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

had settled down and impressed me with his decision making. He was a well-balanced man, cautious yet creative, and not afraid to hear new ideas. My kind of leader.

I glanced back at Meston. He was five meters behind me, just visible in the first light of day. Behind him, invisible to me, was Bucklew with the radio, then followed Funkhouser, Khan, who was a Vietnamese SEAL, and McCollum. All of them were likeable guys, especially McCollum.

McCollum was a jovial fellow and had turned out to be the life of the party whenever there was a party, which was every available night. At Nha Be Naval Base, the Seabees had erected a prefabricated twenty-by-forty-foot shelter with a semicircular arching roof of corrugated metal. It was a Quonset hut over a concrete floor. Inside was a plywood bar, a large refrigerator for storing beer, a few tables with chairs, and a beat-up piano stolen from Saigon. It was there where many SEALs hung out, and where McCollum sat at the piano and sang endless off-color English and Australian ballads. Our platoon had nicknamed him “Muck,” which was simpler to say than McCollum, and is British for “engaging in aimless activity,” which was what hanging around the Quonset hut entailed.

Also part of Muck’s repertoire were the love songs from the Navy Song Book, which he saved for the nights when he’d especially miss his wife back home in the States. His last song two nights earlier, sung with great feeling, had been “Sweethearts and Wives.” The words were well known to me:

“Now comrades fill your glasses,

And cease each merry jest;

Let ev’ry one among you think of her whom he loves best.

From Maine to California, in lands far off or near,

God bless the girls who love us, the girls our hearts hold dear!

Sweethearts and wives, wherever we may roam,

Back fly our thoughts to you and home.

Sweethearts and wives, fond hearts and true,

With tear-dimmed eyes, we drink to you.

Make it a bumper, comrades, and each one standing here

Can whisper soft above his glass, the name he holds most dear.

While as we drink in silence, across the ocean foam,

Our loving greetings fly tonight, we drink to those at home!

Sweethearts and wives, wherever we may roam,

Back fly our thoughts to you and home.

Sweethearts and wives, fond hearts and true,

With tear-dimmed eyes, we drink to you.”

Suddenly my brain screamed, “Stop!” and my right leg froze in midair. My heart slammed in my throat as I realized there was a trip wire across my shin. The next few seconds took forever; part of me wanted to draw back, the rest of me refused to move. I stayed put, and nothing happened. It became apparent that I’d stopped my forward momentum in the nick of time.

As Mr. Meston approached, I waved at him to back off. He did, and I looked hard to see where the trip wire lead. I spotted a tin can, camouflaged and tied to the trunk of a small tree in front of me and to my left. The can was tied parallel to the ground with the open end facing me. Inside the can was an object which I couldn’t make out, but I knew what it was. It was a VC grenade. The trip wire was attached to the grenade, which had had the safety pin removed. Fortunately for me, the grenade was still inside the can where the spoon was held in place. Had I finished my step, the grenade would’ve been pulled out of the can, releasing the spoon and detonating the grenade. It’s fair to say I would’ve earned a Purple Heart, but I’d have been a bit too stiff to shake hands at the award ceremony.

Sure of myself, I stepped back and allowed the trip wire to slacken. I got free of it, then took a few seconds to choke my heart back down my esophagus.

I carefully approached the booby trap and took my K-bar knife and cut the monofilament trip wire. I didn’t slide out the grenade. I simply left the grenade in its nest and rejoined the platoon.

Mr. Meston slapped me on the back, then motioned for me to take point and lead the way. Gee, thanks for the compassion, Lieutenant. Couldn’t I have had another five seconds, first, to recover from my nervous breakdown? Nevertheless, I guided the platoon eastward to the place where our intelligence indicated a VC hootch was located. Our job was to check the hootch, looking for enemy activity.

We located the hootch two hours later. From our position, forty meters from the hootch, it looked vacant. Mr. Meston decided to play it by the book, spreading us out into a skirmish line facing the hootch. He then signaled me to skirt the area around the hootch, maintaining visual contact with the platoon.

I carefully walked the minor trail leading to the hootch, looking for more booby traps. Staying close to the brush, I circled the hootch from west to east, finding only old human tracks in the mud. I signaled Mr. Meston, and he slowly advanced toward the front of the hootch.

As Meston reached the open door, I joined him. He motioned for me to go inside. Sweet Lips was the first to stick her nose in, with me coaxing her from behind. I saw immediately that there was no one in the hootch, and in the few seconds it took for my vision to adjust, my eyes told my brain the place had been cleaned out. The only things left were a broken clay stove in one corner of the dirt floor and a makeshift bed constructed of lashed limbs in another.

Meston entered the hootch and participated in the perusal, then we exited and rejoined the platoon.

As we continued our reconnaissance, I couldn’t help but analyze each member of the platoon strung out behind me. Khan, the Vietnamese SEAL, was impressive. He was a short, slender man with penetrating, predator-type eyes. He was steady and exhibited no fear at all. He had a