Death in the Jungle (3 page)

Chief McNally’s voice came in loud and clear. “Good morning, comrades. We have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of you imperialist dogs.”

I was initially confused by his paradoxical greeting—my friend in one breath and my enemy in the next. We were a totally humbled boat crew, seeking forgiveness and receiving only condemnation. Even Lord Worthingstone seemed humbled. As POWs we were allowed to give only our name, rank, date of birth, and serial number. To say any more was treasonous and dishonorable.

McNally gave PO1 Enoch and Friendly Frederickson orders. He said, “Take the dark one and the tall slim one and strip them naked. Bind their feet and hands together and behind their backs. We’ll soon see just how tough these warmongering pigs stand up under our compassionate interrogation procedures.” He was referring to Bro and me.

Another familiar and deceitful voice spoke up. “I’m so sorry you henchmen of imperialism have blown up our factories, killed our women and children, destroyed our homes and chicken houses, enslaved our retarded brothers and adulterous sisters in the South.”

I began to feel real uncomfortable. Truly he was a “slant-eye” with forked tongue. Man, I hope he uses Vaseline, I kept thinking. “Remember, I am your friend regardless of what happens,” continued Chief Boatswain Mate Al Huey.

Where had I heard that before? I thought. Good ole Al, the kiddies’ pal, had now become “I am your friend,” your commie pal.

Lord George, TR, and Dick were made to lie down
with their faces in the sand. McNally interrupted the proceedings by reminding Enoch and Frederickson, “Oh yes, don’t forget to place the black bags over their heads and that rattlesnake around their necks. Tie the bag securely around their scrawny necks. I don’t want any water to leak inside.” He broke into cynical laughter.

The initial procedure was to use a sock filled with sand and to start pounding Bro’s kidneys and mine with it.

McNally started the interrogation, “How many other pigs are with you?”

Neither of us answered. The night was very cold so they naturally poured water over our bodies between the beatings and interrogation, claiming we smelled worse than pigs and needed washing. That was probably the only truthful statement they made that night.

“How many more boat crews are there?” McNally continued.

Again, we didn’t answer.

“Put that rattler (actually a large gopher snake) inside Moore’s bag to keep him company,” yelled McNally. Moore began screaming and begging for mercy. “Throw them in the river. They are of no use to us!” McNally said with finality.

I didn’t know about Bro, but I was beginning to believe they were really the commies. Especially when they threw me into the river! I began to think about how good that radioman job had been behind that typewriter. The water pressure crushed the black bag tightly over my head. It was a terrible feeling. I couldn’t even scream. I hated the thought of having a squirming rattler wrapped around my face.

Just before I blacked out, I was suddenly pulled out of the river and questioned again. It was now my turn to have the rattler crawling inside of the black bag that
was tightly secured around my scrawny neck. When we refused to answer their questions, they again threw Bro and me back into the river. My whole body was shaking violently from the cold, the snake, and the realistic training. I made up my mind right then and there that I would never be captured in combat. I would fight to the death. No human being could stand up to that kind of treatment for extended periods of time. It was better to die in honor than to live in disgrace.

To make a long story short, we didn’t get captured again during the next three days. The instructors came to within a few feet of catching me again, but I would have died fighting first. It was a lesson well learned. The worst part of my captivity was Enoch stealing the chewing tobacco that I had waterproofed in several condoms. There was no honor among thieves.

In November we spent our last three weeks of training at San Clemente Island, about seventy miles northwest of San Diego. It was entrusted to the Navy and had been used by UDT since the early fifties and probably earlier. It was approximately twenty-three miles in length and one mile wide.

The old UDT Training camp was located at Northwest Harbor and consisted of eight student and four instructor plywood shacks, one long building that served as the mess deck and admin spaces, outside shower, and the ever-present outhouses. Based on the caste system, one was reserved for the mature amphibian frogmen instructors and the other for the immature tadpoles (non-humans). The berthing shacks’ deck dimensions were approximately ten feet by fourteen feet and held four double bunks for eight trainees. Approximately one hundred yards farther inland toward the runway was UDT Training Command’s storage/staging barn. All of the buildings were originally built and used during World War II to house the construction workers and
their equipment during the building of the nearby runway.

We spent the first two weeks at San Clemente Island free-diving on Japanese and German hulls that had been planted in the Northwest Harbor’s cove at depths of twenty to forty feet, depending on the tide, and just outboard of the breakers. Beginning two days after our arrival at the camp, a series of continuous winter storms made our lives miserable for two weeks. It rained over seventeen inches, setting a new record. The surf was very high and the visibility varied from zero to one foot. The water temperature dropped to fifty-seven degrees.

