Death in the Jungle (13 page)

With the ant pinched between my thumb and index finger, I whispered at it,
“Ong co thay Viet-cong khong
(Have you seen any Viet Cong)?” When the creature didn’t answer, I tore off one of its rear legs.

“Nhung bay no o dau
(Where are the booby traps)?” No response, so off came the other hind leg.

“Ho co chon nguoi-My nao o day khong
(Are there any Americans buried here)?” The ant would not cooperate. I ripped out the remaining four legs, then set the ant on the muddy ground.

“Dung yen,”
I commanded, which meant “Don’t move.” This time the ant obeyed, out of necessity, of course, so I decided to be merciful and let it live.

Mr. Meston signaled me that it was time to go. I rose to my feet and began the chore of picking my way through the jungle. My mind was sharp and focused the way it had to be.

After fifty meters of slow going, I saw the Rach Vuna Gam on my left. It was a stream, only thirty meters wide, on the banks of which we would position our ambush site. I remembered Mr. Meston saying during our mission briefing that he wanted to set up where the stream bends to the south, and since the stream was going east-west right there, I knew we must patrol farther.

I moved very cautiously a couple meters inland in thick brush as I followed the stream. Every twenty or thirty meters I stopped and listened. Once I heard some birds flush about forty meters ahead, so we waited several minutes, attempting to discover what caused them to spook. Receiving no clues, Mr. Meston finally motioned for me to proceed.

I didn’t have to go far. After fifteen meters, the stream began winding to the south. I followed the curve a short distance until Mr. Meston signaled me. He wanted me to recon the riverbank by myself, until I located the best ambush site somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

I spent ten minutes scouting the dense shoreline, determining that one spot was as good as any other. After all, thick was thick, and muck was muck. I relayed this information to Mr. Meston, who decided to settle in right where he stood.

As predetermined, Mr. DeFloria, Bohannon, Williams, Mahner, and Ty set up a perimeter on the bank overlooking the stream, while Mr. Meston, Bucklew, Funkhouser, McCollum, and I sat down ten meters back in the bush to relax and act as rear security. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 1015 hours. That told me three things: first, it had taken four hours to patrol the eight hundred yucky meters from insertion to ambush site; second, I had more than eight hours to kick back and doze there in the bush before we relieved Mr. DeFloria’s squad on the riverbank; third, it would only get hotter during the next several hours.

After a drink of water, I laid Sweet Lips across my lap, wrapped my arms around my propped-up knees, and hung my head to sleep. Just when I drifted off, a rustling sound tap-danced on my ears. I thought I was dreaming until I heard the noise again, louder the second time. I opened my eyes and snapped my brain to attention. I focused on the sound, moving toward me from the west.

Glancing at Funkhouser on my right, I saw he was asleep. Looking to my left, I saw Bucklew with his M-16 already pointed toward the bushes. I raised Sweet Lips, safety off, at the oncoming threat. A few seconds later, a flicker of movement low in the brush caught my eye. I aimed down the barrel of the shotgun, my finger caressing the curvature of the trigger. I was ready to atomize the enemy.

Suddenly a bird of some kind darted through the brush into an open spot where I could get a good look at it. Then another joined it. I realized I was gazing at two domestic chickens.

Bucklew lowered his rifle, looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I dropped Sweet Lips onto my lap and shook my head. First a rabbit, now chickens. I’d imagine I were back home in Texas if I took to daydreaming just a bit.

I watched the chickens for a few minutes until they disappeared from sight. Listening to them wander away, I realized there must be a VC base camp nearby for domestic fowl to be about. That meant the odds were great that we’d engage the enemy sooner or later on this mission.

It was harder to doze off knowing VC were close at hand, but eventually I did. When I awoke, it was 1340 hours and hot as hell. The air was humid and thick, causing me to sweat like a roasting water buffalo.

I looked at Bucklew. His head was hanging limp,
with his chin against his chest. A couple mosquitos were busy getting a fill-up on his right cheek.

Mr. Meston and McCollum were to Buck’s left. I picked out pieces of their clothing in the brush, but they were too well camouflaged for me to know whether they were awake.

Funkhouser was sitting in the mud a few yards to my right, staring off into the jungle.

