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

After our short stay in Singapore, we headed south for the equator. When we reached the magic point, all hands who weren’t Shellbacks were called “Pollywogs” and were hand-delivered a “Subpoena and Summons Extraordinary” from “The Royal High Court of the Raging Main.” It read:

WHEREAS, the good ship USS Diachenko (APD 123), bound for Subic Bay, Philippines, is about to enter our domain, and the aforesaid ship carries a large and slimy cargo of land-lubbers, beach-combers, cargo-rats, sea-lawyers, lounge-lizards, parlor dunnigans, plow-deserters, park-bench warmers, chicken-chasers, hay-tossers, sand-crabs, four-flushers, crossword-puzzle bugs and all other living creatures of the land, and last but not least, he-vamps, liberty-hounds and drugstore cowboys falsely masquerading as seamen and man-o’-warsmen of which you are a member, having never appeared before us; and

WHEREAS, the Royal High Court of the Raging Main has been convened by us on board of the good ship USS Diachenko (APD 123) on the seventh day of September, 1966 at Longitude 105 degrees and Latitude 0 degrees 0 minutes 0 seconds, and an inspection of our Royal High Roster shows that it is high time the sad and wandering nautical soul of that much abused body of yours appeared before the High Tribunal of Neptune; and

BE IT KNOWN, That we hereby summon and command you, Gary Smith, RM3, now a plow-deserter, U.S.N., to appear before the Royal High Court and Our August Presence on the aforesaid date at such time as may best suit our pleasure, and to accept most heartily and with a good grace the pains and penalties of the awful tortures that will be inflicted upon you for daring to enter our aqueous and equinoctial regions without due and submissive ceremony to be examined as to fitness to become one of our Trusty Shellbacks, and a worthy Son of the Sea and answer to the following charges:

CHARGE I. In that Gary Smith, RM3, now a hay-tosser, U.S.N., has hitherto willfully and maliciously failed to show reverence and allegiance to our Royal Person, and is therein and thereby a vile land-lubber and pollywog.

CHARGE II. In that you brush your teeth with onion sauce causing a Trusty Shellback to become ill by your bad breath.

CHARGE III. In that you take a shower with Right Guard only and have no decency among the Sons of the Sea. Disobey this summons under pain of our swift and terrible displeasure. Our vigilance is ever wakeful, our vengeance is just and sure!!!

Given under our hand and seal

Attest, for the King:

DAVY JONES, Scribe.

NEPTUNUS REX

Shortly after the Summons, the humiliation and torture that went with crossing the equator began. The Corpsman and the ship’s head cook got together and concocted a terrible mess of goo that smelled and looked worse than a bucket filled with rotted toads and maggots. The long trail of humiliation and gagging began as we were forced to crawl on our hands and knees and to kiss the belly of the Royal Baby, who just happened to be the head cook, who stood about five foot six and weighed 225 pounds.

I didn’t mind the thought of having to gingerly kiss his revolting stomach; it was the mass of rotted toads and maggots smeared on it that made me gag. Yessir, the Royal Baby was a fine-looking specimen, sitting there in his boxer shorts, crown on his head, and crap on his gut.

I didn’t crawl any closer than I had to. I stretched out my neck and tried for a light kiss—I wasn’t interested in getting that mess smeared all over my face. The smell was absolutely revolting! Suddenly the Royal Baby grabbed my head and forced my face into the pit of hell, rubbing my face around and around in it.

“Shit!” was my immediate response, followed by gagging and trying to get away from that retarded pig. Wait till I get my hands on Doc, I thought. I’m gonna put this evil mess in all of his shoes, fill his toothpaste tube with it, and smear it all over his pillow. Damn his worthless hide! I might even take their “aqueous and equinoctial regions” and, with a total lack of “submissive ceremony,” shove it up their armpits.

My next travail was to crawl through a passageway where good ole Trusty Shellbacks were standing on both sides waiting with three foot sections of canvas fire hose. This ought to be fun, I thought; all I’ve got on is my UDT swim trunks! Shit!

I lowered my head and charged like a sex-crazed water buffalo, growling and snorting until the blows of the fire hose started taking effect. By the time I got through the gauntlet, I felt more like a neutered warthog.

Continuing to crawl, I was forced to enter into the back end of a thirty-foot beast, made of sheets. It was filled with vile-smelling, decomposed, leftover food, and other unknown ingredients. No doubt Doc and Cookie had something to do with that, too.

I hadn’t gotten more than six feet inside the sheets when I began to feel that I was in the stomach of a large and nasty saltwater crocodile. He began to twist, roll and toss me to and fro. At one point I was totally buried in a mass of slimy ground beef, chicken liver and gizzards, flour, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, squashed tomatoes, boiled okra, food coloring, et cetera. My nose and ears were filled with the foul mess! It was impossible to breathe. If I only had had my SCUBA gear!

I finally managed to reach the opposite end of the beast, and crawled out its mouth to the fantail (open main deck in the after part of the ship) where I was then considered a Trusty Shellback. A fellow Trusty Shellback started washing me down with a fire hose. By the end of the day, everyone had had enough of Neptunus Rex and his stinking equator.

The USS Diachenko and 4th Platoon were then directed to the DMZ to participate in the DECKHOUSE IV amphibious operation,