Death in the Jungle Page 2

  Our daily schedule was very basic. We started the day off with one hour of PT or a run of the obstacle course. Afterward, we swam for the rest of the morning, then ran up and down the Silver Strand for the afternoon, or vice versa. All of this physical activity was carefully planned to prepare us for Hell Week.

  One morning, after a hard PT, we ran all over the Silver Strand, through the sand dunes, out into the surf, rolled in the sand and raced from one point to another. The “goon squad,” which consisted of the slower runners, was continually harassed by Friendly Freddie and Barney Ripper. Even our corpsman, Doc Beaver, a big Indian, had no sympathy. At one point, Doc drove the ambulance past us, dragging one of the goon squad boys behind the ambulance with Freddie and Barney running alongside, cursing and throwing driftwood at him. The next morning, the harassed trainee was shipped out. He must have been a radioman.

  For those of us up front, we were forced to inhale Instructor Olivera’s cigar smoke as he led us on each day’s run. We never did figure out how he could run ten to fifteen miles daily, a burning cigar or a large wad of Beechnut chewing tobacco in his mouth, and outrun every one of us. He was an incredible guy.

  After lunch we began a timed two-mile swim in the swimming pool. Progressively, the swim degenerated into a free-for-all at each end of the pool where at least half of the class was bottlenecked. The stronger swimmers were forced to literally swim over the weaker ones. It was not a pretty sight. On occasion, a fistfight would erupt until the combatants were overrun by other swimmers. It was every man for himself!

  One day, in the midst of this chaotic situation, I heard Instructor Olivera yell, “Country, get your butt over here.”

  I quickly swam up to the edge of the pool at the feet of Boatswain Mate Second Class Olivera. “Yes, Olivera?” Olivera was not only a legend, but was also one of the all-time fastest long-distance runners in the Teams. He had been in the Navy for about sixteen years, but in the fifties and early sixties, it was not uncommon for a career sailor to retire as a Second Class Petty Officer (enlisted paygrade E-5). He was also half Arapaho and half Italian. Olivera had a classic hooked nose, balding pate, and dark complexion. He repeatedly made life miserable for those whose attitudes weren’t up to snuff; yet, we admired him and greatly respected him. Of course, it was easy to respect someone when he had almost absolute power over one’s life. Olivera was able to continually motivate us to push ourselves beyond what we thought to be our absolute physical limits. On rare occasions, Olivera would even move up beside one of us and offer a word of encouragement.

  “Country, Instructor Enoch tells me you like chewing tobacco?” Olivera asked while reaching into his well-rounded right cheek and pulling out a well-used wad of Beechnut.

  Instinctively, I knew this was one of those times for diversion. “Yes, Olivera. I prefer Days Work,” I said, grinning weakly. “It’s juicier and more satisfying.”

  Olivera broke out hee-hawing as only he could. His laughter was a mixture of total control and manipulation, with skepticism and cynicism thrown in for good measure. “Open your mouth and chew on this for a while, and see how satisfying it is.” He shoved the large gob of Beechnut into my open mouth. “After you finish the two-mile swim [without fins], report to me at the ‘lean and rest’ [push-up position]. I want to know how satisfying that Beechnut chewing tobacco was.”

  “Yes, Olivera! Hoo-yah!” I cried as I returned to a pool filled with about one hundred trainees, all trying to swim a two-mile race and somehow keep from being drowned by the masses of swimmers bottlenecked at the ends of the pool. I had never had the opportunity to swim two miles with a secondhand plug of chewing tobacco in my mouth. Worst of all, the swim was a timed race, and the slower swimmers would later receive special instructions on motivation. Not only was I not interested in motivational training (sand and surf), but I was determined to be in the top twenty-five percent, do or die. And so I achieved, thanks to Olivera’s crafty method of motivating me.

