Death in the Jungle (25 page)

Feeling brave and in control again, I dropped my swim trunks and gave Brown a nice rear view.

“You’re pretty,” he said.

I glanced back at him and his needle. “That’s what they all say.”

“Pretty ugly,” he finished.

I looked away, anticipating the poke.

“Right or left cheek?” Brown asked.

I smarted off. “Just miss the lovely sack hangin’ down in the middle.”

A sudden, sharp sting pierced my right buttock. As Brown shoved in the serum, the pain increased. A five-c.c. dose was a big one, and I felt my flesh bulging. Unconsciously, I hung my mouth open as the syringe was emptied, and I realized it only after a string of saliva fell to the concrete floor at my feet.

“Damn!” I muttered as Doc finally extracted the needle.

“Next!” he barked after I pulled up my swim trunks and stumbled away. I managed a look back at Funkhouser, who was next, and he was watching me with terrified eyes. My own pain was so great that I felt no sympathy or care for my roommate. All I wanted to do was lie down in my bed for a few minutes.

Just as I reached my cubicle, Funkhouser emitted a horrendous howl. But that was his problem. That was one time I had to worry about my own ass.

Three and a half weeks later, I was on point and back to worrying about my own as well as six other asses. This was our sixth mission since all of us had received the plague shots with the screaming and moaning that went with them. In contrast, no one was hollering now.
The peacefulness of the jungle was in evidence, and yet, a battle could have erupted at any second. Seven guerrilla fighters looking for trouble on an enemy’s travel route amounted to a war waiting to happen. And if one enemy didn’t show, you could bet your soaked and shriveled hind end that the other would be there: greetings, Culicidae family, you bloodsucking, disease-carrying bastards.

We were moving at first light, back into the brush, away from our overnight ambush site on the Rach La and Cu Lao Ca Xuc intersection of waterways, since there was not enough cover to have stayed on the stream in the daylight. We’d heard nothing over the long night’s downpour. The sky, gray and ugly, threatened overhead. A sinister atmosphere pervaded the swamp.

After wading about 125 meters away from our ambush site, Lieutenant Meston motioned for me to stop. We were at a point where we were well concealed by nipa palm, and it was here where we’d hang out until nightfall. Then we’d move back into position on the stream for another all-nighter.

Mr. Meston signaled for us to form a circle and settle down in the water. He gestured to me to take the first two-hour watch. I walked to one of the more prominent trees outside the men’s circle and leaned my back against the trunk. The others got comfortable, if sitting in water up to the armpits could be described as comfy.

Over the next hour or so, the water level went down considerably until it was but a couple inches deep. I kept my eyes and ears open all the while as the others attempted to ignore the mosquitos and sleep.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 0835 hours, then I looked up at the sky, which was very gloomy. Before I looked away, I heard rustling in the brush directly outside the perimeter from me. I clicked off the safety on my shotgun and found the trigger with my
shooting finger. A twig snapped, and I slowly swung Sweet Lips toward the sound.

For the next few seconds, I heard nothing. My eyes scanned the brush, but I saw nothing. Sweat trickled down my forehead and into my left eye. The sting forced me to close it. No matter, as I needed only my right eye to take aim.

A sucking noise reached my ears, and I knew there was someone walking in the mud. If that someone was a VC, I intended to shoot him when he broke through the vegetation and came into view.

While I prepared myself for killing, a sudden chopping noise shattered the stillness. A second chop followed and I pinpointed the sound as coming from a mere ten meters away. Then a series of chops rang out and awakened a groggy Lieutenant Meston, who climbed to his feet with a curse.

I waved my arm, getting Mr. Meston’s attention, then placed a finger vertically in front of my lips and whispered, “Shhh.” Mr. Meston immediately lost the cobwebs and grabbed his M-16 from its resting place in a bush. The chopping, however, had ceased. My brain told me we were compromised as the woodcutter had heard Lieutenant Meston’s voice.

I stared at Mr. Meston, waiting for him to give me directions. Flynn stood up beside Lieutenant Meston and they whispered to one another. As they conferred, another chop resonated. Good, I thought to myself, the man had not been spooked off.

Mr. Meston listened for several seconds to more timber slashing, then motioned for me to go get the woodcutter. I waved at Ty to follow me.

