Death in the Jungle Read online

  I raised my eyes from Kats and searched the opposite bank. I was looking for anything that could endanger my friend, such as the enemy or a “man-eating man-a-cheetah.” Spotting nothing in the bushes, I focused on Kats as he reached the shore. As he lifted himself out of the stream and climbed the bank, water cascaded off his body and clothes.

  With an M-16 in his hands, Katsma did a short recon of the shoreline. Convinced that all was well, he signaled Mr. Meston with the thumbs-up sign, then stepped back into the brush.

  Mr. Meston motioned for LDNN Ty and me to enter the stream. I was carrying a haversack of ten pounds of C-4 explosives, weighted down on a flotation bladder, which was attached to a hundred and fifty feet of reinforced electrical firing wire. Ty and I were to swim the explosives about three-fourths of the way across the Rach La, stringing out the full length of the firing wire from Mr. Meston’s position, then let the weighted haversack drop from the flotation bladder and sink to the bottom of the stream.

  Ty and I walked upstream along the bank as far as the firing wire would reach, slipped into our duck fins, then slid into the water. Immediately, we had to swim hard toward the opposite bank, as the current was extremely strong. After a minute of all-out effort, we were directly in front of Mr. Meston, about thirty-five meters away. I looked at the lieutenant, and he motioned for me to drop the explosives. I tried to release the haversack from the flotation bladder, but the firing wire was tangled with the life jacket. While I struggled to release the explosives, Ty and I drifted farther downstream outside the kill zone of the ambush site. The wire soon pulled taut, then broke in the middle of its length.

  Disgusted, Ty and I had to swim back to the ambush site, where we could repair the firing wire. This was easier thought of than done. Finding it impossible to swim directly into the strength of the current, Ty and I struck out crosscurrent for the shore. We ended up reaching the riverbank about seventy-five meters south of the others.

  Crawling out of the water, I swung the heavy sack of explosives and weights over my right shoulder while Ty rolled up seventy feet of attached firing wire. We walked through the brush to Mr. Meston’s position in the center of the ambush line, where he awaited with his end of the wire.

  I first tied the bitter ends together using a square knot. I carefully repaired the wire, using the Western Union splice. Then I taped each wire separately, and finally together, for insulation and strength. As I finished, I looked across the river and tried to see Katsma. I couldn’t find him, but I was sure he had gotten a real kick out of watching Ty and me flounder around in the current. He probably had had all he could handle in stifling his guffaws.

  “Hang in there, Smitty,” Mr. Meston encouraged me. Not wanting a repeat performance, I freed the weighted haversack from the flotation bladder and dropped the bladder on the ground. I planned to make sure there was no tangled mess the second time.

  Ty and I again walked upstream, stringing out the wire before dropping off the bank. Swimming was much tougher now as the weighted haversack of C-4 had nothing to keep it afloat but my arms. My arms were enough, however, tired though they were.

  When I reached the drop point, I let the weighted haversack go. It sank in the water, and I was relieved of a hell of a burden. Ty and I drifted momentarily with the current as we looked to see if all was well. Mr. Meston gave us a wave that all was okay and to return to his location. As I breaststroked, my arms felt light, relieved to be free of the heavy haversack. Ty was right behind me as I climbed out of the water.

  We made our way to the others and took up our positions in the ambush line near Lieutenant Meston. He gave us a couple of minutes to catch our breath, then notified all concerned that the simulated ambush was ready to happen. We were to pretend that a sampan, occupied by the VC, was floating down the stream toward us. When the imaginary boat was supposedly in front of Mr. Meston and directly above the C-4 explosives, he’d command detonate the charge, which would capsize the craft. That was when Ty and I were to jump into the stream and swim to the opposite bank and “capture” Katsma.

  Suddenly the explosives blew, but forty meters farther downstream than the drop point. Obviously, the haversack of C-4 had not been weighted down enough to keep the swift current from moving it. Plus, the explosion was not big enough to capsize a sampan and stun the occupants. Next time we’d have to double the charge. But that would be next time.

  This time, Ty and I had to swim across the water and tie up Katsma. With duck fins on my feet, and electrical tape in my pants pocket, I slid into the stream and went for the opposite bank. Ty was right behind me.

