How torn field pants and the Suriname jungle humbled a Marine

So there I was…

The Surinam jungle, with its dense foliage and endless humidity, always seemed to have a sense of humor, usually at our expense. As a Royal Netherlands Marine Corps Jungle Warfare instructor, I had seen my fair share of jungle pranks. Today, it was the jungle's turn to laugh again.

Silhouetted figures of soldiers walk through a dense, green-lit jungle carrying rifles and gear, with dark foliage in the foreground.

We were conducting a tactical river crossing. We tied the rucksacks of our six-man reconnaissance team together, creating a makeshift floating platform. It was surprisingly effective, giving us something to cling to and rest our rifles on as we swam across the river, which was brimming with piranhas and electric eels.

A group of soldiers with boonie hats and rifles are crossing through a dense misty jungle river with an improvised raft loaded with supplies.

As we paddled across, I couldn't help but think that we looked like a group of very determined, heavily armed otters. We reached the opposite bank, still intact and mostly unbitten, and started to climb up the embankment.

Three otters in military gear wade through a swamp, holding rifles, against a backdrop of a dense, green jungle.

That’s when it happened. As I heaved myself up, rifle in my right hand, I felt a sudden, sharp tear. The endless days of constant humidity had turned the cotton of my US Army standard issue woodland field pants into tissue paper, and my whole crotch area split wide open. The cool air hit my exposed skin, and I realized, with the kind of sinking feeling of resignation, that I wasn’t wearing any underwear.

A person in military attire moves through dense jungle foliage. The sound

I scrambled up the bank, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. "Secure the perimeter!" I signaled, moving my body as to not give my teammates a full frontal of the family jewels.

Five soldiers in uniforms and hats walk through the jungle. Their instructor ahead has speech marks as he is giving orders, while two others have question marks above their heads.

Taking my position in the all-around defense, I fumbled for my needle and thread. With one hand on my rifle, I tried to stitch my pants back together, but it was like trying to sew wet toilet paper. The fabric disintegrated in my hands, and I knew I was fighting a losing battle.

The instructor is trying to sew his jungle uniform pants back together amidst surrounding foliage.

I had no choice but to break out my nighttime dry kit – my only spare pair of pants. Quickly changing, I stuffed the torn remains of my field pants into my pack, hoping nobody noticed. The dry kit was supposed to be my nightly escape from the relentless humidity, but now that comfort was gone.

As night fell, we set up our hammocks. I lay there in my damp, sweat-soaked pants, the fabric clinging to my skin like a needy ex. My body craved relief, but the jungle wasn’t known for its generosity. Every itch, every chafe was a reminder that sometimes, the jungle just wants to have a good laugh at your expense.

A soldier wearing a bonnie hat and wet uniform sleeps in a hammock in a dense, dark forest.

The next few nights were a battle. Wet pants in a hammock are a special kind of torture. Sleep was fleeting, and comfort was a distant memory. The jungle had no sympathy for discomfort.

Days later, we completed our mission and made our way back to base camp. As we emerged from the jungle, I felt a mix of relief and exhaustion. The ordeal had been a harsh reminder of the jungle’s ruthlessness and the importance of reliable clothing, especially underwear.

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