Snuffy Quotes

It had to be a lot more fun when you had your own dog on a varmint hunt and could listen for his tree-bark off out yonder in the dark woods of a night and could say to the rest: “That’s that old Snuffy dog of mine. Guess he’s put another’n up a tree!

It lays on his abdomen, angled slightly to the left. It's almost cute-kind of like Snuffleupagus. Well, not really. It's huge, but not hairy, and also not nearly as daunting as when it's hard. It is magical, though. I stifle a giggle because, goddamn it, I've never seen a snuffie up close. The head is tucked up inside the soft skin, an eye peering out from the turtleneck.

It wasn’t the dead that got to you, for they were still; it was the screaming of the wounded that emotionally punched you in the guts.

Within a week of trudging around searching for Charlie, everyone looked the same. Drab, nervously depressed, even ill, and bent to near double under overloaded rucks, those dusty bundles held everything in life for them. It seemed incredible that such a set of tired exhausted men could within seconds become alert to do at times brave or at other times truly dreadful things. The author to French journalist, Saigon, in the summer of 67.

Combat stress, PTSD, is debilitating and can lie dormant, and then erupt again at the most unfavorable of moments for the sufferer.

For those of you who survive, the weight of war will be carried throughout life.

There is great disadvantage in seeing the past as clearly as one sees the present, carrying in the mind visions of the past as vivid as on the day they happened.

Snuffies didn’t bug out, and they didn’t write shit about you, either.

We have several sources of fire support available to help you complete this mission. All you need do is give us a call with a target indication and we will blast the gooks. If your coms are down and can’t call for fire support, just fight it out as best you can. You ask of me and then what? Oh that part is real simple, you will indubitably be fucked.

The Ho Chi Minh Trail was not as most folk imagined it to be for the use of the term “trail” conjures in the mind a winding at times narrow path something like the Appaloosa Trail, whereas the “Ho Trail “covered 10,000 miles and was in fact a network made up of roads, paths, and at times rivers. Thousands of “pioneers” that made up the North’s Group 559 maintained it. To us it was the “Ho trail”; but to the VC and the North’s Communists it was “Hanoi’s Road to Victory”. Sergeant Walker, author of Southlands Snuffys.

Your snuffie is going to be hanging out long before my beaver.

Regardless of all its faults, failings, or anything else, the United States of America is not a nation an enemy should ever underestimate, for it will destroy anything that comes at it.

During the South Vietnam war, grunts when out in the boonie lived closer to the enemy than anyone else in an area of operations, and being in almost continuous fighting a grunt could only cling to his buddies and they to him for psychological comfort. Arising from that reliance was a very special comradeship termed “the brotherhood”. In essence, “the brotherhood” served as a vital coping mechanism for the fighting grunt.

On the same convoy were two marine “snuffies,” or combat correspondents, Steve Berntson and Dale Dye. Both were marine sergeants with unusual jobs. They were “military journalists,” or, rather, public relations reporters in the field charged with writing stories about their fellow marines. They were assigned to the Information Services Office (ISO) and covered the war the same way as civilian journalists but with a mandate to stress the positive. They had a license to go anywhere and do anything that could be turned into a story, so they were far more widely traveled than most marines, and they had a great deal more independence.

Yep, as my old pappy used to say, every man living has at least one flaw in his character and some have many for the perfect human is yet to be born. But a guy’s courage is a different matter aint it, a guy without courage is fucking useless in the same way as one who can’t keep his word is fucking useless. I guess what I am talking about here is honor, and a guy without honor just aint worth a goddamn to anyone.” A sage-like moment, courtesy of Corporal "Bayou" Lejeune. VC Lake, D 10 Special Zone, South Vietnam, in the fall of 67.

The United States Marine Corps survives on a diet of traditions and discipline, and relies on a Marines natural love of country, of the flag, for the boosting of his morale, and when merged together they make a powerful combination that can overcome anything.

When I heard that Saigon was on the verge of falling to the Communists I felt a lump in my throat for I knew we were going to do damn all about it, and to me it had a bitter air of political appeasement attached to it. Sergeant Walker, author of Southlands Snuffys.

The quotes found within the Southlands Snuffys books pages powerfully convey the long-lasting psychological toll of the war on those who served in elite units. They highlight the often unspoken psychological burdens many carried during the conflict and long after the conflict ended.

in the afternoon to read the papers, — those of the department, and a journal from Paris which he received three days after publication, well greased by the thirty hands through which it came, browned by the snuffy noses that had pored over it, and soiled by the various tables on which it had lain.

The vast majority of those who served alongside a Special Forces unit in the Southland of Vietnam during the war returned to the world forever hyper-suspicious of everyone and closed-mouthed as to what they had been doing out there in the shit. It would take many years, decades even, before they opened even a splintered crack of insight as to what they had endured, had suffered. Many never would, just carried their secrets from the war along with them to the grave.

It looks like Violet has given my dick a superhero name. It’s better than snuffie. “That’s not much of a surprise since he’s been making you come for the past hour.” “Fishing for compliments?” “Just stating facts.” “I’m going to make him a tuxedo.” “A tuxedo?” “And I’ll make a veil for my beaver. They can have their own private ceremony.

he looked a reliable officer, no longer very active, and he was seamanlike too, in a way, though as he sat there, with his thick fingers clasped lightly on his stomach, he reminded you of one of those snuffy, quiet village priests, into whose ears are poured the sins, the sufferings, the remorse of peasant generations, on whose faces the placid and simple expression is like a veil thrown over the mystery of pain and distress.

