Death in the Jungle (24 page)

Navy Seawolf 2.75-inch rocket attack against a VC base camp. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

VC bunker made from mud, sticks, and logs. They were almost indestructible. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

Navy Seawolf dropping Foxtrot Platoon more demo to blow VC bunkers. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

Foxtrot resuming the patrol after a short rest. (Photo credit: Gary Smith)

Dee Daigle with his weapon of preference—a Stoner—while operating in the Rung Sat Special Zone in 1968. Notice the effects of defoliation. (Photo credit: Dee Daigle)

The early morning was dark and quiet as our squad walked across the naval base to our barracks. The mobile support team followed behind us. No one seemed in the mood for talking, but we had to debrief.

We went upstairs to the briefing/intelligence room, and Mr. Schrader quickly reviewed the mission. When he asked for suggestions or comments, there were none. The recommendation that came to my mind was, “Next time, let’s not bark up the wrong tree,” but I didn’t say it. The guys may not have been able to grasp such sophisticated humor at that early hour. The second suggestion I had was, “Let’s patrol a little faster next time,” but I didn’t mention that either, because next time Mr. Meston would be back in charge, not Mr. Schrader. Mr. Schrader had been just a substitute while Mr. Meston had filled out reports and met with the XO about Katsma’s accident.

When Mr. Schrader dismissed us, I went straight to the showers. I stepped into the shower with my cammo clothing still on my body and Sweet Lips in my hands. The water felt good as it cascaded off the top of my head and down my back. As always, I gave my shotgun a good rinsing, then I peeled off each article of clothing as it got cleaned.

When I finished, Brown was ready to take my place in the shower. I scooped up my wet clothes and my gun and moved out of Brown’s way. I then hung the clothing in the dressing room before heading for our berthing space and my cubicle. I knew I was a sight to see, stark naked and carrying a 12-gauge pump shotgun. If my
past girlfriends could have gotten a glimpse of me then, they’d have realized what they were missing. On the other hand, the manic depressive, schizophrenic, serial-killer look wasn’t playing too well in Abilene.

Once at my cubicle, I stood Sweet Lips in the corner and slipped into my blue-and-gold T-shirt and UDT swim trunks. In a flash, I climbed into bed and fell asleep when my head hit the pillow.

Sometime around 0700 hours, I awoke and looked at my watch. It was working again, but it showed 1827 hours, and I knew that was nowhere near the correct time. I pulled on my coral shoes, then walked to the mess hall for breakfast. Funkhouser, already there and pretty much recovered from his illness, was eating with McCollum. I grabbed a plate of “shit on a shingle,” which was ground beef mixed with gravy, and some peaches and coffee and sat with the two men.

I wolfed down my food and finished when Funky and Muck did.

“What time is it?” I asked Funkhouser as we left the chow hall.

“Zero seven twenty-four,” he informed me, and I set my watch.

“Let’s run around the base,” I suggested. Both men looked at me like I’d just turned into a moron.

McCollum snorted and said, “I want my shit on a shingle to come out my ass, not up my throat.”

I knew I wouldn’t push myself hard enough to vomit, so I broke into a jog and went off by myself. The morning air was cool and tonic. I enjoyed every step of the easy run.

I ended my exercise at the armory, where I checked out Katsma’s M-16. I carried the weapon to my cubicle and grabbed my shotgun, then walked back outside to the cleaning table.

Upon inspection, I found Katsma’s rifle somewhat
rusted. The rifle had been submerged in saltwater during our mission rehearsal, and it was obvious that no one had cleaned the weapon after Kats’s death.

I tore down the M-16 and dunked every part of it in the tub of diesel fuel. I used the stiffest brushes to clean away the light rust. After drying each piece with a towel, I lubricated them and reassembled everything. The rifle was then ready for a new swamp commando. Whoever that man would be, he would have huge shoes to fill.

I gave Sweet Lips the ultimate cleaning, too, then I returned both weapons to the armory.

Continuing my chores, I took my half-dried cammies and other dirty clothing from the dressing room hangers, folded them, and carried the load to Nga’s. When I entered the establishment, two old Vietnamese men were sitting at one of three wicker tables drinking tea. They nodded at me as I passed and walked toward Nga, who was working behind the laundry counter.

