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

I had finally found “a true cause with a sense of urgency.” The best part was the privilege and honor of serving my country and the promise of retirement, if I survived. I had a roof over my head, clothes on my back, food in my belly, and direction in my life. I was delighted and thrilled that I might possibly become a member of a great organization, the Underwater Demolition Team.

Our daily schedule was very basic. We started the day off with one hour of PT or a run of the obstacle course. Afterward, we swam for the rest of the morning, then ran up and down the Silver Strand for the afternoon, or vice versa. All of this physical activity was carefully planned to prepare us for Hell Week.

One morning, after a hard PT, we ran all over the Silver Strand, through the sand dunes, out into the surf, rolled in the sand and raced from one point to another. The “goon squad,” which consisted of the slower runners, was continually harassed by Friendly Freddie and Barney Ripper. Even our corpsman, Doc Beaver, a big Indian, had no sympathy. At one point, Doc drove the ambulance past us, dragging one of the goon squad boys behind the ambulance with Freddie and Barney running alongside, cursing and throwing driftwood at him. The next morning, the harassed trainee was shipped out. He must have been a radioman.

For those of us up front, we were forced to inhale Instructor Olivera’s cigar smoke as he led us on each day’s run. We never did figure out how he could run ten to fifteen miles daily, a burning cigar or a large wad of Beechnut chewing tobacco in his mouth, and outrun every one of us. He was an incredible guy.

After lunch we began a timed two-mile swim in the swimming pool. Progressively, the swim degenerated into a free-for-all at each end of the pool where at least half of the class was bottlenecked. The stronger swimmers were forced to literally swim over the weaker ones. It was not a pretty sight. On occasion, a fistfight would erupt until the combatants were overrun by other swimmers. It was every man for himself!

One day, in the midst of this chaotic situation, I heard Instructor Olivera yell, “Country, get your butt over here.”

I quickly swam up to the edge of the pool at the feet of Boatswain Mate Second Class Olivera. “Yes, Olivera?” Olivera was not only a legend, but was also one of the all-time fastest long-distance runners in the Teams. He had been in the Navy for about sixteen years, but in the fifties and early sixties, it was not uncommon for a career sailor to retire as a Second Class Petty Officer (enlisted paygrade E-5). He was also half Arapaho and half Italian. Olivera had a classic hooked nose, balding pate, and dark complexion. He repeatedly made life miserable for those whose attitudes weren’t up to snuff; yet, we admired him and greatly respected him. Of course, it was easy to respect someone when he had almost absolute power over one’s life. Olivera was able to continually motivate us to push ourselves beyond what we thought to be our absolute physical limits. On rare occasions, Olivera would even move up beside one of us and offer a word of encouragement.

“Country, Instructor Enoch tells me you like chewing tobacco?” Olivera asked while reaching into his well-rounded right cheek and pulling out a well-used wad of Beechnut.

Instinctively, I knew this was one of those times for diversion. “Yes, Olivera. I prefer Days Work,” I said, grinning weakly. “It’s juicier and more satisfying.”

Olivera broke out hee-hawing as only he could. His laughter was a mixture of total control and manipulation, with skepticism and cynicism thrown in for good measure. “Open your mouth and chew on this for a while, and see how satisfying it is.” He shoved the large gob of Beechnut into my open mouth. “After you finish the two-mile swim [without fins], report to me at the ‘lean and rest’ [push-up position]. I want to know how satisfying that Beechnut chewing tobacco was.”

“Yes, Olivera! Hoo-yah!” I cried as I returned to a pool filled with about one hundred trainees, all trying to swim a two-mile race and somehow keep from being drowned by the masses of swimmers bottlenecked at the ends of the pool. I had never had the opportunity to swim two miles with a secondhand plug of chewing tobacco in my mouth. Worst of all, the swim was a timed race, and the slower swimmers would later receive special instructions on motivation. Not only was I not interested in motivational training (sand and surf), but I was determined to be in the top twenty-five percent, do or die. And so I achieved, thanks to Olivera’s crafty method of motivating me.

Our class was the last one to have the privilege to go through the Colorado River survival week course. We were three-quarters of the way through training at that point. There was a faint light at the end of the tunnel. The scenario we were forced to participate in was based on the premise of our having previously destroyed a military target in North Vietnam. Our problem was that we had to evade all enemy forces lurking at numerous points between Davis and Parker Dams. There was no sanctuary until we reached Parker Dam, and that was to be accomplished no later than 0800 hours on Saturday morning. We were divided into five-man boat crews. Each boat was a seven-man-capable rubber raft called an IBS (inflatable boat, small).

All six boat crews were inserted just below the Davis Dam on Monday evening, south of Lake Mohave. We were to continue traveling south for five nights until we reached Parker Dam at the southern end of Lake Havasu. Each boat crew was to travel independently of the others. All travel was to be done during