“The exercise gives you a grace period of 15 minutes, during which you will, if you’re smart, get the hell out of here and make tracks for the rendezvous point. After the 15 minutes, the enemy will react on sight. Clear? The exercise starts when I drop my hat.”
He dropped his hat and all hell broke loose.
Just like the previous day at the lake, men ran in every direction trying to put distance between themselves and the clearing. They knew the enemy patrols would start soon, and the patrols would know where we’d be heading.
Try to get across the first road as soon as possible, we were thinking. “We,” in this instance, included André, Mike Deuel, Monty, Mike L. and me. We hadn’t planned it that way, but that’s how it worked out. We were standing together listening to the instructor’s briefing, and we had taken off in the same direction when he dropped his hat.
Nobody had set off alone, as far as I could see. The groups ranged from two to six men. I have no idea what the optimum number would have been. We ran along the road for almost 10 minutes then cut into the jungle along the spine of the peninsula. We saw a couple of other groups, but soon we were alone. It was still early morning, but the heat was rising and we had worked up a heavy sweat from the run.
We stopped to gather our thoughts and figure out where we were. They had given us good maps, so it didn’t take long to pinpoint our location. Our sprint along the road had gained us about a mile, so we had 17 to go to reach exfiltration.
“If we can make 2 miles an hour, we could be on the beach just after dark,” Mike Deuel said.
“Yeah,” I responded, “but hacking our way will slow us down.”
“Whatever,” André said. “We need to start walking if we’re going to get there.”
“I’ll start on the point,” Monty said.
We picked up our gear and fell in line behind him. Monty handed me his rifle—he couldn’t carry it and use his machete at the same time—and led us into the jungle. Within a couple of hours we reached the first road we’d have to cross. We heard a truck pass and assumed it was an enemy patrol.
How often do they pass?
We approached the road carefully after locating our position on the map. Our progress had been slow despite a steady pace and few breaks.
“Likely there will be foot patrols or outposts along the roads,” Monty said.
“You’re probably right,” Mike Deuel added. “Let’s get a good look at things before we try to cross.”
Our caution was rewarded after only about five minutes. Hiding in the brush we had fanned out along the road, another red-clay ribbon about 15 feet wide running through dense jungle. We tried to spot a good place to cross while watching for patrols or guard posts.
As André and I scanned a straight stretch we saw another group crossing about 50 yards away. Whistles blew and an enemy patrol suddenly appeared.
“Busted,” I heard one of them yell, probably to others still hiding on our side of the road.
We moved silently in the opposite direction and regrouped. Nobody else had seen anything, but we all had heard the shouts and whistles. Getting across the damned road was going to be trickier than anticipated.
We distanced ourselves from the patrol until we reached a curve. The patrol couldn’t see us there, but we knew they were taking the names of the men they had stopped, and soon they would be on the lookout again.
We couldn’t wait until dark; we had to cross right away. We decided to go one at a time, regrouping on the other side about 20 yards into the jungle. Everything seemed quiet. We’d just have to chance it. Mike L. would go first, and we’d each follow if all went well.
Our luck held. Mike dashed across and dove into the jungle. Nothing but quiet. We sighed in relief then followed one by one. As I crossed, keeping as low to the ground as I could, I saw a ditch that ran along the road on the opposite side. The others had probably seen it but couldn’t warn me. As they had probably done I half-slid into the ditch—it was too wide to jump over—and scrambled up the other side.
Back together we regrouped and set off again. According to our map only two crossings remained between us and the beach.
“If the other crossings take that long, we’ll never make it to the beach today,” said Monty.
True. It had taken us quite a while to scout out a site and finally get across that road. We lost time.
“Doesn’t really matter,” Mike Deuel said. “We have to just push ahead.”
We did, crossing the second road without incident by mid-afternoon. Afterward we reached a small stream and stopped to fill our canteens. The water was clear and cool, and I was tempted to avoid adding the mandatory purification tablets. I splashed some onto my head and face. It felt good. The others did the same. All were perspiring heavily, and our fatigues were drenched with sweat. We took 10 minutes to eat some C-rations. It was a welcome break.
Back on the trek under the quiet and pretty jungle canopy we reached an area that was higher in elevation with much less undergrowth. The point man had less hacking to do and the rest of us just watched our compasses. Go east, young men.
When we took our bearings again we found out we had covered about half the distance to the beach, and nobody was showing signs of fatigue yet.
Good thing we’re all in shape. Things could be worse.
They were about to be.
We approached the last crossing point around 5 p.m. and sensed signs of activity. We assumed some of the other groups had made about the same progress we had and were moving in our vicinity. We also assumed the instructors knew we’d be passing by here, and acting in the role of our enemy they would try to make things as tough as possible.
We decided to play it cautious again. We found a good vantage point and just watched. Sure enough there was more road traffic than we had seen on either of the previous crossings. The noose was tightening, as our side funneled into a smaller and smaller area. It was built into the exercise. As intended, the enemy activity increased our stress level.
We talked quietly about our next moves.
“Hell, I think that curve will give us enough time to get across,” Monty said, gesturing to our right. “I say we move out. We’re losing time again.”
“Monty’s right,” Mike Deuel said. “Unless they’re right across the road, we’ll have time to make it. We can hear jeeps or trucks well before they get here.”
“Agreed,” I said. “The only difference this time is more traffic, but Mike’s right, we can hear them coming.”
André and Mike L. nodded. We would make the crossing now.
We approached the road carefully, listening for any sign of a presence on the other side. We heard nothing. Monty was first to cross this time and Mike Deuel was last. At Mike’s signal, Monty jumped out of the covering jungle and took off across the road. I began just as he disappeared on the other side.