  As I breaststroked for all I was worth, I looked for my friend across the river in the bushes. I didn’t see him. Drawing closer to shore, I really wondered where Katsma had gone. Then I remembered him saying at breakfast that he wasn’t going to make his capture easy on me.

  “Dammit,” I muttered as I cut through the water.

  Reaching the beach, I grabbed a root sprout and dragged myself out of the stream. I plopped my fanny down on the bank and pulled off my fins. Ty clutched the same sprout and heaved himself up beside me where he, too, took off his fins.

  “Where Kats?” Ty whispered.

  I shrugged my shoulders. Standing up, I stared into the brush around us. I figured we’d just wait a few seconds and Kats would materialize.

  After half a minute, Kats did not appear. I searched the ground and found a set of fresh bootprints that must have been his. I motioned to Ty and started following the tracks.

  We walked less than ten meters when we were suddenly startled.

  “Here I am!” Kats popped up from behind a bush, smiling at us. I waved for him to come to us, but he shook his head, laid down his M-16 rifle, and put up his fists.

  “I’m your VC prisoner,” he said. “You’re supposed to take me by force.”

  Here we go, I thought. He was gonna fight us like a real gook. I looked at Ty, raising my eyebrows. Simultaneously, we broke into a charge at Katsma. We crashed into him together, and all three of us fell to the ground. That was when the wrestling began.

  Kats locked his arms around Ty’s neck and held him down. I jumped on Kats’s back and tried to pry him off Ty. Kats spun away from Ty and flipped me onto my back. Like a cat, Kats was on me in an instant. I threw my arms around his waist and bear hugged him with all my might. Then Ty slammed his body into both of us, sending all of us sprawling.

  I sat up on my knees and barked, “Come on, Kats! You’ve gotta back off or we’ll never take you in. Then Mr. Meston’s gonna be pissed.”

  Katsma, also on his knees, grinned at me. “Try again,” he said.

  I rose to my feet and pulled the squashed roll of electrical tape from my pocket.

  “We’ve gotta tie your hands and feet,” I reminded him.

  He was still grinning. “Come and get it,” he said.

  I glanced at Ty, who was sitting on the ground just a few feet from Kats. Ty winked at me, then whipped a handful of swamp mud in Kats’s face. Instantly, Ty and I lept onto Kats as he wiped at his eyes. Half-blinded by the muck, Kats swung a wild arm and knocked Ty to the side. I dropped the roll of tape, grabbed Kats from behind and squeezed him in an arm lock.

  “Come on, Kats!” I demanded. “Give us a break.”

  “Let me clean out my eyes,” Katsma dealt, “then I’ll let you capture me.”

  I released my grip and Katsma stumbled a few yards to the riverbank. He dropped to his knees and bent over in a reach for a handful of water. He splashed his face several times, then got up and held his hands out toward me.

  “They’re yours to tie,” he said with a smile. “Just go easy.”

  I picked the tape off the ground and approached Kats with it. Ty stepped forward, grabbed Kats’s left hand and walked it around behind Kats’s back.

  “ ‘Just go easy,’ he says now,” I smirked, twisting Kats’s right hand behind his back and pressing it against his left. “I will, but you don’t deserve it.”

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nbsp; Ty and I wrapped the black tape firmly around Kats’s hands at the small of his back, but only three times around. I motioned toward the ground and Kats sat down on the bank of the stream. I pulled his feet out and wrapped the tape three times around them at the ankles.

  “Is that it?” Kats said sarcastically. “You guys are awful nice.”

  I smiled at him. “We’ve got orders to gag you, too,” I reminded him. I pulled a dirty tag from my pants pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. Then Ty ran tape twice around the rag to secure the gag.

  Less than a minute later, two Boston Whalers came shooting down the stream with their 105-horsepower engines singing. As Ty and I readied our “captive” for transport, the coxswain of the lead boat cut back on the throttle and flared the boat right in front of us. Mr. Meston, using radio communication, had directed the Whaler with the boat crew of three and the MST lieutenant right to us. The second Whaler eased over to Mr. Meston’s position on the opposite bank.

