Death in the Jungle (2 page)

Special thanks to all of Gary Smith’s UDT/SEAL/EOD teammates, those still alive and those who have passed over the bar.

The combat missions described in this book are real. The people are real. Only one name has been changed, to protect a specific person’s privacy. The conversations, naturally, are not reproduced verbatim, but are representative of the interplay between my teammates and myself.

Unfortunately, war is real. Death is real. This book covers it all by a Navy SEAL who is lucky enough to have survived five tours of Vietnam. Written with my close friend, Alan Maki, this is my first book. There will be others.

I joined the Navy for a variety of reasons. First and foremost, I was bored with college and my sweetheart had dumped me. Second, I had a burning desire for adventure. I just couldn’t bear the thought of living a common, everyday life behind a desk. I had ventured into oil-field work for a couple of years; however, the pay was poor and the hours were long. I had worked on the Bridwell Hereford Ranch Headquarters near Winthorst, Texas, for the ’61 and ’63 cattle sales. The pay was even worse and the hours were even longer. But my stay in the bunkhouse with four other guys was quite an adventure. Saturday nights were usually spent at the JB Corral, in Wichita Falls, dancing to Hank Thompson and other country-and-western bands. We would return to the ranch in time for chores, which began at 0530 hours. Considering I was young and dumb, and full of things I didn’t care to discuss, I was beginning to realize that my life didn’t have any direction or purpose. And third, I wanted to be a member of one of the Navy’s UDT Teams. With that in mind, and full of youthful idealism, I enlisted on 22 January 1964, at twenty-two years of age.

During boot camp, everyone took a variety of aptitude tests. Sometime afterward, each of us was interviewed by a civilian counselor and asked what basic line of work or training we preferred.

I told him that I wanted to be a UDT diver and that I didn’t like anything that had “wires” (electrical) connected to it.

Appearing to ignore me, he looked at my radioman test for copying code (CW or continuous wave). Unfortunately, I had gotten a perfect score. “You’ll make a good radioman,” he commented without looking at me.

“But I hate anything that has wires to it,” I responded.

With a stern look, he stated emphatically, “You’ll make a good radioman.”

I was crushed! I simply couldn’t imagine sitting behind a typewriter and copying code or fiddling with wires for a career.

Prior to boot camp graduation, we had to fill out a “dream sheet” for our first assignment. I doggedly requested UDT Training, Second Class Deep Sea Divers School, and Submariner training.

Upon graduation, I received my orders to Radioman
A
School at Naval Training Center, San Diego, California. I did well in school, and eventually was able to copy twenty-eight words per minute CW and send twenty words per minute with a standard key; however, I still hated anything that had wires to it.

Again, I was to fill out another dream sheet. Getting wiser, I requested UDT Training, submarine duty, or assignment to any ship in the Pacific fleet. Again I was crushed. I was assigned to the Naval Communications Center of the COMNAVPHIBPAC (Commander Naval Amphibious Pacific) at the Naval Amphibious Base, Coronado, California.

After reporting aboard the ’phib base, I began my short stint as a radioman behind a desk typing messages, monitoring communications nets, maintaining filing records, scrubbing urinals and commodes, and waxing decks. I hadn’t been assigned to the comm center
over a week before I found out that the UDT Training Command was also located at the amphib base. Then I found out that the guys who were always running in formation and singing songs while waiting for the chow hall to open were UDT trainees, “tadpoles.” I immediately submitted a request to be transferred to UDT Training in December 1964. By July ’65, I was one of those nuts who were always in a hurry to get somewhere, running in formation, and singing to boot. My life would be forever changed.

The UDT Training area was located at the back end of the base next to the San Diego Bay. The training command office, classrooms, and enlisted barracks were old World War II structures made of plywood. The surrounding grounds were of sand. Every evening we were to rake all trainee boot tracks from it, scrub urinals, et cetera, depending on who was the enlisted duty officer.

There was a two-week pretraining phase for the fortunate trainees who were released early from their previous commands. As it turned out, not all who arrived early would agree that they were fortunate.

