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

“Smitty, you and I are gonna run along the riverbank to the Long Tau. Maybe we’ll spot him.” His voice was excited and carried a note of confidence. I, too, felt a sudden flush of hope,

“Flynn!” Mr. Meston barked. “Come with me.” Then he gave Markel the radio and told Mr. Schrader to secure the rehearsal and patrol with the rest of the men back to the Long Tau.

“Keep radio communication with Mighty Moe,” Mr. Meston directed Mr. Schrader. “Call for extraction when you reach the main river. Have the others pack Smitty’s gear.”

With that, I grabbed Sweet Lips from a resting place against my operating gear, then Mr. Meston, Flynn, and I broke into a run on the edge of the Rach La. Since we were less than three hundred meters from the Long Tau, Katsma couldn’t be far from us. He may have been dead, but maybe not. Maybe he had made it somehow. Dammit, he had to have made it. He was too good of a man not to have made it.

We ran in single file with me in the front, picking a way along the riverbank. After the first one hundred meters, the running became easier as we entered an area of defoliation. There were still bushes that had been well watered by the high tide, but they weren’t as dense farther back.

All of our eyes darted back and forth from the footing to the water, eager to spot any sign of Kats. If one of us could have but glimpsed his body, I’d have swum through hell and high water to get him ashore. As a matter of fact, I’d have cut off my right arm and traded it for Kats’s life if God had been in the business of making such deals.

With no sign of our teammate, we kept pressing onward, one foot in front of the other. My senses, as always when I was in the jungle, were teeming and feeding info to my brain. My skin, drenched with sweat, told me it was hot and humid. My ears, ever alert, picked up my inhaling and exhaling, and even the throbbing of my pulse. My nose drew in the smell of fish rotting somewhere on the beach. My tongue, after licking my dry lips, drew back inside my mouth with a speck or two of salt. And my eyes, crying loudest, told me that things were looking bad.

As we approached the intersection where the Rach La met the Long Tau, I scanned the main channel for activity. Mighty Moe and the Boston Whalers appeared several hundred meters downstream to the east. I pointed them out to Lieutenant Meston as we jogged.

“Let’s go!” Mr. Meston said, waving his hand in the direction of the boats. I angled to the east and ran with urgency. We were on flat, defoliated, grassy terrain, so cranking up the speed was the natural thing to do.

My eyes glanced along the Long Tau, looking for a body, but I realized my searching was in vain. The LCM-6 was far downstream, and drifting away as fast as we were running. Certainly, a man’s body would be pulled by the strong current in like manner.

“Hurry, Smitty!” Mr. Meston called from behind me. I looked back to see Flynn right behind me and Mr. Meston falling back and struggling. Mr. Meston’s face looked pained and desperate.

I decided to race as hard as I could for the boats, to give it one more chance. After all, Katsma, I knew, would do no less for me were I the one missing.

I went hard. Leaping a small ditch, I forced my legs into high gear. My arms started pumping at a frenzied pace. I stretched out for all I was worth, trying to reel in the LCM-6.

I leapt over another ditch, feeling like I was flying. I sensed that I’d gained a bit on Mighty Moe. Could I catch her?

Katsma suddenly appeared in my mind. He was running beside me, going all-out. The base gate at Nha Be was just ahead. We were neck and neck, revved to the maximum. Kats looked over at me with anguish in his eyes. We were both in overdrive, both overheating. We were ready to crash and burn, but the gate and the win were just ahead.

Then something cut us apart. Something separated us. I saw a form, a shape in the way. I thought it was Nga. I blinked my eyes, refocused, and I saw a darkness. I saw Death. Katsma began flailing his arms as he crashed through the gate. There was surging black water on the other side, and I screamed as he plunged in and disappeared into the darkness.

Stop! my brain cried. Mighty Moe was still five hundred meters ahead of me, and I couldn’t catch her. I gazed once more at the Long Tau, then bent over, put my hands on my knees for support and sucked in lots of air. Sweat beads ran off my face and fell to the ground between my coral booties. I glanced to my side, half hoping to see Katsma panting and perspiring and smiling as usual after our races, but he was not there. There was only a terrible void, an emptiness.

I looked down and watched my sweat drip to the grass below, but I could barely see. All was fuzzy as my eyes flooded with water. My sweat mixed with tears.

I heard Mr. Meston and Flynn approach, but I didn’t look up.

“Forget it, Smitty,” Flynn said weakly. “Katsma’s gone.”

Forget it. Yeah, sure. Forget Katsma. Forget one of the best men I’ve ever known.

Never. Never.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mission Eleven

“Youth is the first victim of war; the first fruit of peace. It takes twenty years or more of peace to make a man; it takes only twenty seconds of war to destroy him.”

Baudouin I of Belgium,

address to joint session of U.S. Congress,

May 12, 1959

DATE: 8, 9 October, 1967

TIME: 080645H to 090530H

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