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

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 greeting—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