Instructor Friendly Frederickson had two weeks to separate the sheep from the goats before Class 36’s training was to officially begin. He must have been trained by the Gestapo. His specialty was torturing us in a variety of ways on our half-day mixes of PT, swimming in the surf, and running on the Silver Strand. Frederickson always started off by having us run out into the surf and lie down in it. Then he had us run into the sand dunes, lie down, and roll in the sand, followed by making us put handfuls of sand down our T-shirts and pants. Even our boots got full of sand. One poor fellow had a terrible case of piles after just two days and was shipped out on the third.

All trainee “brown baggers” (married men) were allowed to go home at night. The rest of us maggots were
forced to endure continual harassment and occasional physical abuse, especially from Petty Officer Barney “The Ripper” House, after chow and during our daily field-day duties. Then there were the nightly fire watch patrols.

All UDT trainees were issued one and a half rations per meal, and more if requested. During Hell Week we would be issued four meals a day, with the fourth being served at 2400 hours. Considering I loved to eat and that my personal motto was “quantity, not quality,” I finally knew what happiness was: “Every day is a holiday and every meal is a feast.”

I had finally found “a true cause with a sense of urgency.” The best part was the privilege and honor of serving my country and the promise of retirement, if I survived. I had a roof over my head, clothes on my back, food in my belly, and direction in my life. I was delighted and thrilled that I might possibly become a member of a great organization, the Underwater Demolition Team.

Our daily schedule was very basic. We started the day off with one hour of PT or a run of the obstacle course. Afterward, we swam for the rest of the morning, then ran up and down the Silver Strand for the afternoon, or vice versa. All of this physical activity was carefully planned to prepare us for Hell Week.

One morning, after a hard PT, we ran all over the Silver Strand, through the sand dunes, out into the surf, rolled in the sand and raced from one point to another. The “goon squad,” which consisted of the slower runners, was continually harassed by Friendly Freddie and Barney Ripper. Even our corpsman, Doc Beaver, a big Indian, had no sympathy. At one point, Doc drove the ambulance past us, dragging one of the goon squad boys behind the ambulance with Freddie and Barney running alongside, cursing and throwing driftwood at
him. The next morning, the harassed trainee was shipped out. He must have been a radioman.

For those of us up front, we were forced to inhale Instructor Olivera’s cigar smoke as he led us on each day’s run. We never did figure out how he could run ten to fifteen miles daily, a burning cigar or a large wad of Beechnut chewing tobacco in his mouth, and outrun every one of us. He was an incredible guy.

After lunch we began a timed two-mile swim in the swimming pool. Progressively, the swim degenerated into a free-for-all at each end of the pool where at least half of the class was bottlenecked. The stronger swimmers were forced to literally swim over the weaker ones. It was not a pretty sight. On occasion, a fistfight would erupt until the combatants were overrun by other swimmers. It was every man for himself!

One day, in the midst of this chaotic situation, I heard Instructor Olivera yell, “Country, get your butt over here.”

I quickly swam up to the edge of the pool at the feet of Boatswain Mate Second Class Olivera. “Yes, Olivera?” Olivera was not only a legend, but was also one of the all-time fastest long-distance runners in the Teams. He had been in the Navy for about sixteen years, but in the fifties and early sixties, it was not uncommon for a career sailor to retire as a Second Class Petty Officer (enlisted paygrade E-5). He was also half Arapaho and half Italian. Olivera had a classic hooked nose, balding pate, and dark complexion. He repeatedly made life miserable for those whose attitudes weren’t up to snuff; yet, we admired him and greatly respected him. Of course, it was easy to respect someone when he had almost absolute power over one’s life. Olivera was able to continually motivate us to push ourselves beyond what we thought to be our absolute physical limits.
On rare occasions, Olivera would even move up beside one of us and offer a word of encouragement.

“Country, Instructor Enoch tells me you like chewing tobacco?” Olivera asked while reaching into his well-rounded right cheek and pulling out a well-used wad of Beechnut.

Instinctively, I knew this was one of those times for diversion. “Yes, Olivera. I prefer Days Work,” I said, grinning weakly. “It’s juicier and more satisfying.”

