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

on his left leg while his right went even deeper. Again, his efforts were futile and he ended up falling and wallowing in the mud like an unpracticed hog.

All of us on both sides of the creek suppressed laughter, but lots of white teeth were showing through big grins. The only one not in the mood to laugh was Mr. Meston, who stripped his gear and slid down the bank and back into the stinking creek bottom. He battled his way to Brown, who was now up to his crotch in muck. Mr. Meston grabbed Brown’s M-16, then grabbed Brown’s hand and pulled until he freed him from the hold. By the time the two men climbed out of the bed, they were the dirtiest and ugliest men in the jungle.

As the muck in the creek bottom became progressively deeper and more unmanageable, Mr. Schrader’s group struggled to make it safely across. When they finally did, Mr. Meston motioned for me to take the point and get us the hell out of there. I was glad to put a little more distance between me and the malodorous lieutenant and the corpsman.

I patrolled through relatively dry ground and thick, nasty brush for thirty minutes until I reached a medium tributary. This channel had water in it. Checking the bank, I saw VC footprints all over the place.

Once again, Mr. Meston signaled me to recon the area. I followed the stream to the southwest, and after fifty meters, I discovered the Y of waterways where we were to set up our ambush. Our intelligence sources had informed us that a large VC hospital complex was located approximately six to nine hundred meters southwest of that Y.

Returning to the others, I used hand signals to tell Mr. Meston what I’d found. Strict noise discipline was a must in an area of heavy enemy activity, prohibiting voice communication. Mr. Meston alerted the others, and the ten of us cautiously moved to the ambush site.

At 0945 hours, Mr. Schrader and his four men set up along the riverbank for the first twelve-hour watch. Mr. Meston’s group positioned itself back in the brush as the rear security element. For me, that meant a little relaxation from the stress of functioning as point man on patrol.

I deployed three of the four claymore mines I’d been carrying, one on each flank and one in the jungle to our rear, then dropped my own rear onto some twisted mangrove prop roots that literally made for a half-ass seat. Resting Sweet Lips on my lap, I took a drink from one of my canteens and opened a C rats can of ham and eggs, one of the finer dishes issued to us swamp warriors. At least there was no big gob of grease in the ham and eggs entrée as there was in ham and lima beans.

As I ate, I contemplated a statement made by Mao Tse-tung, who said, “Political power comes out of the barrel of a gun.” I glanced at Sweet Lips and confirmed that the end of her barrel jammed between Mao’s legs would drain all the power, political or otherwise, out of his loins and would easily transfer it to the gun bearer, which I’d have loved to be me. And after the sign-over, believe me, I’d have squeezed the trigger and fragmented the president’s precious jewels.

I was distracted from these elevated thoughts by two black flies, which were flying tight circles around me. I tried to keep up with them with my eyes, and I did well until three or four more joined the merrymaking. I realized that the flies had been attracted by my brand new splash-on muddy cologne.

After a while, I ignored the little disease vectors, even though they were landing all over me. The fact that some were probably carrying malaria was an uncomfortable thought, but I took my weekly malaria pills faithfully, anyway. I closed my eyes and allowed my body to relax. It felt so good that I let my mind go blank and I fell asleep.

Suddenly awaking at 1155 hours, I shook the fuzziness out of my head, somehow gathering that I needed to regain my alertness. Something had tickled one of my senses. I glanced around my immediate vicinity. Seeing nothing besides the ordinary muck and yuck, I stopped moving my head, slowed my breathing and pricked up my ears.

In the next twenty seconds, I realized many things. The temperature had risen considerably, the mud all over my clothing had dried up, most of the flies were gone, the men around me were dozing. Then my ears told me what I needed to know. Human voices were coming from far away.

I lifted Sweet Lips from my lap and flicked off the safety. I hesitated and listened again. The voices were suddenly closer, emanating from upstream. I rose to my feet and started forward toward the ambush site. Peering through the dense foliage, I tried to spot one of the camouflaged SEALs waiting in the brush along the bank. Before I saw one, a sampan floated by on the water. I barely saw it between the nipa palm branches and leaves and the bushes. I only got a split-second look. Just as abruptly as it had appeared, the sampan vanished from my line of sight.

I heard a noise behind me and looked back to see Mr. Meston approaching. I motioned that I’d seen a sampan, and he got close and put his mouth right next to my right ear.

“See Mr. Schrader and ask why he didn’t fire!” Mr. Meston commanded.

I carefully advanced toward the riverbank to the place where the center of the killing zone of the ambush site should be. Mr. Schrader, who had been watching my convergence, materialized from behind a bush. I snuck beside him and gave him a “well, what happened?” shrug.

He whispered, “Old woman and two boys. Waiting for a better target.”

I nodded my head and slipped quietly back to Mr. Meston, who was