the streets as if they were a lost city somewhere deep in the amazon rainforest i was lost in thought and didn't even recognize that i I was now at a portion of the road where the street lights were getting dim. It soon began to get misty, the results of the moist night air mixing with the warmer temperatures, and soon I couldn't see where I was stepping.

I eventually came to a point where the winding road intersected with another main road. Well, I wasn't lost, but I also didn't quite know exactly where I was. I knew, however, that if I kept taking the road that went down, I was going in the right direction. I chose the road going to the right, which seemed to lead down off the hill, so I followed it for a few minutes. Soon a couple of taxi cabs appeared out of the mist and passed me going up the hill, so I knew that I was on the right track. I soon passed a beauty salon which was on the ground floor of a tall hotel called the Mountainside Inn. I seemed to recall that the lounge that I wanted to visit was behind this establishment, but further down the base of the hill.

A very narrow side street led off the mountain road towards the direction of the lounge, but it was shrouded in darkness. Well, I could either continue on the main road, which would eventually lead to the street at the base of the hill, and then turn right and walk towards the lounge, or I could see if this dark, narrow street was actually a shortcut. I decided to go down the dark and narrow street to see where it led, because I was an American soldier fresh from war,

vacationing in a foreign land where I barely recognized any landmarks. So, yeah, no common sense. I walked in the middle of the street because the mist and fog were now all around me. I didn't want to step into a ditch or open drain which I knew lined the streets. The road wound down between the mountainside inn on the right and a low stone wall to my left and led downwards, so I knew I was still going in the right direction. Instead of turning left towards the main road at the base of the hill like I'd expected, The road went right, doubling back on itself and winding back up the hill. The houses next to me were pitch black and there were no working streetlights here,

as the mist seemed to swallow me in its embrace. Well, I thought about doubling back and walking to the main road, but I wasn't in a hurry really. Plus, this walk was kind of cool. In fact, it was getting cooler by the second. It was downright chilly. just as I had the feeling that I wasn't alone on this dark stretch of road an icy chill ran up my spine and I could just barely see my shadow in front of me from a fainting glow to my back thinking that a car was approaching behind me I turned around to

see a young lady in a white dress standing about ten feet from me at first I thought that the reason I could see her was because of the light from the moon but I soon realized that she was the one who was actually glowing. Hmm, I thought. That's cool. I stared at her for a second. The air around her seemed to shimmer ever so slightly, so I couldn't see her in any exact detail.

However, from the expression on her face, I could tell that this young lady was not happy to see me. With my knowledge of the traditional Filipino language somewhere between none and zero, I did the only thing that I could do. Hi, I said in English. The glowing young lady with the angry expression said nothing, but in my head I could hear Japanese.

I... What? I said. How did you do that? You are a soldier. You are Japanese, came the angry voice in my head in an accusing tone. You are. are a Japanese soldier? I, well, yeah, but I'm only about a quarter Japanese. I'm mostly Filipino,

and a little Spanish and Chinese, if my mom was to be believed. Well, Grandma got around a lot, I guess. You are a Japanese soldier, she screamed in my head. You do not belong here. This is our land. Somewhere in her rage, I could also hear desperation and sadness. During her, the Japanese invasion of the Philippines in World War II, the Japanese had done some unspeakably cruel and violent things to the Filipino people. The Filipinos were subhuman in the eyes of the Japanese, and the Japanese soldiers often took pleasure in tossing Filipino babies into the air so they could try to impale them with their bayonets. In fact, the reason why in part Japanese was because a Japanese soldier had gotten my grandmother pregnant.

My mother had told me stories of a young lady in a white dress that was savagely raped and brutally murdered by the Japanese. Her ghost was said to haunt these hills, guiding innocent travelers who may have gotten lost, a frightening evil man who had wicked intentions. I'm not afraid of you, miss. I'm not an evil man, and I have no wicked intentions. Japanese soldier, she hissed. "'Yes,' I admitted, "'I am part Japanese, and yes, I am a soldier, "'but I'm an American soldier.'

"'I paused, wondering if she'd say anything. "'Well, she just stared at me as if waiting. "'We fought side by side with you. "'We suffered with you. "'We bled and we died with you, "'and together we were defeated by the Japanese with you. "'But, well, the promise was fulfilled. "'We returned again, and we threw out the Japanese,

soldiers this land belongs to the Filipino people I'm sorry for what happened to you but I am not your enemy I am an American soldier the young lady regarded me for a second then slowly turned away seeming to take the mist with her the air grew warmer and the street lights flickered on as she slowly vanished go with God I said as she finally faded from you in my head I heard one last word Salamat. Later on I was relaxing and enjoying a nice bourbon on the rocks at the crowded Miles Club. I asked the friendly bartender what the word Salamat means.

Wait, he laughed. You're Filipino and you don't know what Salamat means. Humor me, I said. Salamat, said the bartender. Is Filipino for thank you? Unknown contact over the Tonking Gond. 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 seventies and hunched over with age he's still right 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, this elderly soft-spoken man came into the bar wearing a green t-shirt bearing the screen-printed image of a US Navy F-A.

