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

and swam like porpoises in order to pop our heads above water for air. The exercise hadn’t been that difficult.

“He had to be knocked out to keep him from coming up,” Moses finished his supposition.

I nodded my head, then quietly said, “He’ll come up sooner or later, and I want to send him home where he belongs. Keep your eyes peeled.” I sat down on the starboard side of the PBR as we cruised down the Long Tau close to the southern bank. My eyes darted everywhere, as the body could be anywhere. Somewhere in that great river was my teammate, and I was determined to find him.

After twenty minutes, we’d traveled downstream about three miles. The coxswain turned the boat to the port side and crossed five hundred meters of water to the opposite shore, where we headed slowly upstream in our search.

The sun was cranked to the hilt, scorching me. I glanced at its blazing yellow face and the beast blinded me in return. Closing my eyes, I watched dancing spotlights torch my brain.

Opening my eyes again, I blinked rapidly, then squeezed my eyelids together in my fight to defeat the incessant sun spots. After several seconds, they plagued me still. But like all human beings who occasionally have been dumb enough to glare at the sun, I’d been in this position before, and I knew the little bouncing buggers would soon go back to wherever it was they had come from.

Halfway ignoring the spots, I glanced around inside the boat at the crew. All of the men seemed rather chipper. I hated that for a moment until I realized we had to work at staying lively for the sake of team morale. We couldn’t allow Kats’s death to destroy us.

I’ve got to let this go, I spoke inside myself. Kats’s destiny was in bigger hands than mine now, so I had to let him go. My other teammates would be counting on me to be a hundred percent ready for the next mission, which meant being mentally “up.” With these thoughts in mind, I forced a grin at Mr. Schrader, who was staring at me.

“He was a good man,” I stated loudly. “Let’s win this stinking war and make sure he didn’t die in vain.”

Mr. Schrader gave me a thumbs-up and said, “We’ll kick some ass.”

But for the next eight hours, our asses got kicked by stifling heat, humidity, and the tedium of doing nothing but making runs up and down the big river. Even my eyes were sunburned when we finally gave up and went back to the base.

“His body will surface in a day or two,” I told the coxswain in an attempt to keep things somewhat positive.

“Yeah,” he replied, “if the sharks don’t eat him first.”

I hadn’t forgotten the sharks; I just didn’t want to talk or think about them. And those giant, God-awful, saltwater rats would rip away at a gallant SEAL. Damn them. When Moses and I, sunburned and tired, arrived at our barracks just after dark, Brown informed us of a meeting in the morning at 0830 hours. We were to gather in the TOC (Tactical Operations Center) with Lieutenant Salisbury, no doubt to hear all sides of the story of Katsma’s death and for a needed pep talk.

I walked to my cubicle and found Funkhouser sitting up in his bed, protected by his mosquito net and writing a letter. He lowered his pen and pad of paper as I reached the foot of my bed.

“Did you find him?” he inquired, his voice hoarse from the flulike illness, which had kept him from the mission rehearsal.

“No,” I replied, “but we will.” I sat down on my footlocker to untie my boots. I started jerking impatiently at the laces, which didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

Funkhouser, observing my touchy behavior, was considerate and asked no questions, such as the natural “What happened?” He undoubtedly had been told the main details several times already.

After several more frustrating seconds, I pulled off my left boot and shoved it beneath the corner of my bed.

“You got any whiskey?” I asked impulsively, glancing at my roommate.

“Yeah. You want a shot?”

I nodded my head and bent down to untie my right boot.

“Open my locker and it’s right on top,” Funkhouser offered. “Pour yourself whatever you want, and give me a glass. I need something strong to kill this crud I’ve got.”

I got my boot off, slipped it under my bed and moved to Funky’s footlocker. I lifted the trunk lid, gathered the essentials, and in less than a minute, Funky and I were gulping Early Times whiskey. He was trying to cure the crud, and I was trying to sink the sharks. After several shots apiece, our conscious vexations ceased as we passed out in our beds.

The next thing I knew, someone was yelling, “Reveille!” just outside our cubicle. I rubbed my face awake and opened my eyes, groggily aware that I’d been dreaming that Katsma was dead. A few seconds later, I realized it was not a dream at all; rather, it was a dreadful truth that had slimed over my brain’s control room. The cleanup process would take a while.

Looking at my Rolex watch, I saw that it was 0635 hours. I climbed out of the sack and got dressed for breakfast. Thinking about eating, I remembered Bolivar and fed him a half dozen beetles I’d imprisoned in a small glass jar. For a moment, I was tempted to reach under Funkhouser’s mosquito net and interrupt the sound sleeper’s snoring by shoving a beetle into his mouth. The thought was fleeting, however, and I left my sick roommate alone with his feverish visions.

At the mess hall, I ended up sitting at a table already occupied by Flynn, Brown, and Moses. All three greeted me, then returned to their conversation.

“Bucklew went back to CONUS,” Flynn said, referring to the continental United States, as he chewed some food.

“What for?” Moses asked.

Flynn smacked his lips. “A death in