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

and Dicey and could barely see their grins in the darkness. “You two deserve a medal!” I told them. They didn’t say anything. And what was there to say, really? They had killed a man, probably two, out of necessity, for there was a war going on. The two had been our enemies, they had rifles, and they would’ve shot at us if they had had the chance. Cut-and-dried. Yes, in a war it was cut-and-dried. But it was not for medals that Dicey and Moses had pulled their triggers: it had been for their lives.

After a couple of minutes, the exuberance inside the helo was quelled by Mr. Meston’s yelling for our attention. I stared at his dark figure sitting on the deck across from me, having a difficult time seeing his face. He turned his head once away from me, presenting his profile, and one of his eyes gleamed momentarily, reflecting a bit of light from somewhere. Perhaps the moonlight.

The rest of us were quiet for several seconds as we waited for him to speak. Only the sounds of the helo penetrated our space.

Finally from the darkened lieutenant came some dark, dark words. “Bravo Platoon got hit bad,” he said, his voice cracking. “Antone was point man and never knew what hit him. The VN was killed, too. He was gutshot and bled to death before he could be medevacked.” My own guts sank inside of me. My joy over living was slain at the news of my teammates’ dying.

Meston cleared his throat, then added, “Lieutenant Van Heertum, Payne, and one other, I’m not sure who, were wounded. They were lucky to get out alive. The VC had ’em trapped in an L-shaped ambush on a trail.” I lowered my head, weighed down by the heavy details. My senses were dulled. My body was weak. A feeling of exhaustion drained into my limbs. Then a thought flashed in my mind that caused me to see red. Bravo Platoon was a new platoon that had no business being in T-10. They weren’t ready for it. Hell, Foxtrot Platoon had been in Vietnam for a month before we had been sent into the T-10. Bravo had just gotten there twelve days before. Damn! I hated mistakes, especially when they were unalterable. For Frank Antone, there would be no second chance.

I looked out the open doorway at the black sky. Many stars were glimmering, and I wondered if Antone was anywhere near one of them. I wondered what he now knew that I didn’t know.

For the remainder of the trip back to the naval base, my teammates and I kept quiet. Each person was left to his own thoughts and sense of loss. When we finally touched down on the helo pad, I was the first one out the door. I walked directly to the showers to refresh myself and rinse the dirt from my clothes.

As I started to enter the shower, I noticed a pile of cammo clothing on the ground near the head. In the light emanating from the latrine, I saw blood stains on the clothes. I saw bullet holes, too. I could smell the odor of blood in the air. I could taste it in my mouth. I stood momentarily frozen, stunned by the sight. The evidence of Bravo Platoon’s day of dissolution lay before me. The cold facts were revealed.

I stepped to the clothing and bent down to pick up the shirt on top, but as my fingers touched it, I changed my mind and pulled my hand way. Death was better left alone, I thought, and I wiped my fingers on my pant leg. I returned to the shower, stepped inside and turned on the water. It was slightly cold, but the water felt good as it splashed against my head and ran through my clothes. I turned my face into the spray and opened my mouth to rinse it out. Then I turned away and dropped my head, allowing the stream of water to pound against the back of my neck.

After a few minutes, the water had washed away all of the external grime and dirt. I only wished it could have washed away the pain and misery inside my heart.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sitting in a new EM club and drinking a few beers seemed to be the best antidote for the depression that hit when a teammate died. Of course, sometimes the alcohol drowned me in a deeper depression; therefore, it was probably not the best remedy, after all. But on a tiny naval base in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, it was the only remedy in which I had any faith, flimsy though that faith was.

I had attended a Catholic Mass a couple of days before, where a priest had said something about putting one’s faith in God. I believed he’d had the right answer, but God was hard to find in Vietnam, unless His name was Buddha. In that case, God had a lot of problems of His own, starting with several too many pounds around the middle. Anyway, I’d maybe give God a real chance in my life someday, because I’d gotten this notion He could help me. Right then, though, the beer in my hand needed tending.

As I glanced around the bar, I noticed that the base personnel were giving all the SEALs a wide berth because of the deaths. Each of my teammates gathered around me had a weird look on his face, sort of a shocked expression, but no one was shedding any tears. Instead, some were even laughing, but the laughter was forced and had a hollow ring to it. Everything seemed so strange.

“Man, did we ever walk into a pile of shit today,” Funkhouser mumbled. He was perched on a bar stool to my right, nursing a glass of branch-and-bourbon.

“Right up to our noses,” agreed McCollum, sitting to my left, drinking a beer.

Between sips out of a can of Black Label, I said, “We’re lucky we’re