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

I managed a smile. “You’re right,” I said, shaking off the blues. Kats’s friendliness always had a positive effect on me.

Katsma dug into his biscuits and gravy. “Eat good,” he said. “Today’s practice evolution might get long. After all, you’re gonna have to try to capture me, and I won’t make it easy.”

We were rehearsing the capture of a Viet Cong from the T-10 area, from whom we would extract good intelligence information. We knew there were big enemy units in the T-10, and we needed to find out where they were. The area was so thick that just about the only way to find them was to be told their location.

“Don’t be so competitive,” I told Kats. “This is only a rehearsal. We can get serious when we’re doing the real thing.”

Kats looked at me with a mischievous grin, then shoved a whole biscuit into his mouth. The gravy ran out the sides of his lips, and we both chuckled.

At 0700 hours, twelve of us boarded Mighty Moe for the hour trip down the Long Tau River to our point of insertion. Two Boston Whalers followed us to our objective. Upon arrival, we inserted onto the riverbank, observing all security measures, leaving the boats in the main channel to await our call for extraction.

I took the point and began moving parallel to a small stream called the Vam Sat. Each step was relatively easy, as the terrain was flat and sprouting only tall grass. The ground was soggy due to being underwater during high tides.

I didn’t sense the usual tension as I patroled, as I was aware this was simply a practice op in a relatively secure administrative training area; however, I still had to play everything straight because one never knew for sure where the enemy may lurk. I certainly didn’t want to trip a little gookish surprise booby trap.

As we traveled the three hundred meters to our simulated ambush site, I spotted three ducks flying low over our heads. Their wings were spread and curved downward for landing. Suddenly they changed their plans, flapped their wings and soared higher. Obviously, they had spied their most feared enemy: the 12-gauge pump shotgun in my hands. I’d seen this fast-feathered reaction a multitude of times back home in Texas: the quacks had moved in, prepared to light, then up had popped the mouth of the dreaded monster from the lagoon. No duck that loved life needed more than a split-second glance before he freaked and beat the hell out of the air, bound for dizzying heights. When dealing with me, many a surprised duck had died with that “look of horror” on his beak. That morning, however, those lucky duckies got away, never to realize that strict noise discipline had saved their tail feathers.

About a hundred meters from our ambush site, I reached a creek. I signaled Mr. Meston, and he signaled “danger point” to the others. Katsma positioned himself on our right flank with his M-16 rifle. McCollum moved to our left flank with his M-79 grenade launcher. Mr. Meston, as always, moved up behind me as I stepped down into the creek bottom, which was only three feet deep with water.

The creek was five meters wide and easy to cross. When I climbed out on the opposite bank, I made a short recon, finding nothing of concern. I then waved the others across.

McCollum stepped into the water first, following my exact path, which I had found to be safe. Katsma came second. When they reached my side, they set up on right and left flanks. The rest of the men filed across in a well-spaced line.

We patrolled in a southerly direction for perhaps fifty meters, paralleling the direction of the meandering creek for that short distance. Then Mr. Meston pointed for me to go west, which meant we had to cross the creek again.

We handled the creek crossing in the same manner as earlier, then moved sixty meters to the Rach La and the ambush site. Following the previous day’s briefing instructions, eight of us set up on the eastern bank of the large stream. ADJ2 Markel, with the radio, positioned himself a few meters in back of Mr. Meston. Mr. Schrader, ADJ2 Flynn, and LDNN Thanh set up as rear security.

With everyone in place, Katsma, who was going to play the part of a VC bad guy in our rehearsal, slipped down into the stream and began swimming across the twenty-foot-deep water. I admired him from my position at Mr. Meston’s left side. His strokes were powerful in the swift current.

I raised my eyes from Kats and searched the opposite bank. I was looking for anything that could endanger my friend, such as the enemy or a “man-eating man-a-cheetah.” Spotting nothing in the bushes, I focused on Kats as he reached the shore. As he lifted himself out of the stream and climbed the bank, water cascaded off his body and clothes.

With an M-16 in his hands, Katsma did a short recon of the shoreline. Convinced that all was well, he signaled Mr. Meston with the thumbs-up sign, then stepped back into the brush.

Mr. Meston motioned for LDNN Ty and me to enter the stream. I was carrying a haversack of ten pounds of C-4 explosives, weighted down on a flotation bladder, which was attached to a hundred and fifty feet of reinforced electrical firing wire. Ty and I were to swim the explosives about three-fourths of the way across the Rach La, stringing out the full length of the firing wire from Mr. Meston’s position, then let the weighted haversack drop from the flotation bladder and sink to the bottom of the stream.

Ty and I walked upstream along the bank as far as the firing wire would reach, slipped into our duck fins, then slid into the water. Immediately, we had to swim hard toward the opposite bank, as the current was extremely strong. After a minute of all-out effort, we