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

Meanwhile, Claim’s Stoner and DiCroce’s M-79 were working overtime, and with the grenades exploding to my left, the noise was earsplitting. I grabbed the dead man’s right arm, intending to turn him over in order to perform a hasty search of his front pockets for any documents. I no sooner began lifting than an enemy grenade blew up fifteen to twenty yards to my left in the canal.

A burning sensation struck me in my upper left arm between my collarbone and my biceps, causing me to wince and drop the body. I looked toward the pain and found a hole the size of a dime in my shirt.

“I’m hit!” I exclaimed to Martin, who was unscathed by the blast.

“How bad?” he wanted to know, his face showing concern. I rotated my shoulder in a tight circle to check it. There was some pain, but nothing to write my congressman about.

“I’ll live,” I replied.

“Not if we don’t get outta here!” Martin blurted. “Mr. Van Heertum is frantically motioning for us to return.” We began to carefully move back toward our teammates. I saw that Martin was still carrying the Russian rifle along with his Stoner machine gun. The rifle would be one less weapon in an enemy soldier’s hands, provided we made it off Dung Island alive.

DiCroce and Clann fell in behind us as we went by them in the ditch. The four of us bypassed five intersecting canals before choosing to turn and scamper down the sixth one toward Mr. Van Heertum’s position.

“Smitty’s hit in the shoulder,” I heard Martin say to Mr. Van Heertum as they met one another.

“I’m okay,” I assured them as I came to a stop next to the two worried men. “It’s just a small piece of shrapnel.”

“Smitty took some shrapnel,” Van Heertum informed Chief Blackburn, the corpsman. I pointed at my wound and shook my head.

“No big deal,” I stated strongly. “I can continue.”

Mr. Van Heertum shook his head back at me. “No way! The VC are leading us into a trap! We’re gonna withdraw!” His voice was excited but firm. He turned toward his squad to initiate a retreat from the village. While Van Heertum gave the orders, Chief Blackburn slapped a bandage over my wound.

“Are you ready?” the lieutenant asked in our direction. After a nod from the corpsman, he had all of us move back to the main stream. As we withdrew, there was no gunfire from either side. There was only the sound made by the walking of twelve swamp warriors in single file and the incessant barking of a dog, which grew fainter by the minute.

When a Boston Whaler came roaring up the stream, I felt like doing some bitching myself after Mr. Van Heertum told me he had radioed the boat to medevac me. The rest of the men were going to stay put and wait for Mr. Marcinko’s platoon to show up on the other side of the stream, then they’d patrol out to the Khem Lon and the mouth of the Rach Gia for extraction.

Feeling guilty, I climbed aboard the Boston Whaler. The coxswain reversed the bow of the boat, and without ado we roared down the waterway. As we went, I took a final look at the coconut palm trees and the beautiful jungle I was leaving behind, realizing I might not see such a sight in broad daylight again for a long time. And again, I pondered what I’d done in this once-serene place: I’d taken part in someone’s death. But better him than me. The fact was that I had almost joined the dead man in the canal where he had lain. One of his buddies had done his very best to blow my brains out after I had blown out his buddy’s brains. Such was the nature of war. Some tried but died, and some somehow succeeded and survived.

The Boston Whaler crew took me to the Khem Lon River, and I transferred to the LCPL, where my bandage was changed. Since I was feeling fine and there was minimal bleeding, I told the crew chief I didn’t want to go back to the LST until the mission was over and my teammates had been extracted. He granted me my wish. We sat and waited, along with the Boston Whalers and the PBRs, for about thirty minutes. Then Mr. Marcinko radioed the PBRs for extraction, and the boats responded immediately.

When everyone from SEAL Teams 1 and 2 was aboard the boats, we all headed back to the USS Jennings County and relative safety. I went to sick bay, where my shoulder was examined by a doctor. After considering the alternatives, they decided to leave the shrapnel in my shoulder, saying they would do more harm to my muscles than good by cutting into me. With my approval, one of them simply stitched the entry wound and released me.

I returned to the troop quarters and climbed into my upper bunk. Lying on my back, I closed my eyes and relaxed, enjoying the air conditioning. I was almost asleep when Martin called my name.

“Hey, Mr. Purple Heart,” he said from below my rack. “Wake up and receive your reward.”

I opened my eyes and halfway sat up. Moki reached toward me with the Russian M 1891 Mosin-Nagant rifle in his left hand.

“All the guys decided you should have this since you got wounded gettin’ it,” he informed me. I gripped the stock and took the rifle.

Setting the rifle on the bunk alongside me, I mumbled, “I don’t know what to say.”

Martin chuckled. “Try ‘thank you.’ That usually works.”

I grinned. “Okay. Thanks, mate.”

My good friend Moki Martin turned and began walking away.

“Moki!” I hollered after him. When he looked back, I said, grinning, “Try ‘you’re welcome.’ That usually works.” We chuckled together, then Martin gave me a little wave of the hand and left.

As I lay back down, my left arm brushed against the expropriated rifle. I rolled my head to the side on my pillow