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

Franklin D. Roosevelt,

Chautauqua, New York,

August 14, 1936

DATE: 4, 5 November 1967

TIME: 041830H to 050530H

UNITS INVOLVED: Foxtrot 1, MST-3, PBR

TASK: Overnight river ambush

METHOD OF INSERTION: PBR

METHOD OF EXTRACTION: LCM-6

TERRAIN: Thick water palm

TIDE: 1720H-12.5 feet, 2240H-7.5 feet, 0400H-13.1 feet

MOON: 1/4

WEATHER: Heavy rain

SEAL TEAM PERSONNEL:

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

Lt. Flynn, Ass’t. Patrol Leader/Rifleman, M-16

RM2 Smith, Point/Rifleman, Shotgun

MM2 Funkhouser, Automatic Weapon, Stoner

BT2 McCollum, Ordnance/Grenadier, M-79

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

LDNN Ty, Ass’t. Point/Rifleman, M-16

AZIMUTHS: 190 degrees-50m

ESCAPE: 000 degrees

CODE WORDS: Insert-Yale, Ambush Site-Harvard, Extract-Dartmouth, Challenge and Reply—Two numbers total 10

The early morning was dark and quiet as our squad walked across the naval base to our barracks. The mobile support team followed behind us. No one seemed in the mood for talking, but we had to debrief.

We went upstairs to the briefing/intelligence room, and Mr. Schrader quickly reviewed the mission. When he asked for suggestions or comments, there were none. The recommendation that came to my mind was, “Next time, let’s not bark up the wrong tree,” but I didn’t say it. The guys may not have been able to grasp such sophisticated humor at that early hour. The second suggestion I had was, “Let’s patrol a little faster next time,” but I didn’t mention that either, because next time Mr. Meston would be back in charge, not Mr. Schrader. Mr. Schrader had been just a substitute while Mr. Meston had filled out reports and met with the XO about Katsma’s accident.

When Mr. Schrader dismissed us, I went straight to the showers. I stepped into the shower with my cammo clothing still on my body and Sweet Lips in my hands. The water felt good as it cascaded off the top of my head and down my back. As always, I gave my shotgun a good rinsing, then I peeled off each article of clothing as it got cleaned.

When I finished, Brown was ready to take my place in the shower. I scooped up my wet clothes and my gun and moved out of Brown’s way. I then hung the clothing in the dressing room before heading for our berthing space and my cubicle. I knew I was a sight to see, stark naked and carrying a 12-gauge pump shotgun. If my past girlfriends could have gotten a glimpse of me then, they’d have realized what they were missing. On the other hand, the manic depressive, schizophrenic, serial-killer look wasn’t playing too well in Abilene.

Once at my cubicle, I stood Sweet Lips in the corner and slipped into my blue-and-gold T-shirt and UDT swim trunks. In a flash, I climbed into bed and fell asleep when my head hit the pillow.

Sometime around 0700 hours, I awoke and looked at my watch. It was working again, but it showed 1827 hours, and I knew that was nowhere near the correct time. I pulled on my coral shoes, then walked to the mess hall for breakfast. Funkhouser, already there and pretty much recovered from his illness, was eating with McCollum. I grabbed a plate of “shit on a shingle,” which was ground beef mixed with gravy, and some peaches and coffee and sat with the two men.

I wolfed down my food and finished when Funky and Muck did.

“What time is it?” I asked Funkhouser as we left the chow hall.

“Zero seven twenty-four,” he informed me, and I set my watch.

“Let’s run around the base,” I suggested. Both men looked at me like I’d just turned into a moron.

McCollum snorted and said, “I want my shit on a shingle to come out my ass, not up my throat.”

I knew I wouldn’t push myself hard enough to vomit, so I broke into a jog and went off by myself. The morning air was cool and tonic. I enjoyed every step of the easy run.

I ended my exercise at the armory, where I checked out Katsma’s M-16. I carried the weapon to my cubicle and grabbed my shotgun, then walked back outside to the cleaning table.

Upon inspection, I found Katsma’s rifle somewhat rusted. The rifle had been submerged in saltwater during our mission rehearsal, and it was obvious that no one had cleaned the weapon after Kats’s death.

I tore down the M-16 and dunked every part of it in the tub of diesel fuel. I used the stiffest brushes to clean away the light rust. After drying each piece with a towel, I lubricated them and reassembled everything. The rifle was then ready for a new swamp commando. Whoever that man would be, he would have huge shoes to fill.

I gave Sweet Lips the ultimate cleaning, too, then I returned both weapons to the armory.

Continuing my chores, I took my half-dried cammies and other dirty clothing from the dressing room hangers, folded them, and carried the load to Nga’s. When I entered the establishment, two old Vietnamese men were sitting at one of three wicker tables drinking tea. They nodded at me as I passed and walked toward Nga, who was working behind the laundry counter.

“How you, Smit-ty?” the middle-aged woman greeted me. She smiled big, not a bit self-conscious about the three gaps in her grin where teeth were missing.

“Toi manh gioi,” I responded, telling her that I was fine. I set the pile of clothing on the counter.

Still smiling, Nga said, “Be ready, two day.” She held up two fingers.

I nodded in acknowledgment. “Chao,” I said with a little hand wave for good-bye.

“Bye-bye, Smit-ty,” she called after me as I walked out of her shop.

Back on the base, I gathered up our platoon’s radios, including the PRC-25, a French radio, and two Motorolas. I toted them to the newly built maintenance building, which was a three-story structure with numerous rooms and departments for repairing everything from small equipment to large boats. I entered a compartaient for electronic parts maintenance where I took each radio apart. I dried several pieces in a special oven, cleaned them thoroughly, then reassembled the radios. After testing each radio for its workability, I wrapped them individually in clear plastic and sealed them