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

I sensed a presence on the water to my right. Trusting my instincts, I quickly turned my head in that direction. Through the driving rain I made out an oncoming sampan.

Shit! my brain screamed. I wheeled Sweet Lips toward the sampan in a manner that Lieutenant Meston couldn’t mistake. I knew he was reacting to my move and was reflexively raising his M-16 to his shoulder.

“Lai dai!” pounded my ears as Meston hollered for the two occupants of the sampan to come to us. At that point, they were but twenty meters away. I saw two young boys, drenched like we were, looking my way with mouths wide open in astonishment.

“Lai dai!” Mr. Meston yelled again. The boys obeyed and paddled the sampan right at us.

“Get ’em, Smitty,” directed the lieutenant. “Brown, keep your eyes on the prisoner.”

As the sampan drew close, I couldn’t help but notice the extreme filth of the two boys. Their wet clothes looked as if they were about to rot off their bodies. Their faces were caked with dirt. But I forgot about their poverty and stared at their eyes—the almond-shaped eyes that were focused on the barrel of my shotgun, which was pointed right at them.

“Gio tay len!” I shouted as I grabbed the bow of their sampan. Instantly, they raised their hands high above their heads.

The sampan hit the bank and I grounded it onto the beach. Ty helped me give the sampan one hard pull.

“Dung len!” barked Ty, and the two boys stood up. “Di di!” Ty spit. The boys stepped out of the boat, and Ty ushered them to the older prisoner. Mr. Meston wanted their identification cards, and Ty asked for them. Like the woodcutter, they had none.

Suddenly I saw another sampan drifting toward us. Again, I aimed Sweet Lips at the boat. I glanced back at my teammates, who were concentrating on our three Vietnamese captives.

I knew there was one way to draw their attention.

“Lai dai! Lai dai!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. This time there were three people in the sampan, and one of them jumped to his feet. I could see that he was a small boy, and I refrained from shooting him, even though his quick action brought me close. The other two occupants were females, one old and one young.

Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw the barrel of a weapon on each side of me. I looked right, and there was Mr. Meston. I glanced left. Flynn was aiming his rifle at the sampan.

“Mau len!” I shouted, telling the Vietnamese people to hurry up.

“There’s another boat coming behind them!” Flynn informed us.

Raindrops were running off my hat in front of my eyes. I gave my head a quick, hard shake, then I stared upstream. Sure enough, there was a third sampan with three more occupants.

The lead boat was a few meters from shore when Lieutenant Meston hollered at the other, “Dung Lai!” I made out an older boy with two old women in the sampan. They, like the others, showed surprise and fear. What else would you show? I thought. When you were a flick of a finger away from termination, a little fear may just reach up and grab you by the throat. And believe me, fear was working overtime that day on the Cu Lao Ca Xuc.

Both sampans hit the bank before Lieutenant Meston ordered the six people to step ashore. As they stood and followed directions, I saw that their clothing was as rotten as the boys’. They moved quickly to demonstrate compliance, gathering into a tight group beside Lieutenant Meston.

Mr. Meston had Ty ask them for identification, but none of them could produce anything at all. I checked their sampans for papers and found nothing.

“Take ’em to the other three while I find out what TOC wants me to do with ’em,” Lieutenant Meston said, looking at Ty and then me.

“Re tay Phai. Di truoc,” commanded Ty, pointing his rifle where he wanted the women and children to go. The group moved toward the other prisoners, who watched us approach. The woodchopper’s face lit up at the sight of the others, but he refrained from speaking.

When the nine detainees were gathered together, Ty told them to sit down. “Noi!” he barked. All obeyed immediately.

“Ong co thay Viet-Cong khong?” Blank faces stared at Ty. Again Ty asked if they’d seen any Viet Cong.

“Da khong,” the woodcutter answered negatively.

“Da khong,” echoed one of the old women.

Ty looked at me. “Bullshit,” he muttered.

As we waited for the LCPLs to arrive, I noticed the small boy who had hopped to his feet in the sampan watching me. He appeared to be about eight or nine years old, and when I looked away, he scooped up a handful of mud and started painting his face like mine. Of course, the hard rain quickly washed his cammo-job away since he had no hat.

“TOC wants the woodcutter for interrogation,” Lieutenant Meston informed me when he got off the radio. “The others we’ll let go.”

The LCPLs were almost upon us before I heard them over the beating rain. Mr. Meston told Funkhouser to hold the woodcutter while Ty and I directed the other Vietnamese people back to their sampans.

As the eight walked ahead to their sampans, the small boy glanced at me several times. When he reached his boat, he gave me a quick smile before climbing aboard.

“Em!” I called to him from the bow of the sampan. He turned and stared at me. I dug into my pants pocket and pulled out a round tin of Skoal chewing tobacco. I dug deeper and found a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint chewing gum, which I held out toward the boy. He grinned and took the gum from my hand.

“Chuc may man,” I wished him good luck. He turned to the old woman who had joined him in the sampan and displayed his prize. She looked at the gum, then at me, showing no emotion.