I think I have a small understanding of what it's like to sit in a Vietnam rice patty waiting for Charlie, wondering when and if Charlie will attack. My Vietnam rice patty is my bed where I wait huddled under the covers each Saturday morning to see if one of my kids will awake at an ungodly hour and destroy my weekend rest.
First, I hear the pitter patter of little feet, then a pause as my enemy tries to sleuth out the best approach to my hiding place. She determines a direct assault is her best chance so she climbs right over the foot of the bed and attacks me head on. She is an expert in torture. She pries my eyes open, pulls out strands of my hair one by one, tickling my nose with my own hair, then pinches my nipple. All of this while singing "I'm a Little Teapot." It's a massacre.
War is hell.