Death in the Jungle (6 page)

I could tell he wasn’t in a mood for humor. Without hesitating, I replied, “Right here in my coat pocket, sir.”

Obviously irritated, he ordered, “Never do this again! You almost got us all into trouble. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied as I stood at attention. I decided that I had better leave Bolivar in my coat pocket the whole trip coming back, unless, of course, I put him in Funky’s coat pocket. Now that’s what I’d call a good, covert scheme, I thought. After Lieutenant Meston walked away, I looked over to Funkhouser, grinned, and said, “How would you like for me to buy you a beer?”

“Lead the way, matey,” was his cheerful reply.

I bought him the beer, which was one of our last in the States. Two days later, we arrived at Tan Son Nhut Airport in Saigon. Nha Be Naval Support Activity was to be our home for the next six months, and the VC were to be our targets for assassination.

My platoon, Foxtrot, relieved Kilo Platoon. The Kilo Platoon members were: Lt. E. D. Gill (OIC), Lt. (jg) D. Mann (AOIC), SM1 Wilson, DC1 Mack, EM1 Christensen, GMG2 Swepston, MM2 David Lee Sitter, BUI Payne, TM3 Haldeman, RM3 Neal, IC3 Boston, PH3 Kelmell, SN Cary, and HM2 Lappohn. Alpha Platoon relieved Juliett Platoon. The Juliett Platoon members were: Lt. (jg) Grabowsky (OIC), ENS Seiple (AOIC), HMC “Doc” Jones, BT1 John Fietsch, BM1 Donald L. “Goody” Goodman, EM2 William T. Doyle, SFP2 Wash Moore, ABH2 George Raacke, ETN3 Robert Schaedler, BM3 Richmond Cleem, SN Frank Toms, RM3 Robert Cramer, IC2 Michael J. Scrafford, MM3 Art Streeter, and FA Coy Ray Humphrey.

Echo Platoon had previously arrived at Nha Be in June and wouldn’t be relieved until December by Bravo Platoon. Echo Platoon members were as follows: Lt. R. G. Brereton, Lt. (jg) R. F. Redding, QM1 D. D. Daley, BM2 J. S. Cirardin, SM1 Tommy L. Hatchett,
MR2 C. D. “Tobacco Lou” Lewis, HM1 H. C. Marshall, GMG1 H. F. Matthews, PR2 Gary W. Shadduck, EMC W. A. Tobin, and BM1 R. Tullas.

It was really good to see the guys again. We were soon told the details of what had happened last April 7th, when members of Juliett and Kilo Platoons were aboard the
Mighty Moe
(a modified Mike-Six boat) deep in the Rung Sat Special Zone. Frank Toms stated that they were ambushed by a well-armed VC/NVA unit with automatic weapons and shoulder-fired B-40 rocket rounds. Of the sixteen SEAL platoon members aboard (not counting MST casualties), thirteen were wounded and three killed. Kilo Platoon lost Mr. Mann, Neal, and Boston. Sadly, Mr. Mann had been married only a year at the time of his death. Boston had married a couple of weeks prior to Kilo Platoon’s deployment to Nam in early April ’67. It was to have been Boston’s last trip to Vietnam before his discharge from the navy. It’s easier to be brave when you don’t have a wife and kids to worry about, I thought.

This was it—Foxtrot Platoon, our first mission. We had a good bunch of guys in the squad, but we were all green. We were untested. Still, we were ready. This is what we’d been training for, and now the time had come.

I was keyed up and excited. If I was scared, I didn’t notice it. My excitement overwhelmed all other emotions. As I glanced around at the others, none of them looked scared either. Of course, their faces were covered with green-and-black camouflage paint, but even that couldn’t hide their eyes. And their eyes looked clear and confident.

Personally, the fact that a SEAL had never been captured made everything black-and-white for me. No SEAL had ever been captured, and I wouldn’t be the first. I would never surrender. I would fight to the last breath. I would never leave my platoon; rather, I’d stay, and if death came, it would come to us all or to all who attempted to kill us. Do or die: That gave me courage. Knowing I wouldn’t allow capture, and consequent torture, took away my fear of the unknown. I’d make it back alive from this mission, or I’d flat-out die trying.

