Chapter 24: Respect
Heneral Luna's face lightened, and he broke eye contact. He reached for the pitcher and slowly poured the last of the lime juice into his container. The soft babbling of the liquid filled the odd silence that followed.
"Aren't you a rarity, Gobernador? At last, someone who knows what he's talking about," said Luna as he placed the emptied pitcher back on the table.
I believed he owed me an apology. And if I were younger and more mindful of my pride, I would have pushed him for it. But I was just glad that the temperature in the room had cooled. I could see the relief in the faces of Heneral Torres and Colonel Roman.
"That is exactly how we should fight. This country is as foreign to the Americans as they are to it. They are not used to our climate, to the mosquitoes and bugs, to the diseases, and most importantly, they will not have the support of the populace," Heneral Luna continued, his voice much calmer and more suited for a civilized conversation now. "They won't last long... all we need to do is ensure we are not quickly swept away."
He was exactly right.
If I had not inherited the body of the native Martín Lardizabal, with all its developed immunities, I would not have enjoyed my transportation to this place and time as much as I did.
In Vietnam, almost 10% of deaths among U.S. servicemen were due to tropical diseases. For every ten soldiers killed in action, five were hospitalized.
And even if malaria, dysentery, or any other godforsaken disease didn't kill you, the suffering it caused was an effective morale breaker. A quick death by a Viet Cong bayonet would have seemed like salvation compared to weeks of bloody and explosive diarrhea.
I never doubted that the general knew the answer himself.