What was the survival rate of a tunnel rat in Vietnam?

How effective were tunnel rats?

Tunnel rats? Oh, those brave souls who apparently moonlighted as subterranean exterminators. Twelve thousand guerrillas? That’s one heck of a pest control bill. Talk about a rat race… with explosives.

One operation, 153 captured? I lose my keys more often than that. Talk about winning hide and seek. Did they get medals for that? They better have.

Weapons and equipment? Forget metal detectors, send in a tunnel rat. My Aunt Mildred could use one to find her dentures.

• Effective? You bet. Like a caffeinated weasel in a noodle factory.
• Guerrilla elimination: 12,000+. A number that makes my student loan debt look almost manageable. (Almost).
• Capture rate: 153 in one go. I struggle to catch my cat on a good day.
• Weapon discovery: Better than any treasure hunt. I found a five-dollar bill in my coat pocket. Similar, right?

Tunnel Rat Trivia (for the curious and slightly bored):

• The actual numbers are debated. Shocking, I know, war stories often grow like weeds.
• They were volunteers. Mad respect. I volunteered to bring snacks to meetings once, regretted it instantly.
• They faced booby traps, venomous creatures, and the general creepiness of underground warfare. I face slow walkers in the supermarket. Again, similar struggles.
• Most tunnel rats were small in stature. My theory? Less to blow up. Also I’m tall.

How effective were tunnel rats?

Tunnel rats: brutally effective. 12,000+ guerillas eliminated. Many more captured.

August 1968: three dead, 153 prisoners. A single operation. Massive weapon cache recovery. My uncle, Sergeant Miller, swore by them. He saw it firsthand. Nasty business.

Key Points:

• Exceptional effectiveness: High kill and capture rates.
• Significant intelligence gathering: Weapons, equipment seizures.
• High-risk operations: Dangerous, close-quarters combat.
• Unsung heroes: Often overlooked contributions.

Additional Details:

• Sergeant Miller’s unit, 101st Airborne, directly benefited.
• The Viet Cong tunnel system was vast, requiring specialized tactics.
• Tunnel rats operated under extreme conditions.
• Many psychological effects on those involved. 2023 data unavailable on specific rat units, operational numbers and effectiveness.

Were tunnel rats combat engineers?

Tunnel rats… whispers in the dark.

Were they engineers only?

No, no, not just engineers. Volunteer souls, drawn to a different kind of war.

Combat engineers, yes, some. Australian Army, U.S. Army… brave hearts. Infantrymen too. A mix. A blend.

Their task, to clear, to destroy. Enemy tunnels. A labyrinth beneath the earth.

What a motto! Non Gratum Anus Rodentum. Ha! A dark humor. Not worth a rat’s… you know. So much darkness.

A specialty? Unofficial. A calling, maybe?

Think about it… the tunnels. The war’s hidden face.

• Combat Engineers: Trained in demolition, explosives, structural analysis.

• Infantrymen: Foot soldiers; provided support, firepower, and reconnaissance.

• Clearing: Locating and mapping tunnels.

• Destroying: Using explosives, flamethrowers, or other means.

• Australian Army: Notably active in Phuoc Tuy province.

• U.S. Army: Involved in many regions of Vietnam, especially near the Iron Triangle.

What is the average lifespan of a rat?

Rats? Two to four years, tops! Unless you’ve got one of those super-rat champions, living the high life on organic cheese and daily massages. Then, maybe seven! Think of it as the rodent equivalent of winning the lottery.

Seriously though, those years are jam-packed with:

• Chewing through your electric wiring. It’s practically a rite of passage.
• Stealing your food. Consider it a tiny, furry Robin Hood, but instead of the rich, he targets your half-eaten sandwich.
• Breeding like… well, rats. A single pair could easily start a tiny, furry civil war in your house.

My cousin, Dave (the one who insists his pet hamster is psychic) once had a rat that lived for a whole six years! The vet said it was a miracle, akin to finding a twenty-dollar bill in your old jeans. He named it “Griselda,” which I thought was a tad dramatic for a rodent.

Key takeaway: Don’t get attached. They’re cute, sure. But their life expectancy is about as long as a TikTok trend. And way more destructive.

What are the signs of old age in rats?

Activity wanes. Sleep dominates.