  Our class was the last one to have the privilege to go through the Colorado River survival week course. We were three-quarters of the way through training at that point. There was a faint light at the end of the tunnel. The scenario we were forced to participate in was based on the premise of our having previously destroyed a military target in North Vietnam. Our problem was that we had to evade all enemy forces lurking at numerous points between Davis and Parker Dams. There was no sanctuary until we reached Parker Dam, and that was to be accomplished no later than 0800 hours on Saturday morning. We were divided into five-man boat crews. Each boat was a seven-man-capable rubber raft called an IBS (inflatable boat, small).

  All six boat crews were inserted just below the Davis Dam on Monday evening, south of Lake Mohave. We were to continue traveling south for five nights until we reached Parker Dam at the southern end of Lake Havasu. Each boat crew was to travel independently of the others. All travel was to be done during the night, and we were to hide out during the day. We were not to travel inland from the river more than one hundred yards.

  My boat crew consisted of Lt. George Worthington, better known as Lord George Worthingstone; ENS Theodore Roosevelt IV (TR), second in command; then PO2 Bro Moore; followed by PO3 Dick, and yours truly, Seaman Smith. Fortunately for us, the instructors didn’t make TR carry that huge club on this trip down the great Colorado River. There must have been times during training that he regretted his Great Granddad’s famous policy, “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” The route was easy. All we had to do was travel with the current until we reached Devil’s Elbow, just south of Needles, California. At that point we expected to encounter the enemy in force. Our intelligence information had been gathered from UDT mates who were graduates of previous classes. Thank goodness for friends! We soon discovered that our instructors not only didn’t play by chivalrous rules of war, but also they were our bitter, sadistic, and abusive enemies, whose vocabularies did not include the word mercy.

  All went well until Tuesday night when we neared the infamous Devil’s Elbow. The river became very narrow and the walls of the canyon were absolutely vertical. There was no way to escape except by stealth and concealment. No wonder someone had named the place Devil’s Elbow. We did have one tactical advantage though—it was a moonless night.

  Lord Worthingstone and TR decided we were to maintain a low profile by not paddling and simply drifting with the current. The “Lord” would occasionally dip his coxswain’s paddle into the current to keep us in the center of the stream. You could have heard a pin drop on the rubber boat’s main tube. Except for our wicked little hearts thumping at a rhythm of 150 taps a minute, we were quiet as church mice.

  Suddenly there was a sound that struck horror in our hearts! Someone had just started an outboard motor. It didn’t take much to deduce that it was attached to a boat filled with bloodthirsty instructors intent on making a merry night at our expense. It was about this time that I looked back on the soft life I had had as a radioman behind a typewriter. Being the junior tadpole in the boat and being reminded, on that occasion, that crap runs downhill—I figured that, one way or another, this would be a memorable night.

  That outboard motor had barely gotten started when all five of us were stroking, in perfect unison, with all of our strength, and heading downstream, not being too particular where we were going except that it be away from the boat that was gaining on us fast.

  We were just beginning to think that we might have a chance to escape when the pursuing boat turned on a powerful spotlight that shined on past us, revealing a heinous reception committee made up of ghoulish individuals awaiting our arrival on a sand bar next to the canyon wall. It was a bewildering situation! I literally didn’t know whether to crap or fall back into it. As it turned out, it didn’t really make any difference.

  Chief McNally’s voice came in loud and clear. “Good morning, comrades. We have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of you imperialist dogs.”

  I was initially confused by his paradoxical gree
ting—my friend in one breath and my enemy in the next. We were a totally humbled boat crew, seeking forgiveness and receiving only condemnation. Even Lord Worthingstone seemed humbled. As POWs we were allowed to give only our name, rank, date of birth, and serial number. To say any more was treasonous and dishonorable.

  McNally gave PO1 Enoch and Friendly Frederickson orders. He said, “Take the dark one and the tall slim one and strip them naked. Bind their feet and hands together and behind their backs. We’ll soon see just how tough these warmongering pigs stand up under our compassionate interrogation procedures.” He was referring to Bro and me.

  Another familiar and deceitful voice spoke up. “I’m so sorry you henchmen of imperialism have blown up our factories, killed our women and children, destroyed our homes and chicken houses, enslaved our retarded brothers and adulterous sisters in the South.”

