Authors: Alan Maki
The next morning, Gunner, Jim, and I waited and waited for Tony at our vehicles. The previous day, we had all agreed that we would muster at 0700 hours sharp at our vehicles and depart for the Yakima Firing Range. Because we were anxious to go hunting, Gunner George went to Tony’s motel room and knocked on the door. After a minute or so the always garrulous Tony opened the door with a toothbrush in his mouth and nary a stitch of clothes on and asked, “Aren’t you guys ready to go?”
Later that morning, Gunner George, Jim, Tony, and I began our hunt with Lady, my black Labrador retriever. As luck would have it, we blundered into a large flock of prairie chickens atop a barren knoll. The large birds slowly took flight and flew just out of range of everyone’s shot. As we proceeded to the other side of the knoll, we ran into another flock that was too stupid to fly or run away. Tony and I, being practical men and meat hunters, each shot one on the ground (that was the limit per hunter), but Gunner and Jim missed cleanly. Tony’s cock appeared to weigh nearly five pounds, and my hen approximately three. Later, Gunner and Jim decided to return to the Mesa Motel in Yakima while Tony and I continued to hunt for Hungarian partridge.
About two hours before sundown, with the sun and wind at our backs, Tony, Lady, and I had started back toward the EOD vehicle with our six Hun limits in our game bags when we saw a large badger lumbering along, approximately fifty meters at twelve o’clock. Because I had trained Lady to retrieve, I knew that I had best slip a couple of number-four buckshot into both barrels of my Winchester Model 23 side-by-side twelve-gauge shotgun before she spotted the badger and took off after him. I had barely gotten the cartridges into my shotgun’s chambers when I noticed that Lady had seen the badger, which was then running to beat hell. Lady and I took off neck and
neck toward the large member of the weasel family. I knew I had to get close enough to put some number-four buckshot into the badger before Lady got to him or else I would have a large veterinarian bill, a dead retriever, or both. Because Lady was nine years old, a little overweight, and somewhat slow, I knew I had to maintain my small lead on her and get near enough to the badger to fill him with at least one and a quarter ounces of buckshot—and did by a narrow margin. In an instant after the shot, Lady grabbed the badger’s chest, but in the next the dying badger grabbed Lady by the nose. The badger was pulling revengefully from his end while Lady was bearing down and howling from hers. I ended the tug-of-war with a swift kick to the badger’s head, stopping the tussle and resulting in Lady’s nose suffering a neat slit through her left nostril. I turned around and noticed Tony laughing out of control with tears streaming down his cheeks. It was then that I realized it was time for both of us to have a good laugh.
However, the story was not over. Continuing toward our vehicle, we encountered a huge, well-endowed porcupine that must have weighed twenty-five to thirty pounds. Again I knew that if I didn’t grab Lady in time, I would have a useless, blind retriever, or worse. I managed to grab her choke-chain collar just as she was headed for the porcupine. Once I got her under control, I guided her closer to the critter and gave her instructions to never, ever tangle with such a varmint in the future. That encounter was a good one in that both of us satisfied our curiosity and were none the worse for it.
Throughout that winter, while Lady was sleeping on my living room floor, she did have problems with nightmares. Occasionally she would whine and snort with her front feet twitching as if running from something. There was no doubt that she was reliving her terrifying and
humbling experience with that mortally wounded badger. It would be a long time before we could forget about the events of that hunt. Lady eventually died at the ripe old age of fifteen. The wonderful thing about a Labrador is that the dog is always loyal, and returns a person’s love, affection, and faithfulness, no matter what.
During the early summer of ’83 we spent the better part of two weeks on Kodiak Island, Alaska, riding a Navy minesweeper during a minesweeping exercise, and we encountered a nasty storm in the Shelikof Strait and the Cook Inlet.
During our stay at the fishing village of Kodiak before the minesweeper picked us up, we fished for red salmon with flies in the Buskin River and toured the island.
Once the four of us and our diving gear were aboard, Jim Collins and I slept in the line locker on makeshift bunks, hastily fabricated from plywood and two-by-fours, that were located all the way forward in the bow. Because the seas were rough and our boat was small, it was like riding a wild bronco in slow motion, and difficult to keep from rolling out of our racks during the night. In spite of my past record, I came perilously close to getting seasick and ruining my “sea daddy” image. The last couple of days that I was on that minesweeper, I felt little better than flotsam. I was one happy squid when I finally walked over the gangway and onto terra firma.
On the morning of February 10, 1984, my retirement ceremony took place at the Whidbey Island EOD Detachment office building on the old seaplane base. It was a very sobering occasion for me.
After the ceremony, approximately seventy-five EOD/UDT/SEALs and retirees attended a party at the home of my relief, Chief Tim Herron. It was quite a blow-out and was the first meeting of the Navy EOD Association’s Northwest Chapter. I had finally gotten the
opportunity to meet many of the famous old-timers, whose military service dated back to World War II. By 2200 hours I was asleep in my camper, dead to the world and feeling absolutely no pain.
