Night sweats… A.K.A.C.
  Franklin D. Miller
Copyright© 2018 John J. Bates
Steam Punk Smile Zone

There were times during the night when all the jungle sounds would stop at once. There was no dwindling down or fading away; it was all

gone in a single instant as though some signal had been transmitted out to all life: bats, snakes, monkeys, insects, picking up on a frequency

that a thousand years in the jungle might condition you to receive. But, leaving you as it was to wonder what you weren't hearing now,

straining for any sound, one piece of information. The thought that there were hundreds and thousands of NVA and VC out there just to do

you harm.

The thought that you could turn any sudden silence into a space that you'd fill with everything you thought was quiet in you; it could even

put you on the approach to clairvoyance. You thought you heard impossible things: damp roots breathing, fruit sweating, fervid bug action,

the heart beat of tiny animals. You could sustain that sensitivity for a long time, either until the babbling and chittering and shrieking of the

jungle had started up again, or until something familiar brought you out of it, a chopper flying around above the canopy or the strangely

reassuring sound next to you of “one going into the chamber.”

Sometimes you'd get so tired that you'd forget where you were and sleep the way you hadn't slept since you were a child. I knew a lot of

people that never got up from that kind of sleep; some called them lucky (Never knew what hit him), some called it F*(&#$ (If he'd been

on the stick....), but that was worse than academic; everyone's death got talked about. It was a way of constantly touching and turning the

odds, and real sleep was a premium. I knew a guy at Kontum who could go to sleep just like that, say, “guess I'll get some”;, close his eyes

and be there, day or night, sitting or lying down, sleeping through some things but not others; a loud radio or a one-five-five firing off in the

distance wouldn't wake him, "but a rustle in the bushes fifty feet away would”. Mostly at night what you had was on the agitated side of a

half-sleep.

You thought you were sleeping but you were really just waiting. Nights there were harsh functioning of consciousness, drifting in and out of

your head, looking up through the trees at the glimmering night sky of a combat zone. One night I woke up and heard the sounds of a fire

fight going on several clicks from us. We knew it was one of our patrols but we were too far away to help. All we could do was listen to the

gunfire and the call for help on the radio. Muffled by distance it sounded like noises we made playing war games as children; it enriched the

game and this was the same.

Only way out of hand at least, "too rich for all but a few serious players.”

Night Sweat is instant involuntary weight control.

Miller, A.K.A.C.

Night sweats… A.K.A.C.
  Franklin D. Miller

There were times during the night when all the jungle sounds would

stop at once. There was no dwindling down or fading away; it was all

gone in a single instant as though some signal had been transmitted

out to all life: bats, snakes, monkeys, insects, picking up on a frequency

that a thousand years in the jungle might condition you to receive.

But, leaving you as it was to wonder what you weren't hearing now,

straining for any sound, one piece of information. The thought that

there were hundreds and thousands of NVA and VC out there just to

do you harm.

The thought that you could turn any sudden silence into a space that

you'd fill with everything you thought was quiet in you; it could even

put you on the approach to clairvoyance. You thought you heard

impossible things: damp roots breathing, fruit sweating, fervid bug

action, the heart beat of tiny animals. You could sustain that sensitivity

for a long time, either until the babbling and chittering and shrieking

of the jungle had started up again, or until something familiar brought

you out of it, a chopper flying around above the canopy or the

strangely reassuring sound next to you of “one going into the chamber.”

Sometimes you'd get so tired that you'd forget where you were and

sleep the way you hadn't slept since you were a child. I knew a lot of

people that never got up from that kind of sleep; some called them

lucky (Never knew what hit him), some called it F*(&#$ (If he'd

been on the stick....), but that was worse than academic; everyone's

death got talked about. It was a way of constantly touching and turning

the odds, and real sleep was a premium. I knew a guy at Kontum who

could go to sleep just like that, say, “guess I'll get some”;, close his eyes

and be there, day or night, sitting or lying down, sleeping through some

things but not others; a loud radio or a one-five-five firing off in the

distance wouldn't wake him, "but a rustle in the bushes fifty feet away

would”. Mostly at night what you had was on the agitated side of a

half-sleep.

You thought you were sleeping but you were really just waiting. Nights

there were harsh functioning of consciousness, drifting in and out of

your head, looking up through the trees at the glimmering night sky of

a combat zone. One night I woke up and heard the sounds of a fire

fight going on several clicks from us. We knew it was one of our patrols

but we were too far away to help. All we could do was listen to the

gunfire and the call for help on the radio. Muffled by distance it

sounded like noises we made playing war games as children; it

enriched the game and this was the same.

Only way out of hand at least, "too rich for all but a few serious players.”

Night Sweat is instant involuntary weight control.

Miller, A.K.A.C.