I'll Give You Something to Cry about...

While serving with the 82nd Airborne Division during the Vietnam conflict I was sent for training to the Jungle Warfare School in Panama. Part of the curriculum was escape and evasion, and various known methods of mental and physical torture we could expect if captured. During one day of maneuvers when I was performing rather poorly in the sweltering mountainous jungle of " jump back bush", "I got you vines" and " cut'cha grass", where everything either bites, stabs or stings you, it was my unfortunate destiny to be captured by the "aggressor forces". We had been warned what might happen if captured, but after all, these guys were on our side, just pretending to be the bad guys.............right? If memory serves me correctly, after a few minutes of " pretend interrogation" I was ready to sing like a canary being led into a Kentucky coal mine. I wasn't water-boarded, I was water-barreled. I was crammed butt-naked into a barrel of water, the lid placed on top, then left to "chill" for a spell. After a reasonable aging period the small fill hole of the barrel was opened and as the interrogation continued, water was slowly poured in to top off my cramped metallic womb. It didn't take long for me to realize that my lips needed to be about 3 inches longer in order for me to suck air from that fill hole because my cup was full and it runneth over. After each session of questions the lid was replaced and I was re-introduced to a combination of confusing sensory deprivation and total panic. It was bone chilling cold, total blackness (it being as dark outside the barrel as was inside ), and the water muffled sound of my straining muscles thumping against the walls of my tin prison, as I tried desperately to stay aligned with the ever filling vent hole, all the while wondering how long before I would collapse. I knew they would never deliberately let me drown. After all, we were in the same training exercise and they were just trying to educate me as to what I could expect if captured by the real enemies. At that time however, it really didn't matter who was doing it or why, I was fighting for my life with each impossible breath. What if I panicked and they couldn't pull me out fast enough? The psychological strain made the physical demands even more grievous. When that acute insult finally ended, I was introduced to other nefarious methods of coercion intended to elicit my loyal co-operation that made my barrel baptism seem like a cool dunk in a country swimming hole. When I was finally released to my patrol team I knew for a fact that the only way I would be captured by any genuine enemy force was if I was rendered unconscious during the battle, my resolve was to die fighting rather than endure a real attempt on my fortitude. If my training was any indication of the niceties of torture, I was quite certain I wanted no part of the sadistic methods devised by our enemies that are far more degenerate than water-boarding. I offer my respect, thanks and salute of tribute to those American heroes that suffered the real thing. I wonder if the undeserved Commander in Chief of our armed forces would be amenable to a little hands on torture education so he can better judge what is and isn't acceptable interrogation? - Rogue