  The bow of the first Whaler eased up to the riverbank and I grabbed hold and pushed the boat around until it was parallel to the shore, pointing upstream. Then Ty and I hoisted the gagged-and-bound Katsma into the boat and the awaiting arms of the crew. I grabbed Ty’s fins and tossed them into the boat with mine, then Ty, with Kats’s rifle, and I climbed in next to the “prisoner.” Without a word, the coxswain navigated the boat across the stream to Mr. Meston’s position. As the bow touched the bank, I gave Katsma a pat on the head and a grin.

  “Bye-bye, ol’ buddy,” I said. Kats raised his eyebrows at me and grunted. I moved forward with Ty, and we stepped off the boat and jumped onto the shore.

  As part of the rehearsal, BT2 Moses simulated wounds to his eyes. With a battle dressing having been applied, he and Doc Brown boarded the boat. They sat down, then the coxswain backed the boat away from shore with seven people aboard, turned into the current, and opened up the outboard motor to vacate the area. His assignment was to take the prisoner and wounded man to the Long Tau River, where the LCM-6 awaited their transfer. There the VC would be interrogated and Moses would be medevacked by a helicopter.

  Lieutenant Meston, as prearranged, kept the rest of us at the ambush site to practice the use of different-size charges in the Rach La. The second Boston Whaler stayed with us to divert any sampans away from the area for security and secrecy purposes. During daylight hours, local fishermen were allowed to use their nets in the Rach La. The crew of the Whaler would keep these people from the rehearsal area.

  From the mission rehearsal, we’d already learned that ten pounds of C-4 is not enough to upset a sampan. Perhaps twenty pounds would be. When in doubt, double the charge! With that in mind, Mr. Meston and I decided that we should prepare another haversack with that specific charge. I also suggested adding more weights to prevent the bag from drifting with the current.

  As we readied the explosives, a call from the officer in charge of Mighty Moe sounded over the radio.

  “Stan, this is Bill Jackson. Be advised the Boston Whaler has swamped. A petty officer is missing. We are searching for him at this time. All other personnel are accounted for and aboard the LCM-6.”

  Mr. Meston blurted out, “No! No!” His voice was shaky. He took the PRC-25 handset from Markel, put it to his mouth and managed to ask. “Who’s missing?”

  The reply caused my guts to roll: “Petty Officer Katsma.”

  Mr. Meston visibly slumped and muttered, “God, no.” He recovered in a few seconds enough to order a Dust-off, which was the code word for U.S. casualties. By this time, I had moved right next to him.

  After the transmission, he looked at me with a sickly expression. “What in the crap happened?” he asked.

  Mr. Meston bowed his head and covered his face with his left hand. I felt my heart hitting hard against my chest. I gazed at the stream, wishing Katsma would appear with a big grin on his face. Either that, or I’d wake up from a bad dream.

  Lieutenant Meston raised his eyes and stared at me. His facial expression had changed for the better.

  “Smitty, you and I are gonna run along the riverbank to the Long Tau. Maybe we’ll spot him.” His voice was excited and carried a note of confidence. I, too, felt a sudden flush of hope,

  “Flynn!” Mr. Meston barked. “Come with me.” Then he gave Markel the radio and told Mr. Schrader to secure the rehearsal and patrol with the rest of the men back to the Long Tau.

  “Keep radio communication with Mighty Moe,” Mr. Meston directed Mr. Schrader. “Call for extraction when you reach the main river. Have the others pack Smitty’s gear.”

  With that, I grabbed Sweet Lips from a resting place against my operating gear, then Mr. Meston, Flynn, and I broke into a run on the edge of the Rach La. Since we were less than three hundred meters from the Long Tau, Katsma couldn’t be far from us. He may have been dead, but maybe not. Maybe he had made it somehow. Dammit, he had to have made it. He was too good of a man not to have made it.

  We ran in single file with me in the front, picking a way along the riverbank. After the first one hundred meters, the running became easier as we entered an area of defoliation. There were still bushes that had been well watered by the high tide, but they weren’t as dense farther back.

  All of our eyes darted back and forth from the footing to the water, eager to spot any sign of Kats. If one of us could have but glimpsed his body, I’d have swum through hell and high water to get him ashore. As a matter of fact, I’d have cut off my right arm and traded it for Kats’s life if God had been in the business of making such deals.