  I began to feel real uncomfortable. Truly he was a “slant-eye” with forked tongue. Man, I hope he uses Vaseline, I kept thinking. “Remember, I am your friend regardless of what happens,” continued Chief Boatswain Mate Al Huey.

  Where had I heard that before? I thought. Good ole Al, the kiddies’ pal, had now become “I am your friend,” your commie pal.

  Lord George, TR, and Dick were made to lie down with their faces in the sand. McNally interrupted the proceedings by reminding Enoch and Frederickson, “Oh yes, don’t forget to place the black bags over their heads and that rattlesnake around their necks. Tie the bag securely around their scrawny necks. I don’t want any water to leak inside.” He broke into cynical laughter.

  The initial procedure was to use a sock filled with sand and to start pounding Bro’s kidneys and mine with it.

  McNally started the interrogation, “How many other pigs are with you?”

  Neither of us answered. The night was very cold so they naturally poured water over our bodies between the beatings and interrogation, claiming we smelled worse than pigs and needed washing. That was probably the only truthful statement they made that night.

  “How many more boat crews are there?” McNally continued.

  Again, we didn’t answer.

  “Put that rattler (actually a large gopher snake) inside Moore’s bag to keep him company,” yelled McNally. Moore began screaming and begging for mercy. “Throw them in the river. They are of no use to us!” McNally said with finality.

  I didn’t know about Bro, but I was beginning to believe they were really the commies. Especially when they threw me into the river! I began to think about how good that radioman job had been behind that typewriter. The water pressure crushed the black bag tightly over my head. It was a terrible feeling. I couldn’t even scream. I hated the thought of having a squirming rattler wrapped around my face.

  Just before I blacked out, I was suddenly pulled out of the river and questioned again. It was now my turn to have the rattler crawling inside of the black bag that was tightly secured around my scrawny neck. When we refused to answer their questions, they again threw Bro and me back into the river. My whole body was shaking violently from the cold, the snake, and the realistic training. I made up my mind right then and there that I would never be captured in combat. I would fight to the death. No human being could stand up to that kind of treatment for extended periods of time. It was better to die in honor than to live in disgrace.

  To make a long story short, we didn’t get captured again during the next three days. The instructors came to within a few feet of catching me again, but I would have died fighting first. It was a lesson well learned. The worst part of my captivity was Enoch stealing the chewing tobacco that I had waterproofed in several condoms. There was no honor among thieves.

  In November we spent our last three weeks of training at San Clemente Island, about seventy miles northwest of San Diego. It was entrusted to the Navy and had been used by UDT since the early fifties and probably earlier. It was approximately twenty-three miles in length and one mile wide.

  The old UDT Training camp was located at Northwest Harbor and consisted of eight student and four instructor plywood shacks, one long building that served as the mess deck and admin spaces, outside shower, and the ever-present outhouses. Based on the caste system, one was reserved for the mature amphibian frogmen instructors and the other for the immature tadpoles (non-humans). The berthing shacks’ deck dimensions were approximately ten feet by fourteen feet and held four double bunks for eight trainees. Approximately one hundred yards farther inland toward the runway was UDT Training Command’s storage/staging barn. All of the buildings were originally built and used during World War II to house the construction workers and their equipment during the building of the nearby runway.

  We spent the first two weeks at San Clemente Island free-diving on Japanese and German hulls that had been planted in the Northwest Harbor’s cove at depths of twenty to forty feet, depending on the tide, and just outboard of the breakers. Beginning two days after our arrival at the camp, a series of continuous winter storms made our lives miserable for two weeks. It rained over seventeen inches, setting a new record. The surf was very high and the visibility varied from zero to one foot. The water temperature dropped to fifty-seven degrees.