Olivera broke out hee-hawing as only he could. His laughter was a mixture of total control and manipulation, with skepticism and cynicism thrown in for good measure. “Open your mouth and chew on this for a while, and see how satisfying it is.” He shoved the large gob of Beechnut into my open mouth. “After you finish the two-mile swim [without fins], report to me at the ‘lean and rest’ [push-up position]. I want to know how satisfying that Beechnut chewing tobacco was.”

“Yes, Olivera! Hoo-yah!” I cried as I returned to a pool filled with about one hundred trainees, all trying to swim a two-mile race and somehow keep from being drowned by the masses of swimmers bottlenecked at the ends of the pool. I had never had the opportunity to swim two miles with a secondhand plug of chewing tobacco in my mouth. Worst of all, the swim was a timed race, and the slower swimmers would later receive special instructions on motivation. Not only was I not interested in motivational training (sand and surf), but I was determined to be in the top twenty-five percent, do or die. And so I achieved, thanks to Olivera’s crafty method of motivating me.

Our class was the last one to have the privilege to go through the Colorado River survival week course. We were three-quarters of the way through training at that point. There was a faint light at the end of the tunnel. The scenario we were forced to participate in was based
on the premise of our having previously destroyed a military target in North Vietnam. Our problem was that we had to evade all enemy forces lurking at numerous points between Davis and Parker Dams. There was no sanctuary until we reached Parker Dam, and that was to be accomplished no later than 0800 hours on Saturday morning. We were divided into five-man boat crews. Each boat was a seven-man-capable rubber raft called an IBS (inflatable boat, small).

All six boat crews were inserted just below the Davis Dam on Monday evening, south of Lake Mohave. We were to continue traveling south for five nights until we reached Parker Dam at the southern end of Lake Havasu. Each boat crew was to travel independently of the others. All travel was to be done during the night, and we were to hide out during the day. We were not to travel inland from the river more than one hundred yards.

My boat crew consisted of Lt. George Worthington, better known as Lord George Worthingstone; ENS Theodore Roosevelt IV (TR), second in command; then PO2 Bro Moore; followed by PO3 Dick, and yours truly, Seaman Smith. Fortunately for us, the instructors didn’t make TR carry that huge club on this trip down the great Colorado River. There must have been times during training that he regretted his Great Granddad’s famous policy, “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” The route was easy. All we had to do was travel with the current until we reached Devil’s Elbow, just south of Needles, California. At that point we expected to encounter the enemy in force. Our intelligence information had been gathered from UDT mates who were graduates of previous classes. Thank goodness for friends! We soon discovered that our instructors not only didn’t play by chivalrous rules of war, but also
they were our bitter, sadistic, and abusive enemies, whose vocabularies did not include the word
mercy
.

All went well until Tuesday night when we neared the infamous Devil’s Elbow. The river became very narrow and the walls of the canyon were absolutely vertical. There was no way to escape except by stealth and concealment. No wonder someone had named the place Devil’s Elbow. We did have one tactical advantage though—it was a moonless night.

Lord Worthingstone and TR decided we were to maintain a low profile by not paddling and simply drifting with the current. The “Lord” would occasionally dip his coxswain’s paddle into the current to keep us in the center of the stream. You could have heard a pin drop on the rubber boat’s main tube. Except for our wicked little hearts thumping at a rhythm of 150 taps a minute, we were quiet as church mice.

Suddenly there was a sound that struck horror in our hearts! Someone had just started an outboard motor. It didn’t take much to deduce that it was attached to a boat filled with bloodthirsty instructors intent on making a merry night at our expense. It was about this time that I looked back on the soft life I had had as a radioman behind a typewriter. Being the junior tadpole in the boat and being reminded, on that occasion, that crap runs downhill—I figured that, one way or another, this would be a memorable night.

That outboard motor had barely gotten started when all five of us were stroking, in perfect unison, with all of our strength, and heading downstream, not being too particular where we were going except that it be away from the boat that was gaining on us fast.

We were just beginning to think that we might have a chance to escape when the pursuing boat turned on a powerful spotlight that shined on past us, revealing a heinous reception committee made up of ghoulish individuals
awaiting our arrival on a sand bar next to the canyon wall. It was a bewildering situation! I literally didn’t know whether to crap or fall back into it. As it turned out, it didn’t really make any difference.