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

I coughed and said, “The cockroach is crawlin’ back up my throat.”

One SEAL from Echo Platoon ran out of the Quonset hut, hands cupped over his mouth.

McCollum watched the man go, then hollered, “It looks to me like Smitty won!” My platoon buddies shouted several hoo-yahs in agreement.

The party continued nonstop for nine hours, with many of the 230 men on base making an appearance. The Seabees who worked the day shift were the last to show, but by the time they did, I was too inebriated to care.

At 2100 hours, after countless beers and shuffleboard games, I called it quits and wended my way to the barracks and my bed. I remembered tucking in the mosquito netting and my head hitting the pillow, but that was all I remembered.

The next morning, despite headaches and hangovers, our entire platoon of fourteen men was awake at 0600 hours for breakfast, and at 0730 were assembled for calisthenics. All of us were wearing UDT swim trunks and lightweight tennis shoes. A few men wore T-shirts, but the rest were bare-chested, including me.

Lieutenant Meston told me to lead the PT, which I did. After half an hour of vigorous exercises, everyone was perspiring heavily, which was good. I’d found PT to be the best way of sweating out all the beer I’d consumed at a party.

When I finished guiding the platoon through the numerous routines, Meston ordered a six-mile run. That put a smile on my face, as I loved to run. At six feet, two inches, and a hundred and seventy-five pounds, lean and mean, with a good pair of lungs, I was blessed with a runner’s body and the ability to fly. Bucklew, who was another running enthusiast, and I grabbed the front and led the others out the gate of the ten-acre naval base and onto a narrow, hard-packed gravel road. The road extended all the way to Saigon, which was seven miles northwest.

Immediately upon leaving the base, we began passing by the four dozen hootches which were built on stilts on both sides of the road. I noticed Nga’s hootch and was reminded that I had to take in my dirty clothes for cleaning and pressing.

It took less than a minute for Bucklew and me to run through the village of Nha Be, and as we left it behind, Katsma from Foxtrot 2d Squad caught up to us. He was a five-foot-nine, barrel-chested strong man, built like Atlas, and he was no slouch of a runner, either. We were running at a sub-six-minute-per-mile pace as “Kats” joined us.

“You call this fast?” Kats taunted us.

“Fast enough to keep you lookin’ at our cute little butts,” I said, glancing over my left shoulder at this determined runner.

“They’re cute, all right,” Kats chuckled, then loudly sucked in some air.

Bucklew picked up the pace a notch. “We’ll show you fast on the way back when there’s a mile to go.”

Kats stayed right behind us. “I’ll be here waiting.”

“Yeah,” I said between breaths, “watchin’ our lovely buns.” I smiled. Katsma intended to run directly behind me, drafting off me for five and a half miles. Then, as usual, he’d try to pass and beat us to the naval base’s front gate.

I checked my watch after a mile. We were cruising at a 5:38 pace. Not extremely fast, but quick enough to put two hundred yards between the three of us and the next two SEALs. The pace was also fast enough to make talking tough. Still, Kats persisted.

“Remember last year, Smitty, when you won the SEAL Team Olympic run on the Silver Strand?” he asked, grabbing air every few words.

“I’ll never forget it,” I answered, “especially since I beat you.” I looked at Bucklew, who was alongside my right shoulder and the perfect picture of a runner. He took a brief look at me, and I winked at him.

Kats gave a short laugh. “Ha! It was a twelve-and-a-half-mile run, and I tore my thigh muscle after eight miles.” He paused for a couple deep drags of oxygen. “You call that a victory?”

I made him wait several seconds for an answer, then I boasted loudly, “Yeah!”

“Bull,” he grumbled, and the conversation ended. There was to be no more talking as the pace quickened again.

Bucklew moved half a stride ahead of me for a few seconds until I kicked it up a bit to draw even. I looked off to my left at the mud flats and rice paddies, enjoying the exhilaration and sense of freedom that running brought. It felt good to be alive and strong.

My good feelings didn’t last long. We’d run the second mile in 5:26, and Bucklew was cranking the pace higher. Kats was running right up my back.

Crap, I thought, these guys were crazy. Then I ran faster. My body was working hard now, and my brain told me I was in for a real workout. At that pace, I couldn’t enjoy the scenery; instead, I had to concentrate on my form, my breathing, and on relaxing my body. Sweat poured into my eyes as I focused on the road ahead. My breathing was loud, and I could hear Bucklew and Kats, as well. Suck in, blow out. Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. Man, it was getting fast.

I saw the old Buddhist pagoda ahead on the left, which sat at the three-mile mark and our turnaround point. As we reached it, I glanced at my watch; we’d run the third mile in 5:18.

“Piece of cake,” I lied as I broke to my right and made a tight-circle turnabout on the road. Bucklew and Kats revolved with me until we were all running south, retracing our steps.

The pace stayed fast. Bucklew and I kept abreast of each other, while Kats continued benefiting from my cutting a path through the heavy, humid air for him. Not until we covered a quarter of a mile did we approach one of the other SEALs still running north. ADJ3 Flynn, an automatic weapons