The blazing, tropical sun beat down unmercifully upon the heads of a squad of Marines, under the command of a top sergeant, as they made their way slowly and with uncertainty over an impassable mountain path to the flat, barren valley below. Dusty, dog-tired and filthy with grime, the worn-out soldiers of the sea struggled along over roughshod ground, dragging two stubborn pack mules behind them. The men were unhappy victims of a powerful sun, casting its dangerous heat waves over their unprotected persons, and a miserable, dirty, unfamiliar country of treacherous, dark-skinned men and cruel mountain passages. As the squad and their silent, stout and puffing sergeant reached the base of the mountain, one of the men let himself fall against the trunk of a huge palm tree with large, welcome leaves that completely shaded the ground beneath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package of tobacco and some cigarette papers, proceeding to roll himself a smoke as the other men sat down beneath the tree, following suit. “What d’ya guys wanna bet there ain’t no such guy as Sandino?” the Marine leaning against the tree announced. “We’ve been walkin’ all over this gosh-forsaken country for the past three weeks and we ain’t seen nothin’ but bugs, filthy natives and fat, ugly, barefooted women carrying squalling brownskin brats!” A mean scowl overshadowed the face of the short-winded and wide-of-girth sergeant. “Listen here, shackle-brain, do you think them guys up in Washington would send us all the way down here if there was no lunk like Sandino goin’ around and shootin’ up things?” “Yeah! Ain’t you read about the leathernecks what was shot by this here greaser?” a little, sandy-haired, freckled-faced Marine, sprawled out on the ground, added: “An’ how all them Americans what is in business down here had their dumps blown up?” “Aw—that a lot of boloney!” insisted the skeptic against the tree. “What’s a lot of boloney?” another Marine asked. “A string of sausages,” replied the sergeant, and the entire squad roared with laughter. “You guys kin think what youse please but for me, I still say there ain’t no Sandino!” the first Marine reiterated, “an’ there ain’t no other bloke around this country what wants to fight us!” A tall, lanky leatherneck, who had been watering the pack mules, shuffled over to the others. “Say, what do you think the Secretary of the Navy sent you down here for if there ain’t no Sandino?” “Sure, what are we here for?” another interrupted, “to escape the snow up north this winter?” “I don’t know!” the first Marine admitted as he allowed himself to slide to the ground, gazing longingly at his large, hobnailed shoes, “but, oh, boy, how my dogs are barkin’!” “Mine too,” the sergeant announced with a look of pain upon his face, “they keep talkin’ to me all the time!”