There is no title. Yet.

[Gimpy_Fac]

This is part of something I have been working on and I would appreciate any pointers.It is based on my 1966 war diary.



I had a thumping headache, my forearms were covered in cuts from jungle thorns and a terrible thirst, but otherwise I was just fine. The Medico said that I was dehydrated from the tabbing, and the morphine he had given me for the pain of the thorn cuts, he then went about the business of curing my ills. As Dehydration is especially fatal in hot climates, it was treated first. He then gave me aspirin for the headache, bathed the cuts with surgical alcohol and applied field dressings. Those nasty green types which always had that whiff of formaldehyde and store room damp about them. He also took septicaemia into consideration as the cuts could have become infected, so I received a shot of penicillin. I now felt like a Rutting Buck and ready for just about anything. All that killing physical training in Florida on the riverine course had paid off, or so it seemed.

There was the flash of a camera as the local Army took mug shots of my last two pursuers. They had finally caught up with me as I hit the RV and passed out. The stag I had reached gunned them down on the instant of their appearance. And there they died on the very edge of success.

I walked over for a look at the men who would have treated me so foully. Both were no more than in their late teens and wearing a split-rig of camouflage trousers and local made military style shirts. The SVA had them on their backs and using cardboard from a ration box had written out a mug shot reference number for each. This number was their grave grid reference in mils. The South Vietnamese Army were civilised enough to bury them, or so I thought. But as it transpired they buried enemy casualties out of practicality, not for any cense of religious morality, as would have been our reason.

The mug shots would be matched against a database of known VC or bandits; if this proved inconclusive, they would return, dig up the corpse and remove the head for an attempt at dental record checks. I had witnessed this done before when with the Royal Marines in Cyprus. We reburied them, whereas the SVA would not. They would be left next to their respective exhumed grave for final disposal by the jungle and the elements.

The enemy weapons were broken down into pieces and dispersed in the Jungle. A standard practice.
We then gave my missing section members and tracker an extra couple of hours to turn up at the RV. When they did not show, the remaining sections and reserve were re-formed so that I was now in reserve. Then we moved towards the objective.

We guessed the alarm would be out on our force so we started to flank. This meant walking some 15 kilometres in deviation to be near the objective, but better that than an ambush and having to fight our way through. I was glad of the decision for I had no heart for another evasion for my flight through the Jungle had taken more out of me than I had previously thought, for fifteen minutes of walking proved it. I ached all over, my legs worst of all, and the headache was back with a vengeance, I felt terrible. If we had to start tabbing and me unable to keep up on the speed march, I would have to be left to struggle on as best I could. I would be on my own for the objective comes before anything. The Medico looked at me with concern but I was determined to finish the shift. Not out of any misplaced Military pride and Gung-Ho, but just for me.

In the end it took nineteen torturous hours it just to get round the flank, find a track and get back onto our original bearing. We had to box-out on many an occasion when we hit a solid wall of creepers mixed with jungle thorns. The thorns had spikes harder than razor wire that could rip open even your webbing, spilling the contents. No animals, birds or reptiles of any reasonable size would go near these tangles. Snakes, lizards, frogs and insects were a real problem, especially the little ones that dropped from the foliage just like the leaches as we pushed through the undergrowth.

The little bastards would find their way into your clothing and begin bighting or gnawing at you with glee. As soon as you felt a sharp pain, you had to stop, get your kit off as quickly as possible and evict the little devils, ask your allocated Tracker to check if the biter was poisonous then douse the bite with surgical alcohol, which the medico was running out of very rapid. As soon as your shirt was off and pants down in came the mosquitoes, desperate for a drink before you rubbed them off with the alcohol. A few thought of just sitting down and getting pissed on the alcohol, it became so bad.

One guy had been bitten or stung on the cheek, his head had swollen till his helmet would no longer fit, his hearing depressed to the point a bomb could have gone off and he would not have heard it and his lips took on the shape of a half inflated and folded over car tyre inner tube. The medico gave him what he had available, which was practically Jack-****, and luckily, the symptoms started to subside after a time. On one of the rare stops our reserve force leader remarked that the detour was like opening a side door to hell and passing through on a tour to get the flavour of the place. I sure was glad when the resurrection took place and I felt the soft jungle moss of an animal track under my boots once again. The pace then speeded up, as we knew the end game was near for the shift. I was normal again; even the guy with the inner tube lips gave me a large rubbery smile.


