“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!”
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.