Death in the Jungle Page 18

  “I just found out they found Katsma’s body,” he said. His words slugged into me like a heavyweight’s fist.

  “Where?” I blurted.

  “Washed ashore near where he went down,” Mr. Schrader said, his voice shaking a little. He paused a moment, then added, “His hands were free, but his feet were still tied. Part of his face was eaten.”

  I crumbled inside. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fought to hold them.

  Mr. Schrader kept going. “Some of the flesh on his hands was gone, too. The Vietnamese found him first and took his Rolex watch.”

  I couldn’t hear anymore.

  I rose up and walked into a darkness like I’d never known before.

  DEATH IN

  THE JUNGLE

  Class 36’s idea of becoming a frog-man, from tadpole to bullfrog, 1965. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Unofficial emblem of SEAL Team One. (Photo credit: Unknown)

  UDT training at the mud flats. Ensigns Odusch and McCollum entertaining the instructors. (Photo credit: Unknown)

  Smitty’s weapons: M16/XM-148, Swedish K 9mm submachine gun, Ithaca M39 12-gauge shotgun, CAR-15/XM-177E2, and assorted knives. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  STAB boat used to insert and extract SEALs. Boat Support personnel in boat. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Gary and Seaman Hyatt about to depart on another mission. Notice Gary’s M16/XM-148 40mm grenade launcher and the old black Chevy pickup truck. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Harlan Funkhouser carrying a Stoner machine gun. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Doc Brown, Gary’s friend and teammate. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Rung Sat Special Zone. Notice the brown defoliated areas next to the streams. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Vietnamese being detained and questioned for being caught in a restricted area. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Patrolling through the Rung Sat Special Zone. Flynn with his Stoner machine gun and McCollum with his M79. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Gary holding a seven-foot python. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Navy Seawolf 2.75-inch rocket attack against a VC base camp. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  VC bunker made from mud, sticks, and logs. They were almost indestructible. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Navy Seawolf dropping Foxtrot Platoon more demo to blow VC bunkers. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Foxtrot resuming the patrol after a short rest. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

  Dee Daigle with his weapon of preference—a Stoner—while operating in the Rung Sat Special Zone in 1968. Notice the effects of defoliation. (Photo credit: Dee Daigle)

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mission Seventeen

  “I have seen children starving. I have seen the agony of mothers and wives. I hate war.”

  Franklin D. Roosevelt,

  Chautauqua, New York,

  August 14, 1936

  DATE: 4, 5 November 1967

  TIME: 041830H to 050530H

  UNITS INVOLVED: Foxtrot 1, MST-3, PBR

  TASK: Overnight river ambush

  METHOD OF INSERTION: PBR

  METHOD OF EXTRACTION: LCM-6

  TERRAIN: Thick water palm

  TIDE: 1720H-12.5 feet, 2240H-7.5 feet, 0400H-13.1 feet

  MOON: 1/4

  WEATHER: Heavy rain

  SEAL TEAM PERSONNEL:

  Lt. Meston, Patrol Leader/Rifleman, M-16

  Lt. Flynn, Ass’t. Patrol Leader/Rifleman, M-16

  RM2 Smith, Point/Rifleman, Shotgun

  MM2 Funkhouser, Automatic Weapon, Stoner

  BT2 McCollum, Ordnance/Grenadier, M-79

  HM2 Brown, Corpsman/Radioman/Rifleman, M-16

  LDNN Ty, Ass’t. Point/Rifleman, M-16

  AZIMUTHS: 190 degrees-50m

  ESCAPE: 000 degrees

  CODE WORDS: Insert-Yale, Ambush Site-Harvard, Extract-Dartmouth, Challenge and Reply—Two numbers total 10

  The early morning was dark and quiet as our squad walked across the naval base to our barracks. The mobile support team followed behind us. No one seemed in the mood for talking, but we had to debrief.