If you want to win in the Jungle against the enemy then you have to dominate. To achieve domination you have to establish control of an ever-increasing area. Within which you have to set up a network of bases and launch aggressive operations. You start off by inserting patrols; these patrols will set up temporary patrol bases know as Patrol Harbours. The next stage is to seek out and attack the enemy using the Patrol Harbours. Once you have exerted control over the area of Jungle you are targeting, the AO, area of operations, you then turn your temporary Patrol Harbours into more permanent bases. Repeating this cycle, you can link up all your permanent bases controlling the Jungle and therefore preventing the enemy from operating effectively. This is why we were there, advising, helping, leading and at times forcing the SVA to achieve such wonderful things.

We had only walked the track for a kilometre or so when the dreaded order of double-time came over the RT in the form of tapped Morse. Tapping out Morse on the radio handset was by far preferable in jungle than voice orders for sound can travel a very long way under the jungle canopy.

Not wanting to be accused of slacking and inflicting a pileup, we immediately started tabbing. Within five minutes, my legs felt like I was running wearing Standard Dress Divers Boots, the pain was awful but again it is all in the mind, you just have to switch off and keep on going. If you start thinking about it, you just give up. Strangely; once you get through the psychological pain barrier, you do not feel a thing. Until you stop that is. The guy in front of me went down, I did not stop, I jumped over him and kept on going. Behind me ran the guy with the swollen lips, as I started to slacken pace he would put his hand on my back and push me forward, after a little time this started to really piss me off. On and on we ran making up time, the reserves were akin to a bunch of invalids being chased from one hospital to another by a maniac. Our maniac was the main force made up of the South Vietnamese Army.

Then came the walk order for we had made up nearly all of the lost time. My legs started to spasm, I looked as if I was walking in an idiotic goose step fashion until the muscles and tendons started to calm down and the blood circulation returned to normal. I was so chin strapped I seriously did think of ending all this pain by blowing a toe off with my pistol. All the time we were on the move, we were going uphill until finally reaching a Jungle plateau. It had a commanding view covering the surrounding terrain so providing an excellent site for a Patrol Harbour. As we closed up on the forward sections to take possession I just could not figure what the bloody rush was to get there.
However, I sure was glad we had arrived and I had decided to keep my toe.

We set about preparing the Harbour and I found out what the rush was. Intelligence gleaned from the roasted nuts guy had been checked out by the South Vietnamese Intel people and had proved worthy of acting upon. We had simply been in a race to get to the plateau before the VC moved from an existing camp onto it. It would eventually become a forward operations base but for now it would be our Harbour to enable us to finish what we had started out to do.

There would be a few days of preparation before we would attack the VC’s home base. The scouts had returned with all the info to set up a plan and the Trackers had marked out a reasonably safe approach route. The first task at hand was to clear an area of jungle wide enough to allow helicopters to land. We had until dawn, nine hours, before the first helicopter would arrive. Being down on your chinstrap with exhaustion was proving to be the very norm on this shift. The SVA and our guys then became a squad of beavers clearing the trees and vines.

On the plateau the jungle was thinner which helped immensely, however it would not be an ideal Helipad to say the least. We could not remove the larger tree stumps by blasting, as we had to preserve what explosives we had for the main assault so we just hacked at them machetes and sharpened entrenching spades until they were as close to the ground as possible.

We also had very few sandbags, only one per man to be used as a steady point weapons rest in the event of a perimeter defence, so we substituted the lack of them with tree trunks hauled between the sandbag pillars. In the centre we floored it out with layers of branches and earth then stamping down the final earth layer like a tribe of Red Indians doing a rain dance. We finished 20 minutes before the red line of dawn heralded the deadline. And as in the song, the sun really does come up like thunder.

Looking at the clearing and the beaver pile in the centre, I knew it would take a very skilled pilot indeed to bring a Helicopter into that area, or an idiot with a death wish. An hour late we heard the beat of rotors. Just above tree height we could see a distant spec. As it grew larger it became identifiable as a Bell Huey, known in the trade as a Slick.

The pilot flew the Huey around in a tight circle; I could clearly see the concentration on the face studying our efforts, the face looked very young for such a risky task. The Huey flew off heading back the way it had come, I felt depressed, disappointed, and bloody angry all at the same time in a tight ball of emotions at our wasted time. Plus, if it could not land then others couldn’t either. This would mean no E-vac for any wounded in the coming fight or Air Extraction for us at the end of the shift. We would have to walk back with all the dangers that would entail.