“How you, Smit-ty?” the middle-aged woman greeted me. She smiled big, not a bit self-conscious about the three gaps in her grin where teeth were missing.

“Toi manh gioi,”
I responded, telling her that I was fine. I set the pile of clothing on the counter.

Still smiling, Nga said, “Be ready, two day.” She held up two fingers.

I nodded in acknowledgment.
“Chao,”
I said with a little hand wave for good-bye.

“Bye-bye, Smit-ty,” she called after me as I walked out of her shop.

Back on the base, I gathered up our platoon’s radios, including the PRC-25, a French radio, and two Motorolas. I toted them to the newly built maintenance building, which was a three-story structure with numerous rooms and departments for repairing everything from small equipment to large boats. I entered a compartaient
for electronic parts maintenance where I took each radio apart. I dried several pieces in a special oven, cleaned them thoroughly, then reassembled the radios. After testing each radio for its workability, I wrapped them individually in clear plastic and sealed them with duct tape in order to waterproof them.

Just as I finished the two-hour duty, Funkhouser walked in and gave me some butt-breaking news. “Plague shots at 1300 hours.”

I looked at my watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes,” I moaned.

Funkhouser bobbed his head up and down. “My ass hurts just thinkin’ about it.”

Half-petrified over what we would get when we got there, we made the long walk to the barracks as long as possible. I’d rather have reconed a thousand meters of enemy-controlled jungle than have faced Doc Brown’s monstrous hypodermic needle and syringe charged with five c.c.s of bubonic plague serum.

“Line up, ladies!” Brown shouted as we walked through the open door of the barracks. Twenty other men were already in line, which Funkhouser and I joined. At the other end operated Brown, teasing and chastising as he stuck one behind after another.

“Drop the skivvies and bend over!” I heard Brown direct. “Let me shove this where the sun never shines.”

Mojica, my boat support pal, was two men ahead of me in line. He turned around and looked at me with a sickly grin.

“Doc is makin’ me sick,” he muttered. “I thought doctors were s’posed to make you well.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I attempted a smile. My lips felt awkward, though, and the smile fell apart on my face. Mojica shook his head and looked away.

When Mojica’s turn came, I watched him as he pointed at the long needle and exclaimed, “Holy shit!”

Doc chuckled. “This’ll give you a holy shit, all right.”

“What d’ya mean by that?” Mojica demanded in a squeaky, high-pitched voice.

“I mean that the next time ya sit on the john, it’ll be a painful experience. You’ll be a-callin’ on Jesus’s holy name, believe me. Now bend over.”

Mojica’s usual dark complexion was gone as he slowly slid down his skivvies. He stole one more hopeful glance at me as he reached for his ankles, looking like death warmed over.

Doc Brown, milking the suspense for all it was worth, aimed the point of the needle, then hesitated. For five unbearable seconds, Mojica waited for the hurtful poke. He flinched, but before he bolted, Doc froze him by asking him a question.

“Right cheek or left?”

A visible shiver ran through Mojica’s body. He closed his eyes, then blurted, “Right.”

Instantly, the needle was plunged into his left buttock. Mojica let loose with a bloodcurdling scream that shook the barracks and almost caused me to wet my pants. The boat support person in front of me, whose name I didn’t know, fainted and fell to the floor.

Without missing a beat, Doc jerked the needle out of Mojica, loaded a new syringe, and pulled down the passed-out sailor’s skivvies. He was in and out with the shot in ten seconds, then looked up at me.

“You’re next, Hawkeye,” he told me, as if that horrible fact could possibly have escaped me.

Mojica, having hoisted up his own skivvies, pulled up his teammate’s skivvies and dragged the unconscious man a few feet out of the way. As Mojica patted the man’s face to revive him, Doc readied a dose of serum for me.

“Bend over,” he bellowed for the umpteenth time.

I looked him in the eye with a hard glare, sending a message I knew he understood: treat me right or payback will be hell on you.

“Bend over,” he repeated, softer this time.