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

the gun cabinet. “I just moved the 148’s trigger a little more forward. No biggie.”

Funkhouser and I left the armory and walked toward our barracks.

“Some of us are makin’ a run to Saigon at 1100 hours,” Funky informed me. “You in?”

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

Funkhouser told me with a grin, “The usual! We’ll hit a couple bars, wink at the women, eat lunch at the Continental Hotel, go shopping at the PX in Cholon. Sound good?”

I pondered the offer for all of two seconds.

“Yeah,” I said, slapping my roommate on the back, “I’m in.”

Funkhouser chuckled. “What convinced you, Smitty, the women, the bars, or both?”

“Neither,” I lied, keeping a straight face. “It was the lunch.”

Funkhouser guffawed, causing me to laugh, too.

“Lunch?” he cracked. “Lunch with who? Nga, or Chi, or that sweet young thing that hangs around the Continental Hotel?”

We entered our barracks, laughing. Doc Brown heard us and met us as we approached our cubicle.

“What’s so funny?” he wondered aloud.

Thinking fast, I responded, “The sight of you sticking a plague shot in your own ass!”

Funkhouser gave me a wide-eyed look, then almost died laughing. I just grinned at Brown, who didn’t crack a smile. He simply watched Funkhouser carry on for several seconds before sticking a hand out in front of my face, with the palm up. What I saw wiped the grin off my face.

“Time for your malaria pill,” Brown told me as he shoved the large, yellow pill closer. I stared at the thing, fully aware of the diarrhea that accompanied it.

Funkhouser’s laughter suddenly died when he spotted the unwelcome pill in Doc’s hand. “For cryin’ out loud, Doc! You’re the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever known, and I mean that literally. It’s Thanksgiving Day, for cryin’ out loud!” Grabbing the pill out of Brown’s hand, Funky tossed it into his mouth and swallowed it.

“There!” Funkhouser spit. As he walked away and into our cubicle, he called back, “When the thunder starts rumblin’ in two hours, Doc, I’m comin’ to your cubicle! And when the lightning strikes in three, I’ll be sittin’ on your bed!”

Funkhouser disappeared, and I was left staring at a second pill which Doc had placed on his upturned palm.

“Your turn, Smitty,” he said.

I grabbed the pill. “You really enjoy makin’ us suffer, don’t you!”

“Suffer?” he said with a mischievous grin. “Hell, I’m constantly savin’ your mangy lives around here! Now, swallow the pill!”

“I will,” I grumbled, walking away with it in my hand.

“You better!” Brown barked after me.

I entered my cubicle. Funkhouser was standing next to our new apartment-size refrigerator, which we had bought together in Saigon, chugging a shot of whiskey. He gulped it down, burped once, then looked at me. “I’m tryin’ to kill that pill before it kills me,” he muttered.

I nodded my head, fully understanding what he meant.

“Did you take yours?” Funkhouser inquired of me.

I held out my hand and showed him the yellow monster. Then I took the pill between my thumb and index finger of both hands and snapped the pill in two. “Will you pour me a shot?” Without hesitation, Funkhouser opened the refrigerator and took out the bottle of whiskey. Filling the same shot glass, he held it out to me.

“May you outrun the runs,” Funky said as a salute.

I took the glass, popped a half of the pill in my mouth, and swallowed it along with the whiskey. Smacking my lips, I gave the glass back to Funkhouser.

“What about the other half?” he questioned.

I stepped beside my bed and slid Bolivar’s wooden cage out from beneath it. I unlatched the mesh-wire lid and swung it open. The boa constrictor struck suddenly and bit at my hand, just missing.

“Why, you little ingrate!” I growled at my pet. “You shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you.” I flipped the half pill into the cage, then closed and latched the door. Funkhouser started chuckling as I shoved the cage back under my bed.

“Don’t want him to catch malaria,” I quipped, smiling at my roommate.

Funkhouser laughed harder. “This should prove interesting. I’ve never seen a snake with the squirts before.”

“And you prob’ly won’t this time, either,” I countered. “You’ll be too busy takin’ care of your own.”

We spent the next couple of hours staying close to the latrine, lying in bed and listening to country-and-western music, courtesy of Armed Forces Radio, on my portable radio. I was enjoying the music immensely when I heard, “Oh, no.” Funky crawled out of his bed and broke into a run for the john. I laughed so hard I cried, knowing that Funkhouser, like all true SEALs, wasn’t wearing any underwear to “detain” the problem.

Twenty minutes later, I wasn’t laughing anymore. I was perched on the pot in the john next to Funkhouser. Next to him on the other side sat McCollum, another victim of Doc’s “cure.” The smell was intolerable, but there was nothing I could do but bear it. A bad case of diarrhea greatly limited one’s travel options.

“Hey, Smitty!” My roommate got my attention. “Is half a pill any easier on you than a whole one?”

“Not hardly,” I replied. “Next time I’m gonna try just a quarter.”

A few seconds of silence slid by, then Funkhouser said, “Let’s dissolve the other three-quarters in Doc’s coffee.”

I thought I heard Funkhouser giggling, but the sudden sounds erupting in my own stall demanded my total concentration.

An hour later, we found ourselves in our black Chevy pickup truck and on our way to Saigon. Pearson was driving fast, as usual. Flynn and Brown were seated in the cab with him. McCollum, Moses, Ty, Funkhouser, and I were drinking plenty of beer in the box. Brown, Moses, and Ty were packing pistols for our protection.

“No snipers today!” Moses announced after we reached the outer limits of Saigon.

“Not on the way in,” agreed McCollum, “but this is a round-trip excursion. We might run into trouble on the way back.”

Funkhouser finished a can of beer. Then he said, “Let’s have fun first, and we’ll worry