I became elated as the Huey did a tight turn, flew straight at us and landed bang-on our makeshift Helipad. The pilot had landed that helicopter as if landing on top of the Pan-Am building in New York City, no fuss, no flash, just spectacularly good flying. As the rotors slowed to a whishing stop out of the Huey stepped a woman in uniform, the pilot!

[Gimpy_Fac]

I thought that it may be better to add this to my previous post so that people can get a better flavour as to what I am trying to write about. Again, I am looking for any suggestions or advice that will help me achieve a more interesting read.


I have always found that when telling people about jungle warfare it is better to explain more about the ins and outs of it so they get an understanding of the difficulties and dangers encountered. In jungle warfare, you must aim to attack the enemy while he is in the jungle or on its fringes. Taking him on when he is in the sanctuary of his home base is much more difficult and fraught with danger for the attacking force, which would have to be of a considerable size. The first task is to get him out into your chosen killing zone by guile not strength, as it is extremely difficult to use standard infantry tactics.

A more sneaky approach is called for. Bribery is the favourite choice followed by infiltration, or both if possible. Other methods are available but are cruder and less reliable. Working on the natural greed in humanity is just dandy for getting results. Another factor, which was always present in our subconscious, was capture. An army is part of a nation, an arm of government, and any government goes to great lengths to protect its personnel from mistreatment if captured.

The worst thing that can happen in jungle warfare, or any other AO (Area of Operations), when fighting irregular forces, terrorists or insurgents is capture because it exposes you to a nightmare of torture before death. We always broke our guys down into four man “Bricks” with each brick carrying an M60 machine gun for trash fire power. Large groups are easily detected on the move, so if one brick were to be bumped in an ambush, the other bricks could form a speedy and effective rescue or revenge.

The bricks travelled half a kilometre apart with no local Army or Militia, the latter had their own way of tactical travel and protection, which did not suit our operational style.

For instance, on a ration (meal) break the local guys would go standard and place stags (sentries) at intervals, we on the other hand would form the brick into a back-to-back cross like the points of the compass with the M60 facing the perceived attack point. This also allowed silent communication between the bricks members by boot tapping.

We also never wore any civilian clothing as a Split-Rig (mixed civilian & military clothing). It may look great in the movies or read romantically in books, but if you are captured in the real life you would be classed a some form of Special Forces and therefore be on the receiving end of some shocking treatment before being inevitably killed. Therefore, standard issue uniform, headgear, fighting order, weapons and no badges other than subdued divisional was our standard. The only exception to this was our ID “Tags” which we made ourselves and was simply one disc worn around the neck and one in the left boot. The info on them was only your number coded in numerals, letters and icons plus blood group.

Interval radioed positions between the bricks were always given as part of a song which changed daily. Old numbers such as Rose of Alabama or Lady Magdalene, never pop tunes. No voice transmissions either, just hold down the mike key and tap in Morse code.

Then there is the greatest enemy of all to contend with, the jungle itself. One of the most inhospitable places to fight in, if you are not born to it that is. Leading fighting teams through the jungle and well beyond instant help from a friendly support base is a formidable task for any Commander. There are five main rules he must follow.

1) Most importantly, He must be able to defend the bricks from all directions, but if bumped also be able to melt away and not stand the ground if a brick is captured or wiped out.

2) Any stop positions, such as a patrol harbour or ration stop, must be easy to conceal and off the jungle tracks.

3) All stops must be near a supply of good fresh water.

4) The terrain must not interfere with radio communications with the other bricks and any supporting friendly forces.

5) The last harbour or patrol base must be close enough to the objective to enable swift assistance for the other bricks and capable of bringing them together for the main assault on the enemy.

It is vital for him to move swiftly, stealthily, and rely on intelligence without being discovered and suckered into a defensive fire fight. In essence, he needs to head for his objective then form a patrol base close to that objective as quickly as possible. Execute the mission and withdraw, by a different route to that used going in or by air extraction.

This is all great classroom info and is handy to know for sure. However, a fighting life in the jungle just isn’t that simple and requires many months of preparation before you can even think of going in there. Civilians like to visit the jungle on vacation and look at the fauna and animals; they go on guided tours and even, now and again, get lost or wander off. When they get lost or wander from their guides the jungle becomes their master and very quickly. At that point they learn to their cost that this is one master with a complete iron grip on all life.

