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

deep scar on his left cheek as a reminder of a knife fight with a gook, who had a deeper scar across his decaying chest.

Funkhouser was just as impressive as Khan. He was a husky six-footer who was so familiar with the M-60 machine gun that I believed the barrel had been his pacifier in his cradle days. He was as cool as a cobra in the field, warming up only when we partied.

Mr. Meston was a clean-cut man of medium build, standing five feet, ten inches tall. He had been making good decisions, including his choices of beautiful, exotic women.

McCollum was better behind the piano than he was in the field; to tell the truth, we were all better at the bar than at recon. “Muck,” though, was a bit uncomfortable with his assignment to rear security. Bringing up the rear on a pitch-black night in an enemy-infested jungle was enough to make most men jittery. Still, I’d rather have “Muck” with his M-79 grenade launcher protecting our posteriors than most.

Bucklew was the most handsome one of the platoon, with the possible exception of myself. He was a muscular, six-foot, hundred and eighty pounder. He was a great runner and swimmer, but his athleticism wasn’t helping him in the swamplands. That was because his mind was giving him problems, negating his physical advantages. Mr. Meston had given him a try on point a couple missions back, but the stress had eaten him up. Bucklew by then seemed too nervous to me. I was hoping he would hold up when we engaged the enemy, which was an eventual surety.

I pondered my analysis of my buddies for a minute. It seemed to me as though I’d been a little hard on some of them, until I remembered I was judging their performance under extremely dangerous conditions and not simply how they’d fare on a frog hunt back in Texas. In a jungle with gooks and snakes and crocs all around, nobody was perfect, believe me. But these imperfect SEALs, of which I was one, were not quitters. Regardless of their individual quirks and shortcomings, collectively they composed a group of fighting men that no sane enemy would want to face. Of that I was sure. I knew these men. They’d been trained to the max. Someone would have to pay for all that training, and his name would be gook.

I continued on point, moving in ankle-deep mud, until 1200 hours when Mr. Meston decided to take a break. In fairly thick cover, the six of us set up a perimeter in a circle, with each man facing outboard. I sat down in the mud and leaned my head back against a nipa palm and closed my eyes for half a minute. It felt good to rest my eyes and daydream of the little house in the country I planned to buy near my parents’ home in Scotland, Texas. Right then I really wanted the house because it was built on a hill where I’d seldom ever have to walk in mud.

Knowing I must stay alert, I opened my eyes and looked for trouble. He was only present in his mosquito disguise. Feeling safe, I stood Sweet Lips against the palm tree and took a can of C rations from my backpack, along with a P-38 can opener and a spoon. I opened the can of ham and lima beans and stared at the stuff, smothered in solifidied grease. I set the can down to my right in the mud, hoping the ninety-degree heat would liquefy the grease so I could pour some of it out.

In the meantime, I drank from my canteen. The water was warm, as usual, but refreshing. It was wet; that’s all that mattered.

While my meal slowly corroded, I decided to relieve myself at the nearest bush. I pulled down my pants and long johns, realizing that shining a full moon at hungry mosquitos needed to be a short-lived experience. Two minutes was as short as I could make it, and I think I incurred only one slight wound. The responsible mosquito, though, was dead.

After covering up my exposed parts, I sat down next to my food and my shotgun. I reflected for a couple of minutes on our mission, which involved reconnaissance and then sitting overnight on an ambush site on the Rach Nuoc Hoi waterway. This particular river was only forty meters wide and was still six hundred meters north of our position. We had to cross two minor tributaries before we got there. Also, one hundred meters before the stream, there was a hootch to inspect.

I looked at Mr. Meston, who was a few meters to my right, and he flashed the thumbs-up at me. I nodded, then he went back to digging into his C rats can. He looked like he was enjoying the stuff.

I looked at my can and saw the grease was still hard. Disgusted, I picked it up and thrust in my spoon, scooping out a blob. This brought back the pleasant childhood memory of a picnic when I had sat beneath a tree and shoveled pork and beans out of a can and into my mouth. Right then, I wished I had the pork and beans; the grease in my C rats was sticking to the roof of my mouth, guaranteeing me an unpleasant memory.

Fifteen minutes later, Meston gave the signal to get ready to move. After forcing down a last bite, I stuck the can upside-down in the mud, then stood up and stepped on it. It sank and vanished. On recon, we never left behind anything but our tracks.

Ignoring the gurgling noises in my gut, I briefly inspected my gear, picked up my weapon, and fell into line. I took point, as always, and, after reading my compass and checking with Mr. Meston, I began guiding the platoon on a northeasterly course which would take us to the first creek crossing.

As I advanced through the bush and the