Death in the Jungle Gary Smith (mobi reader txt) 📖

twenty-two-by-seventy-five-foot barracks, which housed three SEAL platoons, minus the officers, totaling thirty-six men. Eighteen cots were lined up, three feet apart, on each side of the center aisle running from one end of the building to the other. My platoon had done some trading with the Seabees for several four-by-eight-foot plywood sheets and some two-by-fours with which to build partition walls between every second and third cot. This gave us some semblance of privacy with two-man cubicles to share. My cubicle was eight by eight feet, and my mate was Funkhouser. Each cot had a mosquito net draped over its four tall corner posts, the ends of which could be tucked under the cot’s mattress to keep out mosquitos. At the foot of each cot was an individual locker for storing personal items.

I went to my cubicle, where I put on a fresh pair of camouflage pants, a cammo shirt, and dry pairs of socks and boots. I reached underneath my cot and pulled out a two-by-two-foot wooden cage that held Bolivar, my twenty-inch pet boa constrictor.

I opened the mesh wire top of the cage and took Bolivar in my hands for a minute of petting. The snake seemed appreciative of the show of affection, after which I put him back and slid the cage under the bed. Then I went to the chow hall to eat.

There were no C rats in the mess hall; instead, it was time for some real food, or at least as real as the cooks could get it in an out-of-the-way place like Nha Be.

Bucklew and Khan were seated at a table and were digging into ham and eggs, toast, and coffee. I grabbed a tray at the serving counter and filled a plate with the same menu, opting also for some Tabasco sauce.

“Mr. Meston and McCollum took a chopper to go look for the sampan we shot up,” Bucklew informed me as I sat down at his table. “It’s low tide, so they may find something in the mud.”

“Prob’ly two dead VC,” snarled Khan, staring right through me with those penetrating eyes of his. He looked mean. I was glad he was my friend and not my enemy.

Bucklew swallowed a bite of food and said, “Hawkeye, you sure were lucky yesterday.”

I grinned. “You mean with that booby trap?”

“Yeah,” replied Bucklew, nodding his head, “not to mention that croc. Volunteering for point must involve some kinda death wish.”

I gazed hard at Bucklew. “I don’t wanna die. That’s why I’m on point. I trust myself more than anybody else.” I looked at Khan, who was looking at me. “If I ever get shot up, Khan, make sure the Communist pig who shoots me gets paid back in full.”

Khan slowly nodded once, then went back to eating. I poured some Tabasco sauce on my eggs as Funkhouser approached with Mojica, a Mexican-American member of the Boat Support Unit.

“That’s the way to smother those eggs!” agreed Mojica, pulling a chair away from the table and sitting down.

“There’s plenty more where this came from,” I informed him.

“Don’t stuff yourself,” said Funkhouser as he, too, sat down. “Save room for the beer. The party starts at 1200 hours, and we’re buyin’ for everybody on base in honor of our first successful mission.”

It was the custom, after every successful encounter with the enemy, for the returning platoon to invite everyone to the Quonset hut for free beer. At 1200 hours, I tossed a five-dollar bill on the bar counter, which paid for fifty beers at ten cents apiece. Funkhouser, Bucklew, and Khan did likewise. Within minutes, there were forty guys in the building, including SEALs, boat support people, and helo crews. They were all in a festive mood.

Hoo-yah! was the cry of the afternoon. Backslapping and neck-hugging were a frequent exercise, which accelerated when Meston and McCollum entered with two recovered Communist weapons in their hands.

“Look what we got!” boasted Mr. Meston as he held up an AK-47 and McCollum showed off an Enfield rifle. “We found the sampan, full of holes, along with these rifles, three rifle grenades, a paddle, and a cooking pan.”

“What about the dinks?” Funkhouser shouted.

“Probably washed downstream,” answered Lieutenant Meston, setting the AK-47 on a table.

“Shark meat!” someone yelled, and all of us shouted hoo-yah! and raised our glasses high.

McCollum wasted no time dropping a five-spot on the counter and grabbing a beer before heading for the piano. He drank half the beer in one swig, set it on top of the piano, then sat down on the piano bench. After playing a short introduction, he began to sing:

“Hail! Hail! The gang’s all here!

What the hell do we care? What the hell do we care?

Hail! Hail! The gang’s all here!

What the hell do we care now?”

As he went through the words again, everyone joined in. Bucklew hoisted his glass over his head, splashing beer on himself and on my back, as I happened to be the fortunate one standing in front of him. But I was only momentarily irritated. Five beers and a dozen songs later, I was not worried much about anything. And five beers after that, I was the one doing the splashing.

One of the SEALs from Echo Platoon made a big show out of downing two beers in ten seconds, then challenged Foxtrot Platoon to beat his feat.

“No problem,” I retorted. “Just give me a minute.” I spent the next few minutes searching the dark and dusty places of the building until I found what I needed to win the bet: a cockroach.

With all eyes upon me, I pinched the cockroach between the thumb and index finger of my right hand, while with my left I lined up two beers on the bar counter in front of me. After a final look into the fuzzy, bug-eyed face of the two-inch insect, I tossed it into my mouth and chewed it in half. Then I swallowed the two beers as fast as I could.

“Nineteen seconds!” someone from Echo Platoon bellowed.