Death in the Jungle (11 page)

At 2100 hours, after countless beers and shuffleboard games, I called it quits and wended my way to the barracks and my bed. I remembered tucking in the mosquito
netting and my head hitting the pillow, but that was all I remembered.

The next morning, despite headaches and hangovers, our entire platoon of fourteen men was awake at 0600 hours for breakfast, and at 0730 were assembled for calisthenics. All of us were wearing UDT swim trunks and lightweight tennis shoes. A few men wore T-shirts, but the rest were bare-chested, including me.

Lieutenant Meston told me to lead the PT, which I did. After half an hour of vigorous exercises, everyone was perspiring heavily, which was good. I’d found PT to be the best way of sweating out all the beer I’d consumed at a party.

When I finished guiding the platoon through the numerous routines, Meston ordered a six-mile run. That put a smile on my face, as I loved to run. At six feet, two inches, and a hundred and seventy-five pounds, lean and mean, with a good pair of lungs, I was blessed with a runner’s body and the ability to fly. Bucklew, who was another running enthusiast, and I grabbed the front and led the others out the gate of the ten-acre naval base and onto a narrow, hard-packed gravel road. The road extended all the way to Saigon, which was seven miles northwest.

Immediately upon leaving the base, we began passing by the four dozen hootches which were built on stilts on both sides of the road. I noticed Nga’s hootch and was reminded that I had to take in my dirty clothes for cleaning and pressing.

It took less than a minute for Bucklew and me to run through the village of Nha Be, and as we left it behind, Katsma from Foxtrot 2d Squad caught up to us. He was a five-foot-nine, barrel-chested strong man, built like Atlas, and he was no slouch of a runner, either. We were running at a sub-six-minute-per-mile pace as “Kats” joined us.

“You call this fast?” Kats taunted us.

“Fast enough to keep you lookin’ at our cute little butts,” I said, glancing over my left shoulder at this determined runner.

“They’re cute, all right,” Kats chuckled, then loudly sucked in some air.

Bucklew picked up the pace a notch. “We’ll show you fast on the way back when there’s a mile to go.”

Kats stayed right behind us. “I’ll be here waiting.”

“Yeah,” I said between breaths, “watchin’ our lovely buns.” I smiled. Katsma intended to run directly behind me, drafting off me for five and a half miles. Then, as usual, he’d try to pass and beat us to the naval base’s front gate.

I checked my watch after a mile. We were cruising at a 5:38 pace. Not extremely fast, but quick enough to put two hundred yards between the three of us and the next two SEALs. The pace was also fast enough to make talking tough. Still, Kats persisted.

“Remember last year, Smitty, when you won the SEAL Team Olympic run on the Silver Strand?” he asked, grabbing air every few words.

“I’ll never forget it,” I answered, “especially since I beat you.” I looked at Bucklew, who was alongside my right shoulder and the perfect picture of a runner. He took a brief look at me, and I winked at him.

Kats gave a short laugh. “Ha! It was a twelve-and-a-half-mile run, and I tore my thigh muscle after eight miles.” He paused for a couple deep drags of oxygen. “You call that a victory?”

I made him wait several seconds for an answer, then I boasted loudly, “Yeah!”

“Bull,” he grumbled, and the conversation ended. There was to be no more talking as the pace quickened again.

Bucklew moved half a stride ahead of me for a few
seconds until I kicked it up a bit to draw even. I looked off to my left at the mud flats and rice paddies, enjoying the exhilaration and sense of freedom that running brought. It felt good to be alive and strong.

My good feelings didn’t last long. We’d run the second mile in 5:26, and Bucklew was cranking the pace higher. Kats was running right up my back.

Crap, I thought, these guys were crazy. Then I ran faster. My body was working hard now, and my brain told me I was in for a real workout. At that pace, I couldn’t enjoy the scenery; instead, I had to concentrate on my form, my breathing, and on relaxing my body. Sweat poured into my eyes as I focused on the road ahead. My breathing was loud, and I could hear Bucklew and Kats, as well. Suck in, blow out. Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. Man, it was getting fast.

I saw the old Buddhist pagoda ahead on the left, which sat at the three-mile mark and our turnaround point. As we reached it, I glanced at my watch; we’d run the third mile in 5:18.

“Piece of cake,” I lied as I broke to my right and made a tight-circle turnabout on the road. Bucklew and Kats revolved with me until we were all running south, retracing our steps.