Our Jungle training started in the Florida Everglades then moved on to the true Jungle. In fact, the River of Grass was also extensively used during the Vietnam era for training. On lots of occasions when chasing the enemy through 12 foot high elephant grass, Mangrove reed beds, rain forest, semi jungle and full jungle I wished I were back in the swamps and tangles which make up the Everglades, for at least in the Everglades you could see more than 10 meters in front of you, on a good day.


“If you ever manage to pass the course, then are deployed in the Jungle, study your enemy, his habits, his capabilities and his tactics. Because you will fight at such close quarters in the jungle, you will have to fight by instinct. Above all, stay switched on twenty-four seven You may just survive if you listen to all I have to say; but looking at you, I very much doubt it. You have six months to prove me wrong, now get up "

That is what our senior instructor said after I fell, half-asleep, out the back of the truck on our arrival in Florida. Six months, two weeks and four days later I was squatting in the jungle being eaten alive by bugs and bled, slowly, by leaches and no more than four meters away the enemy was trying to endure exactly the same. For by then it was just simply a life cliff hanger of; He who slapped a bug first lost! Or alternatively it was down to the fast draw as it was in the old time Wild West in that; He who fires first wins!

The six months had been broken down into six basic training modules with each module sub divided again and again: Fitness, Battle Appreciation, Survival & Evasion, Riverine (brown water), Jungle Warfare, and Advanced Military Skills. By the time I walked on my first jungle track I had ran hundreds of miles, lifted masses of weights, scribbled on a forest of paper, ate uncountable stomach churning meals, killed two million mosquitoes by hand, paddled hordes of rivers, lakes and swamps plus fired more rounds than a 25 year serviceman and the guy at Virginia Tech put together. Incredibly even after enduring all of what had gone before I was not ready for that which would be asked of me.

I could bang on about the training in more detail but it would probably only be of interest to those who had a hankering after it. Everyone else would just fall asleep, if they haven’t already when reading this so far.

[Gimpy_Fac]

I now have my title. Opinions please.


All Steel American

She was born on the twenty eighth day of August 1964 when her plates were cut at the Power Boat Company yard in New York. Number three in a brood of ten ordered. Her service life began at the Brooklyn Naval Yard in New Jersey on the fourth day of December 1965 when she was officially handed over for landing duties. As with most of the brood she would be abused, at times humiliated and miss-handled during her service.

Although but just one of thousands of insignificant landing craft built in the end she would rise to instil a lasting pride in the hearts of the men who served in her, fought their war in her, and eventually left her to an early but honourable fate.
The Mike class LCM # 3 went to war on the seventeenth day of September 1965 with “Old Glory " streaming. She was all steel American. I met her for the first time in the late fall of 66 when I arrived at a mud banked side canal in the Mekong Delta where she had been fitted out with a turreted flamethrower bolted and welded to her deck. On the turret some wag had painted in white the name of Zippo, and beneath it the words “Come on baby, light my fire”. It is said in a cliché that Fire and Water never mixes but in Zippo’s case it came to pass that they did, and extremely effectively.

And this was to be my war effort, initially part of operation Sealords the South East Asia Lake, Ocean, River and Delta Strategy. Out Plying Rivers and canals the very highways of Vietnam. A myriad of waterways which make the South Vietnam Delta the sailor’s navigational nightmare it is. And eventually onto The Mobile Riverine Force where I would have the unenviable task of having to take to the jungle proper when Zippo would be left on a mud berthing like a stranded whale whilst the majority of her crew disembarked with the troops they had landed and went forth into battle on land. For like I many were Marines first and Sailors second.

However, even though of Marines I was officially classed as a “brown water “sailor, I also became by extension a “blue water” one, for occasionally we would be ordered out into the South China Sea proper with its deep clear blue waters and at times howling winds and raging storms on some dubious and ill thought through endeavour.

Venturing forth into the briny sea aboard an ugly and ungainly craft with a weapon of ancient concept strapped to its deck plates one could easily call at the very least, and without contradiction, educational. The higher-higher command structure was never known for their lower-lower consideration as to operational suitability nor actual seaworthiness of our little flotilla of ugly ducklings. They would simply hatch-out, in their opinion, a phenomenal Military idea to out fox the enemy then sit back and expect us to perform like line battleships. Unfortunately for the higher-higher they tended to forget the very first principle of a war plan. KISS “Keep it simple stupid”, and the second more importantly “After the first round goes off even the best plans fall apart”.

