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

TERRAIN: Thick brush on river edge, palm groves, hootches

WEATHER: Clear

SEAL TEAM PERSONNEL: 1st Squad:

Lt. (jg) Van Heertum, Patrol Leader/Rifleman, M-16

CM3 Scott, Point/Rifleman, M-16

GMG2 Jewett, Automatic Weapons/Stoner

ENFN Hyatt, Ordnance/Grenadier, M-79

RMSN McHugh, Radioman/Rifleman, M-16

HMC Blackburn, Corpsman/Rifleman, M-16

2nd Squad:

WO1 Casey, Asst. Patrol Leader/Rifleman, M-16

EM2 DiCroce, Asst. Squad Leader/Grenadier, M-79

MM1 Martin, Automatic Weapons/Stoner

RM2 Smith, Point/Rifleman, M-16/XM-148

RM2 Luksik, Radioman/Rifleman, M-16

AO3 Clann, Automatic Weapons/Stoner

AZIMUTHS: Parallel stream

ESCAPE: 225 degrees

CODE WORDS: None

Foxtrot Platoon hung together for another seventeen days. On January 15, 1968, we mustered at 0800 hours, anxious to celebrate our going away on the base at the EM club later in the day. Everyone was heading back to the States in a few days, with the exception of Mr. Meston, who was leaving today, and me. I was to hook up with Bravo Platoon for another month of operations around Dung Island, which was located about eighty miles southwest of Nha Be as the crow flies.

Mr. Meston had us gather in order to say good-bye. He said a few words, commending us for a job well done, then took the time to shake each person’s hand.

I approached the lieutenant with my right hand outstretched, and he looked me in the eye as he grasped my hand firmly. We shook, and I quickly tried to come out with the right words to say to him, even though words did not exist that expressed my admiration for his leadership abilities, and for the man himself.

“Thanks for everything, Mr. Meston,” I blurted, doing my best. “I sure enjoyed serving under you and I learned a lot under your command.” As I turned loose of his hand, I added, “If I ever have the opportunity, I’d consider it a privilege to work for you again.”

With a half grin, he said, “Thank you, Smitty. You can work point for me anytime.” He looked at me, acting as if he wanted to say more, but something stopped him. Probably the wall that sort of naturally stands between an officer and his men, I thought. But he need not have said another word to me; his eyes had conveyed the rest of his message.

As I walked back to the barracks, I couldn’t help but remember my first mission with Lieutenant Meston and how I had thought he was somewhat nervous and that he’d have to prove himself to me. Well, damned if he hadn’t done that and a whole lot more. The man was a fine leader, in my opinion, and I hated to see him go. But as it stood, he went alone, shouldering responsibility for one terribly unfortunate accident: Katsma’s death. I just knew the remembrance of that day, October 6, tormented him regularly. I knew, because I endured the same agonies 101 days later. But I was confident that Mr. Meston would go on to have a splendid naval career, and I was hoping to do the same. We then went our separate ways in life, yet we were forever unified in spirit by one comrade’s passing and thirty life-and-death missions.

I entered my cubicle and slid Bolivar’s cage from beneath my bunk, intent upon seeing how the snake was doing after having gotten stepped on the previous day by Flynn in the latrine. Once again, Bolivar had escaped from his box, and as Flynn had tried to catch him, he had accidentally stomped a foot on the snake. Unlike last time when Flynn had gotten bit by the snake on the finger, this time the snake had gotten mashed by the SEAL, and his chances of surviving the sustained injuries were questionable.

One look at Bolivar lying limp in his cage answered all questions: my pet was stone-cold dead. A cocky-assed beetle paraded right across Bolivar’s nose. I thought for a moment about killing the arrogant one, but then I had a better idea: I’d turn him over to the guy who owned Dracula, the nine-foot python.

After snatching the aforementioned beetle from the cage and depositing it in a glass jar, I picked up my deceased snake and carried it outside. Borrowing a small folding shovel along the way, I walked to a place on the western edge of the compound. I found a nice patch of grassy ground beside a nipa palm tree and began digging a small grave.

When I ended up with a two-foot-deep hole, I laid Bolivar in it, took one last look at him, and covered him with dirt. After refilling the hole, I dropped the shovel to the side, deciding to say a few words. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then I addressed the grave.

“Well, Bolivar,” I muttered in a quiet voice, “I guess I’ve gotta say good-bye to you, too.” I looked around again before continuing. “Ah, you were a pretty good snake, and I’m sad that you didn’t have a longer run at living. But, on the optimistic side of things, at least I don’t have to try to smuggle you back through Hawaii.”

I kicked a clump of ground onto the top of the grave, then tromped it down with my foot. I bent over and grabbed the shovel and whacked the turned soil with the back of the blade.

“So long, Bolivar,” I said over my shoulder as I stood up, pivoted, and walked away. Again I surveyed the surrounding area, hoping no one had witnessed my snake’s funeral; after all, there were some things over which you knew your teammates would torture and tease you, and presiding over a funeral for a snake was one of those things. Fortunately, I saw no living creature watching me but a brown pigeon perched on a tree branch.

I went back to the barracks for a while, then passed the day going from one errand to another. The biggest task that I completed took place in the carpenter shop, where I built two boxes. Then I filled them with some of my personal gear, nailed them shut, and loaded them in one of Foxtrot Platoon’s Conex boxes. The Conex boxes, which