The pace stayed fast. Bucklew and I kept abreast of each other, while Kats continued benefiting from my cutting a path through the heavy, humid air for him. Not until we covered a quarter of a mile did we approach one of the other SEALs still running north. ADJ3 Flynn, an automatic weapons man with Foxtrot 2nd Squad, recognized the battle we were having and shouted encouragement at us.

“What the hell are you idiots tryin’ to prove?” he yelled. None of us answered as we flew by him. “Beat ’em, Kats!” he shouted after his squad buddy.

Bucklew raised high his right hand with the middle finger extended as we distanced ourselves from Flynn.

We continued pushing the pace, passing the other men going the opposite direction, one by one, until we saw the last two, Funkhouser and Lieutenant (jg) Schrader, bringing up the rear. They reminded me of two sick Texas longhorns loping down the road.

“Run, Funky!” I gasped as I blew by the two joggers.

“Too much beer and whiskey last night!” bellowed Funkhouser. I smiled to myself, knowing that Funky would be last even if he hadn’t touched a drop of the party drinks.

As water, booze, coffee, and every other liquid I’d drunk lately gushed out of my pores, I wiped the sweat off my watch face and noted that we’d run the fourth mile in 5:15. Only two miles to go, I encouraged myself. Then I forced a quick burst of speed and pulled away from Bucklew and Kats, just to keep them psyched out and guessing. They struggled to catch me, even as I struggled to keep the new pace. All of us seemed relieved when I slowed back down, and we resumed our earlier positions.

With the surprise blast that I had tossed in, we ended up racing the fifth mile in a fast 5:08. My heart was busy letting me know it was there; I heard it beating against my temples. I ran my left hand over my face and wiped it off. My body fluids were definitely at high tide.

Kats, still right behind me, farted rapidly three times.

“Need some more gas?” he blurted in a barely audible voice. I could tell he was dying, like I was dying. But death under those circumstances didn’t deserve the least consideration. The only thing that mattered was pride and manhood and pouring your stinking guts out to the bitter end. And the end was less than five minutes away.

Bucklew was puffing fast and hard to my right. I heard someone else puffing, and I realized it was me. I couldn’t hear Kats, but I couldn’t afford to lose my concentration with a look back. I just assumed he was there, even though his feet striking the road couldn’t be heard. We were moving so fast that any sounds to my rear couldn’t catch my ears.

Suddenly Bucklew let out a short
hoo-yah!
and sped up. I couldn’t believe it, but I went with him. Still, he was a step in front of me. Beads of sweat sailed off his flailing left arm and struck me on the chest. Then, to my amazement, Kats moved up on my left. They were both making their big move with three-quarters of a mile to go.

In the five seconds I was in limbo, deciding what to do, Bucklew and Kats ended up running side by side, four meters in front of me. I dug deep into my bag of intestinal fortitude and closed the gap to two. Placing myself behind Kats, I used the draft to my advantage, hoping I could hang on.

A minute later, the village of Nha Be was in sight, a quarter of a mile away. Through the sweat, I focused my eyes on the nearest hootch, believing if I made it to the hootch I’d somehow be rewarded with a last surge of energy for the four-hundred-meter-sprint to the base gate.

Bucklew and Kats weren’t wavering a bit in front of me. They were neck-and-neck and showed no signs of weakening. Here I was, though, feeling like I was running in an oven. It was getting hotter every second. Even my feet seemed to be on fire. My head screamed for me to stop, but my body was somehow stuck on automatic pilot. I was a robot, a machine revved to the max. I could barely think. I just was.

As we reached the hootch, my mind suddenly caught up with my body. I snapped out of my bewildered state
and thought clearly again. I knew I was okay because I noticed that Bucklew’s butt wasn’t as cute as Kats had said. And it was a butt I intended to beat.

One hundred meters into the village, I experienced the flood of adrenaline I needed. With every ounce of power left in me, I surged to Kats’s left side. He glanced at me with a look of desperation, then focused his gaze on the gate, 250 meters ahead. Bucklew was at Kats’s right; we were dead even.

Nga, the laundry mamma-san, was slowly walking across the road just fifty meters away. As she noticed us bearing down on her, her body stiffened in alarm.

Bucklew panted, “Look out!”