[MANICHAEAN]

"You can take a man out of the army, but you can never take the army out of the man."
Thank God Gimpy, that your piece was not another glorified piece of macho nonsense.
Over the last forty years of my life, in different countries and invariably different bars, I have come across every member of the SAS (if they are to be believed) except the cook!
What you write is factual.
Might I now suggest you take a big step back and start weaving some flesh on the bone characters and a plot.
You have a wealth of experience on the subject.
Now use it in the art ( and it is such ) of story telling.
Best regards
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks for the advice, it is greatly appreciated. As Zippo is the intended character I have altered the title to reflect this. I have also as you advised tried to broaden out the story. Please let me know of your thoughts.



Zippo, The All Steel American

She was born on the twenty eighth day of August 1964 when her plates were cut at the Power Boat Company yard in New York. Number three in a brood of ten ordered. Her service life began at the Brooklyn Naval Yard in New Jersey on the fourth day of December 1965 when she was officially handed over for landing duties. As with most of the brood she would be abused, at times humiliated, and in the hands of others miss-handled during her service.
Although but just one of thousands of insignificant landing craft built she would rise to instil an everlasting pride in the hearts of those who served in her, fought their war in her, and eventually had to leave her to an early but honourable fate.
The Mike Class LCM # 3 which was later known as Zippo went to war on the seventeenth day of September 1965 with “Old Glory " streaming. She was all steel American. I met her for the first time in the late fall of 66 when I arrived at a mud banked side canal in the Mekong Delta where she had been fitted out with a turreted flamethrower bolted and welded to her deck. On the turret some wag had roughly painted in white scrawled lettering the name of Zippo, and beneath it in the same rough scrawl the words “Come on baby, light my fire”. It is said in a cliché that Fire and Water does not mix but in Zippo’s case it came to pass that they did, and extremely effectively.

And this was destined to be her and my war effort. Initially part of operation Sealords, the South East Asia Lake, Ocean, River and Delta Strategy.Zippo and I out Plying the Rivers and canals which are in essence the very highways of Vietnam, a myriad of waterways making the South Vietnam Delta area a sailor’s navigational nightmare.

Eventually Zippo and I progressed into The Mobile Riverine Task Force with whom I would have the unenviable task of having to take to the jungle proper. Zippo on the other hand would be left to her own devices with a skeleton protection crew. And there she would wait whilst sitting on a river mud berth, or at times in hiding under the foliage overhang of a side canal, with her bow door mooring lines securely fastened to a large dipterocarp looking more like a stranded olive green whale rather than a Military fighting machine, whilst the rest of her crew disembarked with the South Vietnamese troops that had landed. And then, most times with wary reluctance, going forth and engaging the enemy in a land battle. For Zippo’s crew were Marines first and Sailors second. Whereas some crews on other Mikes and Monitors in the task force were made up exclusively of Navy.

However, even though I was of the Marines my official classification from the Corps was (01) (MOS 0312) which had me down as a “brown water “sailor, a Riverine. In turn I also became by extension a “blue water” sailor, for occasionally we would be ordered out on some dubious, even ill thought through, endeavour into the South China Sea with its deep clear blue waters. There to face at times howling winds, lashing rain storms and violent waves which threw Zippo about dementedly like a cork caught up in a maelstrom. When caught in such horrendous seas in a craft which is truly nothing more than a glorified flat-bottomed motorised barge you are without doubt in the lap of the gods.

All that could be done has been, then it is a simple case of hanging on to anything available that is securely fastened and cursing all those who participated in the inhumane order which has put a craft and her crew in the terrifying position they find themselves in. For her crew are trapped with no escape possible while they listen to the metallic booms, groans, screeches and bangs as Zippos welded seams and hull plates try bravely to resist the weather assault which is doing its absolute utmost to send her down into the abyss. Loose stern gear power or rudder control then it would be quickly all over. Zippo would turn beam-on to the mountainous seas and roll over. Disappearing beneath the waves and taking her crew with her onto history's long list of vessels classified as missing presumed lost.

