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

Then I heard Funkhouser stirring in the darkness. I opened my eyes and saw his figure dashing into the aisle. I knew by his quick actions that he either had the runs or he was going to vomit.

I crawled out of the sack, turned on the light, and got dressed for breakfast. When I was ready, Funkhouser, wearing UDT trunks and a sweat-soaked T-shirt, stumbled back in.

“The runs or the heaves?” I questioned as he fell into bed.

“Both,” he groaned, burying his head underneath his pillow. In a muffled voice, he said, “Turn out the light ASAP.”

I flicked the light switch and walked to the chow hall where I drank coffee and ate oatmeal, eggs, sausage, and toast. Since I firmly believed the only way to begin a forty-eight-hour mission was with an exceedingly full stomach, I grabbed seconds of everything. By the time I left the chow hall, I was far from worried about the excess weight, as I was aware that a two-day diet of nothing but C rats and water would put the kaputs on my bulk.

After breakfast, nine members of Foxtrot Platoon, including me, gathered our gear and met at the dock. Minus Funkhouser, we boarded the LCPL MK-4 with the four-man crew. With all aboard, the coxswain started the 300-horsepower engine, then steered us into the black of the early morning. I watched the base perimeter lights gradually disappear behind us.

As we traveled down the Long Tau, I sat on the steel deck between Pearson and McCollum. Looking up, I saw no moon or stars, which indicated heavy cloud cover. The breeze over the boat was cold. The engine roar seemed louder than usual. But even though it was chilly and my ears hurt, my head drooped and rested on Bad Girl, which lay across my lap. In a few minutes, I dozed off.

I dreamed about hunting. The woods were alive with chirping birds, and chattering squirrels. The fall leaves were rattling their loosening chains. I was stalking a big buck, which looked nervously aware. He stepped into an opening in the post oaks and briars, then froze. I slowly raised my rifle to shoot. Then I woke up and the deer got away.

I lifted my head and felt Bad Girl with my fingers. She reminded me that I had become a manhunter. I’d hunted man with the M-16/XM-148 three times since Sweet Lips’s demise, but I’d yet to kill with the weapon. It would have been nice if the North Vietnamese Communists would have given it up and gotten out of South Vietnam; the warring would have ceased and the dying would have ended. I would have retired Bad Girl without ever having shot a human being with her. Yes, that would have been nice. Right then, however, I realized I was thinking wishfully. In actuality, I was riding a boat so deep into enemy territory that there was a fair chance I’d have to cook some gooks, which is the way I had to think about it, so I wouldn’t think about it when the time came. If I were to dwell on the thought of an enemy having a wife and children waiting for him at home, I might hesitate in squeezing the trigger and give him an opportunity to kill me or a teammate.

The coxswain cut the throttle back on the engine to slow us down a bit. We were on the Dong Tranh and getting close to our insertion point. The coxswain employed the boat’s radar while Mr. Meston used his Starlight Scope to find our way and check the shoreline. Both men were looking for the small stream we were to bypass by five hundred meters, then we’d insert and work back to the stream at a point deeper in the jungle.

Mr. Meston suddenly gave the signal to lock and load. The sounds of cocking weapons filled the air as the LCPL continued moving alongside the dark shore. When the boat slowed to just above idle, I moved forward to the portside bow. Four of my teammates grouped behind me while four others crouched down at the starboard bow.

As the coxswain turned the bow of the LCPL toward the shore, I prepared myself for the jolt of boat striking land. When it came, I jumped off the port bow and onto the shore. To my delight, the ground beneath my feet was soft but not wet and muddy.

The nine of us ended up a few meters inland, waiting and listening in the brush. The LCPL backed away from the riverbank, then moved farther down the river where the coxswain would perform a couple of fake insertions.

With my ears peeled, I observed the silhouettes of my teammates in the dark. The outlines of the weapons projecting out of each body were a sight to behold—the M-16s, the M-79 grenade launchers, the M-60, and the Stoner machine guns. My courage cranked up a couple notches as I was reminded of our firepower.

After fifteen minutes, the dark sky showed the first traces of the coming of dawn. Meston had us hold for another few minutes, then he signaled Pearson to take the point position and start through the thick brush. The rest of us strung out behind Pearson and began moving east, back toward the stream we had passed in the LCPL. I fell into the fifth slot behind Pearson, Meston, Markel, and Schrader. Behind me walked Flynn, Moses, Dicey, and McCollum.

The going was slow for several reasons. The nipa palm and undergrowth was heavy. Prickly stems and branches grasped at our legs like octopus arms. The brush was noisy, and noise was a major no-no for U.S. Navy SEALs in the T-10 area. Also, the possibility of booby traps was great, as we were assuming the VC and NVA had taken appropriate measures to protect themselves and their base camps and hospital.

We covered the first two hundred meters of our 750-meter patrol in an hour. The mosquitos had acted as a