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

audacious as thieves returning to the scene of their crime, the fifteen of us joined Pearson in the truck. Lieutenants Meston and Salisbury climbed into the cab with Pearson, and the rest of us climbed into the open box in the back. A few of the guys carried sidearms, which they weren’t supposed to do in Saigon, but they kept the weapons “hidden,” actually bulging, inside their shirts and belts. Smith and Wesson 9mms and .38 Specials were the weapons of concealment.

McCollum and Flynn jumped in the back of the truck after handing up a case of beer apiece.

“These are in celebration of Smitty’s birthday!” McCollum declared, flashing me a smile. I chuckled to myself, knowing the beer would have come along regardless. Any excuse for beer was a good excuse. As a matter of fact, on a previous trip to Saigon we had commemorated Mickey and Minnie Mouse’s anniversary, and God only knew if we had had the correct date or even if the two rodents had ever formally been married. But the beer had tasted particularly good that day.

With all on board, Pearson drove us through the base gate. Down the hard-packed gravel road past the hootches of Nha Be we went. A couple of Vietnamese children, naked at the side of the road, waved at us. I waved back.

A distinguished old man with a white goatee just stared as we went by. He was short and frail, and his clothes literally hung on him. He looked despondent. Like most elderly Vietnamese men, I was sure he cared not for war but wanted only to live peaceably with his family.

As we left the old man and the village of Nha Be behind us, Pearson sped up. Since the road to Saigon was immediately west of the northern end of the Rung Sat Special Zone, and was, in fact, separated from the RSSZ initially only by the Long Tau River, the trip was potentially dangerous. The VC sometimes mined the road, using both pressure and command-detonated mines. The most effective mines were usually command-detonated. The VC, while hiding in the jungle, chose their target and detonated the mine, using the current from flashlight batteries, when the target moved into the kill zone. After blowing a vehicle off the road, they killed any survivors. Also, VC snipers occasionally sat in wait of a good target. Obviously, a rig carrying a bunch of beer-guzzling men from a U.S. naval base made an exceptionally enticing target.

As Pearson drove faster, we opted for our number one defense against the thought of a possible ambush, which was the cold beer. It took but a few more seconds before everyone in the box had a beer can in his hand.

“To Smitty!” Funkhouser called out, hoisting his can over his head. The others saluted me in the same fashion, then McCollum started singing “Happy Birthday.” All joined in, then gulped their beers when the last word was sung.

Halfway through the second round, I heard the blast of a rifle from the east side of the road. I looked into a rice paddy, but I didn’t see the shooter.

Another shot rang out, then a third.

“Sniper!” Mojica warned us.

Doc Mahner, standing just behind the cab, slapped the roof of the cab with his hand to get Pearson’s immediate attention from behind the wheel.

“Sniper!” he shouted. “Go faster!”

I heard the sonic pop of a fourth bullet fly by my head before I heard the report of the rifle. Out of reflex, I ducked. Of course, the bullet was already buried in a palm tree on the other side of the road by the time I had reacted.

Pearson was floorboarding the accelerator and I had to hold onto the side of the truck as we bounced all over the road.

“Pass me another beer!” cried Funkhouser, shrugging off the attack.

“Yeah!” shouted Flynn as another shot was fired. Flynn looked back down the road and flashed his middle finger at the sniper.

“You’ll never hit us, you stinkin’ gook!” Flynn yelled at the top of his lungs. “We’re too fast, you SOB.”

“Hoo-yah!” I concurred. The rest erupted into a shout, then we passed out some more beer.

The next few miles were uneventful, unless one called beer guzzling and profane jokes an event. As we got closer to Saigon, we passed a Lambretta motor scooter with an attached platform and five Vietnamese aboard. The roof of the scooter had a luggage rack which was loaded with chickens. The two adults ignored us, but three children stared blankly as we went by.

The occasional hootch on the side of the road of a couple miles back became many hootches. Old French two- and three-story buildings increased in appearance, as did plain one- and two-story buildings like those of Taiwan and China.

Doc Brown reached into his Levi’s jeans front pocket and pulled out a minigrenade. He saw me looking at him and said, “Saigon scares me more than the jungle.” Then he shoved the grenade back into his pocket.

I didn’t blame Doc for his nervousness. The Vietnamese were prejudiced against black people, and Doc was black. To me, he was a friend, that was all. Not black or white, just Doc. He was a good teammate, always there and always ready to help. In combat, he was very cool, calm, and collected. It was too bad, I thought, that he had to face prejudice even in Vietnam. Facing death in the jungle was enough burden for any man without adding to it.

Entering Saigon, we saw people everywhere. Many were on foot, while others drove vehicles, motorbikes, pedicabs, or rode bicycles. The funny thing was, they all ignored us. Why they did this, I couldn’t figure out. After all, we were there fighting and dying for their freedoms, and they didn’t seem to care one iota. Besides, I wondered how people can not notice a pickup loaded with loaded U.S. servicemen. The mystery of it pissed me off.

Driving carefully now, due to the heavy traffic, Pearson took us