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

were six feet wide, six feet high, and eight feet long, were used for storing personal and operational gear. They would be sent to the States along with the platoon.

At 1730 hours, I went to the EM club, where the going-away party was scheduled for 1800 hours, for an early beer. Funkhouser, who had just gotten back from a quick trip to Saigon, joined me at the bar.

“Give me a cold one, Al,” Funky said, then he motioned toward me and added, “and another for Smitty, on me.”

I looked my friend in the face and said, “Well, well, what’s this? A going-away present?”

Funkhouser grinned. “That’s right, and it’s a helluva splurge on my behalf, if you ask me!”

I laughed. “Comin’ from a tightwad like you, I’ll have to agree!”

We downed our beers together, kidding one another until the rest of the platoon members started arriving. But before we were completely distracted, Funkhouser draped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.

“You’ve been a good roommate,” he muttered quietly. Then letting go, he said louder, “Just don’t go gettin’ shot up out there with Bravo Platoon!”

I patted Funky three times on the back, and standing up from my stool, I told him not to worry.

“You just have a cold six-pack ready for me when I get off the plane in San Diego,” I answered him. He nodded, then I walked away and went outside the club, where a couple of the guys were grilling steaks and barbecuing chicken.

“Smitty,” Doc Brown said as I approached, “I’ve got a damn good-lookin’ steak ready for you.” He stabbed a well-done T-bone with a fork and lifted it a few inches off the makeshift grill for me to admire.

I shook my head and chuckled. “Can I trust you?” I asked. “Or is that the piece you basted with manure?”

Brown grinned at me. “Come on, Smitty, let bygones be bygones. I’m not playin’ any tricks anymore. We’re goin’ home, man!”

“That’s good news,” I replied as I picked up another fork and stuck it into a second well-done steak. I carried the piece of meat to a folding table on which rested paper plates, utensils, and condiments. I dropped the steak onto a paper plate, poured a small amount of steak sauce on it, grabbed a knife, and started back into the club. Before stepping inside, I turned back and called to Brown.

“If I die from eating this meat, I’ll kill you!” I warned him, but I was smiling when I said it. Brown just grinned.

I entered the club and found an empty chair at a table where McCollum, Moses, and Markel were sitting and drinking beer.

“Does your last name have to begin with an M to sit with you three guys?” I inquired, hesitating before pulling the chair out from the table.

“Go ahead and sit down,” McCollum said, smiling. “We can live with one misfit. After all, misfit begins with an m, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll even buy you a beer to go with that piece of meat,” Moses said as he got up from his chair and headed for the bar.

“Gee,” I said to the others, “everybody’s buyin’ me beer today. You’d think you’re all goin’ home and I’ve got to stay in Nam another month or something.”

McCollum and Markel nodded their heads and laughed. I picked up my knife and fork and cut off a piece of the steak. It tasted as good as it looked as I took it off the fork with my teeth and started chewing it.

“Well,” I blurted between bites, “I guess I’ll confess and say I’m gonna miss you guys.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Muck, throwing his head back and guffawing. “I’ll bet that was awful damn hard to get out!”

I had to laugh, too. “Yeah,” I admitted, “it was, but what the hell. I knew it was what you wanted to hear, so I said it to tickle your ears.”

McCollum and Markel laughed some more as Moses came back with two cans of beer.

“What’s so funny?” Moses asked, sitting down and setting one beer next to my plate and keeping the other for himself.

“Smitty said he loves us,” replied McCollum, eyeing me with a grin. I almost choked on a bite of meat.

“I did not!” I sputtered after a cough. Then I coughed a couple more times before saying, “I said I was gonna miss you bastards!”

Muck giggled. “That’s the same thing as sayin’ you love us. You only miss those you love.”

The three “m brothers” heehawed some more while I took a long swig of beer, taking a moment to regain my composure. It was not that easy, though, to recover after being exposed. The fact of the matter is that I did love those nitwits. But there was no way I was going to own up to it in front of them, especially while they were splitting their sides. The worst torture the VC ever invented couldn’t have forced those three little words, “I love you,” out of my mouth right then.

“I’m not gonna miss you, Smitty,” cracked Moses, “but I enjoyed serving time with you.” He chuckled, and I shook my head and smiled.

“To Smitty!” toasted McCollum, holding up his glass of beer. “Watch your butt, protect your nuts, and may your tour with Bravo end with a ‘bravo!’ ”

“Hoo-yah!” sang Markel and Moses as they raised their beers and drank to my future. And so the rest of the party went. Lots of drinking, eating, and joking took place. Late in the evening, many songs were sung, and the more inebriated everyone got, the more hugs were given out. The word “love” was even tossed around some, after all. I, however, left and went back to my cubicle before I got that drunk.

Eleven days later, on January 26, 1968, I was with Bravo Platoon on the USS Jennings County, which was an LST (Landing Ship Troop) anchored on the Bassac River about two thousand yards northwest of Dung Island. The island was Communist controlled; therefore, our ships sat