Shadows in the Green: A Near Tragedy in the Tropics

Submitted by Gregory Alderete.

The CH-47 helicopters descended like creatures from a bad science fiction film—massive, noisy, and otherworldly. As they landed, the U.S. Army infantry flowed into their steel bellies, packs bulging, faces streaked with camouflage, and eyes set on the unknowable. I stood apart, an observer—a field advisor assigned to coordinate with a partner unit that wasn’t American but whose language I spoke fluently. Our mission: link up, establish a defensive perimeter, and show force in a region simmering with tension and uncertainty.

Prior to the mission, in addition to my standard-issue .45 caliber M1911 pistol, I was issued a tanker’s submachine gun—a stubby, rugged little weapon that looked like something out of a Combat episode with Vic Morrow. It had aesthetic appeal, sure—cool in a retro war-movie sort of way—but in truth, it was far from the weapon of choice. Had I been given the pick, I’d have chosen something more modern, more reliable, and better suited for jungle warfare. But in this line of work, you rarely get to make those calls.

As the helicopters kicked up dust and departed, the infantry moved quickly—securing a perimeter and sending reconnaissance teams beyond the wire. The sun dropped like a stone into the jungle canopy, and with it came the heat, thick and relentless. My skin was a feast for the local insects—perhaps attracted by my Mexican-Italian blood, or maybe just taking advantage of another intruder in their green domain.

Then, gunfire. Sharp, sporadic at first—a likely sniper, then escalating as patrols reentered the perimeter with reports of movement. Within moments, chaos erupted. Every weapon inside the perimeter opened fire. Automatic rifle bursts, heavy machine guns, the guttural roar of warfare—it all blurred together for ten intense, disorienting minutes. Then, silence.

There’s something terrible about the silence after battle. It’s not peace—it’s a question mark, a vacuum filled with dread and uncertainty. When a reconnaissance team was dispatched to assess damage, gather weapons, and collect intelligence, we all waited. I was bracing for a debrief, expecting blood, perhaps prisoners, or worse.

But what emerged from the jungle was something altogether different. Through the single strand of concertina wire we had hastily strung, I watched as a squad of American infantry returned—escorting a man, his wife, their two small children… and six dead iguanas. The man had been hunting dinner with a .22 rifle, unaware that he had wandered into the edge of a live-fire perimeter. It’s hard to say what would have happened had his shot landed near one of our soldiers. In a moment thick with adrenaline, exhaustion, and confusion, tragedy would have been easy.

We averted an international incident by the skin of our teeth.

The U.S. Army infantry is a formidable force—brave, professional, often impossibly young. Their training is exceptional. But in moments like this, their discipline is tested beyond the textbook. We ask them to make life-or-death decisions with scant information and little sleep. Sometimes, the line between a threat and a father feeding his family is too fine to see until it’s nearly crossed.

That night, in the oppressive dark of the jungle, we were reminded that modern warfare isn’t just about superior firepower. It’s about restraint, understanding, and remembering—always—that the people on the other side of the rifle may not be enemies at all.