As fast as I could, I crashed through the thick vegetation with Sweet Lips at the ready. The woodchopper didn’t have time to flee as I was on his case in an instant. He was standing next to the tree he’d been cutting,
wearing baggy, rotting, black-pajama-type clothing and holding a makeshift ax.

When the middle-aged woodcutter saw me, all painted up and with my weapon aimed at his guts, he sank to his knees and began pleading in Vietnamese. I moved to within ten feet of him, never taking my eyes or my gun off him.

Ty stepped up beside me.
“Ong co so linh My khong?”
he snapped, asking the woodcutter if he was afraid of American soldiers.

The man, visibly shaking and obviously petrified, bowed up and down like a Buddhist in fervent prayer, babbling as fast as his lips would move.

“Shut him up!” I told Ty.

“Dung noi! Dung yen!”

The man grabbed a rag, which was protruding from his pants pocket and shoved it into his mouth. He bit on the rag to stop his teeth from chattering and to quiet his tongue. Even so, squeaks and squeals emanated from him. Ty had to threaten to slap him three times before he shut up completely.

I picked up the man’s ax as Mr. Meston, Brown, and Flynn came through the brush behind me.

“Does he have personal identification papers?” whispered Lieutenant Meston when he reached my side.

“The can-cuoc cua Ong dau?”
Ty asked the woodcutter. The man, his eyes wider than ever at the sight of three more commandos, shook his head. He then noticed my K-bar knife before dropping his head and staring at the watery ground.

I felt I could read the woodchopper’s mind. He was expecting to be killed, probably soon and silently with my knife. But instead of facing death, he faced me as I stooped down next to him. I grabbed his right arm, felt it quivering, and pulled him to his feet.

My four teammates and I escorted our “prisoner”
back to McCollum and Funkhouser. Mr. Meston radioed TOC and asked if they wanted the woodchopper for interrogation. They did. Lieutenant Meston then called for extraction via LCPLs.

Since we were 125 meters from our ambush and extraction site, we began moving toward it in single file, with the woodcutter between Brown and Flynn. The walking was easier than earlier, as the water had receded to its lowest level, only an inch deep. I wove a different pattern through the nipa palms in case someone was sitting in wait on our old, water-filled, muddy tracks.

As I went, a sprinkle of rain tap-danced on my floppy cammo hat. A wait-a-minute thorn bush grabbed at my shirt sleeve, then let go as I pulled away. A green pigeon with his beak buried under a hunched-up wing ignored me as I walked past the branch he was perched on. He was just too cozy to get off his seat, or the dark sky appeared too unfriendly for that particular flyer to lift off right then.

A couple minutes later, the unfriendliness turned severe as the rain came hard. The bird knew, I told myself. His instincts had warned him. He hadn’t reasoned it out, because only man reasoned. Instincts, then. Listen to your instincts, Smitty. It may save your life someday.

I maneuvered through the mud and the rain, glancing back at Mr. Meston every thirty meters, until I reached the Cu Lao Ca Xuc. As Mr. Meston and Brown approached my position just shy of the riverbank, I sensed a presence on the water to my right. Trusting my instincts, I quickly turned my head in that direction. Through the driving rain I made out an oncoming sampan.

Shit! my brain screamed. I wheeled Sweet Lips toward the sampan in a manner that Lieutenant Meston
couldn’t mistake. I knew he was reacting to my move and was reflexively raising his M-16 to his shoulder.

“Lai dai!”
pounded my ears as Meston hollered for the two occupants of the sampan to come to us. At that point, they were but twenty meters away. I saw two young boys, drenched like we were, looking my way with mouths wide open in astonishment.

“Lai dai!”
Mr. Meston yelled again. The boys obeyed and paddled the sampan right at us.

“Get ’em, Smitty,” directed the lieutenant. “Brown, keep your eyes on the prisoner.”

As the sampan drew close, I couldn’t help but notice the extreme filth of the two boys. Their wet clothes looked as if they were about to rot off their bodies. Their faces were caked with dirt. But I forgot about their poverty and stared at their eyes—the almond-shaped eyes that were focused on the barrel of my shotgun, which was pointed right at them.

“Gio tay len!”
I shouted as I grabbed the bow of their sampan. Instantly, they raised their hands high above their heads.