The first eight mornings began at 0400 hours. On those mornings we were briefed on the enemy situation, then grabbed our swim gear and slates, boarded an LCPR (Landing Craft Personnel Ramp) and LCPL MK 4 (Landing Craft Personnel Landing), and headed for China Beach. We were dropped off by using the old swimmer-cast-and-recovery method that had been perfected during World War II. An IBS was secured on portside of the LCPR. Simulating a combat mission and maintaining low profile, the officer in charge signaled one man at a time to slide over the side of the LCPR and into the bouncing IBS. When the enemy beach to be surveyed or reconned was to starboard of the boat, the OIC signaled the first man to enter the water, followed by another every twenty-five yards. The reconnaissance had to be completed before daylight. All swimmers were to swim back out to sea approximately one mile, maintaining one long swimmer line with twenty-five yards separating each swimmer. Eventually, the LCPR returned, traveling at about 15 mph. The pickup man, located in the IBS, held a sling outboard of the raft. As the boat neared the line, each swimmer simply
hooked his arm into the sling and was flipped into the boat. By 0700 hours, we were eating breakfast.

After breakfast we mustered on the beach with our wet suit top (that was all we were issued), fins, booties, face mask, life jacket, web belt with knife and MK 13 flare, and, of course, our UDT swim trunks. We were divided into swim pairs and assigned a specific scully. Taking turns diving, our main task was to free-dive down to the scully and tie two 20-pound haversacks of explosives, as instructed, and in such a way that the surge couldn’t rip them off. We soon learned that our normal working dive had to be at least one minute in duration.

Upon completion we called to PO1 Dickerson, known as the “Jolly Green Giant,” that our scully was ready for inspection. We remained on the surface and anxiously watched him free-dive down and out of sight in the murky water. In less than one minute he appeared on the surface.

“You guys have gotta be kidding me,” scolded Dickerson. “One good yank is all it took. Now get your butts back down there and do it right.” With that, he swam off to another pair awaiting his inspection. We didn’t call him the “Jolly Green Giant” for nothing. It didn’t matter how tight we tied the haversacks on, he could somehow rip them off. That meant we would not be allowed to go ashore for another scully assignment and, most importantly, stand beside a large bonfire of driftwood to toast our frozen digits for five minutes.

After lunch we continued our attempts, with occasional success, to load our scully with the two haversacks of explosives until 1800 hours when we were served supper. After supper we prepared for a night mission of one type of reconnaissance or another. We never completed those night missions before 0230 hours. After we took care of our gear, we went to the
chow hall for our midnight rations. Hot soup, hot cocoa, lots of peanut butter and cow butter, and bread were always served. Because we were in the cold water for twelve to sixteen hours a day, our bodies started craving peanut butter and cow butter. We were permitted to eat all that we wanted. We literally ate sticks of cow butter like candy bars. Our bodies really needed that fat content for body heat and endurance. Every winter training class reacted the same way.

One afternoon, at the end of the first two weeks, we were taken past Wilson Cove by LCPR and LCPL MK 4 and told to swim back to Northwest Harbor. Unfortunately, the set (tidal current) was moving against us. No doubt our instructors planned it that way. We weren’t allowed to freestyle. Only underwater strokes were permitted, which included sidestroke, breaststroke, and backstroke.

Terry Fowler, also a seaman, and I were swim partners. We cut corners by swimming over some of the kelp beds, which were masses of large seaweeds. We literally pulled ourselves, freestyle, through the kelp. With a total time of a little over six hours, we came in fourth out of fifteen pairs.

Terry and I crawled up onto the beach just before dark. We were so numb from the cold that our legs were simply too stiff to do more than crawl. The last swim pair didn’t get in for another two hours.

Friendly Frederickson was there to greet us back by saying, “Get off your asses! You pukes. Double time to the shower area, then eat chow. Now!” No encouragement, just a kick in the pants. We continued crawling toward the chow hall until we were able to stand up.

Taking a shower was always a delight. The system was nothing more than pipes secured to posts outside and near our berthing shacks. The water was delivered
from a large tank on a hill above the camp by gravity flow. It was always very cold, but very welcome.

The last week before graduation we spent executing demolition raids against enemy positions scattered throughout San Clemente Island and running a timed eight-mile race the last afternoon.

