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

“That’s goin’ ’round,” Brown commented.

I stabbed my fork into a link sausage and poked the whole thing into my mouth. Having eaten little the day before, I was famished.

Moses set his fork on his cleaned plate and picked up his coffee cup. Before drinking, he said, “It’s supposed to rain like hell today.”

“Great,” Flynn grumbled. “Another one of those days where you gotta jump in the river to dry off.”

Moses chuckled. “And we’ll prob’ly be out there gettin’ soaked to the bone.” He sipped from his coffee cup.

“What makes you think so?” asked Brown.

Moses swallowed, set down his cup, and replied, “It’s called ‘gettin’ right back in the saddle after you’ve been thrown.’ The officers aren’t gonna let us sit around and stew. They’re gonna put us back out there.”

Flynn nodded in agreement. “First Lieutenant Salisbury is gonna grill us.”

“He’ll go easy,” I interjected softly. “It was an accident, and nobody needs a browbeating over it.”

No one said anything for a few seconds. Flynn finally retorted. “We shall see.”

Two hours later I found myself in the briefing room with Flynn, Moses, Brown, McCollum, Markel, and Dicey from second squad. Lieutenants Meston and Schrader were also present as we listened to Lieutenant Salisbury’s pep talk. His words were encouraging and inspiring, giving all of us a sense of relief.

“However,” Mr. Salisbury said, and the tonal change in his voice alone was enough to cause instant apprehension, “there’s one more step you will all have to endure.”

I glanced at Mr. Meston, whose face looked pale.

“All Foxtrot, PBR, and MST personnel involved in yesterday’s exercise will speak individually with the XO at the officers’ club, beginning at 0900 hours. The XO will be handling the internal investigation.”

Flynn looked at me and raised his eyebrows. He had been right about the grilling; he just had had the wrong guy heating up the coals. Still, I thought an investigation would only show that Kats’s death was nobody’s fault. That was the truth of the matter, and the truth is the truth. No doubt, all of our stories would correlate, and this tragedy would be put to rest.

I was called in to the Lieutenant Commander’s office at 0950 hours, after Lieutenant Meston and the Boston Whaler crew. The XO, sitting at his desk, had me sit in a chair across from him. He said he wanted to know, in exact detail, how I had tied Kats in our rehearsal. I told him, then took a couple of minutes to write the account on a piece of paper.

“Is tying personnel during exercises, while being transported over water, a frequent occurrence for UDT and SEAL teams?” the XO deliberately and pointedly asked me.

I sensed this question was possibly the biggest one of all, so I ran the answer through my mind for a few seconds before engaging my tongue.

“Yes, sir,” I replied steadily. “On the Colorado River, during the escape-and-evasion course, the UDT instructors tied me the same way I tied Katsma. This is routine, sir.”

The XO studied my face for a moment, then said, “Add that information to your written report.”

As I wrote, he told his yeoman via his intercom to send in five crewmen of the PBR. In less than a minute the office door opened and the five men entered. The lieutenant commander told them to stand behind my chair.

“Are you finished, Smith?” he asked me, sounding impatient.

“Yes, sir,” I answered as I wrote my last two words and punched a period at the end.

“All right,” the XO said, opening his top desk drawer and lifting out a roll of electrical tape. The tape was identical to that which I had used in the mission rehearsal.

“I want you to tie all five of these men’s hands in the precise manner you tied Katsma’s hands,” the XO instructed me as he reached the tape out to me across his desk.

I took the tape and stood up. Turning around, I glanced at the faces of the crew of the PBR, with whom I had searched for Kats’s body. Their faces were as red and sunburned as mine.

“I’ll be tying your hands behind your backs,” I informed them, then I walked around the first man, who happened to be the coxswain. He cooperated by moving his hands behind his back for me. Just as I had done Kats, I wrapped the tape three times around the coxswain’s wrists.

After taking a couple of minutes to tie the other four men’s hands, I looked at the executive officer and nodded my head.

“All right,” he said, sitting forward in his chair, “I want all of you to attempt to break loose, right now.” Simultaneously, the men strained and pulled, and in a matter of a few seconds, all five snapped the tape and displayed their freed hands. The XO stared for a moment, then sat back in his chair. I could almost see his mind going a hundred miles an hour.

“Thank you,” he finally said. “You’re all dismissed.”

I walked back to my barracks, glad that the quizzing was done.

At 1400 hours, Lieutenant (jg) Schrader gave Foxtrot Platoon a warning order. The warning order was a “heads up” that a mission was imminent. At 1900 hours, Mr. Schrader would brief us on a twenty-four-hour recon and river ambush.

I gathered my gear for the op, then checked out Sweet Lips from the armory. I hadn’t cleaned and oiled her as well as usual after the mission rehearsal, so I took her to the cleaning table outside my barracks. Using diesel fuel and a couple of firm bristle brushes, I gave the shotgun a real good scrub. When I finished, Sweet Lips looked pretty enough to kiss, which I did in front of two of my teammates.

“You must be awful horny,” McCollum said with a chuckle.

“I just wanna keep my lady happy,” I replied, wiping the stock once more with a cloth. “After all, she never complains, does everything I want, and smells and looks better than you do.”

“I agree!” Moses