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

of the morning, as we would have to move very quietly. Pearson and I would alternate as point men until we reached the ambush site on a small stream just five hundred meters from two enemy camps. The hospital complex was but 150 meters farther. Our job was to intercept any boat traffic moving to or from the camps, capturing or killing the enemy occupants. I was the designated swimmer who would bring in any wounded VC and floating gear. Following SOP, we would attempt to preserve all intelligence data that was gathered.

We examined air recon photographs and pictomaps of the area of operation. The latest weather report indicated cloud cover with a chance of rain, then a gradual clearing. There would be plenty of moonlight both nights after the clouds dispersed.

The point men were cautioned to beware of booby traps.

Finally, we were given the mission’s call signs and code words, then we sterilized the briefing room. All photographs, maps, charts, and notes were removed, and not a trace of the forthcoming op was left behind.

Since the base CO had ordered the Seabees to work half of the day, even though it was a holiday, the cooks had scheduled the Thanksgiving meal for 1800 hours. I decided to retrieve my laundry from Nga’s before I went to the chow hall, and while I was in the village I bought three brass vases to send home.

At 1740 hours, I dropped my clothes off at my cubicle, then, desirous of a holiday trim, walked to the base’s new barber shop, where haircuts were free. Knowing that Thanksgiving was Thanksgiving only to Americans, I hoped the Vietnamese barber, whose name was Nguyen, was still at the shop so late in the afternoon. A minute later, I found that he was.

“Moi ong vao ngoi choi,” he welcomed me, asking me to sit down in his chair. I sat. He immediately started in on my head with his electric clippers. After a few minutes on top, he spent a couple of minutes spreading shaving cream on my ears, nose, and cheeks and shaving these parts with a razor. Next, he had me remove my T-shirt and lie back in the chair. He had me close my eyes while he shaved my neck and shoulders, handling the razor so deftly and gently it was as if he’d been born with it in his hand. I relaxed almost to the point of falling asleep.

When Nugyen was finished, he tapped my shoulder with a finger. I opened my eyes and focused on his smiling face.

“Het roi,” he said, telling me he was done. I slid out of the chair and pulled on my T-shirt.

“Cam on ong,” I thanked him. I took a twenty piaster coin from my pocket and gave it to the barber as a tip. He bowed and thanked me. I returned the bow, then left for the chow hall.

The cooks had pulled out all the stops on the Thanksgiving dinner, preparing hot turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce, salad, and pumpkin pie. I stuffed myself until I felt like I couldn’t eat another bite, then I gobbled up some more. The food was so good that, if I’d have closed my eyes, I’d have thought I was sitting at my mother’s table back home. Of course, I’d have had to have closed my ears, too, because people didn’t talk at Momma’s table the way they did in a Navy mess hall.

After dinner, I finished preparing my gear for the forty-eight-hour mission. Since I was the designated swimmer, I gathered my duck fins and coral booties. Of course, with my shotgun having been replaced by the M-16/XM-148 combo, which I’d dubbed Bad Girl, I was toting different ammunition. I’d taped three 30-round magazines together for the M-16, and I’d carried four magazine pouches: two were each filled with three 20-round magazines for the M-16, and two contained six 40mm HE rounds apiece for the XM-148 grenade launcher. I’d also stuffed two of my quart canteen pouches with eight rounds each of 40mm HE. A claymore mine and two fragmentation grenades were attached to my web belt. My drinking water was stored in two collapsible canteens that were packed with a first aid kit in a rucksack, which I’d carried at the top center of my H-harness. With my C rations stowed to sustain me, I was ready for the op.

When McCollum was finished with his preparation, around 2030 hours, he stopped by my cubicle and asked me to go to the Quonset hut to listen to a visiting band and drink a couple of beers. I declined the invitation, as reveille was scheduled for our platoon at 0315 hours and I wanted to get a good night’s sleep. Besides that, Funkhouser was in bed feeling sick with a recurring flu bug and I didn’t want to disturb him at a later hour; instead, I turned out our light and crawled into my bed.

For several minutes, I pondered the upcoming mission, then my thoughts turned to some of the principles by which Navy SEALs lived. We seemed to be unique, in that we understood our strength as a team was based on togetherness; nonconformity was not tolerated. When a teammate became morose or temperamental, we showed empathy and compassion, when needed, or we harassed until he snapped out of it. A standard maxim directly applied to us: “You’re only as strong as the weakest man and only as fast as the slowest man.” The bottom line was that introverts generally didn’t survive in the Teams. Everyone was an extrovert and we fed off each other’s bravado. For the career guys, “the Teams” represented not only a career, but also in many ways, satisfied family, social, and even religious requirements. “The Teams” was indeed a unique way of life.

I finally fell asleep around 2130 hours, and I slept well. After almost six hours of rest, I awakened to someone’s announcing “Reveille” outside the cubicle.