Finally, Class 36 graduated on 3 December 1965. There were a total of thirty survivors. The following men were assigned to UDT-11: Lt. (jg) Charles L. Allen, ENS Richard A. Sleight, ENS John E. Roberts, ENS Theodore Roosevelt, IV, ENS Bruce A. Smathers, Lt. George R. Worthington, BMSN Richmond Cleem, RM3 Robert R. Cramer, BM3 Francis D. Dick, BT1 John E. Fietsch, ETNSN Terry R. Fowler, AQFAN Lewis W. Miller, SFP2 Wash Moore, Jr., ABH3 George W. Raacke, SN Robert A. Schaedler, and MMFN William F. Wright. Last but by far the best were assigned to UDT-12: ENS Robert M. Blum, Lt. Robert E. Condon, Lt. (jg) Joseph G. DeFloria, ENS Thomas J. Hummer, ENS John M. Odusch, BT3 Benjamin O. Azeredo, Jr., EUL3 Bud R. Burgess, RM2 John J. Chalmers, AMHAN Ray E. Markel, ADJ3 David E. McCabe, AK3 Ronald A. Ostrander, BM2 Walter G. Pope, SF1 Donald L. Schwab, and RMSN Gary R. Smith. I was immediately assigned to the 4th Platoon.

Fourth Platoon had just returned from a tour in Vietnam and Subic Bay, Philippines. Not surprisingly the platoon was understrength due to several men getting out of the navy and others on annual leave. In December ’65, 4th Platoon’s personnel were: Lt. (jg) Hammond, DCC Edwin C. Reynolds, GMG1 George B. McNair, AE2 Walter H. Gustavel, BM3 Stephan F. Cary, RD2 Patrick T. Gruber, MR3 Michael N. Dorfi, AE3 Stephan G. Eastman, BT3 Benjamin O. Azaredo, PHAN Robert D. Totten, MRFN Leroy S. Ray, SN John J. Broda, SFPFN
Alexander, NMN Verduzco, RMSN Gary R. Smith, SN Deeolla, and NMN Van Winkle.

It wasn’t long before I was told UDT-12’s genealogy. Following World War II, the UDTs became a victim of demobilization by being reduced from thirty to four teams. Two teams were assigned to the Atlantic Fleet, USNAB, Little Creek, Virginia, and two to the Pacific Fleet, USNAB, Coronado, California. On the west coast UDT-3 was the predecessor of UDT-12 and was commissioned on 21 May 1946 under the command of LCDR Walter Cooper and redesignated UDT-12 on 8 February 1954.

SN Van Winkle and PO3 Dorfi were the rugby experts in our platoon. Both were heavily muscled and excellent all-around athletes. They were always cutting up and great for morale. One bright and sunny Southern California day, Van Winkle and Dorfi decided they needed to accept me into the platoon.

Dorfi began the conversation, saying, “I think it’s time we initiate Smitty into the platoon, Wink.”

Van Winkle gave me a hard look, saying, “Yeah, he even thinks he can outrun us. Let’s show him who’s the fastest.”

“You guys don’t know what you’re about to get into,” I stated as I was backing up. “I’m a whole lot meaner than I look.”

It didn’t work. I could tell by the gleam in their eyes that it was time for me to head south for the border. The race was on! I struck out for all I was worth by heading down the strand in the soft sand toward the obstacle course. That was my undoing. They eventually caught me, beat the crap out of me, then put their arms around me and said, “Welcome to 4th Platoon, Smitty.” It was a good thing they weren’t mad at me.

Chief Ed Reynolds was great to work for. Ed had the fastest hands I’d ever seen. When he started giggling,
one had best watch out for that uppercut! For some reason he always started giggling just before he threw a series of severe punches and blows to the head and body.

Joe Thrift, who had recently been assigned to 4th Platoon as the LPO, was no slouch, either. He had been a professional boxer until some guy convinced him in the ring that the Navy was the best profession. However, Joe could literally carry on a conversation by using his hands as semaphore flags. He would talk to me using semaphore and I would reply in CW code.

In March ’66, all four UDT-12 platoons began the biannual Team Olympics, two weeks of operational competition between the platoons. We had a long ocean swim, underwater mine search, beach reconnaissance, parachute accuracy test, long-distance foot race, obstacle course race, timed breath-holding while sitting and while swimming underwater, inland demolition raids, and a variety of administrative, communications, and operational skills tests.