Free Death in the Jungle by Gary Smith Page B

only things left were a broken clay stove in one corner of the dirt floor and a makeshift bed constructed of lashed limbs in another.
    Meston entered the hootch and participated in the perusal, then we exited and rejoined the platoon.
    As we continued our reconnaissance, I couldn’t help but analyze each member of the platoon strung out behind me. Khan, the Vietnamese SEAL, was impressive. He was a short, slender man with penetrating, predator-type eyes. He was steady and exhibited no fear at all. He had a deep scar on his left cheek as a reminder of a knife fight with a gook, who had a deeper scar across his decaying chest.
    Funkhouser was just as impressive as Khan. He was a husky six-footer who was so familiar with the M-60 machine gun that I believed the barrel had been his pacifier in his cradle days. He was as cool as a cobra in the field, warming up only when we partied.
    Mr. Meston was a clean-cut man of medium build, standing five feet, ten inches tall. He had been makinggood decisions, including his choices of beautiful, exotic women.
    McCollum was better behind the piano than he was in the field; to tell the truth, we were all better at the bar than at recon. “Muck,” though, was a bit uncomfortable with his assignment to rear security. Bringing up the rear on a pitch-black night in an enemy-infested jungle was enough to make most men jittery. Still, I’d rather have “Muck” with his M-79 grenade launcher protecting our posteriors than most.
    Bucklew was the most handsome one of the platoon, with the possible exception of myself. He was a muscular, six-foot, hundred and eighty pounder. He was a great runner and swimmer, but his athleticism wasn’t helping him in the swamplands. That was because his mind was giving him problems, negating his physical advantages. Mr. Meston had given him a try on point a couple missions back, but the stress had eaten him up. Bucklew by then seemed too nervous to me. I was hoping he would hold up when we engaged the enemy, which was an eventual surety.
    I pondered my analysis of my buddies for a minute. It seemed to me as though I’d been a little hard on some of them, until I remembered I was judging their performance under extremely dangerous conditions and not simply how they’d fare on a frog hunt back in Texas. In a jungle with gooks and snakes and crocs all around, nobody was perfect, believe me. But these imperfect SEALs, of which I was one, were not quitters. Regardless of their individual quirks and shortcomings, collectively they composed a group of fighting men that no sane enemy would want to face. Of that I was sure. I knew these men. They’d been trained to the max. Someone would have to pay for all that training, and his name would be gook.
    I continued on point, moving in ankle-deep mud,until 1200 hours when Mr. Meston decided to take a break. In fairly thick cover, the six of us set up a perimeter in a circle, with each man facing outboard. I sat down in the mud and leaned my head back against a nipa palm and closed my eyes for half a minute. It felt good to rest my eyes and daydream of the little house in the country I planned to buy near my parents’ home in Scotland, Texas. Right then I really wanted the house because it was built on a hill where I’d seldom ever have to walk in mud.
    Knowing I must stay alert, I opened my eyes and looked for trouble. He was only present in his mosquito disguise. Feeling safe, I stood Sweet Lips against the palm tree and took a can of C rations from my backpack, along with a P-38 can opener and a spoon. I opened the can of ham and lima beans and stared at the stuff, smothered in solifidied grease. I set the can down to my right in the mud, hoping the ninety-degree heat would liquefy the grease so I could pour some of it out.
    In the meantime, I drank from my canteen. The water was warm, as usual, but refreshing. It was wet; that’s all that mattered.
    While my meal slowly corroded, I decided to relieve myself at the