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

The Pioneer 3 drive-through restaurant had been a primary hangout for college kids, and it was there I’d hustle the girls in my flashy sports car. One night in 1962, I had floorboarded the MG all the way between Jacksboro and Mineral Wells on Highway 281, a trip of approximately thirty-five miles.

Suddenly my mental drifting was ended by a sound similar to the uncorking of a wine bottle. I opened my eyes and sat up, reaching for Bad Girl in the same motion. Mr. Meston, sitting on the ground a few meters to my left, slipped the safety off on his M-16. McCollum, sitting off to my right, raised the M-79 grenade launcher from his lap. Flynn, propped against a tree trunk next to McCollum, was asleep. We left him be while we listened for another clue.

A minute went by. Then two, and three. Nothing happened. I looked to the front line on the stream, but no signal was given.

A rustling of brush occurred behind Mr. Meston and my heart bolted inside my chest. I turned my head to look as the noise came again, only to spot a squirrel dart through the ground vegetation and climb into a nipa palm. I watched it for a few seconds, noting that it looked like our gray squirrels back home, then I looked at Mr. Meston. He rolled his eyes, letting me know that he, too, had been freaked by the squirrel’s racket.

After another few minutes, Dicey slipped off the front line and quietly approached us. I could see by the look on his camouflaged face that something had happened.

As Dicey reached Mr. Meston, the lieutenant motioned me over. I half walked and half crawled a few yards to the two men. Dicey whispered to us that he had seen a gook come to the edge of the trees on the opposite side of the stream, carrying two water jugs. The man had peered up and down and across the stream while motioning and whispering to a comrade or comrades hidden behind him in the bushes. I asked Dicey why he hadn’t shot the man, and Dicey said that if he had reached for his Stoner machine gun the VC certainly would have seen him, that’s how close he had been. The stream was only twenty-five meters wide and the VC had been directly across from Dicey and had been all eyes.

I told Mr. Meston that the VC could have faked not seeing us and that he and his comrades might counter ambush us.

“Dammit,” the lieutenant whispered, then he told Dicey to be extremely alert and motioned him back to the stream. I moved back to my mossy seat, knowing in my guts that some people were going to die before we got out of there. I just hoped that all of the dead had slanted eyes.

Luckily, there was no attack from the VC and no one died during the next five hours. Instead, things got real pleasant as the clouds broke up, the sky became blue, and a waft of a breeze meandered through the leaves. Most of the mosquitos took a siesta, and I, too, drifted in and out of sleep throughout the afternoon. Occasionally, I awoke and drank some water from one of my two canteens, or I dipped a little Skoal tobacco. At 1600 hours, I ate a can of C rations, more out of a need for something to do than to satisfy my appetite.

At dusk, Mr. Meston, Flynn, McCollum, and I moved to the riverbank, relieving the others, who shifted to rear security for the night. I took the left flank while McCollum assumed the right. Flynn was next to me, with Meston positioned between him and McCollum. I sat on a dry pile of sticks that Dicey had stacked and sat upon just off the riverbank between two cycads, palmlike trees with short, thick stems. Just in front of me, growing at the edge of the stream, were several water chestnut plants, tufted and grasslike plants standing a foot and a half high. As I settled down for the night watch, I liked Dicey’s spot selection, which was high and dry, fairly comfortable, with a good view of the water. The only negative was a slight lack of cover, which was why Dicey couldn’t reach for his machine gun when the enemy had appeared straight ahead of him. For me, that would not be a problem, as I was already being blanketed by darkness.

When the night fully descended, I could still see the outline of the opposite bank, thanks to a clear sky and a three-quarter moon. A crocodile blowed downstream to my left, then made a whistling sound, drawing air. A nearby frog answered the croc with a couple of ribbits. A fish splashed in front of me in the stream, and the ripples glittered in the moonlight. The jungle was coming alive with creatures, and it was possible that humans would soon join the party of noisemakers.

Sure enough, an hour after dark I heard faint talking downstream, but only for a few seconds. I listened intently for another hour; nothing made a peep except a shrew in the brush behind me. And so went the rest of the night: quiet and uneventful.

At first light, we got our gear ready to travel and we moved upstream as soon as we could see well enough. We crossed one large stream on the way, which ticked me off because I was so enjoying being dry for a change.

After crossing the stream, we found fresh VC tracks all over the place. I had never seen so many before. With me at point, we patrolled at a snail’s pace, knowing the enemy was close. Soon I smelled the faint odor of nuoc mam, a strong-smelling fish sauce, on the breeze. A few steps later, I smelled smoke.

I motioned my discoveries to Mr. Meston by pointing at my nose. He sniffed a moment, then shook his head and shrugged.