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

I got Mr. Meston’s attention, made a creepy-crawly motion with my fingers, and pointed at the bush. Mr. Meston nodded at me to go ahead and move. I eased up into a squatting position and gradually pried my feet free of their coffins. Even pulling slowly, I couldn’t eliminate all of the sucking sounds.

After a seminoisy minute, I was sitting on a large root facing the ant bush, which was then seven feet away. From there I could watch the nasty critters and pick them off, one at a time, as they came for me. I hated the ants and I hated their bites; of course, I couldn’t criticize their tactics, which were essentially the same as ours: sneak up on your prey, bite them real hard, and get away.

Only three ants got close enough in the next ten minutes for me to deal with. The first two I killed immediately. The last one I used in practicing my Vietnamese and prisoner interrogation techniques.

With the ant pinched between my thumb and index finger, I whispered at it, “Ong co thay Viet-cong khong (Have you seen any Viet Cong)?” When the creature didn’t answer, I tore off one of its rear legs.

“Nhung bay no o dau (Where are the booby traps)?” No response, so off came the other hind leg.

“Ho co chon nguoi-My nao o day khong (Are there any Americans buried here)?” The ant would not cooperate. I ripped out the remaining four legs, then set the ant on the muddy ground.

“Dung yen,” I commanded, which meant “Don’t move.” This time the ant obeyed, out of necessity, of course, so I decided to be merciful and let it live.

Mr. Meston signaled me that it was time to go. I rose to my feet and began the chore of picking my way through the jungle. My mind was sharp and focused the way it had to be.

After fifty meters of slow going, I saw the Rach Vuna Gam on my left. It was a stream, only thirty meters wide, on the banks of which we would position our ambush site. I remembered Mr. Meston saying during our mission briefing that he wanted to set up where the stream bends to the south, and since the stream was going east-west right there, I knew we must patrol farther.

I moved very cautiously a couple meters inland in thick brush as I followed the stream. Every twenty or thirty meters I stopped and listened. Once I heard some birds flush about forty meters ahead, so we waited several minutes, attempting to discover what caused them to spook. Receiving no clues, Mr. Meston finally motioned for me to proceed.

I didn’t have to go far. After fifteen meters, the stream began winding to the south. I followed the curve a short distance until Mr. Meston signaled me. He wanted me to recon the riverbank by myself, until I located the best ambush site somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

I spent ten minutes scouting the dense shoreline, determining that one spot was as good as any other. After all, thick was thick, and muck was muck. I relayed this information to Mr. Meston, who decided to settle in right where he stood.

As predetermined, Mr. DeFloria, Bohannon, Williams, Mahner, and Ty set up a perimeter on the bank overlooking the stream, while Mr. Meston, Bucklew, Funkhouser, McCollum, and I sat down ten meters back in the bush to relax and act as rear security. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 1015 hours. That told me three things: first, it had taken four hours to patrol the eight hundred yucky meters from insertion to ambush site; second, I had more than eight hours to kick back and doze there in the bush before we relieved Mr. DeFloria’s squad on the riverbank; third, it would only get hotter during the next several hours.

After a drink of water, I laid Sweet Lips across my lap, wrapped my arms around my propped-up knees, and hung my head to sleep. Just when I drifted off, a rustling sound tap-danced on my ears. I thought I was dreaming until I heard the noise again, louder the second time. I opened my eyes and snapped my brain to attention. I focused on the sound, moving toward me from the west.

Glancing at Funkhouser on my right, I saw he was asleep. Looking to my left, I saw Bucklew with his M-16 already pointed toward the bushes. I raised Sweet Lips, safety off, at the oncoming threat. A few seconds later, a flicker of movement low in the brush caught my eye. I aimed down the barrel of the shotgun, my finger caressing the curvature of the trigger. I was ready to atomize the enemy.

Suddenly a bird of some kind darted through the brush into an open spot where I could get a good look at it. Then another joined it. I realized I was gazing at two domestic chickens.

Bucklew lowered his rifle, looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I dropped Sweet Lips onto my lap and shook my head. First a rabbit, now chickens. I’d imagine I were back home in Texas if I took to daydreaming just a bit.

I watched the chickens for a few minutes until they disappeared from sight. Listening to them wander away, I realized there must be a VC base camp nearby for domestic fowl to be about. That meant the odds were great that we’d engage the enemy sooner or later on this mission.

It was harder to doze off knowing VC were close at hand, but eventually I did. When I awoke, it was 1340 hours and hot as hell. The air was humid and thick, causing me to sweat like a roasting water buffalo.

I looked at Bucklew. His head was hanging limp, with his chin against his chest. A couple mosquitos were busy getting a fill-up on his right cheek.

Mr. Meston and McCollum were to Buck’s left. I picked out pieces of their