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

over my head. It was a terrible feeling. I couldn’t even scream. I hated the thought of having a squirming rattler wrapped around my face.

Just before I blacked out, I was suddenly pulled out of the river and questioned again. It was now my turn to have the rattler crawling inside of the black bag that was tightly secured around my scrawny neck. When we refused to answer their questions, they again threw Bro and me back into the river. My whole body was shaking violently from the cold, the snake, and the realistic training. I made up my mind right then and there that I would never be captured in combat. I would fight to the death. No human being could stand up to that kind of treatment for extended periods of time. It was better to die in honor than to live in disgrace.

To make a long story short, we didn’t get captured again during the next three days. The instructors came to within a few feet of catching me again, but I would have died fighting first. It was a lesson well learned. The worst part of my captivity was Enoch stealing the chewing tobacco that I had waterproofed in several condoms. There was no honor among thieves.

In November we spent our last three weeks of training at San Clemente Island, about seventy miles northwest of San Diego. It was entrusted to the Navy and had been used by UDT since the early fifties and probably earlier. It was approximately twenty-three miles in length and one mile wide.

The old UDT Training camp was located at Northwest Harbor and consisted of eight student and four instructor plywood shacks, one long building that served as the mess deck and admin spaces, outside shower, and the ever-present outhouses. Based on the caste system, one was reserved for the mature amphibian frogmen instructors and the other for the immature tadpoles (non-humans). The berthing shacks’ deck dimensions were approximately ten feet by fourteen feet and held four double bunks for eight trainees. Approximately one hundred yards farther inland toward the runway was UDT Training Command’s storage/staging barn. All of the buildings were originally built and used during World War II to house the construction workers and their equipment during the building of the nearby runway.

We spent the first two weeks at San Clemente Island free-diving on Japanese and German hulls that had been planted in the Northwest Harbor’s cove at depths of twenty to forty feet, depending on the tide, and just outboard of the breakers. Beginning two days after our arrival at the camp, a series of continuous winter storms made our lives miserable for two weeks. It rained over seventeen inches, setting a new record. The surf was very high and the visibility varied from zero to one foot. The water temperature dropped to fifty-seven degrees.

The first eight mornings began at 0400 hours. On those mornings we were briefed on the enemy situation, then grabbed our swim gear and slates, boarded an LCPR (Landing Craft Personnel Ramp) and LCPL MK 4 (Landing Craft Personnel Landing), and headed for China Beach. We were dropped off by using the old swimmer-cast-and-recovery method that had been perfected during World War II. An IBS was secured on portside of the LCPR. Simulating a combat mission and maintaining low profile, the officer in charge signaled one man at a time to slide over the side of the LCPR and into the bouncing IBS. When the enemy beach to be surveyed or reconned was to starboard of the boat, the OIC signaled the first man to enter the water, followed by another every twenty-five yards. The reconnaissance had to be completed before daylight. All swimmers were to swim back out to sea approximately one mile, maintaining one long swimmer line with twenty-five yards separating each swimmer. Eventually, the LCPR returned, traveling at about 15 mph. The pickup man, located in the IBS, held a sling outboard of the raft. As the boat neared the line, each swimmer simply hooked his arm into the sling and was flipped into the boat. By 0700 hours, we were eating breakfast.

After breakfast we mustered on the beach with our wet suit top (that was all we were issued), fins, booties, face mask, life jacket, web belt with knife and MK 13 flare, and, of course, our UDT swim trunks. We were divided into swim pairs and assigned a specific scully. Taking turns diving, our main task was to free-dive down to the scully and tie two 20-pound haversacks of explosives, as instructed, and in such a way that the surge couldn’t rip them off. We soon learned that our normal working dive had to be at least one minute in duration.

Upon completion we called to PO1 Dickerson, known as the “Jolly Green Giant,” that our scully was ready for inspection. We remained on the surface and anxiously watched him free-dive down and out of sight in the murky water. In less than one minute he appeared on the surface.

“You guys have gotta be kidding me,” scolded Dickerson. “One good yank is all it took. Now get your butts back down there and do it right.” With that, he swam off to another pair awaiting his inspection. We didn’t call him the “Jolly Green Giant” for nothing. It didn’t matter how tight we tied the haversacks on, he could somehow rip them off. That meant we would not be allowed to go ashore for another scully assignment and, most importantly, stand beside a large bonfire of driftwood to toast our frozen digits for five minutes.

After lunch we continued our attempts, with occasional success, to load our scully with the two haversacks of explosives until 1800 hours when we were served supper. After supper we prepared for a night mission of one type of reconnaissance or another. We never completed those night missions before 0230 hours. After we took care of our gear, we went to the chow hall for our midnight