Since this was our first time out, Lieutenant Gill had agreed to come along to make sure we didn’t do anything
stupid, like getting killed. He was experienced and was finishing up his tour of duty. He’d advise our OIC (officer in charge), Lieutenant Meston. Mr. Meston looked a bit like he needed some help. He wasn’t scared, but seemed unsettled. I’ll keep an eye on him, I thought; the jury’s still out on what kind of platoon leader he’ll turn out to be.

Seven of us went out in the dark. That seemed like a lucky number to me. Seven. Maybe that was a sign this tour would go well, or at least this first mission. I hoped so. But where we were going wasn’t a place swarming with luck. It was the Rung Sat Special Zone, swarming with Communist forces. The Rung Sat was a thirty-by-thirty-five kilometer area of mangrove swamp located on the northeastern edge of the Mekong Delta and contained some of the most toilsome terrain in Vietnam. It was a haven for the VC and NVA, who used the area as a resting place after operations. The Vietnamese called the area “The Forest of Assassins,” due to its history as a hideout for pirates, outlaws, and contrabandists. And now we SEALs were invading the territory, ambushing the enemy in his own backyard.

It was just past 0200 hours when we boarded the LCPL MK-4 that would take us to our insertion point off the Quan Quang Xuyen, which was a tributary of the Soirap River. The LCPL was a thirty-six-foot-long, V-bottom, steel-hull landing craft, which sat low in the water because of the armor plating on the outboard sides, therefore affording us protection and a low silhouette. The boat was powered by a 300-horsepower turbine exhaust diesel engine. There was a four-man crew, including two gunners, whose job was to drop us at the correct insertion point, and not two miles off course. Once we jumped off the boat and into the jungle, we’d march to our own drummer.

As we sped along down the middle of the river, the
early morning air was cool and invigorating. An occasional spit of rain slapped me in the face. Once, I spit back. Eat it, Vietnam.

I stood behind the coxswain and the two lieutenants, who were using radar to pick up any enemy boat traffic and to monitor terrain features. All the others were seated aft on the steel deck with their weapons pointed toward the black jungle. I held Sweet Lips, my Ithaca model 37 pump shotgun. The point man generally got his weapon of choice; on this mission, I was point, and Sweet Lips was my choice. I’d sawed off the last few inches of her barrel, making her one evil little lady. I’d loaded her with six rounds of 00 buckshot. No one had looked down her hole, yet, with his last gasp and his heart throbbing in his mouth, but, I thought, today might be the day.

The moon was full and I saw its smiling face every few minutes when it promenaded from behind the dark clouds. I didn’t like its big face, though, right at that moment. It was not my friend when it lighted up my platoon for enemy eyes to see. I pointed Sweet Lips in the air as a silent warning for Mister Moon to disappear. Funny, but in a few moments, he did.

One of the men took advantage of the blackness and got up and urinated over the side into the river. He must really have to go, I thought. Sure enough, he was at it a long, long time, which told me he was excited. Either that, or he hadn’t relieved himself since the eighth grade.

Lieutenant Meston told me to pass the word that insertion would be in fifteen minutes. That meant it was time to get mentally prepared and to run one last check on equipment. I wore an H-harness and web belt with two ammunition pouches attached on my left side and two more on my right. Each pouch contained fifteen rounds of 00 buck, giving me sixty-six rounds including
the half dozen already loaded. A K-bar knife was taped, handle down, on the left shoulder strap of my H-harness. Taped on the knife sheath was an MK-13 day/night flare. Two M-26 fragmentation grenades hung from my web belt. A full two-quart collapsible canteen was attached to the H-harness high on my back. A quart canteen was hooked on the web belt over my right buttock, and another over my left. In the center of my back, a small, nylon backpack containing C rations and a first aid kit was attached.

Finding everything in order, I looked through the dark at the men behind me. Funkhouser patted the belted ammo for his M-60 machine gun. He looked at me and grinned, indicating that he, too, was ready.