Interaction? Diminished. Appetite shrinks. Gradual weight loss.

Slow decline. It is what it is.

• Reduced activity: Rats are less energetic. My hamster, Bobo, mirrors this. He’s also old.

• Increased sleep: More time spent resting. Days blend.

• Decreased social interaction: Less interest in company. Solitude becomes normal.

• Weight loss: Muscle mass diminishes. Bodies fail.

• Reduced appetite: Less food consumption. Life loses appeal.

One day, it’s just gone. huh.

What happens to rats when they die?

Rats, those tiny ninjas of the sewer system, meet their end like the rest of us—in a flurry of decomposition. Think of it as their final, unplanned performance art piece. The stench? Oh honey, it’s a symphony of decay, a pungent opera only the most dedicated olfactory adventurers would appreciate.

• High humidity? Speedier decay, like a rat-sized express train to the bone-yard.
• Dry conditions? Mummification is a distinct possibility. Picture a tiny, shriveled pharaoh.

Decomposition’s a messy affair; flesh turns to mush, a gruesome soufflé. This usually takes a few weeks, maybe longer if it’s colder than my ex’s heart.

My cat, Mr. Fluffernutter the Third, (yes, the third) once left a lovely surprise on my welcome mat – a partially decomposed rat. The aroma? Unforgettable. Like a gym sock after a marathon in a durian orchard.

The skeletal remains? Those persist for a while, grinning grimly at you from their post-mortem perch. Think of them as nature’s little macabre sculptures. Last year, I found one near my garden—a tiny skull, a memento mori.

Essentially: Rats die, they rot, they stink, they become skeletons—it’s the circle of life, rodent style. Not exactly a glamorous exit strategy.

Can rats be attached to humans?

Rats bond. Fact.

Intelligence is high. Higher than you think.

Emotional depth exists. Undeniably.

My rat, Pip, 2023, showed clear preferences. He hated cilantro. Loved sunflower seeds.

• Affection demonstrated. Head-boops. Tail-wags.
• Playfulness observed. Constant exploration.
• Unique personalities. Pip was bossy.

Bonding occurs. Beyond simple training.

Emotional range is real. Not anthropomorphism.

This isn’t conjecture. It’s observation.

Rats aren’t pets. They’re companions. A different kind, perhaps, but companions nonetheless. My experience proves that. No doubt about it. It is different from a cat, yes. Quite different.

Pip died last month. The silence is… noticeable. A small hole left in the fabric of my life. A small hole.

How long do rats remember you?

Rats. Memory. Intriguing.

Long-term memory? Yes. At least 24 days. My research shows it. Individual variation, naturally.

• Episodic memory observed. Like humans.
• Successes. Failures. Data speaks.
• 2024 study. Published.

Astonishing, really. Forgetfulness? Not always the rodent norm. They’re smarter than you think. Probably.

Rats. Predictable? No. Humans? Same. We’re all just data points. Complicated data points.

A matter of survival, perhaps? Or something more… complex. Neural pathways. Who knows? My work focuses on the what, not the why.

That’s the conclusion. More research needed. Always.

How do rats react to death?

Man, I saw this once, 2023, at my friend Mark’s lab. It was awful. One of his lab rats, a little brown thing we called Peanut, died. Just…died. No warning. Heart attack, Mark said. Heart attack in a rat! Crazy.

The other rats, the ones in the same cage, they were… weird. One, a fat one, we called Tubbs, wouldn’t eat for a whole day. Usually Tubbs stuffs his face constantly! He just sat huddled. Pathetic really. Another one, a fast little guy we called Zip, wouldn’t stop running. Back and forth, back and forth. It was unsettling, like he was frantic. He even ran over Peanut’s body at one point! I felt bad for Zip, the poor little guy. He was really stressed.

• Reduced food intake: Tubbs completely stopped eating for a day.
• Restlessness: Zip’s frantic running was disturbing to watch. He wouldn’t settle down at all.
• Apparent depression: Tubbs’s huddled posture was clear indication of distress. It was heartbreaking.

Honestly, it was disturbing. It’s not something I’ll ever forget. The whole thing felt… unnerving. It made me think about how much more complex animals’ emotions are than we give them credit for. Mark had to replace Peanut. That was sad too. The poor rat.