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

As the snake slithered around, I dropped down on my haunches and blew through the netting into Funk-houser’s ear. He squirmed a little, but after thirty seconds, he was still asleep.

A better idea popped into my mind. “Viper,” I whispered. Funky stirred. His eyes began moving beneath his eyelids.

“Viper!” I tried again. This time, Funky’s eyes popped open and focused straight up at the snake. For a seemingly endless few seconds, nothing happened. Just as I was ready to laugh and call off the prank, Funkhouser rolled his body toward me with tremendous speed and force. He crashed into the netting and flopped out of the bed and into my lap, pulling the net and Bolivar down with him. I, too, ended up sprawled out on the floor.

“Don’t hurt the snake!” I shouted as Funkhouser scrambled to his feet, stark naked. “It’s Bolivar!”

I looked up at Funky’s face; it was wearing a wild-eyed, helter-skelter expression. Bolivar was at my feet, and while Funky was still trying to get a grasp on things, I grabbed the snake and put it back into its cage.

“I oughta kill you!” Funkhouser hissed at me.

I laughed. “Come on, Funky, be nice to me. It’s my birthday.”

“Birthday, hell,” Funkhouser mumbled, picking up his mosquito net. “It’s your funeral if you ever do that again. I guarantee it. And the snake’s, too.”

I chuckled as I walked away and out of the barracks. That had been so much fun, I thought I’d do it again. But not soon. First I’d let Funky get over it. And next time I’d use a real viper. After all, if Funky was going to kill a snake, I didn’t want it to be Bolivar.

I walked into the chow hall and spotted Katsma and Bucklew sitting together. After heaping scrambled eggs and bacon on a plate and stacking four pieces of toast on top at the food counter, I poured coffee into a cup and walked the hungry man’s meal to my buddies’ table.

“Chow, Hawkeye,” greeted Katsma, looking up at me.

I set my cup and plate on the table and pulled out a chair.

“I’d invite you to sit your ass down,” continued Kats, “but it looks like you don’t need an invitation.”

I smiled and sat down.

Bucklew reached for one of my twelve pieces of bacon, but I stabbed my fork at his hand. He jerked away just in time.

“Come on, Smitty!” he complained. “You can’t eat all that! We’ve got PT in less than an hour!”

I shoved two pieces of bacon into my mouth at once. “No biggie,” I said while I chewed. “I’m not interested in a foot race against you two today. I’ve got other things on my mind.”

“Like what?” asked Katsma, plopping his fork down on his now-empty plate.

“Like going to Saigon and buying a radio,” I informed him, then I put a forkload of eggs in my mouth.

“Oh, yeah?” said Kats. “Who’s goin’ with you?”

I chewed some more, then swallowed before answering, “You are.”

“Me?”

“All of us are going,” I told him. “Foxtrot Platoon.”

The mess hall door opened and Funkhouser, wearing UDT swim trunks and a blue-and-gold T-shirt, entered. He immediately yelled, “It’s Gary Smith’s birthday today! Drinks are on him this afternoon!” He looked around, then saw me.

“There he is! The bastard himself!”

I gave Funky the finger. He gave me the same. Both of us were smiling, however, so I didn’t have to worry about losing my eggs due to a fist slamming into my stomach. I’d had the “fist-in-the-gut-upchuck experience” back in high school, where my girlfriend of a week hadn’t been charmed by the splatter on her dress. I had lost my hamburger and fries and her puppy love, even though I had won the fight.

Funkhouser served himself at the food counter and approached our table with a tray full of breakfast.

“After what you did to me, I shouldn’t be sittin’ with you, Smitty,” Funky grumbled, setting his tray on the table across from me. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll make an exception.”

As he sat in a chair, I retorted, “Since it’s my birthday, do me a favor and sit someplace else.” He looked hard at me, not at all amused, so I smiled real wide. I still wanted to keep my eggs in my breadbasket.

“Smitty, tell me more about this trip to Saigon,” Katsma said.

Before I answered, QM2 Bohannon hurried to our table and called my name.

“Your snake is on the loose!”

“Where?” I asked, dropping my fork and preparing to rise.

“South side of the barracks,” Bohannon replied.

I pushed my chair away from the table and gave Funkhouser an accusatory look. He choked down the food in his mouth.

“Don’t look at me!” he spit. “I didn’t let him go!”

I started for the door.

“Why didn’t you grab the snake, Bo?” I barked while not looking back.

“I hate snakes!” Bo called after me.

I jogged to the south side of the barracks, keeping my eyes peeled for Bolivar’s slithering in the sparse grass. Finding only pesky mosquitos, I searched the west side around the gun-cleaning table and diesel tub. Nothing there.

After inspecting the head and shower stalls, I covered the ground around the Seabees barracks, then the helo pad and Quonset hut. Then I started all over again.

Funkhouser, Bucklew, and Katsma spread out and helped me the second time around, but when we met fifteen minutes later at my cubicle in our barracks, none of us was holding a boa constrictor named Bolivar.

The snake’s cage was halfway beneath my bed with the mesh-wire top flopped open. I kicked at it in disgust.

“Man, I didn’t let him go,” Funkhouser said again.

Katsma patted me on the back. “Don’t worry, Hawk,” he said soothingly, “we’ll find him. He’ll be all right.”

“PT time!” someone yelled from outside the barracks.

Kats again slapped my back. “Let’s go. Your snake will prob’ly join us for sit-ups.”

All fourteen men of Foxtrot Platoon, along with a couple of other officers, gathered near the front gate at 0730 hours for PT. Katsma was told to lead