Read Online Combat Swimmer by Robert A. Gormly - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert A. Gormly
Ads: Link
I looked closer and saw a head and a rifle bobbing up and down as a man came up the back of the berm. As his head cleared the top we made eye contact, and he yelled in surprise and disappeared. I didnât even need to tell my men to head to seaâthey had seen the soldier, too.
Just as we cleared the surf zoneâwith about ten feet of water between us and the coral heads on the bottomâI saw about five men with weapons come over the berm, shouting excitedly in Spanish and pointing in our direction. They aimed their weapons at us. Iâd seen enough. I signaled to my men to dive and swim seaward.
If the soldiers started shooting, weâd be hard to hit on the surface. Underwater, the rounds wouldnât penetrate more than a couple of feet. Weâd rehearsed this emergency escape procedure many times. The average frogman in those days could hold his breath about two minutes in normal diving conditions. We werenât in a normal situation, though, and I figured adrenaline rush and muscle effort were going to sap our oxygen as we hauled ass out of there. I wanted to gain as much distance as possible before I had to surface for a breath.
Underwater, everything was quiet. I expected to see the bubbly tracks of bullets seeking us out, but I didnât see anything as I kicked furiously toward our boat. When my lungs were about to explode I rose to the surface, rolled over on my back to put my mouth just above the water, and got a deep lungful of precious air. I wasnât up there more than five seconds.
As I rolled back on my stomach and headed for the bottom, I looked right and left. To my right, two of my men were headed back down as well. The man on my left was on his way up. I watched as he did the breathing maneuver, expecting to see bullets hitting the water around him. Since he was the last to go up, I figured heâd draw fire, the other three of us having gotten their attention. But he rolled back toward the bottom. Nothing. Weâd covered about a hundred yards on our first dive, and each dive after that would be shorter as we built up an oxygen debt. I figured if we got another hundred yards out weâd be safe.
As I neared the bottom, I heard the unmistakable whine of our boatâs engine headed in our direction. I kept kicking and had covered about seventy-five yards when my lungs started burning and my vision began to tunnel: carbon dioxide was building up in my system. This time, instead of going quickly to the surface, breathing, and heading right for the bottom, I decided to take a peek at the beach.
Slowing my ascent just below the surface, I turned to face the beach, exhaled, tilted my head back to expose only my mouth, and slowly drifted above the surface. I gulped a breath of air and tilted my head forward so I could focus through my face mask.
I was at the bottom of a small swell. I let myself ride up with the motion of the wave. As I reached the crest, I saw the berm appear over the top of the next swell. Not a soul was to be seen. I waited on the surface until each man came up and looked around. We all must have had the same ideaânot surprising, given our training. I signaled the man to my left, and we swam to join the other two.
I looked shoreward again but still didnât see anything. Our boat was on its way at full speed, men at the .30-caliber machine guns. Others were at the gunwales with M-3 âgrease guns,â .45-caliber submachine guns capable of killing anything at twenty-five meters. Obviously, the grease guns werenât a threat to anyone on the beach, but they made the men feel better and, I must admit, I liked seeing that hardware rushing to our aid.
Gerry was leaning over the port side, looking for us. I waved, and the boat swerved in our direction. As it got within fifty yards, the coxswain went to full reverse and turned starboard side to the beach, giving the .30-caliber weapons a clear line of fire. We dove and swam toward the boat.
Just as we cleared the surf zoneâwith about ten feet of water between us and the coral heads on the bottomâI saw about five men with weapons come over the berm, shouting excitedly in Spanish and pointing in our direction. They aimed their weapons at us. Iâd seen enough. I signaled to my men to dive and swim seaward.
If the soldiers started shooting, weâd be hard to hit on the surface. Underwater, the rounds wouldnât penetrate more than a couple of feet. Weâd rehearsed this emergency escape procedure many times. The average frogman in those days could hold his breath about two minutes in normal diving conditions. We werenât in a normal situation, though, and I figured adrenaline rush and muscle effort were going to sap our oxygen as we hauled ass out of there. I wanted to gain as much distance as possible before I had to surface for a breath.
Underwater, everything was quiet. I expected to see the bubbly tracks of bullets seeking us out, but I didnât see anything as I kicked furiously toward our boat. When my lungs were about to explode I rose to the surface, rolled over on my back to put my mouth just above the water, and got a deep lungful of precious air. I wasnât up there more than five seconds.
As I rolled back on my stomach and headed for the bottom, I looked right and left. To my right, two of my men were headed back down as well. The man on my left was on his way up. I watched as he did the breathing maneuver, expecting to see bullets hitting the water around him. Since he was the last to go up, I figured heâd draw fire, the other three of us having gotten their attention. But he rolled back toward the bottom. Nothing. Weâd covered about a hundred yards on our first dive, and each dive after that would be shorter as we built up an oxygen debt. I figured if we got another hundred yards out weâd be safe.
As I neared the bottom, I heard the unmistakable whine of our boatâs engine headed in our direction. I kept kicking and had covered about seventy-five yards when my lungs started burning and my vision began to tunnel: carbon dioxide was building up in my system. This time, instead of going quickly to the surface, breathing, and heading right for the bottom, I decided to take a peek at the beach.
Slowing my ascent just below the surface, I turned to face the beach, exhaled, tilted my head back to expose only my mouth, and slowly drifted above the surface. I gulped a breath of air and tilted my head forward so I could focus through my face mask.
I was at the bottom of a small swell. I let myself ride up with the motion of the wave. As I reached the crest, I saw the berm appear over the top of the next swell. Not a soul was to be seen. I waited on the surface until each man came up and looked around. We all must have had the same ideaânot surprising, given our training. I signaled the man to my left, and we swam to join the other two.
I looked shoreward again but still didnât see anything. Our boat was on its way at full speed, men at the .30-caliber machine guns. Others were at the gunwales with M-3 âgrease guns,â .45-caliber submachine guns capable of killing anything at twenty-five meters. Obviously, the grease guns werenât a threat to anyone on the beach, but they made the men feel better and, I must admit, I liked seeing that hardware rushing to our aid.
Gerry was leaning over the port side, looking for us. I waved, and the boat swerved in our direction. As it got within fifty yards, the coxswain went to full reverse and turned starboard side to the beach, giving the .30-caliber weapons a clear line of fire. We dove and swam toward the boat.
Similar Books
