Colt Donaldson

It was a witching hour at Ft. Stewart, the clock striking midnight as Specialist Colt and Specialist Carey arrived in their Humvee back into camp, their boots caked with Georgia clay from the TRQ-32 repair job. The Victory Focus mission had stretched them thin, and the night air hung heavy with the scent of pine and sweat. The camp lay shrouded in an eerie stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of wind through the trees and the low, restless murmurs of soldiers stealing what scraps of sleep they could. No sooner had Colt dropped his gear than Sgt. Stover’s gravelly voice cut through the quiet. “Colt, you’re up. Lang’s been on guard duty too long—north perimeter, now.”

Earlier that evening, Colt had held court around a flickering lantern, regaling his fellow comms soldiers with a tale straight out of a fever dream. He’d painted a picture of the sun-scorched California desert, where he’d once hunted rattlesnakes armed with nothing but a length of PVC pipe, some lashing wire, and the hulking shadow of his beastly dog, half Black Labrador and half Great Dane, Sherlock—a mutt so massive he could’ve been mistaken for a bear. The story had spilled from Colt’s lips with a reminiscent wild gleam in his eye, each detail more outrageous than the last: the hiss of the snakes, the snap of their strikes, the aggressive bark of Sherlock as they bagged their prey. The soldiers had laughed, leaning into the absurdity, while even the Lieutenant lingered nearby, smirking until Bravo Company’s urgent repair call dragged them all back to the grind.

The TRQ-32 receiver—vital for pinpointing enemy tank positions—had gone dark three miles out, teetering on the edge of mock “enemy lines.” Colt and Carey had raced against the clock, their hands steady under the faint glow of a crescent moon, replacing the damaged parts with spares and coaxing the machine back to life. They’d rolled into camp just shy of midnight, the hum of the repaired unit still buzzing in their ears. Most of the tents were dark as Colt slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed for the north perimeter to relieve Lang. The guard post stretched 800 feet in either direction—a lonely, two-hour vigil where the only company was the rustling of hogs and coyotes dashing past through the woods in the darkness, aching for a chance to get past a guard and start rooting through trash bags, their eyes occasionally glinting like embers in the shadows. Exhausted, Colt’s bones ached for the cot awaiting him at shift’s end, a fleeting promise of a few hours rest in the chaos of the field.

Dawn broke over the camp like a slow bleed, the sky bruising purple and gold through the treetops. With no PT scheduled in the field, Colt stuck to his ritual: 50 push-ups that kicked up dust, 50 sit-ups that strained his core, and 100 jumping jacks that sent his heart hammering against his ribs—all before the fire-brewed sludge of breakfast coffee hit his lips. The hot breakfast meal from the day before was a distant memory, a once-a-week treat from the rear to remind the soldiers that the people back at the garrison hadn’t forgotten them. MREs were the grim reality for the week ahead, their plastic pouches and water-activated heaters rustling like the chorus of complaints from the men. They griped, but they adapted—soldiers always did.

By mid-morning, Colt was looking inside the burned-out radio receiver and looking at the oscilloscope signal making its path through the individual components when the Bravo Company Lieutenant sauntered up, leaning against the truck with a lazy grin. “Colt, weren’t you telling some tales about catching rattlesnakes last night?”

Colt wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded. “Yes, sir. True story.”
The Lt.’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Well, I know where one is if you’re game!”
Colt didn’t blink. He snatched his M-16—loaded with blanks, per protocol—and climbed into the back of the Lt.’s Humvee. The engine growled to life, and they rumbled down a rutted path that felt vaguely familiar, though doubt gnawed at Colt’s gut. Could the Lt. really know where a snake was hiding in this sprawling wilderness? Three-quarters of a mile out, the Humvee lurched to a stop. The Lt. jerked his chin toward an established trail leading into the underbrush. “Up there,” he said, voice casual as if he’d spotted a deer instead of a predator. Colt stepped out, the air thick with the hum of cicadas, and he smelled the tang of damp earth. About twenty paces in, he froze. There it was—an Eastern Diamondback Rattler, a coiled titan of muscle and menace, its scales glinting like burnished armor in the dappled light. It was bigger than anything he’d fought in the desert, its head rearing up as its rattle erupted into a furious, bone-chilling buzz. Colt backtracked to the Humvee, rummaging through the gear until he found a spool of 550 cord and a battered broom handle—crude tools, but they’d do.