Nga scurried for the edge of the road on my side. I took a chance and didn’t break stride, hoping she’d get out of the way. As I rushed by her, my left arm brushed her back. Kats took advantage of the distraction and went full throttle. This was it. He threw everything he had into a final sprint. Bucklew and I were a split second behind in going with him, but instantly we gave it our all. Two hundred meters, full out. Nothing got held back. Absolutely nothing. Three bodies with engines burning, all in overdrive.

I strained for all I was worth, but Kats stayed half a step ahead; Bucklew, however, dropped a shade behind me. Then, with one hundred meters to go, Bucklew fell a step back.

Okay, I told myself, it was me and Kats. Go!

I ran into what felt like a time warp. I sped up while everything around me seemed to slow down. All that mattered was just Kats and me, me and Kats. Straining, grunting, striving, driving, grasping, heaving. Gunning for the gate.

With forty meters left, I drew even. At ten meters, Kats gained a mutinous inch or two that I couldn’t see, but I felt it. At the finish, I could feel it still. So did
Kats. He flew through the gate with his right fist in the air. He had won, barely.

As I slowed to a walk, I looked at my watch, which I had stopped when I had passed through the gate; it read 31:42 for the six-mile run. I bent over at the waist and almost heaved my guts, but I didn’t. I stared at my feet for a few seconds, watching a multitude of sweat drops fall from my face onto my shoes.

Standing up again, I was dizzy, but I began jogging to help my body to cool down gradually. Kats and Bucklew were doing the same twenty meters ahead of me. As I followed them, I made a quick calculation and realized we’d run the last mile in an incredible 4:57. Flynn was right, I told myself, we were idiots. It was too hot to run that fast.

“Hey, idiot!” Kats shouted at me. “I gotcha!”

With perspiration still streaming into my eyes, I looked at Kats and shook my head. “If I hadn’t bumped into Nga, I would’ve won by ten yards!” I fibbed.

Kats spun around and started to backpedal. “Bumped?” he said with a laugh. “Is that all you did to her? I thought you had a full-blown affair!”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. “Even if you discard the bump,” I argued, “there’s still the cockroach issue.”

“What do you mean?” Kats asked as I caught up to him, and he turned around to jog with me. His breathing was still fast and heavy, like mine.

I grinned at my friend. “If it hadn’t been for that cockroach,” I said, “the winner here today would’ve been a horse of a different color.”

Kats gave me a playful shove, then laid back his head and whinnied. “Excuses, excuses,” he muttered, “but I won the race. Bucklew is my witness.”

I looked at Bucklew, who was jogging to our right.

“What about it, Buck?”

Bucklew smiled at me. “Kats and I already struck up a deal while you were back there tossing your cookies.”

“And?” I wondered.

“He promised me a couple beers if I tell the others who won.”

“And?” I persisted.

Bucklew chuckled. “You lost.”

I moved over and slapped at his head, but he blocked my assault.

“You lousy Communist!” I said.

As the other runners began showing up, Kats, Bucklew, and I jogged to the gate and waited to cheer for my roommate and Schrader, who I knew would be the last two. “What kinda pace do they run?” Kats asked me.

“Eight minutes a mile at best,” I reported.

Kats looked at his watch. “Well, it’s been forty-nine minutes already, so where are they?”

Bucklew grunted. “Probably at the pagoda prayin’ for a gook to shoot ’em so they won’t have to run back!”

Lieutenant Meston, who ran the course in forty-one minutes, walked toward us.

“Who’s left?” he asked.

“Funky and Schrader,” I answered. “Any minute now.”

Bucklew pointed down the road. “There they are entering the village.”

I watched the two men jogging side by side. Even at a distance, they still looked like sick cows.

When they were two hundred meters from the gate, we all started hollering.

“Come on, Funky!” I yelled. “Shake the lead out!”

“Run, girls!” shouted Pearson, the point man for 2nd Squad. He began clapping and howling like a coyote.

We were quickly joined by the other SEALs, all of whom wanted to get in on the action.

“I’ll bet five bucks on Schrader,” I heard Flynn offer from behind me.

I turned and looked at him. “You’re on, Flynn.”

As Funkhouser and Schrader picked up their pace, I joined in the cheering. Then the two men really started running. It was obvious that neither wanted to be last.

“The loser buys a round of beer!” McCollum cried out.

“Hoo-yah!” someone shouted.

Funkhouser and Schrader drew much closer. Their faces were beet-red from their effort. They were wet with sweat, neck-and-neck, and I thought of how Kats and I must’ve looked driving for the gate.