Having to venture forth into the briny sea aboard such an ugly and ungainly craft as Zippo with a weapon of ancient concept strapped to her deck plates was something one could easily call at the very least, and without contradiction, educational. The higher-higher command structure were never known for their lower-lower consideration or understanding as to neither operational suitability nor actual seaworthiness of our little flotilla of ugly ducklings. They would simply hatch-out, in their opinion, a phenomenal Military idea to out fox the enemy then sit back and expect us to perform like line battleships. Unfortunately for the higher-higher they tended to forget the very first principle of a war plan. KISS “Keep it simple stupid” and the second but even more important “After the first round goes off even the best of plans can quickly fall apart”.

[Gimpy_Fac]

With great credit given to MANICHAEAN, and due to his advice, I now have a publisher who is extremely interested in my proposed book of short stories which are taken from my war diary. I have re-vamped page 1, so if anyone is interested I will post it.


Zippo, The All Steel American.

Page.2

A Mike Boat company was the workhorse unit tasked with the directly supporting tactical units throughout the Mekong Delta, and other inland waterways of Vietnam. Although smaller in actual boat size than those used by a Heavy Boat company, the Mike boat was much faster and more water manoeuvrable. Although originally designed as a ship-to-shore landing craft it was used in many other ways on the rivers and canals of Vietnam. It could and was used as a tanker with large rubber fuel “balloons” in its well deck, as a mobile artillery platform with sandbags and howitzers, sometimes also fitted with mortars. It was also used as a tug for moving barges, and also converted into some strange looking but extremely effective craft.

Five of our unit's LCM 8s were employed as offensive tactical craft. One was Zippo as a “Tango boat”, with a platform covering her well deck and fitted out with a turreted flamethrower. Second was a “Bird Table boat”, being utilized as a floating helipad for helicopters. The third was a “Blast boat” with its mounted 105 howitzers and a large mortar on the deck. The fourth was a “Lawnmower Boat”, heavily armed with an array of Gatling Guns, mini-guns, fitted along both port and starboard gunwale. And last was a “Douche Boat” which had a high powered water cannon used for blasting out enemy river bank defences. This was one amazingly innovative idea for getting any VC out of their mud bank bunkers. Once blasted out into the water they were then easily dispatched by small arms fire. In addition to the tactical boats some others acted as troop carriers for the various Riverine Forces and South Vietnamese units operating throughout the rivers and canals. Then there were some just doing the mundane “General Duties”.

There were seventeen Mikes in our boat company. Of these, fourteen Mike 8s were designated as operational task craft; a Mike 6 boat for maintenance and salvage with clearance/recovery divers onboard, and one Mike 8 boat as a “tactical ready” spare. In addition, we had some small picket boats and two ageing and severely battered Mike 6 boats for a dual purpose capacity of passenger/cargo. These old “6s” were reserved solely for company headquarters use.

A Mike 8 LCM, as was Zippo, is a welded all steel, twin-screw craft powered with four marine diesel engines connected in such a way as to form two engines. It is designed and constructed for landing trucks, trailers, and even tanks. Designed to withstand hard service it is capable of landing on a beach in a moderate sea, and or heavy surf. Remaining upright and watertight it is then capable of retracting from its chosen landing point under the power of its own engines. It is also 73 ft long and draws a maximum of 4 ft.6 ins forward and 5 ft.6 ins aft. With a full cargo of 60 tons a Mike 8 has a maximum design speed of 9 knots, depending on wind and tide.

Company headquarters formed part of an old French Colonial boat repair yard on a river not far from Saigon. Even before we arrived the boat repair yard had a long history as home to the military, especially during World War 2 when the Japanese made full use of it, and interestingly they certainly left their mark for our navigational charts showed that there were four sunken Japanese ships on the bottom of the river. These were eventually dispersed with explosives after some of the boats and barges got hung up on them, with a couple sinking and others severely damaged the Jap wrecks just had to go. Which they did accompanied by some of the loudest bangs and ensuing water spouts heard since they went down in WW2. The river itself was a natural sea port and about one mile wide with the main channel in some places varying from 50 to 75 ft deep.

Primarily our forces used the river as an unloading point for ammunition ships which tied up to mooring buoys out in the mid stream of the river. Their cargo was then off loaded into dumb barges that were moored in turn to both sides of the ship. After the barges were loaded to their maximum capacity they were then rafted together in pairs and moored on buoys which were close to the river bank and awaited tugs, some of which looked nearly as old as Methuselah, which in turn would take them on a perilous journey upriver. The barges intended destinations, once the orders for them to proceed arrived, were the distant fighting zones, some of which lay in territory that was hotly contested by the enemy. This entire operation of ammunition movement was overseen and directed by US Coast Guard personnel to their usual demand for absolute efficiency. They also had a detachment of river patrol boats operated by their own skippers and engineers, but were manned by MP's. These patrol boats policed the harbour and river up to Saigon.