The Lt. crossed his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Colt, you don’t have to catch it. I just wanted to see if you were all talk.”
Colt grinned, knotting the cord into a snare. “No way, sir. If I back off now, everyone back at camp will call me a liar. I’m catching this bastard—and we’re eating it tonight instead of MREs.” The Lt. barked a laugh, shaking his head.

Colt crept forward, his heart pounding like a war drum. As Colt got the stick with the snare loop near the rattler’s head, the rattler struck out as its fangs flashed inside a foot from Colt’s hand, a vision of death that forced him to retreat with a curse,” Shit,” he proclaimed out loud. “Need a longer stick,” he said to the Lieutenant. Scanning the trees nearby, he snapped a seven-foot branch from an oak, its bark rough against his palms; Colt reworked the snare with deft fingers. The snake, sensing Colt’s return, slithered to retreat, but Colt teased it back into a striking position quickly with a tap of the stick near its rattle. The beast obliged, standing its head up a full 8”, waiting for Colt to get into its strike range again; their eyes transfixed each other as Colt slipped the 550 cord loop over its head and yanked tight. The cord bit into its neck six inches behind those venomous jaws, and the rattler thrashed—a writhing storm of scales and fury—dragging Colt’s arms taut as he pulled it backward toward the road. The snake struggled to get into the thicket for traction.

The Lt. gaped, awe breaking through his cool facade. “Holy shit, you got it!”
“Not yet,” Colt grunted, breathless. “Got to take its head off.” He asked the Lt. to take the stick and cord, the snake still twisting like a live wire; he said, “Lt., keep this cord tight,” and grabbed the machete from the back of the truck. At the same time, the Lieutenant fought to keep the snake still. Colt got to where he could step on the snake’s back with his machete in hand. The first blow sank halfway through its neck, and white milky venom sprayed in a thin stream from the glistening arcs of its fangs. The second cut was even deeper but missed slightly and struck behind the first cut as another stream of venom jetted out, making a milky white pool on the Georgia Red mud trail. Colt thought, “This bastard would have killed me for sure.” The third machete swing hit the first cut position and cleaved the head free from the body, leaving it twitching in the dirt as its poisonous venom pooled beneath it. Its mouth stopped its hissing, and moments later, the tongue lay down on the ground. Colt picked up the body to his own head height and the rattle still dragged the ground. As they approached the gate, Colt asked the Lieutenant if he could walk the snake through the camp from the front gate so everyone could witness it with their own eyes. The Lieutenant smiled and said hell yes, Specialist Colt, you earned that right.

PFC Johnson, who was on duty at the gate, blinked in disbelief. “What the hell is that?” Colt replied, “Rattlesnake,” with a deadpan expression. Johnson said that shit is fake, reached out to prod it—only to yelp out as the headless body coiled upward in a reflex strike, sending him stumbling back three paces with a strangled, “Motherf—!” Colt roared with laughter. “Relax, it’s got no head—it’s harmless.” The Lt., trailing behind in the Humvee, doubled over with a guffaw, waving his driver through the gate. Soldiers spilled from their tents, and campfires drawn by the commotion. As Colt walked through the small camp holding this six-foot behemoth of a snake up with his right arm and his M-16 slung over his left shoulder.

Colt glanced back at the Lt. and said, “My buddy Bruce, who taught me to catch these, said an old Indian told him a rattlesnake’s body keeps moving ‘til sundown. Don’t know if it’s true, but it sure looks it.” The Lt. nodded, his gaze sharpening with respect. Colt was the man he’d want in the foxhole beside him if war came knocking.

Specialist Carey joined Colt in skinning the beast, his knife skillfully separating the meat from the skin with a clean cut down the middle of the bottom of the snake. A bulge in its gut revealed an adult male rabbit with only its eyes digested. Colt had called it before the cut. “Probably the reason the snake had stayed in that spot so long,” Colt thought. With a propane canister and a dented frying pan, Carey cooked the meat in greasy, sizzling batches, the aroma drawing a crowd. Over 20 soldiers lined up, and Carey sprinkled hot sauce on the paper plates for those who wanted it. The snake itself was tough, greasy, and slightly gamey. It wasn’t fine dining, but it beat the hell out of another MRE dinner from a pouch.

The hide didn’t survive as a keepsake; Colt only had oil for it to sit in for a week before he could get it home and tack it out on a board, and then it shriveled in the heat of the Georgia sun, but the legend of Specialist Colt’s rattlesnake hunt took root in the camp’s lore. Around crackling fires and under the vast Georgia sky, they’d retell it for years—a story of grit, guts, and a soldier who turned a dare into dinner, proving he was as wild as the tales he spun.