  We went upstairs to the briefing/intelligence room, and Mr. Schrader quickly reviewed the mission. When he asked for suggestions or comments, there were none. The recommendation that came to my mind was, “Next time, let’s not bark up the wrong tree,” but I didn’t say it. The guys may not have been able to grasp such sophisticated humor at that early hour. The second suggestion I had was, “Let’s patrol a little faster next time,” but I didn’t mention that either, because next time Mr. Meston would be back in charge, not Mr. Schrader. Mr. Schrader had been just a substitute while Mr. Meston had filled out reports and met with the XO about Katsma’s accident.

  When Mr. Schrader dismissed us, I went straight to the showers. I stepped into the shower with my cammo clothing still on my body and Sweet Lips in my hands. The water felt good as it cascaded off the top of my head and down my back. As always, I gave my shotgun a good rinsing, then I peeled off each article of clothing as it got cleaned.

  When I finished, Brown was ready to take my place in the shower. I scooped up my wet clothes and my gun and moved out of Brown’s way. I then hung the clothing in the dressing room before heading for our berthing space and my cubicle. I knew I was a sight to see, stark naked and carrying a 12-gauge pump shotgun. If my past girlfriends could have gotten a glimpse of me then, they’d have realized what they were missing. On the other hand, the manic depressive, schizophrenic, serial-killer look wasn’t playing too well in Abilene.

  Once at my cubicle, I stood Sweet Lips in the corner and slipped into my blue-and-gold T-shirt and UDT swim trunks. In a flash, I climbed into bed and fell asleep when my head hit the pillow.

  Sometime around 0700 hours, I awoke and looked at my watch. It was working again, but it showed 1827 hours, and I knew that was nowhere near the correct time. I pulled on my coral shoes, then walked to the mess hall for breakfast. Funkhouser, already there and pretty much recovered from his illness, was eating with McCollum. I grabbed a plate of “shit on a shingle,” which was ground beef mixed with gravy, and some peaches and coffee and sat with the two men.

  I wolfed down my food and finished when Funky and Muck did.

  “What time is it?” I asked Funkhouser as we left the chow hall.

  “Zero seven twenty-four,” he informed me, and I set my watch.

  “Let’s run around the base,” I suggested. Both men looked at me like I’d just turned into a moron.

  McCollum snorted and said, “I want my shit on a shingle to come out my ass, not up my throat.”

  I knew I wouldn’t push myself hard enough to vomit, so I broke into a jog and went off by myself. The morning air was cool and tonic. I enjoyed every step of the easy run.

  I ended my exercise at the armory, where I checked out Katsma’s M-16. I carried the weapon to my cubicle and grabbed my shotgun, then walked back outside to the cleaning table.

  Upon inspection, I found Katsma’s rifle somewhat rusted. The rifle had been submerged in saltwater during our mission rehearsal, and it was obvious that no one had cleaned the weapon after Kats’s death.

  I tore down the M-16 and dunked every part of it in the tub of diesel fuel. I used the stiffest brushes to clean away the light rust. After drying each piece with a towel, I lubricated them and reassembled everything. The rifle was then ready for a new swamp commando. Whoever that man would be, he would have huge shoes to fill.

  I gave Sweet Lips the ultimate cleaning, too, then I returned both weapons to the armory.

  Continuing my chores, I took my half-dried cammies and other dirty clothing from the dressing room hangers, folded them, and carried the load to Nga’s. When I entered the establishment, two old Vietnamese men were sitting at one of three wicker tables drinking tea. They nodded at me as I passed and walked toward Nga, who was working behind the laundry counter.

  “How you, Smit-ty?” the middle-aged woman greeted me. She smiled big, not a bit self-conscio
us about the three gaps in her grin where teeth were missing.

  “Toi manh gioi,” I responded, telling her that I was fine. I set the pile of clothing on the counter.

  Still smiling, Nga said, “Be ready, two day.” She held up two fingers.

  I nodded in acknowledgment. “Chao,” I said with a little hand wave for good-bye.

  “Bye-bye, Smit-ty,” she called after me as I walked out of her shop.

  Back on the base, I gathered up our platoon’s radios, including the PRC-25, a French radio, and two Motorolas. I toted them to the newly built maintenance building, which was a three-story structure with numerous rooms and departments for repairing everything from small equipment to large boats. I entered a compartaient for electronic parts maintenance where I took each radio apart. I dried several pieces in a special oven, cleaned them thoroughly, then reassembled the radios. After testing each radio for its workability, I wrapped them individually in clear plastic and sealed them with duct tape in order to waterproof them.