Our Mike boat company consisted of a headquarters platoon, a maintenance platoon and two boat platoons. The headquarters platoon was tasked with supply, mail, armoury, medics, and the river operations tower. They also supplied the harbour Master and his staff. Maintenance platoon had one maintenance boat, equipped with a full set of tools, lots of spare parts with the exception of, so they claimed, gaskets. Material to make machinery gaskets was in the most part unavailable, even at times from our local sources, so some of our guys were always pressing their family members to send out gasket material from the States. However, our ingenuity at times in finding alternative material for the manufacture of gaskets knew no bounds.

The maintenance platoon also had a pristine maintenance truck, fully equipped and ready to go, and a well stocked maintenance workshop which they guarded day and night. However, we always managed to breach their defences and grab at least some of what we needed in the way of engine and other spare parts. All of the boat company people lived onshore at the boat repair yard except those in the tactical boat crews. They lived aboard their respective boats with the maintenance boat crew tending to follow likewise, probably in an attempt to stop us stripping their boat for spares.

We suffered from the same problems which tended to plague all other fighting units in Vietnam, in that we had no supplies! Our problems were also compounded by the fact that some of our boats were out in the boonie for weeks, even months at a time, going from one place to another. This left the boat crews to go around scrounging, at times stealing, from various other units including the Vietnamese Navy and Marines that which was required to keep us going operationally. On average there were two or three boats out on missions at any one time, with some boats such as Zippo in steady combat roles. In essence we only returned to the old boat yard for a hull repair or overdue R&R. We could easily stay gone for several months at a time, and happily did so, but now and again we were forced into returning for a replacement crewman, or re-stock the boat with desperately needed ammo and or supplies.

There was always one boat on a detail called "Base Static”. You only pulled this detail if you had crossed the Rubicon of acceptable military discipline, in that you really and truly had fouled up in one way or another. The static boat's duty was to act as a shuttle to the ships and assist in their unloading. This boat was on call twenty-four hours a day until some other boat crew made an a** of themselves. However, there were in fact those crews who considered this boredom a prime duty to have for their boat, especially after being out for months and being constantly fired on or sniped at.

Then there were other crews who managed to draw the same details all the time for their boats. Such as hauling gravel or construction material out to the Army engineers who were building fire-bases in the Delta. Or alternatively hauling or pushing ammo barges up into the various AOs (Area of Operation). However, in my humble opinion, by far the best detail of all those available was when you were simply cut loose with your boat on a mission out into the boonie. There at times having to use your own initiative when the only communication to the higher-higher command structure was via an unreliable and temperamental PRC radio.

[MANICHAEAN]

Glad it worked out for you Gimpy with the publisher. The story is much improved and I sense you have the energy and enjoyment to continue.
Best wishes
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Young Crusaders

"Be proud and brave" said the guy’s father to him, and to all within earshot, as we waited in the lashing rain for trucks. These were to bus us on the first leg of what would prove to be a long journey to our respective final training before being deployed. As a potential Riverine the Florida “river of grass” training area had been selected for me. With one and a half million acres of swamps, saw-grass prairies and sub-tropical jungles available to play within, it was a superb choice as a training area for those about to head for the land of the lotus eaters, Vietnam.


Our buddy’s father was indeed a "father" for not only was he our buddies father he was also by profession a preacher, and full to overflowing with ecclesiastical bull****. He was a kind of throwback to the days of the African Missionaries, who had enthusiastically reveled in spreading the Lords word amongst those classed as the devil worshiping heathen. He had relieved a man whom we had all held in deepest respected because of his quiet way of getting things done for any who requested his help. An in God believer, atheist or any alternative religion received it with equal enthusiasm. He never thumped the good book nor grated on our nerves with overstated pious claptrap the way this new guy did.

Yep, it can be claimed with all certainty that our old preacher was truly a surrogate father to all, a perfect example of what a spiritual leader should be. And even better, he had survived two tours in Vietnam as a volunteer. Therefore, he was without doubt one of us. For all who stood that day for hours in the rain were also like he, volunteers.