  The first eight mornings began at 0400 hours. On those mornings we were briefed on the enemy situation, then grabbed our swim gear and slates, boarded an LCPR (Landing Craft Personnel Ramp) and LCPL MK 4 (Landing Craft Personnel Landing), and headed for China Beach. We were dropped off by using the old swimmer-cast-and-recovery method that had been perfected during World War II. An IBS was secured on portside of the LCPR. Simulating a combat mission and maintaining low profile, the officer in charge signaled one man at a time to slide over the side of the LCPR and into the bouncing IBS. When the enemy beach to be surveyed or reconned was to starboard of the boat, the OIC signaled the first man to enter the water, followed by another every twenty-five yards. The reconnaissance had to be completed before daylight. All swimmers were to swim back out to sea approximately one mile, maintaining one long swimmer line with twenty-five yards separating each swimmer. Eventually, the LCPR returned, traveling at about 15 mph. The pickup man, located in the IBS, held a sling outboard of the raft. As the boat neared the line, each swimmer simply hooked his arm into the sling and was flipped into the boat. By 0700 hours, we were eating breakfast.

  After breakfast we mustered on the beach with our wet suit top (that was all we were issued), fins, booties, face mask, life jacket, web belt with knife and MK 13 flare, and, of course, our UDT swim trunks. We were divided into swim pairs and assigned a specific scully. Taking turns diving, our main task was to free-dive down to the scully and tie two 20-pound haversacks of explosives, as instructed, and in such a way that the surge couldn’t rip them off. We soon learned that our normal working dive had to be at least one minute in duration.

  Upon completion we called to PO1 Dickerson, known as the “Jolly Green Giant,” that our scully was ready for inspection. We remained on the surface and anxiously watched him free-dive down and out of sight in the murky water. In less than one minute he appeared on the surface.

  “You guys have gotta be kidding me,” scolded Dickerson. “One good yank is all it took. Now get your butts back down there and do it right.” With that, he swam off to another pair awaiting his inspection. We didn’t call him the “Jolly Green Giant” for nothing. It didn’t matter how tight we tied the haversacks on, he could somehow rip them off. That meant we would not be allowed to go ashore for another scully assignment and, most importantly, stand beside a large bonfire of driftwood to toast our frozen digits for five minutes.

  After lunch we continued our attempts, with occasional success, to load our scully with the two haversacks of explosives until 1800 hours when we were served supper. After supper we prepared for a night mission of one type of reconnaissance or another. We never completed those night missions before 0230 hours. After we took care of our gear, we went to the chow hall for our midnight rations. Hot soup, hot cocoa, lots of peanut butter and c
ow butter, and bread were always served. Because we were in the cold water for twelve to sixteen hours a day, our bodies started craving peanut butter and cow butter. We were permitted to eat all that we wanted. We literally ate sticks of cow butter like candy bars. Our bodies really needed that fat content for body heat and endurance. Every winter training class reacted the same way.

  One afternoon, at the end of the first two weeks, we were taken past Wilson Cove by LCPR and LCPL MK 4 and told to swim back to Northwest Harbor. Unfortunately, the set (tidal current) was moving against us. No doubt our instructors planned it that way. We weren’t allowed to freestyle. Only underwater strokes were permitted, which included sidestroke, breaststroke, and backstroke.

  Terry Fowler, also a seaman, and I were swim partners. We cut corners by swimming over some of the kelp beds, which were masses of large seaweeds. We literally pulled ourselves, freestyle, through the kelp. With a total time of a little over six hours, we came in fourth out of fifteen pairs.

  Terry and I crawled up onto the beach just before dark. We were so numb from the cold that our legs were simply too stiff to do more than crawl. The last swim pair didn’t get in for another two hours.

  Friendly Frederickson was there to greet us back by saying, “Get off your asses! You pukes. Double time to the shower area, then eat chow. Now!” No encouragement, just a kick in the pants. We continued crawling toward the chow hall until we were able to stand up.

  Taking a shower was always a delight. The system was nothing more than pipes secured to posts outside and near our berthing shacks. The water was delivered from a large tank on a hill above the camp by gravity flow. It was always very cold, but very welcome.

  The last week before graduation we spent executing demolition raids against enemy positions scattered throughout San Clemente Island and running a timed eight-mile race the last afternoon.