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

Funkhouser nodded. “Two or three minutes later, those pilots couldn’t have landed. Damn, that was close!”

“Close isn’t the word for it.” I declared. “How ’bout gut-wrenching?”

“How ’bout ball-breaking?” said McCollum, bringing the dialog down to the level at which SEALs seemed to be most comfortable: rock bottom.

“Ball-breaking it is!” asserted Funkhouser, raising his glass of whiskey-and-water in the air in mock salute. “Here’s to the Nutcracker Suite.”

I hoisted my beer can upward. “And to whoever the hell wrote it, may his balls rest in peace.”

Two hours later, I was certifiably drunk. Somebody I could barely see kicked me out of the club. I stumbled and wove my way to a bed and fell into it, not even sure it was mine. I thought for a moment about getting up to check, but a sudden rush of booze flooded my cerebral circuit board. I visualized myself falling off a cliff, spinning and whirling into a dark chasm with sparks spitting all around me. Everything went totally black when my body plunged into a pit of water and my life was washed away.

Reveille came at 0600 hours on the morning of Christmas Eve. My head felt like it had been detached from my neck and rented out overnight for use as a volleyball. It had been heavily spiked, I knew for sure.

I took a minute to try to get my bearings, and recognition of Funkhouser, waking up in the next bunk, told me I had at least gotten the right roommate if not the right cubicle. I sat up, and a few quick glances assured me that all was as it should have been. I had not passed out last night in the XO’s bed as I had dreamed, thank goodness. Then another alarming thought struck me: maybe I had, and I was carried to my rightful place in my sleep.

“Let’s get Doc Brown,” Funkhouser muttered beside me. I rubbed my eyes and stared at my buddy.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean we owe Doc for all the crap he’s pulled on us, and now’s the time to get him.” Funkhouser slipped out of bed and started dressing. “Brown was twice as drunk as you were last night, so there’s no way he’s awake yet. Let’s pay him a nice visit.”

I figured my roommate had a plan, and I was suddenly anxious to find out what it was. I hurried to get dressed, then I realized that I already was. I had slept with my clothes and shoes on.

“That’s the quickest I’ve ever seen you get ready,” Funky joked. He zipped his pants, grinned, and said, “Let’s keep our appointment with the doctor.”

We walked into the aisle of the barracks and headed for Brown’s cubicle. Along the way, Funkhouser recruited Dicey and Moses to join in the fun.

“Come on, you two,” appealed Funkhouser, tugging on both of the men’s T-shirts. “You’ll earn a couple more medals on this mission, I guarantee it!”

“Oh, yeah?” Dicey snapped playfully, trailing along with us. “What kind of medal?”

Funkhouser thought a moment, then chuckled. “The Vietnamese Cross of Toiletry.”

“I’m in!” said Moses with a snicker.

Funkhouser cautioned us to keep quiet as we approached Brown’s cubicle. I was still unaware of the gag we were going to pull, but I was good at follow-the-leader. Funky was our leader in this prank, and it was obvious he knew exactly what he was doing.

Funkhouser peeked inside Doc’s cubicle, then looked back at me with a devious grin on his face.

“Each of us will lift up a corner of his bed,” Funkhouser informed us in a soft voice. “We’re gonna carry him to the head.” With that much said, he motioned us to follow him into the cubicle. The four of us tiptoed inside and positioned ourselves around the bunk. Brown was sprawled out in it and snoring, something he also did well on ambush site. When Funkhouser nodded his head, we raised the bed off the floor and maneuvered it into the passageway and toward the john.

As we carried the bed and its hungover occupant down the aisle, a half dozen other SEALs saw us and decided to follow along. Markel and McCollum each grabbed hold of a side of the bed and helped lug it. Doc quit snoring but didn’t change his position.

“The frame’s too big for the john door,” I whispered as we halted before the entrance to the head.

“Let’s put it down,” Funkhouser directed, and the six of us lowered the bunk to the deck. He continued, “We’ll have to lift out the mattress.”

Two more SEALs hurried to assist us, and eight of us successfully hoisted the mattress into the air without disturbing Doc’s sleep. We worked our way inside the john by curling up the sides of the mattress and sliding it through the door.

We toted our cargo to the middle of the concrete bathroom floor, where we set it down between the toilet area and the sinks, over the top of the central floor drain. As we backed away, I was surprised, although pleasantly, that Doc hadn’t awakened. I was positive there was no way this shenanigan would work on me, drunk or not, as I was such a light sleeper. But there was Doc, snoozing like a baby.

“Now let’s plug the sinks and turn on the water,” Funkhouser said, revealing the finale to his caper. He wanted to flood the floor and wet the mattress.

It took but a minute for us to stuff paper towels down the drainpipes of each of the half dozen sinks and turn on the faucets full blast. Quickly, the sinks filled to the tops with water, then began overflowing onto the floor. I chuckled as the six puddles of water rapidly expanded, united with one another, and rushed Doc’s mattress as a menacing pool.

“Let’s get outta here!” I suggested as the water splashed my coral booties.

“Just one more thing,” declared Funkhouser. He slipped a folded piece of paper out of his pants pocket, unfolded it,