A Nap in the Sun

by Tom Lott

The winter of 1968 had been unusually cold in the piney woods of west-central Louisiana. I was finishing up Advanced Infantry Training at beautiful Fort Polk prior to being shipped to Vietnam. The irony of training in such cold and icy conditions in preparation for combat in a torrid climate was not lost on me. In January, a freakish ice storm had hit on the day we were to qualify on the M-60 machine gun. The first group to fire had to chip ice off the weapons to insert the ammunition belts.

The weather had gradually begun to improve a few days later when fellow San Antonian Joe Garcia and I were dropped off next to a swamp for our "Land Navigation" problem. Most of us were conditioned by now to wearing two layers of long-johns under our fatigues besides a fleece lining inside field jackets, gloves, and anything else to insulate against the prevailing damp cold. But now the sun was shining brightly and the temperature had crept into the fifties.

We briefly scanned the laminated topographic map of the area we had been provided. Our drop-off and final destination points were clearly marked. The problem seemed too easy. We had been dropped off adjacent to a low swampy area and our destination was one of the higher points in the vicinity. We merely had to find a sand ridge on the other side of the swamp and follow it upward to the assembly point; a total distance of less than two kilometers (or "kliks," as we called them).

Encouraged by the seeming simplicity of our task, Joe and I hurried around the swamp and up the ridge. We stopped abruptly just short of the ridge top assembly point. Although only buck privates, we were by then wise to the ways of the Army. If we completed our problem early, we reasoned, we would not be congratulated and allowed to loll around. Instead, we knew we would be assigned to another detail, perhaps even more onerous. No, we thought, we would backtrack down the ridge, find a good spot, and blatantly malinger.

By then the temperature had climbed into the high sixties. We found a magnificent long-leaf pine tree that was at least three feet in diameter and surrounded by a thick cushion of reddish-brown, foot-long needles. We promptly stripped off the now excessively warm field jackets and flopped down on the bed of pine straw. Propped up against the trunk of the tree, we quickly demolished our collective stash of candy bars. The crash after the sugar rush combined with the balmy sunshine to quickly drug us into a sound sleep.

We lessened our sleep deficit that beautiful afternoon by about two solid hours, a true luxury we had not enjoyed in the last three months. Both of us relished the lack of immediate supervision and the opportunity to indulge in shameless indolence.

Finally the shadows in the pine forest had lengthened and the air around us began to relinquish its warmth. We roused ourselves to begin our short trek to the assembly point.

As I rose from the comfortable cushion of pine needles, I happened to glance down at the depression I had left. Coiled there, where my crotch had been but seconds before, was the most beautiful little Western Pygmy Rattlesnake (Sistrurus miliarius streckeri) I have ever seen. An adult female, about fifteen inches in length, the diminutive pit viper had made no sound nor shown irritation of any kind. I could only assume that she had been enjoying the additional warmth that I had been providing atop her winter retreat at the base of the pine tree.

As I pointed out the snake's location to Joe-- who had been seated about ninety degrees around the side of the same tree trunk--he could not see it at first. I grabbed a stick and lifted her from amongst her concealment of needles. Still she did not rattle nor attempt to strike or escape. This placidity was surprising to me, considering the fiery reputation of these mini-rattlers. Joe was astonished that I might have been sitting on a poisonous snake for two hours with no ill effects. Reflexively, he inspected the depression in the pine needles where he had been resting, but found no others.

Objectively, I knew it was doubtful the little rattler could have bitten me through my fatigue pants and two layers of long-johns. Still, the realization of how painful a bite could have been in that particularly sensitive area was not lost on me. Joe knew I was a herpetologist and I think he attributed my escape from the situation as due to some special kind of "power" I could exert over snakes.

She was my first Pygmy Rattler. I could not keep her, so I held her on the stick and admired her form and coloration for a long while without disturbing her demeanor. I finally lowered her back into the depression in the pine needles. She stately pushed her way down through the needles, still with no alarm. I suspect that she returned to a burrow, perhaps paralleling one of the massive tree's roots.

By the time we strolled into the assembly area, only about one-fourth of the company remained out on their problems. Some of these spent the night in the woods without ever reaching their destination. All were accounted for by the next morning, however.