I decided it was time to eat. I took a can of C rats out of my backpack and opened it with the P-38 can opener. I looked at the spaghetti and meatballs and it looked ready to pounce at me. As was often the case, there was a lot of hardened grease forming an undesirable topping.

I stood the can in the mud where the sun could melt the grease, and I could dump it on an ant or two. Just another field-tested method of insect torture.

While I waited for the grease to liquefy, my thoughts turned to my favorite author, Robert Ruark. In his book,
Horn of the Hunter
, which I had read five times, Mr. Ruark told of lion hunts, leopard hunts, elephant hunts, rhino hunts, cape buffalo hunts, and every bloody kind of hunt one could conduct in bloody Africa. I’d hunted dangerous African big game animals only vicariously through Mr. Ruark’s books, so I wasn’t sure of the validity of what I thought. But what I thought was this: the most dangerous big game animal is man.

An animal had only one way to kill, which was its body ripping up yours. A man, however, had reason and technology, which lent him several options: he could kill you with his hands or blow you in half with guns or grenades when he was near, or he could kill you with booby traps or mortar rounds when he was miles away. Also, while an animal instinctively tore out your life and finished you as swiftly as possible, a man could elect to stretch your death out over hours or days.

Yes, I thought, man was the animal to fear the most.
I wished Mr. Ruark had been alive to discuss hunting and life and death and jungle survival tips, but he was not. Mr. Ruark, and I did mean the Mister, had died two years earlier in London at the age of forty-nine. I wished he were there with me in Vietnam and we were hunting deer, tigers, elephants, and crocs. Everything except man.

Then back to reality. I was hunting man. Damn.

Thirty minutes later, I poured the grease out of the C rats can over a red ant as planned, then ate every bite of the spaghetti and meatballs as I watched the ant wade through the fat. I finished as the ant finally struggled out of the mess.

I also stepped on the C rats can and pushed it into the mud until it was gone. That was when I felt it. The wind had suddenly picked up. I looked above the brush and saw the sky was dark to the west. A foreboding stripe of lightning telegraphed the severity of the advancing storm. But it only made me smile. Come on, Vietnam! Rain like mad and wash away the one-hundred-degree heat!

I watched for several minutes as the thunderclouds marched my way, and I was reminded of the west Texas storms of my youth. I remembered the many times when everything had become totally quiet, the vacuum before the storm. I’d stand in my yard and stare apprehensively at the sky, waiting for the sixty- or seventy-mile-an-hour winds. Soon a great, ominous red cloud would appear in the distance, as the advancing element of Texas dirt had blown toward me. The first time I had seen this, I couldn’t have been more frightened if it had been an ax murderer bearing down on me. The second time, though, I had stood my ground, my heart pounding.

When the winds had finally lashed into my little body, the transient dirt had bit my eyes and reddened my teeth. Minutes later, with black clouds climbing all
over me, rain had made its assault, then hail, bouncing off the ground all around me like ricocheting bullets.

One time when the hail seemingly had stopped, I had actually heard a hailstone falling out of the sky. I had looked up, and not seeing anything or knowing which way to run, I had stayed put and covered my head with my arms. A moment later, a chunk of hail the size of a hardball had slammed into the ground just five yards from me.

The thunderclouds were now directly above and unloading on me. I looked up and relished the wet on my face. For two hours, I was drenched with heavy rain, then the rain and the clouds were gone. Left behind was a wonderful, fresh, clean smell. The Rung Sat had been put through the rinse cycle and felt like a new place. I was refreshed. I was happy. I fell asleep.

When I awoke, it was hot again. I checked the time and saw it was 1755 hours. In thirty-five minutes it would be our turn on the riverbank. I had just enough time to eat something and cammo up again. I was sure the paint had streaked from all the rain I had permitted to wash over my face.

As planned, at 1830 hours Mr. Meston, Bucklew, Funkhouser, McCollum, and I relieved Mr. DeFloria’s squad on ambush. McCollum took the left flank and I positioned myself five meters to his right. As usual, we strung a line between us for communication purposes. In a couple hours it would be too dark to see each other; actually, I could barely see Muck then because of his camouflaged clothing and the brush between us.

