Just then, a large, ugly, tropical ant crawled from the bark of the shady tree to the shoulder of the first Marine. One of the men sitting near by saw the man-sized insect and leaned over, slapping it off his buddy’s neck before any damage could be done. “I’d rather have a million mosquitoes eat off of me than be bitten by one of them there man-eating ants!” The others, now grouped about in a circle, nodded their heads in accord as their eyes wandered over the tree trunk in search of more pests. “Oh, gee, I wish I wuz in Coney Island,” the sandy-haired Marine announced with a sigh, suddenly becoming the target for a lot of small stones aimed at him by his buddies. “One more crack like that,” warned the sergeant, “and I’ll punch you in the nose!” An uncomfortable silence fell upon the little band as each man gazed at the other with a bored look of disgust. Three weeks in a broiling desert sun, three weeks together, searching for a promise of activity that didn’t materialize; three weeks of walking, scratching, eating canned food and drinking bad-tasting water; sleeping in the open, preys to hordes of insects of all descriptions had made these men literally hate each other. At the slightest provocation, they would fly into a rage, calling every vile and profane name in the vocabulary of a trooper, sometimes actually mixing in nasty brawls that would leave marks upon their faces and bodies; added hurts to their already over-abused persons. Being men of small vision and slight education, their most difficult tasks were to find interesting things to talk about. In the beginning, it had been yarns of past deeds and great battles in which they had played parts. This soon became monotonous, also creating much envy and ill feeling. After the first week had passed, one of the leathernecks produced a picture of his girl back in Brooklyn. This inaugurated a series of tales concerning various love conquests in every part of the globe, but alas, every man finally told and retold his personal escapades as Don Juan so there was nothing left to talk about except their present, trying conditions and the individual complaints of all. Misery may love company but not for any great length of time. Soon, each man was hating the other because he was certain that his hurts were the worst and the other fellow’s complaint, only the whining of a “yellow egg.” At the time these nine, weary soldiers arrived at the base of Los Agualo Mountain, matters were in a pretty dangerous state of affairs. It was another two days’ walk back to Managua, and if something didn’t arise to relieve the present state of monotony, it was not unlikely that they would end up by slaughtering one another. A familiar noise was heard coming from the sky as each man sat up instantly with ears trained, looking to each other to see if the purr from above was real or just the machinations of a mind going loco from exposure to the sun.