We moved forward towards and then across a manioc field in the direction of a palm plantation. Then keeping among the palms to avoid observation by any lurking VC sharp shooters we pressed on as ordered to a point at the edge of the plantation and just short of a tobacco field. There we immediately took incoming rifle and machine gun rounds that missed and whizzed off through the palm trees. There was a muddy ditch at the edge of the plantation but we could not use it for cover due to its knee deep muddy ooze, so we moved on. Charlie caught us on the move with a fusillade of rounds that wounded two men, and while scrambling to take what little cover available an RPG round came, missed the forward guys only to exploded among those behind with the blood spatter soaking everyone. It was a dreadful sight for sure. Sergeant Walker, author of Southlands Snuffys.

There was a mortar barrage and shellfire during the night from 82mm type 67 mortars and most likely either old French 75mm cannon or M2A1 howitzers both of which Charlie had quite a few, and in the course of which we sustained casualties. One was a new kid who was smashed by a shell round termed as “one all to himself” within a few hours of joining our group. All that was left of him was a heap of flesh and uniform, and so mangled that had it not been for legs protruding from the awful mess it would have been difficult to determine what lay there was a human being. Sergeant Walker, author of Southlands Snuffys.

Snuffy by Maisie Aletha Smikle My name is Snuffy They call me Fluffy I have no hands I have no feet For a ride I have no slide I cannot glide Nor strut my stride Swimming seems grim I must not grin aha But laugh I must Till my ductless tears gust I travel far I travel wide Without a sail Wings or wheel Mobility is my game My antennas are wireless Mobile is my home I carry it all around Am booked always A motel or hotel or inn Cannot keep me in For my home am always in I incubate day or night Or in a fright My home is my shell It serves me well Yes. I am a snail And not a whale I do not sail Nor have a tail

Black guys and white guys who had lived and clung to each other like twin brothers out of the same womb when in combat and the air was thick with flying metallic crap didn’t cease being so when off the gun line, for everyone knew they were there to kill or be killed. However, blacks and whites when on liberty in Saigon did not tend to hang out together, a part of it being a taste in music, and as the black guys said, “ole whitey don’t wanna hear no soul, whitey only digs that bronco redneck hillbilly crap”. So, the black dudes headed for Khanh Hoi, their soulville of the southland and free of “Sylvesters” white dudes, and the white dudes headed for Tu Do on the hunt for booze and “flatbackers”, prostitutes. Therefore, in Saigon there was an unofficial and mutually respected “Mason Line”, a demarcation line between a Black area and a White area. Fact was, when on or off the gun line folk’s personal survival rested on a state of mind and not a skin color.

The snuffies’ stories were regularly handed out to civilian correspondents, who sometimes reshaped them and put them on the wire, which meant they sometimes showed up in little newspapers throughout the United States. Mention a marine’s hometown—something Berntson was always careful to do—and there was a good chance it would end up in his local paper. There were usually no bylines on these stories, but the marines remembered who wrote them. Berntson would be hailed by a grunt in the bush who said, in so many words: Hey, Storyteller, you lying sack of shit. You know all that bullshit you wrote about me? You know what? My mom clipped it and sent it to me! They think I’m a hero at home now and maybe they’ll buy me a beer when I get back! That felt better than a byline. Commanders heading off on a hairy patrol would say, “Get Storyteller. We’re going out on a romp.

We were advancing at good speed up a wide track towards a village when the VC and NVA laid down a very heavy mortar bombardment, at the same time they opened up with medium machine guns in enfilading fire. We saw the South Viet Marines to our left break for the rear. Then amidst the dust and smoke came quite a number of VC and NVA infantry yelling and brandishing Ak rifles with bayonets fixed and throwing grenades. As the South Viets were running we bolted too, for the mortar rounds were dropping thick and fast on the track behind us and among the trees. Then down came our own fire mission, quickly followed by our guys and the South Viets rushing to counter-attack with lots of rifle fire and the throwing of grenades. The VC and NVA scuttled off to the village, and the situation restored. Sergeant Walker, the author of Southlands Snuffys, after- action report, Forest of Assassins, 1967.

Recovering his snark, Harrison smirks at him. “Yeah. And you must be the Tweedle Dumbass of the group.” Jake snorts as he plops down on the bleachers a row down from us. “Tweedle Dumbass…” He glances over at Caleb. “I think I might like that more than Snuffy—” “Don’t you fucking dare,” Caleb mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

To more than one it seemed fruitless to attempt a mission, for but one day earlier; we had been in the same area of operations only to find the assertion that the VC had “their backs to the wall” was but fantasy. The VC had come at us with a wild ferocity reserved for those spiritually married to a cause and that made our losses climb. Sure, we weathered the onslaught but the truth was apparent, the VC was proving to be a force to be reckoned with, an enemy by no means near defeated. Sergeant Walker, author of Southlands Snuffys.

The American flag in all its glory incessantly tugs at a patriot heart.

The best plan in the world will fail if you cannot communicate it. Similarly, a poor plan can be saved by good confident orders. Only competent orders will leave a Marine in no doubt as to what is expected of him

No matter how adroit a politician is when indulging in flights of propaganda oratory in the belief all that they say is good for the country, they quickly become hypnotized by their own propaganda.

On the same convoy were two marine “snuffies,” or combat correspondents, Steve Berntson and Dale Dye.

Snuffy and the Bull is one of several short stories from a time in our history which has been woven into the quilt of America and found within the eclectic tapestry of our culture.