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

mud toward the creek, I was walking in an inch of water, which soon rose to two inches. I knew the water would get a little deeper, as high tide was still an hour away. The creek, however, was then only sixty meters in front of me.

My eyes darted from the water before me to a bush on my left, a tree on my right, the water ahead, and back toward my feet. Three meters directly in front of me there was something in the bushes growing out of the water. Something strange, a peculiar-looking log. I stepped closer, then the log rose higher in the water and became a seven-foot crocodile.

My heart exploded. The croc eyeballed me from six feet as I turned Sweet Lips toward its jaws. Instantly, the creature whirled and seemingly flew into the distant creek. Never had I witnessed anything move so swiftly, its legs a mere blur in the muck. My heart was getting its best workout in years.

I looked at Mr. Meston behind me, and I jokingly examined my pants to see if I’d wet them. At least I wanted Mr. Meston to believe I was joking. Then I proceeded toward the creek, Sweet Lips still shaking in my hands.

Once I reached the creek, Mr. Meston gave the hand signal for “danger point.” With that, Funkhouser deployed himself on our left flank with his M-60 machine gun, and McCollum, with the grenade launcher, positioned himself on our right flank. Mr. Meston, Bucklew, and Mr. Khan moved up behind me as I prepared to drop into the deep water of the creek.

Knowing that most of the creeks and tributaries in the Rung Sat Special Zone were over-the-head deep, all of us took a minute to blow up our UDT life jackets already in place beneath the H-harnesses we were wearing. On Mr. Meston’s signal, I took a moment to look for smiling crocodiles, then I waded into the creek, which was twenty feet wide. The water met me at the neck on the first step, so I didn’t even try for a second; instead, I swam across.

Upon my reaching the foliage on the far side, I crawled out onto the watery, muddy bank and poured the water out of Sweet Lips. Then I did a short recon before waving the other SEALs over.

McCollum came first, and then Funkhouser. Once out of the creek, they set up on right and left flank positions, as usual. The others followed single file.

After the brief swim, everyone deflated his life jacket and quickly inspected his gear. Mr. Meston pointed a finger at a stand of nipa palm trees, then whipped his finger around in tight, little circles in front of his face. That was the signal for “rally point,” which meant if we somehow got separated, we were to meet here. The only thing that could split us up was one whale of an enemy assault. I hoped I never would see the day I’d have to scramble back to a rally point.

From the stand of nipa palm, we were less than a hundred meters south of the second creek crossing. I guided the platoon there in twenty minutes. This creek, like the first, was not very wide, but it was deep.

I inflated my life jacket, then swam across. A short recon turned up nothing nasty, so I gave Meston the “all clear.” Funkhouser slid into the creek, and halfway across, he disappeared underwater. A moment later, his M-60 made an appearance, followed by Funky’s head. As he grasped some tree branches on my side of the creek, Funkhouser shook his head like a Labrador retriever, sending water droplets everywhere. He looked at me and grinned, then dumped the water out of the machine gun’s barrel.

I turned away and looked to the northwest where a hootch was supposedly located. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was not far. Maybe a hundred meters.

As the rest of the platoon crossed the creek, I continued watching the bushes. Funkhouser’s splashing had been a little noisy. VC may have heard us.

At Mr. Meston’s signal, I started for the hootch in ankle-deep water. Fifty meters later, I saw the hootch ahead and to my left, about forty meters away. It was sitting on a muddy plateau several inches above the water. I guided the platoon ten meters closer, then Mr. Meston motioned for us to form a skirmish line. McCollum and Funkhouser took the flank positions, their weapons pointed toward the hootch. Mr. Meston signaled for me to go in alone.

Everything worked the same as before. I skirted the hootch, noting its decayed condition: the palm fronds were disintegrating on the walls, and the roof was caving in. Around the hootch, there were only muddy deer tracks. Meston met me at the front, then I went in with my Sweet Lips.

Inside the only signs that people once had lived there were a remnant of mosquito net hanging near the entrance and some charcoal residue in one corner of the hard-packed mud floor.

Mr. Meston came in and made a studious walk around the floor, shrugged, and left. I followed right behind him. There was only one thing left to do on the mission, and the doing of it was just eighty meters to the northwest. That was where we’d find the main channel of the Rach Nuoc Hoi, close to where it met the Song Ba Gioi. That was also where we hoped to raise a brouhaha for which formal invitations would be unnecessary.

I took the point and started for the river ambush site. The tide was receding and I was walking in thick, slick mud. Also, the closer I got to the river, the heavier the brush I had to penetrate. I was in a real jungle, all right. Our regular army stayed away from hellholes like that. Only SEALs were crazy enough to explore and duke it out in the muck and mire of the Rung Sat Special Zone.

After almost