Finally, the coxswain cut back on the throttles and Lieutenant Meston signaled for us to lock and load. The LCPL, with its engine now just above idle, glided closer to the ominous shoreline. I climbed onto the bow and crouched down at the starboard side of the boat. Lieutenants Meston and Gill and Doc Brown gathered behind me. Funkhouser, Bucklew, and McCollum assembled on the port side of the bow.

I looked down at the reflection of the moon in the water. Small waves rippled as the bow sliced through. Just ahead, the water lapped at the beach. A peacefulness hung in the air. I was mesmerized by the beauty of the moment. This can’t be war, I thought. My thoughts drifted with the current.

A second later, I snapped back to reality. This is war, dummy, I censured myself. Life and death. I had to get my head on straight and do my job. These guys were depending on me. Wake up. The enemy had the element of surprise during insertion, and here I was, daydreaming.

I watched the bank as the bow nudged into some ghostly black snags. I jumped onto the muddy shore. As
the others followed, I heard a splash. Someone had jumped short of the bank, but I didn’t look back. My eyes and concentration had to focus on the ground ahead. Still, I wanted to snicker at the mental picture of a comrade falling in. Of course, I couldn’t snicker; strict noise discipline had to be maintained. Sounds, especially talk, carried incredibly far in the jungle, as I had learned in Panama only a few weeks earlier. I wondered now about the sound of the boat motor: Had it been heard by any bad boys? I squeezed my bad girl a little tighter.

I dropped to one knee in the mud, my gun at the ready. My ears strained for sounds of enemy movement. Lieutenants Meston and Gill were a few feet behind me. At first, the only thing I detected was the drifting away of our support boat. A couple minutes later, there was silence. I only heard the ringing in my ears. Then I heard someone speak, which startled me until I realized the voice was only in my mind. It said, “Be careful, Smitty.”

Another ten minutes passed. I saw and heard nothing. Lieutenant Meston signaled me to lead on. I moved slowly and painstakingly, which was the only possible way to walk in muck and mud. With each step, I felt like some little dirt devil was trying to suck my hundred-and-seventy-five-pound frame down into his private pit.

I knew from Meston’s PLO (patrol leader’s order) that the first three hundred meters was defoliated swampland, which, translated, meant “our butts are exposed.” We wanted to get to cover as quickly as possible, but we’d been trained too well to screw up by senseless haste, so I proceeded cautiously on point. The lieutenants were right behind me, with the radioman, Brown, behind them. The others followed single file, but I couldn’t see them in the dark.

After almost an hour, the open ground was behind us. We entered a mangrove swamp, which consisted of nipa palm and other tropical maritime trees and shrubs in dense masses. One hundred meters into the bush, I found a creek flowing into the Rach Long Vuong, which was the minor tributary we were to follow in a big U-shape back to the Quan Quang Xuyen and the extraction point the next morning. It was at this finger of water that Meston wanted to hide out for a couple hours, looking and listening for enemy activity. He signaled me to scout the creek, both north and south of the platoon, while the rest waited.

The sky was lightening as I patrolled, and the bushes gradually changed color from night-black to green. I patrolled the bank up and down the creek, looking for human tracks in the mud. My eyes scanned the foliage across the water. There were no signs of life, except for the mosquitos.

Working my way back to the platoon, I gave Meston the “all clear.” He motioned me to crawl into some brush along the creek, assuming the right flank. I picked my way through the bushes and Vines and found the driest spot I could, where my rump would sink in the mud only a couple inches. Each man in the platoon followed suit, finding a hiding place off to my left, ending up spread out in a perimeter overlooking the creek.

I’d been warned that armor-piercing mosquitos loved the dawn, and they loved SEALs. Sure enough, hundreds of the nasty things lost little time in locating my position. But I’d worked hard at covering every square inch of meat from my neck down with military-issue camouflage greens and cotton long johns. And my head held a thick layer of mosquito repellent, courtesy of the United States Navy.

On my legs, dozens of the hairy-legged gooks tried to penetrate my clothing. I didn’t feel anything, so I
guessed my protection was adequate. Another whole division buzzed my head. I watched them for several seconds, wishing I could identify the big shot of the bunch. I’d have liked to put him out of commission, but I couldn’t pick him out. All of them were huge.