213th RAT RACE

After I had been in Viet Nam for a while, we began to have a problem with rats. They were all in our hooches. One of the guys had a Papa Son to build him a trap. It was made of hardware cloth and had a trap door in one end that would let the rats in but not out. It was a lot like the catchum-alive traps that could be bought stateside.

By trial and error it was discovered that peanut butter (not that crumbly yukey paste in the little flat cans out of C rations) was the best bait. We were able to amass a lot of rodents in a short while. We had a problem. How were we going to get rid of all those rats? One idea was to get a large container and submerge the trap in it, thus drowning them. The catch to this was the only conainers large enough to do this would have to be one of the large pots from the mess hall. The mess sergeant said no, along with a lot of other things that would be in poor taste to repeat. We also had enough sense to know that checking out weapons and ammo from the arms room would end up putting us in a cage much like where the rats were.

If there is one thing that puts the American soldier ahead of all the other soldiers in the rest of the world, it would be brainstorming or just good old country boy problem solving. We agreed on a plan. We would get rid of the pests and create a diversion to the mundane life of working all day in the hanger and going to the E M Club or writing letters until time to go to bed.

We went around inviting guys to the Rat Races. Then we positioned the trap about half way between the mess hall and the hooch line on a nice dusty spot (depending on the time of the year, it was either dusty or very muddy). The first guy would open the trap door enough for one of the critters to see an opening and a chance to escape. When he scampered through the hole, the second guy (me) would squirt him with enough Ronson (the only lighter fluid worthy of racing) fluid to fill about ten Zippo lighters. The third guy had the hardest job of getting his Zippo close enough to ignite the runner.

Before we go any farther, it has to be noted that cruelty to animals is not a valid subject here. This was a war zone and the enemy had to be neutralized, or in this case, torched. After finding that your care package from home had been gnawed into during the night and those last two three-month-old peanut butter cookies that you had been saving because they were the only thing that could put you close to your Mom's table on that side of the earth were rendered to a few crumbs, any previous animal lover would loathe rats. The word loathe means wanting to watch your enemy suffer ever so much.

The rat races started out a little rusty and some of the first rats did not catch on fire. They had to be dispatched by about fifteen pairs of jungle boots. After the dust settled, we resumed the races. Most of the rodents went in a straight line for a few yards and then started to run in the pattern of an ever-diminishing circle. Everyone cheered and we brought out the next contestant.

Before long, most of the racing fans became bored and took off for the E M Club or their hooch to write a letter home. With the audience getting smaller all of the time, we decided to have the grand finale. The remaining rats were doused with fuel and the trap door was flung wide open. The mob came out in a heat, and rightly so, with a six-inch flame coming off their backsides. Have you ever had a flaming rat try to run up your leg? We looked like the dancers on the River Dance clips on TV of late.

There is always one that stands out in most any situation. This one was a large rat that ran out and kept on running. He finally began the pattern of a circle, but not before making it under the mess hall. Fate was with us and there was no mess hall fire, nor did anyone in authority see what had occured. The trap was tossed and we all hightailed it for our hooches. We got a lot of letterwriting done that night (fire, I ain't seen any fire, sarge. I've been writing all these letters home tonight) and I don't remember the rats being that much of a bother after that.

This event was experienced by
George French
213th A.S.H.C. 1968-69