The sampan hit the bank and I grounded it onto the beach. Ty helped me give the sampan one hard pull.

“Dung len!”
barked Ty, and the two boys stood up.
“Di di!”
Ty spit. The boys stepped out of the boat, and Ty ushered them to the older prisoner. Mr. Meston wanted their identification cards, and Ty asked for them. Like the woodcutter, they had none.

Suddenly I saw another sampan drifting toward us. Again, I aimed Sweet Lips at the boat. I glanced back at my teammates, who were concentrating on our three Vietnamese captives.

I knew there was one way to draw their attention.

“Lai dai! Lai dai!”
I yelled at the top of my lungs. This time there were three people in the sampan, and one of them jumped to his feet. I could see that he was
a small boy, and I refrained from shooting him, even though his quick action brought me close. The other two occupants were females, one old and one young.

Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw the barrel of a weapon on each side of me. I looked right, and there was Mr. Meston. I glanced left. Flynn was aiming his rifle at the sampan.

“Mau len!”
I shouted, telling the Vietnamese people to hurry up.

“There’s another boat coming behind them!” Flynn informed us.

Raindrops were running off my hat in front of my eyes. I gave my head a quick, hard shake, then I stared upstream. Sure enough, there was a third sampan with three more occupants.

The lead boat was a few meters from shore when Lieutenant Meston hollered at the other,
“Dung Lai!”
I made out an older boy with two old women in the sampan. They, like the others, showed surprise and fear. What else would you show? I thought. When you were a flick of a finger away from termination, a little fear may just reach up and grab you by the throat. And believe me, fear was working overtime that day on the Cu Lao Ca Xuc.

Both sampans hit the bank before Lieutenant Meston ordered the six people to step ashore. As they stood and followed directions, I saw that their clothing was as rotten as the boys’. They moved quickly to demonstrate compliance, gathering into a tight group beside Lieutenant Meston.

Mr. Meston had Ty ask them for identification, but none of them could produce anything at all. I checked their sampans for papers and found nothing.

“Take ’em to the other three while I find out what TOC wants me to do with ’em,” Lieutenant Meston said, looking at Ty and then me.

“Re tay Phai. Di truoc,”
commanded Ty, pointing his rifle where he wanted the women and children to go. The group moved toward the other prisoners, who watched us approach. The woodchopper’s face lit up at the sight of the others, but he refrained from speaking.

When the nine detainees were gathered together, Ty told them to sit down.
“Noi!”
he barked. All obeyed immediately.

“Ong co thay Viet-Cong khong?”
Blank faces stared at Ty. Again Ty asked if they’d seen any Viet Cong.

“Da khong,”
the woodcutter answered negatively.

“Da khong,”
echoed one of the old women.

Ty looked at me. “Bullshit,” he muttered.

As we waited for the LCPLs to arrive, I noticed the small boy who had hopped to his feet in the sampan watching me. He appeared to be about eight or nine years old, and when I looked away, he scooped up a handful of mud and started painting his face like mine. Of course, the hard rain quickly washed his cammo-job away since he had no hat.

“TOC wants the woodcutter for interrogation,” Lieutenant Meston informed me when he got off the radio. “The others we’ll let go.”

The LCPLs were almost upon us before I heard them over the beating rain. Mr. Meston told Funkhouser to hold the woodcutter while Ty and I directed the other Vietnamese people back to their sampans.

As the eight walked ahead to their sampans, the small boy glanced at me several times. When he reached his boat, he gave me a quick smile before climbing aboard.

“Em!”
I called to him from the bow of the sampan. He turned and stared at me. I dug into my pants pocket and pulled out a round tin of Skoal chewing tobacco. I dug deeper and found a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint chewing gum, which I held out toward the boy. He grinned and took the gum from my hand.

“Chuc may man,”
I wished him good luck. He turned to the old woman who had joined him in the sampan and displayed his prize. She looked at the gum, then at me, showing no emotion. I gave her a slight bow, then hurried away to my teammates.

Funkhouser and Ty escorted the woodcutter onto one of the two LCPLs. Lieutenant Meston and Brown followed. McCollum, Flynn, and I stepped onto the other steel-hulled landing craft. The two boats backed away from the shore, the bows swung downstream, then the engines kicked into forward gear.