Death in the Jungle (35 page)

Just before we made it back, a couple of Seawolves arrived and strafed the opposite bank for security measures. As planned, Mr. Meston and the Seawolves knew exactly where Ty and I were since I had turned on my strobe light with a blue lens cover when Ty and I had started our swim. Also, I knew Mr. Meston had been watching us through his starlight scope. As always, I was happy to see the air support, and I was now fully confident that my platoon, once again, would get back to the naval base alive and well after one more successful mission.

As Ty and I approached the others, I yelled to alert them so we wouldn’t get shot accidentally. A few seconds later, I heard the PBRs coming to extract us, so Ty and I hurried our task. We pulled the sampan the last several meters and dropped it down on the riverbank where the minor stream entered the main river. Mr. Meston instructed us to gather our gear quickly so as to waste no time in departure. We retrieved our belongings as our teammates loaded the sampan onto one of the PBRs, then we joined them in boarding the boats.

Moments later, we were cruising down the Tac Ong
Nghia, and I was feeling fine. Mr. Meston didn’t seem so fine as he sat down beside me in the boat.

“Smitty, you initiated the ambush prematurely,” he said. “Why didn’t you wait until the sampan entered the kill zone?”

I explained to the lieutenant that the VC had beached the sampan next to me and I had no choice. With that information, Meston grinned at me.

“I understand,” he said, nodding his head. “When you let loose on the right flank like that, it scared the pants off the rest of us.”

McCollum, sitting on my opposite side and hearing us, added, “It scared my pants off and my shit right out of me.”

I chuckled. “Better your shit than my life.”

Muck was grinning in the darkness. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

Once we got back to the base, we found out from Second Squad that they had seen four sampans at 2300 hours, which was when I’d heard and seen their gunfire. They had allowed the lead sampan, a scout boat, to move through and out of the kill zone before opening up on the trailing sampans. All of the VC had either fallen or jumped overboard during the outburst, and only one body had been found and confirmed dead. The others had sunk or gotten away. The two men I had shot must have been the occupants of the scout boat that Second Squad had let pass.

As it happened, that was the first time in which both fire teams in a platoon had gotten hits in the same area on the same night. That was good for our morale and bad for Charlie’s. We’d done our job, which was to harass and destroy. Charlie had done his job, too, which from our point of view was to die. And Foxtrot Platoon lived to see another day and another mission.

Foxtrot Platoon hung together for another seventeen days. On January 15, 1968, we mustered at 0800 hours, anxious to celebrate our going away on the base at the EM club later in the day. Everyone was heading back to the States in a few days, with the exception of Mr. Meston, who was leaving today, and me. I was to hook up with Bravo Platoon for another month of operations around Dung Island, which was located about eighty miles southwest of Nha Be as the crow flies.

Mr. Meston had us gather in order to say good-bye. He said a few words, commending us for a job well done, then took the time to shake each person’s hand.

I approached the lieutenant with my right hand outstretched, and he looked me in the eye as he grasped my hand firmly. We shook, and I quickly tried to come out with the right words to say to him, even though words did not exist that expressed my admiration for his leadership abilities, and for the man himself.

“Thanks for everything, Mr. Meston,” I blurted, doing my best. “I sure enjoyed serving under you and I learned a lot under your command.” As I turned loose of his hand, I added, “If I ever have the opportunity, I’d consider it a privilege to work for you again.”

With a half grin, he said, “Thank you, Smitty. You
can work point for me anytime.” He looked at me, acting as if he wanted to say more, but something stopped him. Probably the wall that sort of naturally stands between an officer and his men, I thought. But he need not have said another word to me; his eyes had conveyed the rest of his message.

As I walked back to the barracks, I couldn’t help but remember my first mission with Lieutenant Meston and how I had thought he was somewhat nervous and that he’d have to prove himself to me. Well, damned if he hadn’t done that and a whole lot more. The man was a fine leader, in my opinion, and I hated to see him go. But as it stood, he went alone, shouldering responsibility for one terribly unfortunate accident: Katsma’s death. I just knew the remembrance of that day, October 6, tormented him regularly. I knew, because I endured the same agonies 101 days later. But I was confident that Mr. Meston would go on to have a splendid naval career, and I was hoping to do the same. We then went our separate ways in life, yet we were forever unified in spirit by one comrade’s passing and thirty life-and-death missions.

I entered my cubicle and slid Bolivar’s cage from beneath my bunk, intent upon seeing how the snake was doing after having gotten stepped on the previous day by Flynn in the latrine. Once again, Bolivar had escaped from his box, and as Flynn had tried to catch him, he had accidentally stomped a foot on the snake. Unlike last time when Flynn had gotten bit by the snake on the finger, this time the snake had gotten mashed by the SEAL, and his chances of surviving the sustained injuries were questionable.

One look at Bolivar lying limp in his cage answered all questions: my pet was stone-cold dead. A cocky-assed beetle paraded right across Bolivar’s nose. I thought for a moment about killing the arrogant one,
but then I had a better idea: I’d turn him over to the guy who owned Dracula, the nine-foot python.

After snatching the aforementioned beetle from the cage and depositing it in a glass jar, I picked up my deceased snake and carried it outside. Borrowing a small folding shovel along the way, I walked to a place on the western edge of the compound. I found a nice patch of grassy ground beside a nipa palm tree and began digging a small grave.

When I ended up with a two-foot-deep hole, I laid Bolivar in it, took one last look at him, and covered him with dirt. After refilling the hole, I dropped the shovel to the side, deciding to say a few words. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then I addressed the grave.