By February sixteenth I had my truck and my camper filled to the gills and headed for Montana, where unknown adventures and tribulations awaited me.
During my twenty years, two months, and ten days in the Navy, I had fought the good fight, I had finished the race. But, I thought, as I drove through Ellensburg, Washington, I’m no longer moored to the Navy—I’m a free man! I had visions of fulfilling my lifelong dreams of trapping, backpacking, hunting, fishing, camping, canoeing, exploring, and doing those things that I thought were never possible before. I really didn’t know where I was going until I got there. And, in some ways, it didn’t matter as long as it was in the Rocky Mountains in Montana.
*
The bends is a diver’s disease commonly called decompression sickness, or caisson disease. It is a condition resulting from inadequate decompression following exposure to any inert gas (e.g., nitrogen, helium, etc.) at a critical depth and for a critical time. Bubbles of nitrogen are formed in the tissue and blood stream and by mechanical obstruction cause pain, paralysis, asphyxia, and, if large or numerous enough, can be fatal. (From “The Hazards of SCUBA Diving,” prepared by US. Naval Safety Center.)
My career as a Navy radioman, EOD/UDT/SEAL technician reflects, in a small way, many legacies that have been handed down through all generations of American military men—including men of all classes, who, when called to arms, faithfully served and died for their country.
My three books—
Death in the Jungle, Death in the Delta
, and
Master Chief
—are dedicated to those men who served this country honorably, who took up arms and died for Old Glory in the fight against tyranny. I’m thankful for those military men who served and fought during my youth. I was never the same after listening to many of those old warriors’ experiences during the Normandy invasion and their march to Germany or the sorrows of the Bataan death march on Luzon Island in the Philippines in ’42 My good friend Father Webb, Catholic priest at the Coronado NAB chapel, was with the Marines during that cold winter of 1950–51 when they rescued the frozen remnant of one of our Army divisions at the Chosin Reservoir from the Chinese Communists who crossed the Yalu River into North Korea. Father Webb stated that it was a long and bitter battle to the southern tip of South Korea, where the rest of the U.S. and Allied forces finally took a stand.
In the late fifties and sixties it was time for my generation to serve and fight for our country. Sadly, there were a
few who refused to serve their country, and tragically, some even served and worked openly for the enemy as informants and saboteurs. “Hanoi Jane” was one of the most infamous during those dark days.
In spite of the traitorous few, I specifically dedicate my books to those of my generation—those who remained true to this country—who served, fought, and gave their life’s blood in Vietnam, Grenada, Panama, the Persian Gulf, Central and South America, Somalia, and many other places too secret to mention.
And we should not forget those who fought so long ago before and after our Declaration of Independence in 1776 for our God-given Constitution and its amendments, and for Mom and Dad, family traditions, and apple pie. This nation’s independence was purchased and maintained with a high cost of blood through military and public service to God, country, and family. Some of our wise and God-fearing forefathers had this to say:
We have not a government strong enough to restrain the unbridled passions of men. This constitution was made only for a moral and a religious people. It is wholly inadequate for any other.
—John Adams
Reason and experience forbid us to expect public morality in the absence of religious principle.
—George Washington
The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—
that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
—Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address,
November 19, 1863, at the dedication of
the Gettysburg National Cemetery
Finally, I’m especially thankful for my older teammates who were my mentors at one time or another and for those few mates who didn’t hesitate to tell me candidly of their experiences of success and, more important, their failures. A teammate who is willing to expose his innermost thoughts relative to his good and bad experiences of military and personal life is a friend indeed. Cherish and hang on to such a man. As we all know, society today is changing rapidly. There are some who have little respect for the blood that has been shed for the freedom that they so readily take for granted. I hope that the sacrifices of my generation of EOD and SpecWar personnel, the lessons learned and the memories of these books, will not be soon forgotten.
It is possible that I have made mistakes in the telling of some of the events of these books; I know that I have failed to record some of the names of the EOD/UDT/SEAL personnel in several chapters simply because I couldn’t locate individuals who had the information. I encourage my EOD and SpecWar mates to submit names and dates to me personally for corrections and additions to future editions.
Semper Fi,
Gary R. Smith
June 1994
Find out the whole story about
’Nam—from the swamp warrior
who served five tours in hell.
Death reigned as king in the
jungles of Vietnam. Gary R. Smith
and his teammates gave each other
the courage to attain the unattainable.
DEATH IN THE JUNGLE
Diary of a Navy SEAL
by Gary R. Smith and
Alan Maki
Published by The Random House Ballantine Publishing Group. Available in bookstores everywhere.
Don’t miss the second account of
Gary R. Smith’s Vietnam
experience:
DEATH IN THE DELTA
“Mankind is a predator by nature and a
hunter by instinct. I loved to hunt. It was
in my blood. And I was now ready to head
back to the bush, to hunt the biggest
game in the world—man.”
—Death in the Delta
DEATH IN THE DELTA
Diary of a Navy SEAL
by Gary R. Smith and
Alan Maki
Published by The Random House Ballantine Publishing Group. Available in your local bookstore.