Even though the air temperature was in the mid-nineties, I felt pretty good. I was sitting in the shade of a big bush, and looking at the smooth-flowing stream just a yard from my feet brought cool impressions to my mind.

After an hour, a large gray heron flew up and landed
in a few inches of water about five feet to my left. I could have poked it with the barrel of my shotgun if I had tried, but the bird was oblivious to my presence. It stood perfectly still, looking across the water.

I was thrilled by this bird, and I studied it closely. Its long tapering bill and long neck combined to form a gentle hook, like the crook in a shepherd’s staff. The plumage appeared very soft, and I wished I could touch it. The legs were long and spindly, ideally created for wading in several inches of water where the heron did its fishing.

The great bird finally took a step toward me, then another, with its eyes cast toward the water. A third step brought its head up. Instantly the wings opened and thrusted powerfully downward, beating the water with the feathery tips. The heron burst out of the stream and into the air, a trail of water cascading off its wings and feet. Some of the droplets splattered on my legs and hands.

As the heron flew away down the river, I whispered a “thank you” after it. Thank you, beautiful bird, for reminding me how much I loved living. How precious it was to interact with the good Lord’s masterpieces. Even that swampland had its appeal and splendid moments. I had to savor those moments, as hideous times were sure to follow. Later that night, bullets, rockets, and blood could shroud the beautiful shore.

During the last hour of daylight, only the usual occurred: the sun sank below the horizon, a pair of crocodiles wheezed somewhere downstream, and the mosquitos mounted an offensive any military general would applaud. Darkness installed itself, and the moon’s reflection glittered on the water.

The night made me drowsy. I reached into my pants pocket for one of the Dexamil capsules Doc Mahner had given me and the others when we had relieved him on ambush. The pill was a stimulant, which I’d used on
two previous missions. My experience had been that half an hour after ingesting one, I would suddenly “get high” and get happy, almost to giggling. My central nervous system would feel like it was plugged into 120 hummingbirds. I would believe I could write six books in the following hour.

Of course, what went up must come down. And coming down from a Dexamil high was rough. My senses were dull, tiredness overwhelmed me, and it was doubly difficult to stay alert. If I fell asleep, it was a deep sleep from which I hardly could awake. With that in mind, I slipped the capsule back into my pocket, deciding to tackle the night without the drug.

At 2400 hours I was wide awake and glad I hadn’t taken the Dexamil. McCollum had taken the pill, I was sure, because he was jabbering something about pink elephants across the river. I tugged the line between us, trying to snap him back to reality. The line, which was tied to my left wrist, jerked back so hard I almost dropped Sweet Lips.

“There’s elephants over there,” I heard Muck say.

I leaned in McCollum’s direction and whispered, “Shut up!” The line tied to my right wrist jerked once, so I pulled it once to reassure Bucklew that everything was okay.

McCollum babbled a couple more times in the next half hour, then I heard nothing further from him. I figured he was probably coming down from his high and was falling asleep.

The stream was rising rapidly due to the incoming tide. By 0100 hours, I was sitting in water up to my waist. I could stand up, but after a day of extreme heat and humidity, the coolness of the water felt good to me.

I had to urinate, so I went through my pants. A circle of warmth lingered for several seconds and the contrast
in temperature was pleasant. Another splendid moment to cherish.

At 0115 my ears picked up a thumping sound about two hundred meters downstream, just around the bend in the river. A few seconds later I heard voices. I tugged thrice on both lines, the one attached to McCollum and the other to Bucklew. Neither man responded. I tried again and nothing happened. Obviously, they were sleeping soundly. My easy guess was that both were suffering from the aftereffects of Dexamil.

With Sweet Lips off safe and pointing at the dark water, I listened intently for more human voices. My eyes watched for a silhouette of men in a sampan. Many minutes passed by …

An hour later, I heard several coughing sounds across the stream and in the jungle. Again I tugged on the lines, and again I discovered I was alone in my vigilance.

I didn’t hear or see anything unusual the rest of the night on ambush. It was clear that what I had heard earlier were Viet Cong, but they were not nearby anymore. I thought they had beached their sampans around the bend and then had gone inland. Perhaps they had walked to a base camp located somewhere on the opposite side of the stream.