Crusade a fighter jet. The big US Navy air show was going on that weekend at Naval Air Station Oceana, showcasing the US Navy and US 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 US Navy fighter planes. 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 F-8 Crusader fighter served as the US Navy's primary. 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 F8 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 wartime situation? I smiled, feeling truly honored to be in the presence of one of America's wartime heroes. Everyone knows you as bud, I said, but what's your real name, sir?

Ah, Sarge, 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 shocked. 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 blood. He held them off flying with extreme skill and managed to blow one of the enemy fighters out of the sky using two sidewinder airs to air missiles. The rest of the enemy MIG-17s fled the area as quickly as possible, fearful of falling to bud's sidewider missiles or his 20mm 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 F-8 Crusader fighter, which I built and then painted. To top it off, I found the distinctive

squadron markings in aircraft identifiers of Bud's F-8 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 it. 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 ho that was my tail number 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 painting after his tour in Vietnam? I did not know that, I said. He seemed so calm and gentle that I could watch him for hours painting those almighty trees on his show The Jai 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 lay 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. Ah, sure, sorry, 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 stock mini-bar that I had inherited from my father. My man cave was a virtual museum of American military history. my 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 model including models of us m1 tanks m60 tanks and even the vietnam era m48 tank

the f4 phantom two fighters f100 super sabre fighters the world war two era p40 war hawk 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. You're welcome any time, Bud, I smiled. Hmm, said Bud, looking over at a display shelf on the far corner. On it, I had displays of science fiction models like Star Wars, Battle Star Galactica, Japanese anime, and models of the science fiction movies which were popular in the 50s and 60s. Bud stood up and walked the shelf oh i haven't seen that in decades said curious i followed bud to the shelf but 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 meant he 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. Um, I'm not sure what you mean, but, I said as I refreshed his pint of beer. You actually saw this aircraft? But 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 duty on the bomb-arm, Richard, was coming to a close. We conducted an airstrike against communist military facilities at Haip Hong Arbor, near Hanoi, and one of our A4 Skyhawk strike fighters was shot down by a North Vietnamese air-surface-to-air missile.

The Air Force Skyhawk pilot was ejected and landed in an open-rise 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 A-1 Sandy's, slow-moving, propeller-driven fighters and one jolly green-shine helicopter flying towards our damn 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 did in place several machine-gun positions inside the tree line of a hill several hundred meters away. He was taking fire from that enemy position. The two Sandys and the Jolly Green 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. He came in low, flying over our downpilot towards the enemy and released our ordinance on the target.

He pulled up as four massive explosions burst in the jungle behind us. 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 out guns and air-to-air missiles, which were not very effective in hidden ground targets. soon however the sandies and the jolly green giant arrived on the side i was almost bingo fuel so i was ordered to return to the ship as two f4 phantom two fighters from the carrier kitty hawk took our spot as fighter air cover boulder and i were cruising at twenty thousand feet headed southeast and 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 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. Ah, we opened throttle and rapidly gained altitude to meet the unidentified 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 twelve o'clock high. The object was approaching the fleet at high speed, but when we saw it, it suddenly stopped in mid-air and just hovered. Boulder 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 saucer 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. Border and I had banked sharply and dive back down to get a better look at the thing. To our amazement, the craft simply drops the surface. 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 us to get a shot. By this time, we'd close to where we could get a gunshot with our 20-millimeter cannon. You might be able to throw off a missile, but you couldn't fool bullets. I was closing to one mile off the craft with Baldus 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 C&C 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, who 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.

Ah, 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 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 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 hustle 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'd do in the US Army.

We had a 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 its Philippine Army battle dress uniform, and took me to the base. I was very excited to see how the Filipino artillery units operated as 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 wear. 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 M-16s and M-4 rifles, with the designated sharpshooters armed with the 762-caliber M-14 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 how it so. 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 howitz is 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 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 Cainglis, 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 Kangles, 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 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 fourteen 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, Guampalas, 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 Gompiles 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 C. Ingalls 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 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 Cengles. The village leader accused Cangles that his men had stolen several chickens and a goat from the village the night before and demanded repayment. Immediately, Lieutenant Cangles formed his unit and a thorough inspection was conducted. The unit first sergeant said that no soldier left the Pernar until the previous night and no evidence was found of the missing chickens or the goats. despite this Lieutenant Cengles 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 Kangals agreed to send first Sergeant Gompulles and five other 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 Cangles at the base camp, that indeed many chicken coops were smashed and that the pen which held ghosts was also destroyed. Lieutenant Cagall's 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 fatch 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 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. forest, told them to stay put until more soldiers could arrive. However, Juan heard the sounds of a be 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 Cangles 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 times 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 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 metres away,

but they couldn't see her due to the incredibly thick vegetation. Suddenly, they were met with a sound like rushing water, when something monstrous with hideous 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's, 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-eaten raw chickens and goats. Inside the cave in what can only be described as a nest of straw, scrapcloth 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 Gompales 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 Gompalus 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, airburst. At this point, Lieutenant Cangles, could have questioned. first sergeant Gompales 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 M-101 how it's a 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. cavalry. 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 with a 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 faced big, creepy batwoman monsters. There's no big deal either way when you've got an artillery on your side. And so once again we 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 wrong, 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 do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.