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

far behind I saw the LCPL coming down the river. Mighty Moe eased her bow into the bank while letting down the bow ramp. As the ramp touched the shore, the ten men of Foxtrot Platoon, with Doc and me each carrying a baby, quickly boarded the boat. We boarded with confidence, believing we would not only be secure on Mighty Moe but that we could stand off any force that wished to confront us.

The coxswain reversed the engine and carefully maneuvered the boat away from the shore. As we backed up, he slowly turned the bow back into the current, then proceeded to accelerate forward. The LCPL hugged the far bank and allowed us to pass, then fell in behind and followed our tails out of there.

The procession traveled less than two hundred meters when some kind of a large round hit Mighty Moe’s starboard bow. Whatever it was, it was a dud, as it failed to detonate. Nevertheless, Charlie had shot at us from the riverbank, and he would pay big time.

All six of Mighty Moe’s .50-caliber machine guns immediately opened up, with three on starboard and three on portside blasting the respective shorelines. The LCPL’s two gunners opened fire, one with a mounted M-60 machine gun and the other with a Honeywell 40mm, which was a Gatling-gun affair. All .30-calibers started barking and everything in our hands slammed away at the jungle. Two helo gunships appeared overhead and joined the unbelievable uproar, spraying M-60 machine gun fire and exploding 2.75-inch rockets on the river banks. In all, two dozen weapons were simultaneously raining hell on some poor, dumb slobs who had been imprudent enough to have thrown a brick at our beloved Mighty Moe.

Whoever the dummies were, they deserved whatever hit them. But my eardrums were getting trounced by a hurricane of sound.

Our assault on the jungle was incredible. Not only were leaves and branches being blown into the air by the onslaught, but whole trees were being cut in half and were falling onto the riverbanks and into the water.

All kinds of cartridge cases and hulls flew everywhere. They were bouncing off the deck, sailing overboard, even hitting me in the arms and legs. I glanced at the babies and saw dozens of casings all around them. The boy with the enlarged head had one resting on his chest. His slanted eyes were barely open, and I wondered if he would live to see a better day.

After another half minute of intense landscaping activity, we vacated the premises. Doc and I cleared away the empty cartridges and sat down on the deck of the boat. I gently lifted the baby with the swollen head and cuddled him against my chest. He was limp and almost lifeless. Doc held the other baby who, despite his injured leg, had looked pretty good before the heavy offensive. Now he looked colorless.

I dropped my head and closed my eyes for a minute as we sped along the stream. I heard only the ringing of a giant bell inside my head. Between every peal, I saw the brave mother on the sampan bent over and protecting her baby, and then I saw her brains scattered everywhere.

I opened my eyes and noticed the helo gunships were staying right over us. The boys in the skies were making sure we didn’t run into cables tied across the stream to hang us up, to be followed by an ambush. Once again, I was grateful to those courageous men above.

When we reached the main river, a medevac arrived and hovered over Mighty Moe’s protective overhead. As Doc and I climbed on top of the cover over the well deck, ready to hand the two babies to the helicopter crew, one of the MST guys took off his green shirt and tossed it to me. Doc and I wrapped the babies in the shirt, then lifted the bundle up to awaiting arms.

A few moments later, the medevac flew away. I watched it go until it was out of sight.

I sat down on the deck and Doc dropped down beside me. Both of us had blood on our clothes. He put his arm around me. I looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine, just for a moment. We said nothing. The events of the day had already spoken too much.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mission Rehearsal

“Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

John Donne, Devotions

DATE: 6 October 1967

TIME: 0700H to 1930H

COORDINATES: YS023743U

UNITS INVOLVED: MST-3

TASK: Simulate method of capturing VC from sampan

METHOD OF INSERTION: LCM-6

METHOD OF EXTRACTION: Boston Whalers

TERRAIN: Flat, tall grass, underwater at high tide

MOON: 1/2

WEATHER: Clear

SEAL TEAM PERSONNEL:

Lt. Meston, Patrol Leader/ Rifleman, M-16

Lt. (jg) Schrader, Ass’t Patrol Leader/Rifleman, M-16

RM2 Smith, Point/Swimmer/Rifleman, Shotgun

MM2 Funkhouser (sick)

BT2 McCollum, Ordnance/Grenadier, M-79

BT2 Moses, Grenadier, M-79

ADJ2 Markel, Radioman/Rifleman, M-16

ADJ2 Flynn, Automatic Weapons, M-60

HM2 Brown, Corpsman/Radioman/Rifleman, M-16

SM3 Katsma, Rifleman, M-16

LDNN Ty, Swimmer/Rifleman, M-2 Carbine

LDNN Sat, Rifleman, M-16

LDNN Thanh, Rifleman, M-16

AZIMUTHS: 190 degrees-300m

ESCAPE: 010 degrees

PHASE LINES: None

CODE WORDS: None

I ate breakfast at 0545 hours, my mind drowning in my coffee. I was still haunted by our mission of four days earlier. Mr. Meston had told me both of the injured babies were doing well, but somehow I didn’t believe him. I thought he was just trying to make me feel better. And even if the babies were fine, their parents were not. All four of them found out in a big way they weren’t bulletproof, let alone immortal.

The day before, I had practiced karate exercises for an hour, then had played two hours of volleyball in an effort to take my mind off thoughts of death. I had been semisuccessful until I had picked up my laundry from Nga’s. While walking back to the base, the feel and smell of the clean clothes had stood in stark contrast to the feel and smell of this dirty war.

“Lighten up, Hawkeye!” Katsma cheered me as he sat down at