  With no sign of our teammate, we kept pressing onward, one foot in front of the other. My senses, as always when I was in the jungle, were teeming and feeding info to my brain. My skin, drenched with sweat, told me it was hot and humid. My ears, ever alert, picked up my inhaling and exhaling, and even the throbbing of my pulse. My nose drew in the smell of fish rotting somewhere on the beach. My tongue, after licking my dry lips, drew back inside my mouth with a speck or two of salt. And my eyes, crying loudest, told me that things were looking bad.

  As we approached the intersection where the Rach La met the Long Tau, I scanned the main channel for activity. Mighty Moe and the Boston Whalers appeared several hundred meters downstream to the east. I pointed them out to Lieutenant Meston as we jogged.

  “Let’s go!” Mr. Meston said, waving his hand in the direction of the boats. I angled to the east and ran with urgency. We were on flat, defoliated, grassy terrain, so cranking up the speed was the natural thing to do.

  My eyes glanced along the Long Tau, looking for a body, but I realized my searching was in vain. The LCM-6 was far downstream, and drifting away as fast as we were running. Certainly, a man’s body would be pulled by the strong current in like manner.

  “Hurry, Smitty!” Mr. Meston called from behind me. I looked back to see Flynn right behind me and Mr. Meston falling back and struggling. Mr. Meston’s face looked pained and desperate.

  I decided to race as hard as I could for the boats, to give it one more chance. After all, Katsma, I knew, would do no less for me were I the one missing.

  I went hard. Leaping a small ditch, I forced my legs into high gear. My arms started pumping at a frenzied pace. I stretched out for all I was worth, trying to reel in the LCM-6.

  I leapt over another ditch, feeling like I was flying. I sensed that I’d gained a bit on Mighty Moe. Could I catch her?

  Katsma suddenly appeared in my mind. He was running beside me, going all-out. The base gate at Nha Be was just ahead. We were neck and neck, revved to the maximum. Kats looked over at me with anguish in his eyes. We were both in overdrive, both overheating. We were ready to crash and burn, but the gate and the win were just ahead.

  Then something cut us apart. Something separated us. I saw a form, a shape in the way. I thought it was Nga. I blinked my eyes, refocused, and I saw a darkness. I saw Death. Katsma began flailing his arms as he crashed through the gate. There was surging black water on the other side, and I screame
d as he plunged in and disappeared into the darkness.

  Stop! my brain cried. Mighty Moe was still five hundred meters ahead of me, and I couldn’t catch her. I gazed once more at the Long Tau, then bent over, put my hands on my knees for support and sucked in lots of air. Sweat beads ran off my face and fell to the ground between my coral booties. I glanced to my side, half hoping to see Katsma panting and perspiring and smiling as usual after our races, but he was not there. There was only a terrible void, an emptiness.

  I looked down and watched my sweat drip to the grass below, but I could barely see. All was fuzzy as my eyes flooded with water. My sweat mixed with tears.

  I heard Mr. Meston and Flynn approach, but I didn’t look up.

  “Forget it, Smitty,” Flynn said weakly. “Katsma’s gone.”

  Forget it. Yeah, sure. Forget Katsma. Forget one of the best men I’ve ever known.

  Never. Never.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mission Eleven

  “Youth is the first victim of war; the first fruit of peace. It takes twenty years or more of peace to make a man; it takes only twenty seconds of war to destroy him.”

  Baudouin I of Belgium,

  address to joint session of U.S. Congress,

  May 12, 1959

  DATE: 8, 9 October, 1967

  TIME: 080645H to 090530H

  COORDINATES: YS024609

  UNITS INVOLVED: Foxtrot Platoon

  TASK: Recon patrol, 24 hour river ambush

  METHOD OF INSERTION: LCM-6

  METHOD OF EXTRACTION: LCM-6

  TERRAIN: Mangrove swamp, underwater at high tide

  TIDE: 0500H High, 1209H Low, 1900H High, 0100H Low

  MOON: None

  WEATHER: Cloudy with rain

  SEAL TEAM PERSONNEL:

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

  RM2 Smith, Point/Rifleman, Shotgun

  BT2 McCollum, Grenadier, M-79

  BT2 Moses, Rifleman, M-16

  ADJ2 Markel, Radioman/Rifleman, M-16