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

of my shotgun if I had tried, but the bird was oblivious to my presence. It stood perfectly still, looking across the water.

I was thrilled by this bird, and I studied it closely. Its long tapering bill and long neck combined to form a gentle hook, like the crook in a shepherd’s staff. The plumage appeared very soft, and I wished I could touch it. The legs were long and spindly, ideally created for wading in several inches of water where the heron did its fishing.

The great bird finally took a step toward me, then another, with its eyes cast toward the water. A third step brought its head up. Instantly the wings opened and thrusted powerfully downward, beating the water with the feathery tips. The heron burst out of the stream and into the air, a trail of water cascading off its wings and feet. Some of the droplets splattered on my legs and hands.

As the heron flew away down the river, I whispered a “thank you” after it. Thank you, beautiful bird, for reminding me how much I loved living. How precious it was to interact with the good Lord’s masterpieces. Even that swampland had its appeal and splendid moments. I had to savor those moments, as hideous times were sure to follow. Later that night, bullets, rockets, and blood could shroud the beautiful shore.

During the last hour of daylight, only the usual occurred: the sun sank below the horizon, a pair of crocodiles wheezed somewhere downstream, and the mosquitos mounted an offensive any military general would applaud. Darkness installed itself, and the moon’s reflection glittered on the water.

The night made me drowsy. I reached into my pants pocket for one of the Dexamil capsules Doc Mahner had given me and the others when we had relieved him on ambush. The pill was a stimulant, which I’d used on two previous missions. My experience had been that half an hour after ingesting one, I would suddenly “get high” and get happy, almost to giggling. My central nervous system would feel like it was plugged into 120 hummingbirds. I would believe I could write six books in the following hour.

Of course, what went up must come down. And coming down from a Dexamil high was rough. My senses were dull, tiredness overwhelmed me, and it was doubly difficult to stay alert. If I fell asleep, it was a deep sleep from which I hardly could awake. With that in mind, I slipped the capsule back into my pocket, deciding to tackle the night without the drug.

At 2400 hours I was wide awake and glad I hadn’t taken the Dexamil. McCollum had taken the pill, I was sure, because he was jabbering something about pink elephants across the river. I tugged the line between us, trying to snap him back to reality. The line, which was tied to my left wrist, jerked back so hard I almost dropped Sweet Lips.

“There’s elephants over there,” I heard Muck say.

I leaned in McCollum’s direction and whispered, “Shut up!” The line tied to my right wrist jerked once, so I pulled it once to reassure Bucklew that everything was okay.

McCollum babbled a couple more times in the next half hour, then I heard nothing further from him. I figured he was probably coming down from his high and was falling asleep.

The stream was rising rapidly due to the incoming tide. By 0100 hours, I was sitting in water up to my waist. I could stand up, but after a day of extreme heat and humidity, the coolness of the water felt good to me.

I had to urinate, so I went through my pants. A circle of warmth lingered for several seconds and the contrast in temperature was pleasant. Another splendid moment to cherish.

At 0115 my ears picked up a thumping sound about two hundred meters downstream, just around the bend in the river. A few seconds later I heard voices. I tugged thrice on both lines, the one attached to McCollum and the other to Bucklew. Neither man responded. I tried again and nothing happened. Obviously, they were sleeping soundly. My easy guess was that both were suffering from the aftereffects of Dexamil.

With Sweet Lips off safe and pointing at the dark water, I listened intently for more human voices. My eyes watched for a silhouette of men in a sampan. Many minutes passed by …

An hour later, I heard several coughing sounds across the stream and in the jungle. Again I tugged on the lines, and again I discovered I was alone in my vigilance.

I didn’t hear or see anything unusual the rest of the night on ambush. It was clear that what I had heard earlier were Viet Cong, but they were not nearby anymore. I thought they had beached their sampans around the bend and then had gone inland. Perhaps they had walked to a base camp located somewhere on the opposite side of the stream.

At dawn, the line on my left wrist jerked once. I looked toward McCollum in the aurora of first light, but it was still too dark to pick him out in the bushes. I jerked the line hard to let him know I was all right. The hard pull also relayed a bit of disgust. After all, it was one thing to see elephants that weren’t really there. It was another thing to hang strict noise discipline and jeopardize the entire mission with gibberish. I intended to ask Muck to avoid Dexamil in the future.

At 0630 hours, Mr. DeFloria’s squad relieved us on the ambush site. I sneaked back to the previous day’s resting spot.

Mr. Meston moved over to me and whispered, “Anything last night?”

“Heard a paddle two hundred meters downstream,” I whispered, “then voices across the river just after 0200 hours.”

Mr. Meston got real close. “Did you signal?”

“Dexamil sucks,” I grumbled. “Muck saw pink elephants. He and Buck slept like babies.”

With this information, Mr. Meston decided to recon the riverbank with Bucklew and me. He informed