  Just as I finished the two-hour duty, Funkhouser walked in and gave me some butt-breaking news. “Plague shots at 1300 hours.”

  I looked at my watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes,” I moaned.

  Funkhouser bobbed his head up and down. “My ass hurts just thinkin’ about it.”

  Half-petrified over what we would get when we got there, we made the long walk to the barracks as long as possible. I’d rather have reconed a thousand meters of enemy-controlled jungle than have faced Doc Brown’s monstrous hypodermic needle and syringe charged with five c.c.s of bubonic plague serum.

  “Line up, ladies!” Brown shouted as we walked through the open door of the barracks. Twenty other men were already in line, which Funkhouser and I joined. At the other end operated Brown, teasing and chastising as he stuck one behind after another.

  “Drop the skivvies and bend over!” I heard Brown direct. “Let me shove this where the sun never shines.”

  Mojica, my boat support pal, was two men ahead of me in line. He turned around and looked at me with a sickly grin.

  “Doc is makin’ me sick,” he muttered. “I thought doctors were s’posed to make you well.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I attempted a smile. My lips felt awkward, though, and the smile fell apart on my face. Mojica shook his head and looked away.

  When Mojica’s turn came, I watched him as he pointed at the long needle and exclaimed, “Holy shit!”

  Doc chuckled. “This’ll give you a holy shit, all right.”

  “What d’ya mean by that?” Mojica demanded in a squeaky, high-pitched voice.

  “I mean that the next time ya sit on the john, it’ll be a painful experience. You’ll be a-callin’ on Jesus’s holy name, believe me. Now bend over.”

  Mojica’s usual dark complexion was gone as he slowly slid down his skivvies. He stole one more hopeful glance at me as he reached for his ankles, looking like death warmed over.

  Doc Brown, milking the suspense for all it was worth, aimed the point of the needle, then hesitated. For five unbearable seconds, Mojica waited for the hurtful poke. He flinched, but before he bolted, Doc froze him by asking him a question.

  “Right cheek or left?”

  A visible shiver ran through Mojica’s body. He closed his eyes, then blurted, “Right.”

  Instantly, the needle was plunged into his left buttock. Mojica let loose with a bloodcurdling scream that shook the barracks and almost caused me to wet my pants. The boat support person in front of me, whose name I didn’t know, fainted and fell to the floor.

  Without missing a beat, Doc jerked the needle out of Mojica, loaded a new syringe, and pulled down the passed-out sailor’s skivvies. He was in and out with the shot in ten seconds, then looked up at me.

  “You’re next, Hawkeye,” he told me, as if that horrible fact could possibly have escaped me.

  Mojica, having hoisted up his own skivvies, pulled up his teammate’s skivvies and dragged the unconscious man a few feet out of the way. As Mojica patted the man’s face to revive him, Doc readied a dose of serum for me.

  “Bend over,” he bellowed for the umpteenth time.

  I looked him in the eye with a hard glare, sending a message I knew he understood: treat me right or payback will be hell on you.

  “Bend over,” he repeated, softer this time.

  Feeling brave and in control again, I dropped my swim trunks and gave Brown a nice rear view.

  “You’re pretty,” he said.

  I glanced back at him and his needle. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Pretty ugly,” he finished.

  I looked away, anticipating the poke.

  “Right or left cheek?” Brown asked.

  I smarted off. “Just miss the lovely sack hangin’ down in the middle.”

  A sudden, sharp sting pierced my right buttock. As Brown shoved in the serum, the pain increased. A five-c.c. dose was a big one, and I felt my flesh bulging. Unconsciously, I hung my mouth open as the syringe was emptied, and I realized it only after a string of saliva fell to the concrete floor at my feet.

  “Damn!” I muttered as Doc finally extracted the needle.

  “Next!” he barked after I pulled up my swim trunks and stumbled away. I managed a look back at Funkhouser, who was next, and he was watching me with terrified eyes. My own pain was so great that I felt no sympathy or care for my roommate. All I wanted to do was lie down in my bed for a few minutes.