“Well, Bolivar,” I muttered in a quiet voice, “I guess I’ve gotta say good-bye to you, too.” I looked around again before continuing. “Ah, you were a pretty good snake, and I’m sad that you didn’t have a longer run at living. But, on the optimistic side of things, at least I don’t have to try to smuggle you back through Hawaii.”

I kicked a clump of ground onto the top of the grave, then tromped it down with my foot. I bent over and grabbed the shovel and whacked the turned soil with the back of the blade.

“So long, Bolivar,” I said over my shoulder as I stood up, pivoted, and walked away. Again I surveyed the surrounding area, hoping no one had witnessed my snake’s funeral; after all, there were some things over which you knew your teammates would torture and tease you, and presiding over a funeral for a snake was one of those things. Fortunately, I saw no living creature watching me but a brown pigeon perched on a tree branch.

I went back to the barracks for a while, then passed the day going from one errand to another. The biggest
task that I completed took place in the carpenter shop, where I built two boxes. Then I filled them with some of my personal gear, nailed them shut, and loaded them in one of Foxtrot Platoon’s Conex boxes. The Conex boxes, which were six feet wide, six feet high, and eight feet long, were used for storing personal and operational gear. They would be sent to the States along with the platoon.

At 1730 hours, I went to the EM club, where the going-away party was scheduled for 1800 hours, for an early beer. Funkhouser, who had just gotten back from a quick trip to Saigon, joined me at the bar.

“Give me a cold one, Al,” Funky said, then he motioned toward me and added, “and another for Smitty, on me.”

I looked my friend in the face and said, “Well, well, what’s this? A going-away present?”

Funkhouser grinned. “That’s right, and it’s a helluva splurge on my behalf, if you ask me!”

I laughed. “Comin’ from a tightwad like you, I’ll have to agree!”

We downed our beers together, kidding one another until the rest of the platoon members started arriving. But before we were completely distracted, Funkhouser draped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.

“You’ve been a good roommate,” he muttered quietly. Then letting go, he said louder, “Just don’t go gettin’ shot up out there with Bravo Platoon!”

I patted Funky three times on the back, and standing up from my stool, I told him not to worry.

“You just have a cold six-pack ready for me when I get off the plane in San Diego,” I answered him. He nodded, then I walked away and went outside the club, where a couple of the guys were grilling steaks and barbecuing chicken.

“Smitty,” Doc Brown said as I approached, “I’ve got a damn good-lookin’ steak ready for you.” He stabbed a well-done T-bone with a fork and lifted it a few inches off the makeshift grill for me to admire.

I shook my head and chuckled. “Can I trust you?” I asked. “Or is that the piece you basted with manure?”

Brown grinned at me. “Come on, Smitty, let bygones be bygones. I’m not playin’ any tricks anymore. We’re goin’ home, man!”

“That’s good news,” I replied as I picked up another fork and stuck it into a second well-done steak. I carried the piece of meat to a folding table on which rested paper plates, utensils, and condiments. I dropped the steak onto a paper plate, poured a small amount of steak sauce on it, grabbed a knife, and started back into the club. Before stepping inside, I turned back and called to Brown.

“If I die from eating this meat, I’ll kill you!” I warned him, but I was smiling when I said it. Brown just grinned.

I entered the club and found an empty chair at a table where McCollum, Moses, and Markel were sitting and drinking beer.

“Does your last name have to begin with an M to sit with you three guys?” I inquired, hesitating before pulling the chair out from the table.

“Go ahead and sit down,” McCollum said, smiling. “We can live with one misfit. After all, misfit begins with an m, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll even buy you a beer to go with that piece of meat,” Moses said as he got up from his chair and headed for the bar.

“Gee,” I said to the others, “everybody’s buyin’ me beer today. You’d think you’re all goin’ home and I’ve got to stay in Nam another month or something.”

McCollum and Markel nodded their heads and
laughed. I picked up my knife and fork and cut off a piece of the steak. It tasted as good as it looked as I took it off the fork with my teeth and started chewing it.

“Well,” I blurted between bites, “I guess I’ll confess and say I’m gonna miss you guys.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Muck, throwing his head back and guffawing. “I’ll bet that was awful damn hard to get out!”

I had to laugh, too. “Yeah,” I admitted, “it was, but what the hell. I knew it was what you wanted to hear, so I said it to tickle your ears.”

McCollum and Markel laughed some more as Moses came back with two cans of beer.

“What’s so funny?” Moses asked, sitting down and setting one beer next to my plate and keeping the other for himself.

“Smitty said he loves us,” replied McCollum, eyeing me with a grin. I almost choked on a bite of meat.

“I did not!” I sputtered after a cough. Then I coughed a couple more times before saying, “I said I was gonna miss you bastards!”

Muck giggled. “That’s the same thing as sayin’ you love us. You only miss those you love.”

The three “m brothers” heehawed some more while I took a long swig of beer, taking a moment to regain my composure. It was not that easy, though, to recover after being exposed. The fact of the matter is that I did love those nitwits. But there was no way I was going to own up to it in front of them, especially while they were splitting their sides. The worst torture the VC ever invented couldn’t have forced those three little words, “I love you,” out of my mouth right then.

“I’m not gonna miss you, Smitty,” cracked Moses, “but I enjoyed serving time with you.” He chuckled, and I shook my head and smiled.

“To Smitty!” toasted McCollum, holding up his glass of beer. “Watch your butt, protect your nuts, and may your tour with Bravo end with a ‘bravo!’ ”

“Hoo-yah!” sang Markel and Moses as they raised their beers and drank to my future. And so the rest of the party went. Lots of drinking, eating, and joking took place. Late in the evening, many songs were sung, and the more inebriated everyone got, the more hugs were given out. The word “love” was even tossed around some, after all. I, however, left and went back to my cubicle before I got that drunk.