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

Ten minutes passed by. The only thing happening was it was getting darker. I looked at the sky, and I realized the severity of our situation. If we weren’t rescued within one hour, the black of night would have us, the helo pilots wouldn’t be able to land, and we’d be left to fend for ourselves until morning. The thought of spending the night was not comforting, as we’d be stuck in a most vulnerable position: in enemy territory with inadequate firepower, and the enemy knowing where we were. If there were a couple hundred gooks in there, as I believed, then our chances of surviving through the night were virtually nil. At dawn, many dead bodies would greet our pilots. VC bodies, that was. And there would be twelve dead SEALs, too, in need of laudatory tombstones and posthumous awards.

My fears grew darker when Mr. Meston passed word that Bravo Platoon had been ambushed by the Viet Cong in the T-10 area and the helos were trying to save their butts. There was nothing that could be done for us at that time. We had to simply hang on and wait. And hope, and pray.

I kept my eyes moving, searching the brush for any sign of movement. Several minutes crept by, but nothing and nobody crept into view. All was quiet except my breathing and my heartbeat. Both sounds were abnormally audible to me.

My level of stress heightened as a half hour passed. My head ached. I was sweating profusely, mostly due to high anxiety. I felt as though I’d soon sweat blood. Our status was more than critical. We were in desperate need of some intensive care. We were in need of a life flight.

It became dark enough that the helo pilots would have trouble with their depth perception and may be forced to abort an attempted landing. Of course, if they didn’t show up in a few minutes, we wouldn’t concern ourselves with such trivialities. Instead, we’d focus our attention on a thing called impending death.

I heard a twig break in the brush in front of me, which was the last thing I wanted to hear. I raised my CAR-15 to my shoulder. More rustling occurred, then I glimpsed something white. My right index finger curled loosely around the trigger. I refused to blink, peering relentlessly at the white object as it moved toward me in the shadows of the nipa palm. It looked like a ghost, like walking death, and that image startled me for a moment until my eyes convinced my brain that it was only an egret—a tall, white heron.

I relaxed my grip on the rifle and slowly lowered it to my lap. Then I didn’t move, as I didn’t want to flush the bird so that enemy eyes could pinpoint our exact position. The long-necked heron stepped precariously closer, however, and looked right at me. I stared squarely into its eyes, again denying a blink. I hoped my camouflage face paint and clothing would be enough to keep the giant wings still if I just didn’t flinch.

As we gazed at one another for a seemingly endless half a minute, my ears picked up a distant sound—a whir. I heard it for a few more seconds before I allowed myself to believe that helicopters were approaching. Fifteen seconds later, I didn’t care about the heron anymore. I turned my head and looked above the eastern treetops, eager to lay my eyes on much bigger birds that were capable of giving me a ride out of there.

I heard the heron flapping its wings and lifting off the jungle floor, but I didn’t glance back at it even once. My eyes remained glued on the darkened sky where the crescendo of chopper music was playing. And my eyes were rewarded with the sight of two Army Cobras flying in to put the VC in their place—the grave.

Mr. Meston had directed the Cobras right to us with the radio, and our position was identifiable from the air by our blue strobe lights. With this knowledge secured, the helo crews opened up on the surrounding jungle with mini-guns and rockets. Flying low, they swooped in and around in a tight racetrack pattern, firing all kinds of shit on the straightaways. The thunderous roar hurt my ears, but it was the kind of hurt I’d been praying for.

“Give ’em hell!” I shouted as a Cobra passed directly over my head and blasted the nearby masses of vegetation. “Hoo-yah, baby!” I found myself smiling. My whole being was overflowing with joy. Just like in the movies, a last-minute rescue was taking place, and I was one of the lucky, mud-sucking swamp rats who was being snatched from the bite of the Grim Reaper. I hollered again as the second Cobra went by, pounding the liberated jungle.

Two army slicks flew in behind the Cobras’s last run. They hovered over a clear area at our left flank, preparing to land. Mr. Meston yelled at us to head for the choppers. Without a moment’s pause, we did.

As I hurried toward the clearing, I saw the slicks hanging in the sky, hesitating from descending, like a couple of huge hawks that were unsure of themselves. I knew the problem: a lack of depth perception for the pilots in the dark. I silently prayed that there was enough light left for our rescue. It would have been a real bitch to have gotten this close to a reprieve only to have lost it at the last minute.

Fortunately, the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen occurred as first one slick, then the other, set down on the ground. Twelve happy SEALs jumped aboard, six on each helo. The slicks lifted off the jungle floor and climbed into the sky, joining the wonderful Cobras for a euphoric trip back to Nha Be.

“Hoo-yah!” The cry rang out with more heartfelt sentiment than I’d ever heard before.

“Hoo-yah!” I echoed, feeling a flood of relief. I looked at Moses