  Just as I reached my cubicle, Funkhouser emitted a horrendous howl. But that was his problem. That was one time I had to worry about my own ass.

  Three and a half weeks later, I was on point and back to worrying about my own as well as six other asses. This was our sixth mission since all of us had received the plague shots with the screaming and moaning that went with them. In contrast, no one was hollering now. The peacefulness of the jungle was in evidence, and yet, a battle could have erupted at any second. Seven guerrilla fighters looking for trouble on an enemy’s travel route amounted to a war waiting to happen. And if one enemy didn’t show, you could bet your soaked and shriveled hind end that the other would be there: greetings, Culicidae family, you bloodsucking, disease-carrying bastards.

  We were moving at first light, back into the brush, away from our overnight ambush site on the Rach La and Cu Lao Ca Xuc intersection of waterways, since there was not enough cover to have stayed on the stream in the daylight. We’d heard nothing over the long night’s downpour. The sky, gray and ugly, threatened overhead. A sinister atmosphere pervaded the swamp.

  After wading about 125 meters away from our ambush site, Lieutenant Meston motioned for me to stop. We were at a point where we were well concealed by nipa palm, and it was here where we’d hang out until nightfall. Then we’d move back into position on the stream for another all-nighter.

  Mr. Meston signaled for us to form a circle and settle down in the water. He gestured to me to take the first two-hour watch. I walked to one of the more prominent trees outside the men’s circle and leaned my back against the trunk. The others got comfortable, if sitting in water up to the armpits could be described as comfy.

  Over the next hour or so, the water level went down considerably until it was but a couple inches deep. I kept my eyes and ears open all the while as the others attempted to ignore the mosquitos and sleep.

  Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 0835 hours, then I looked up at the sky, which was very gloomy. Before I looked away, I heard rustling in the brush directly outside the perimeter from me. I clicked off the safety on my shotgun and found the trigger with my shooting finger. A twig snapped, and I slowly swung Sweet Lips toward the sound.

  For the next few seconds, I heard nothing. My eyes scanned the brush, but I saw nothing. Sweat trickled down my forehead and into my left eye. The sting forced me to close it. No matter, as I needed only my right eye to take aim.

  A sucking noise reached my ears, and I knew there was someone walking in the mud. If that someone was a
VC, I intended to shoot him when he broke through the vegetation and came into view.

  While I prepared myself for killing, a sudden chopping noise shattered the stillness. A second chop followed and I pinpointed the sound as coming from a mere ten meters away. Then a series of chops rang out and awakened a groggy Lieutenant Meston, who climbed to his feet with a curse.

  I waved my arm, getting Mr. Meston’s attention, then placed a finger vertically in front of my lips and whispered, “Shhh.” Mr. Meston immediately lost the cobwebs and grabbed his M-16 from its resting place in a bush. The chopping, however, had ceased. My brain told me we were compromised as the woodcutter had heard Lieutenant Meston’s voice.

  I stared at Mr. Meston, waiting for him to give me directions. Flynn stood up beside Lieutenant Meston and they whispered to one another. As they conferred, another chop resonated. Good, I thought to myself, the man had not been spooked off.

  Mr. Meston listened for several seconds to more timber slashing, then motioned for me to go get the woodcutter. I waved at Ty to follow me.

  As fast as I could, I crashed through the thick vegetation with Sweet Lips at the ready. The woodchopper didn’t have time to flee as I was on his case in an instant. He was standing next to the tree he’d been cutting, wearing baggy, rotting, black-pajama-type clothing and holding a makeshift ax.

  When the middle-aged woodcutter saw me, all painted up and with my weapon aimed at his guts, he sank to his knees and began pleading in Vietnamese. I moved to within ten feet of him, never taking my eyes or my gun off him.

  Ty stepped up beside me. “Ong co so linh My khong?” he snapped, asking the woodcutter if he was afraid of American soldiers.

  The man, visibly shaking and obviously petrified, bowed up and down like a Buddhist in fervent prayer, babbling as fast as his lips would move.

  “Shut him up!” I told Ty.

  “Dung noi! Dung yen!”