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

and set it on the mattress beside Doc’s head. It read, “DO NOT CALL FOR EXTRACTION. NO ONE WILL RESPOND TO YOUR WET DREAM.”

Funkhouser looked at me, his face beaming with delight.

“We got ’im!” he rejoiced.

As all of the pranksters filed out the door, Funkhouser couldn’t resist turning around for one more look at Doc. I turned back, too, to fix the scene in my memory: Doc Brown, sleeping on his wet mattress on the floor of the latrine with gallons of water cascading out of the sinks and lapping at his “skiff.”

Repressing a burst of laughter, Funkhouser wheeled around to hurry outside with me on his tail. We ran into the barracks with our teammates, where everyone was rolling in the aisle. Lewd comments were fired fast and furious.

“That’ll teach the son of a bitch!” Moses chortled.

“Hoo-yah!” several men agreed.

“This oughta make him be more careful when he sticks the next needle in my ass.” Markel smiled broadly.

“If it doesn’t, next time we’ll dump him and his mattress into the Long Tau River!” cried Funkhouser. Again, everyone cheered.

Continuing the banter, the men headed for the chow hall and breakfast. On the way, I got a distant look at the latrine and saw a torrent of water flowing out the door and onto the ground. There was no sign of Brown, and a tinge of worry washed over me.

“You think Doc’s all right?” I asked Funkhouser as we walked together.

Funkhouser grinned at me. “I hope not,” he said.

I chuckled, but my concern remained the same until Funkhouser pointed a finger at the latrine. I glanced back and saw Doc upright, slipping and splashing as he tried to exit the john. He fell and ended up on his butt in the stream of water running out the door.

Funkhouser laughed. “He who laughs last, laughs best!”

The other men looked back at Doc in the water and joined in the laughter. I cracked up, too, but I wondered what Doc would do in retaliation.

“The last laugh could still be Doc Brown’s,” I warned my roommate as we entered the chow hall.

“Well,” said Funkhouser, “he’ll have to come up with something pretty quick ’cause my tour is over in three weeks, you know.”

The truth of Funky’s statement smacked me hard: this tour of Vietnam would be finished in twenty-one days for all the guys of Foxtrot Platoon except Martin and me. When everyone else left, the two of us would be assigned to Bravo Platoon for four weeks of an extended tour. I knew this would be a tough transition for me. I’d trained so long with one platoon, and we’d gone through hell together, and we knew each other so well. Accepting a bunch of inexperienced and shell-shocked guys with a different type of leadership might be hard, especially when I was so close to getting out of here. The fact that I may never see some of my current teammates again saddened me. Many of them had been like brothers to me, and soon I would have to give them up to go their separate ways in life. I just hoped I wouldn’t have to give any more of them up to death during the final three weeks.

Funkhouser and I had the cooks stack plenty of pancakes and sausages on our plates, then we sat down with Dicey and Moses to eat. A minute later, Mr. Meston entered the chow hall and approached our table.

“Good morning,” he greeted us. We greeted him back. He looked at Moses and Dicey and said, “Just wanted to tell you two that I’m recommending you both for a Bronze Star for yesterday’s action.”

I looked at Moses and Dicey, who glanced at each other, then they looked at Mr. Meston.

“Thank you, sir,” piped up Dicey.

“You did what had to be done, and you did it well,” the lieutenant said before excusing himself and walking away.

Dicey gave Moses a poke in the ribs. “Hear that, Mo? A Bronze Star!”

Moses calmly took a bite out of a sausage. “It beats the hell out of a bronze tombstone, doesn’t it?” he said while chewing, showing no emotion.

The mention of a tombstone subdued everyone, as we were all well aware that Frank Antone’s reward for serving his country would be a posthumous Purple Heart and a nice grave marker. For the next couple of minutes, we ate in silence.

Finally, Funkhouser changed the mood at our table by bringing up Doc Brown. “You know, we should get McCollum to write a song about Doc floating on his bed in the wild waters of the latrine.”

I chuckled. “That’s a good idea. We could sing it with some Christmas songs tomorrow.”

“McCollum’s over there at that far table,” Dicey informed me, pointing with his thumb in the general direction.

“I’ll go ask him,” I said, sliding my chair away from the table and standing up. I walked to McCollum’s side and asked him for a minute of his time. Taking him several feet away from the others at his table, I told him about our proposal. He agreed to write a song just as Doc Brown entered the chow hall.

“Speak of the devil,” whispered Muck, nodding at Doc. We walked back to our respective tables while Doc loaded up a tray full of food.

“Where do you think he’ll sit?” Dicey wondered aloud. His question was answered a half minute later when Doc selected an empty table in a corner of the hall.

“I should ask him how he liked his morning swim,” giggled Funkhouser, winking at me.

I shook my head. “No way. Let him cool off until McCollum sings about his escapade tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” said Dicey, “he might even laugh with us by then.”

Funkhouser smirked. “Or fight with us.”

“Whatever,” I said, smiling. “Time will tell.”

Time dragged the rest of the day. I spent the hours reading the Stars and Stripes, working on my gear, and wishing I were home for Christmas with my parents. Being stuck on a base without family on special days gave me a real