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

went, I ran the mission through my mind. The plan was to insert in defoliated swampland, about 250 meters north of Rach Vuna Gam, a tributary of the Quan Nhon Trach, then patrol eight hundred meters southwest to our forty-eight-hour ambush site on the stream. The two squads would split twelve-hour shifts on the riverbank with the resting squad maintaining rear security several meters back in the bush.

I looked at the men seated on the deck next to me, and it was obvious they were ready for war. Funkhouser caressed his M-60 machine gun. He was loaded down with five hundred rounds of 7.62mm linked ammunition belted around his upper torso.

McCollum carried the M-79 grenade launcher with seventy rounds of 40mm HE and ten specialized 40mm canister rounds loaded with 00 buck. Attached to his web belt and ammo pouches were two M-26 fragmentation grenades, two M-3A2 concussion grenades, and two hand-fired pop parachute flares.

Besides carrying the PRC-25 radio, Bucklew was packing an M-16 with 350 rounds of ammo. He was also heavy with grenades: two frags, one concussion, one red and one green smoke grenade, and two red and two white pop para flares.

Mr. Meston boasted an M-16 with three hundred rounds, a frag and concussion grenade, one red and one green smoke grenade, two pop para flares, and a Starlight Scope. Adding to our destructive capabilities, Mr. Meston also carried one thermite incendiary grenade and one white phosphorus (“Willy Peter”) grenade.

I, of course, squeezed Sweet Lips in my hands and toted sixty-six rounds of 00 and an extra fifteen rounds of flechettes.

Each flechette round contained several miniature aluminum arrows packed into its 12-gauge shell. Attached to my ammo pouches were three fragmentation grenades, two concussion grenades, a green smoke grenade, and one M-18 antipersonnel claymore mine. I also carried in my backpack a prisoner-handling kit with gag, blindfold, and line.

In addition, each man packed a strobe light, a pencil flare kit, K-bar knife, an MK-13 day/night flare, bright orange aircraft panel, and a lensatic compass, along with C rats, water, and a first aid kit. On top of all that, the designated swimmer had the fins, coral booties, and stream-crossing line. Guess who?

The five men on the other slick were just as well prepared and ready for bear, and anybody in his right mind would not have wanted to mess with the ten of us. Nor anybody in his left mind, for that matter.

Bucklew handed me a roll of olive-drab ordnance tape for sealing the bottom of my pants. I wrapped the tape snugly around the tops of my jungle boots, making sure not to leave any opening where leeches and small crabs would be sure to crawl. It was bad enough having malaria-infected mosquitos creeping into my ear canals and nostrils without having bloodsuckers and pincers up my crotch.

After fifteen minutes of flying, the pilot made a fake insertion, and then another a few miles later, to confuse the Viet Cong. Mr. Meston hollered that the next insertion was real and we should prepare to insert.

I slid over to the starboard door and hung my feet out above the strut. Bucklew eased beside me. Funkhouser and McCollum dangled out the portside door as the helo flared and started to descend. Looking down, I wondered where the pilot was going to attempt to drop us. There was nothing but thick, stinking, double-canopy jungle below us.

As we sank lower, I looked out at the propeller rotating above the fast-closing treetops. A few more feet and the blade would be carving out chopsticks. Still, the pilot risked another yard.

The helo ended up hovering a good fifteen feet above the brush and muck when the pilot told Meston, “Go!” My God, I thought, that was a long way down, especially when we were all so heavy with equipment.

Mr. Meston yelled, “Go!” Without hesitation, I jumped. Two seconds later, after sending a Shockwave of pain through my knees, I was sitting on my butt in the mud.

Bucklew jumped next, ending up on his rear end right beside me. Mud splattered onto my left arm and cheek, but I didn’t mind; it went with the territory.

When McCollum landed behind me, he managed to stay on his feet, but Funkhouser followed with a total collapse. He ended up spread-eagled and face down, four inches deep in the mud. I climbed to my feet as Mr. Meston leapt from the helicopter and finished on his knees at Funkhouser’s side, and together we hoisted Funky out of the wallow he’d created. Funky spit mud through his teeth as I wiped a glob from his left eye.

“Geronimo,” he said without emotion, spitting some more.

I felt like laughing, but one look at the menacing jungle around us stifled the urge. Nothing but thick vegetation—mangrove roots, nipa palm trees, bushes, elephant grass, and Mekong muck. Somehow we had to patrol eight hundred meters through that tangled maze of tropical wait-a-minute to our ambush site.

As the helicopters flew away, I advanced a few meters into a thicket crisscrossed so heavily with branches and vines it resembled a network of huge spider webs. Working my way forward, I felt like the most uncoordinated person on the planet as I pulled one foot out of six inches of mud, lifted it high over a cluster of branches while I shoved others away from my face, then found a place to step down without snapping twigs, as my other foot jerked out of the mud behind me. Every step was a struggle, and the mosquitos made it even tougher.

As I continued my plodding, making more noise than I liked, the nine men trailing me sounded like sundry three-legged crocodiles doing the cha-cha. It was so noisy that any NVA unit within three hundred meters easily would have mistaken us for Dumbo the elephant and his mother. The good news was there probably weren’t any NVA units within three hundred meters, or three thousand meters. After all, who would R&R in this wretched hellhole