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

rations. Hot soup, hot cocoa, lots of peanut butter and cow butter, and bread were always served. Because we were in the cold water for twelve to sixteen hours a day, our bodies started craving peanut butter and cow butter. We were permitted to eat all that we wanted. We literally ate sticks of cow butter like candy bars. Our bodies really needed that fat content for body heat and endurance. Every winter training class reacted the same way.

One afternoon, at the end of the first two weeks, we were taken past Wilson Cove by LCPR and LCPL MK 4 and told to swim back to Northwest Harbor. Unfortunately, the set (tidal current) was moving against us. No doubt our instructors planned it that way. We weren’t allowed to freestyle. Only underwater strokes were permitted, which included sidestroke, breaststroke, and backstroke.

Terry Fowler, also a seaman, and I were swim partners. We cut corners by swimming over some of the kelp beds, which were masses of large seaweeds. We literally pulled ourselves, freestyle, through the kelp. With a total time of a little over six hours, we came in fourth out of fifteen pairs.

Terry and I crawled up onto the beach just before dark. We were so numb from the cold that our legs were simply too stiff to do more than crawl. The last swim pair didn’t get in for another two hours.

Friendly Frederickson was there to greet us back by saying, “Get off your asses! You pukes. Double time to the shower area, then eat chow. Now!” No encouragement, just a kick in the pants. We continued crawling toward the chow hall until we were able to stand up.

Taking a shower was always a delight. The system was nothing more than pipes secured to posts outside and near our berthing shacks. The water was delivered from a large tank on a hill above the camp by gravity flow. It was always very cold, but very welcome.

The last week before graduation we spent executing demolition raids against enemy positions scattered throughout San Clemente Island and running a timed eight-mile race the last afternoon.

Finally, Class 36 graduated on 3 December 1965. There were a total of thirty survivors. The following men were assigned to UDT-11: Lt. (jg) Charles L. Allen, ENS Richard A. Sleight, ENS John E. Roberts, ENS Theodore Roosevelt, IV, ENS Bruce A. Smathers, Lt. George R. Worthington, BMSN Richmond Cleem, RM3 Robert R. Cramer, BM3 Francis D. Dick, BT1 John E. Fietsch, ETNSN Terry R. Fowler, AQFAN Lewis W. Miller, SFP2 Wash Moore, Jr., ABH3 George W. Raacke, SN Robert A. Schaedler, and MMFN William F. Wright. Last but by far the best were assigned to UDT-12: ENS Robert M. Blum, Lt. Robert E. Condon, Lt. (jg) Joseph G. DeFloria, ENS Thomas J. Hummer, ENS John M. Odusch, BT3 Benjamin O. Azeredo, Jr., EUL3 Bud R. Burgess, RM2 John J. Chalmers, AMHAN Ray E. Markel, ADJ3 David E. McCabe, AK3 Ronald A. Ostrander, BM2 Walter G. Pope, SF1 Donald L. Schwab, and RMSN Gary R. Smith. I was immediately assigned to the 4th Platoon.

Fourth Platoon had just returned from a tour in Vietnam and Subic Bay, Philippines. Not surprisingly the platoon was understrength due to several men getting out of the navy and others on annual leave. In December ’65, 4th Platoon’s personnel were: Lt. (jg) Hammond, DCC Edwin C. Reynolds, GMG1 George B. McNair, AE2 Walter H. Gustavel, BM3 Stephan F. Cary, RD2 Patrick T. Gruber, MR3 Michael N. Dorfi, AE3 Stephan G. Eastman, BT3 Benjamin O. Azaredo, PHAN Robert D. Totten, MRFN Leroy S. Ray, SN John J. Broda, SFPFN Alexander, NMN Verduzco, RMSN Gary R. Smith, SN Deeolla, and NMN Van Winkle.

It wasn’t long before I was told UDT-12’s genealogy. Following World War II, the UDTs became a victim of demobilization by being reduced from thirty to four teams. Two teams were assigned to the Atlantic Fleet, USNAB, Little Creek, Virginia, and two to the Pacific Fleet, USNAB, Coronado, California. On the west coast UDT-3 was the predecessor of UDT-12 and was commissioned on 21 May 1946 under the command of LCDR Walter Cooper and redesignated UDT-12 on 8 February 1954.

SN Van Winkle and PO3 Dorfi were the rugby experts in our platoon. Both were heavily muscled and excellent all-around athletes. They were always cutting up and great for morale. One bright and sunny Southern California day, Van Winkle and Dorfi decided they needed to accept me into the platoon.

Dorfi began the conversation, saying, “I think it’s time we initiate Smitty into the platoon, Wink.”

Van Winkle gave me a hard look, saying, “Yeah, he even thinks he can outrun us. Let’s show him who’s the fastest.”

“You guys don’t know what you’re about to get into,” I stated as I was backing up. “I’m a whole lot meaner than I look.”

It didn’t work. I could tell by the gleam in their eyes that it was time for me to head south for the border. The race was on! I struck out for all I was worth by heading down the strand in the soft sand toward the obstacle course. That was my undoing. They eventually caught me, beat the crap out of me, then put their arms around me and said, “Welcome to 4th Platoon, Smitty.” It was a good thing they weren’t mad at me.

Chief Ed Reynolds was great to work for. Ed had the fastest hands I’d ever seen. When he started giggling, one had best watch out for that uppercut! For some reason he always started giggling just before he threw a series of severe punches and blows to the head and body.

Joe Thrift, who had recently been assigned to 4th Platoon as the LPO, was no slouch, either. He had been a professional boxer until some guy convinced him in the ring that the Navy was the best profession. However, Joe could literally carry on a conversation by using his hands as semaphore flags. He would talk to me using semaphore and