I would sit for hours during alerts in the Admin Area, up on Water Tower Hill, reading a book or conversing with my pet frog. I used to laugh at myself. "Pendejo," I'd think. "If a commie tank pokes its guns around the bend, you're a sitting target." I had wild fantasies of calling down the alert, squeezing off a couple of 7.62mm slugs, then dodging the return fire from the invading enemy, heroically reaching the safety of the awaiting commo truck. I had few doubts they wouldn't wait for me. Actually, it would have made no difference. Anyone running down that open ground between the 55 gallon drums and the commo hooch below would be cut to ribbons.