Death in the Jungle by Gary Smith (most inspirational books .txt) 📕

later, I was back on point and guiding the platoon north. Our planned mission was to follow the creek to the Rach Long Vuong and a checkpoint we’d designated Tijuana, then circle east with the river to checkpoint San Diego. From there, we were to recon six hundred meters southeast before setting up an all-night ambush site on the riverbank at Los Angeles.

Suddenly the rains came. Hard. I didn’t mind, though, because the mosquitos were awash. My body and my clothing needed a good rinse, anyway. I couldn’t stand myself an hour earlier, but I had put it out of my mind then. I wished I had some shampoo and soap.

In the downpour, my vision was limited. I glanced behind me at Meston, who was right on my tail. I turned away and continued guiding the procession.

As point, I was supposed to look for the enemy himself, his footprints, and the little gifts he leaves for nice guys like me, namely, booby traps—all shapes and sizes.

One of the friendliest booby traps was the “toe-popper,” a small pressure-activated mine that usually only blew off the foot of the unfortunate who stepped on it. Punji stakes, barbed sticks planted in a camouflaged hole, also were partial to American feet. The ones with a nastier streak were those dipped in dung, designed to infect through intimate contact.

The booby traps that were totally antagonistic and anti-American were those made to destroy whole bodies: antipersonnel mines similar to our M18A1 claymore mine, specially adapted grenades, and many other types of mechanically and electrically initiated booby traps. These were set off by stepping on them or just barely moving one of them, tripping a wire, or by the concealed enemy himself. Oh, the joys of the point man.

Upon reaching Tijuana, Mr. Meston motioned for me to leave the water’s edge and to take a shortcut over some higher ground toward San Diego. I checked the compass on my watchband, took a reading, then steered the platoon due east through the jungle. There was less muck throughout the shortcut, but I knew the vacation would be brief. High tide was coming soon.

Before reaching San Diego, we stopped to eat our C rats and drink water from our canteens. The two lieutenants and I set up a security watch while the others ate, then we got our turn at some nourishment. The C rats tasted pretty good to me after all the hours of reconnaissance, and the water tasted like life itself, even though it was tepid.

After a half-hour rest, I guided the platoon down to the Rach Long Vuong. At San Diego the mud was soft and we were in water that was knee-deep. The time was 1300 hours and high tide was in. That meant conditions wouldn’t get any worse, unless a crocodile erupted out of the mire. If so, strict noise discipline was off. Sweet Lips would see to that.

I turned with the river toward the southeast, heading toward Los Angeles, our ambush site. We were only six hundred meters away, which was not very far unless one was walking in mud, water, rain, and a “free-fire” zone where people shot everything they have at anything that moved. Not that I was complaining. It beat being on the fiftieth floor of a skyscraper in an earthquake registering nine on the Richter scale.

I wondered about Los Angeles, the primary ambush site of this mission. I wondered whether we’d cause the earth to shake there with all of the firepower we were lugging, our platoon of angels. Not that any of us were very angelic, though right then I wished I had wings. Come to think of it, I did. I’d already earned my Navy/Marine Corps parachute wings. Maybe there was some angel in me, after all.

Just then, I stumbled over something and halfway fell into the water. Quickly regaining my balance, I felt with my feet for the submerged object. I touched something solid, and, holding Sweet Lips in my right hand, I reached carefully underwater with my left. My fingers found a hold on the thing, and I slowly raised it out of the mud and water. As water rushed out of the nose and eye sockets, I saw I was holding a human skull.

Lieutenants Meston and Gill joined me for a few seconds in admiring the prize. They offered thirty more seconds of patience while I ran a short line through the eye sockets and fastened the souvenir to my web belt. Then I was back in the saddle.

After another thirty minutes, the rain lightened up, and an hour later it stopped. Lieutenant Meston pointed a finger down the river and then held up one finger at me, indicating we were inside the city limits of L.A., and downtown was just a hundred meters away.

The water I was walking in became a couple inches lower. I wished it were suitable for drinking, as I was thirsty again. It was brackish, however, so I’d drink from my canteen after I pulled up a chair in the ambush site, that is, if I wanted to hang Sweet Lips in a bush and sit in water up to my armpits. Twenty minutes later, I thought I’d found the living room.

Soon Lieutenants Meston and Gill confirmed that it was time to set up our ambush. First, I had to scout up and down through the bush growing along the channel. As I did so, the remainder of the platoon waited back in the brush.

After a thorough check of the area, I rejoined the others. Meston signaled me to select a spot for the right flank. I slipped in between two bushes.

Within a few minutes, our perimeter was set up along the flooded bank of the Rach Long Vuong. I carefully rested Sweet Lips in a small tree just above the water, which was almost two feet deep, then I sat down in the warm stuff. My buttocks sank a few inches in the mud, which put the water