Our new Preacher turned to address all gathered there, raised his arms and spread them wide. Face lifted skyward as the rain thundered down in a heavenly torrent. He cried out in prayer "Lord, I beg your blessing for these young Crusaders, who will go forth and do your work, to smite our country’s enemies with swords forged in the very fire of truth. Shaped on the anvil of freedom with the hammer of justice, let them be a credit to you and their families as they fight the good fight, the Lord’s fight!”

With face aglow and eyes glazed with the piety of the moment he looked to the heavens for approval, with arms still held wide. In a theatrical way and for effect he slowly lowered his gaze over us, expectantly waiting for the shouts of joy, or a great outpouring of crusading cheering. Even of helmets being thrown into the air and weapons fired off in one great rolling volley. A mass fit of glorious biblical and patriotic fervor.

However, what he actually received in return for the prayer was silence, an anticlimax to what he expected. We just stood there like a flock of sheep in a field, staring in silent disbelief at such a weird spectacle. Being now completely soaked through to our very skin a joyous cry to heaven and firing off weapons, which we had very carefully cleaned, oiled, then placed snugly into their waterproof carriers was without doubt the last thing on our minds. Although but one of many who were unimpressed and disheartened a voice eventually broke the pregnant silence by stating "Halle-****ing-lujah brothers!”

Our preacher, indignant at our lack of enthusiasm and this lone wolfs gross disrespect for his words of encouragement, stared at us with an intense hatred. It was if he willed fire and brimstone to descend from on-high upon his antagonists. A couple of guys even looked up watching for a flaming meteor spearing earthwards, or some other God imposed sign of disapproval towards our unholy behavior. A few others and I became quite mesmerized by the preacher’s pallor, in that it continually changed from a white indignation through to indigo blue, then to a delicate shade of purple, until after working its way through nearly every hue in the spectrum settled for an impressive brick red.

Then, obviously dissatisfied with its choice resorted back to white, only to start the selection all over again. It was if his head was about to explode as he struggled with his temper and choice of colour, like a confused giant chameleon trapped in a kaleidoscope.

Having barely recovered some form of dignity he turned quickly, nodded to his son in a final farewell and quietly said "God be with you". The preachers tormenting lone wolf spoke again, this time in a very loud voice so as all could hear "Yeah? He just might be, but sure as **** you won’t!” Knowing the preacher was to be excused tours and keen to press the point home. Fists clenched in a red-mist fury and without looking back, the preacher stalked off in a stiff walk. Obviously furious at his new found nemesis and knowing we were all desperate to start laughing.

Late in the day and hours behind their promised arrival time the trucks eventually rolled in and we were told to pile aboard them. We did so accompanied by much inane and pointless screaming from the training staff as to which truck each of us were assigned. This was the final sort-out as to each individual’s specialization.

Throughout my time in military service the understanding as to why an NCO had to bellow all the time eluded me, for in the vast majority of cases a firm and clear command would have sufficed. Doing so would have ensured a smooth transition from order to action, and there of.

When in training at Norfolk,VA, and during a particularly searing episode, our trainer screamed at us for a full ten hours, without it seemed barely stopping to replenish the air in his lungs, our resident joker had asked of him “ Gunny! If someone stamped on an NCOs’ nut-sack when wearing parade boots, intentionally or otherwise, would the receiving NCO emit the same bellowing incoherent racket as he does when giving instruction to us?” That question cost our joker a killing twenty mile run, and a visit to the stockade. However, quite miraculously, it also resulted in the Gunny reducing his voice volume to a decibel level we were capable of understanding.

Due to the screamed words of the training staff, which at times sounded meaningless as they became distorted by the sheer volume of the shouting, people started clambering on trucks that were going nowhere near their final training destinations. This prompted even more confusion as those bodies found to be on the wrong trucks were unceremoniously ejected from them.

As with all military actions sanity finally won through, with everyone and everything being in their, or its, rightful place. In my truck, also heading for Florida, were the preacher’s son and the lone wolf. Sitting at the trucks tail-gate I had a panoramic view over the camp where it sat in a low valley below the main entrance. In a far corner of the saturated parade square, I could see a solitary figure standing in the torrential rain with his arm raised in a form of salute, it was the preacher. As the long convoy tore out of the camp in a great blue cloud of exhaust fumes, only one arm amongst us raised in reply to his salute. No, not his sons, it was mine. For at that fleeting moment I truly had felt sorry for him.

Then the lone wolf howled again. This time standing up on the truck bed and shouting at the top of his voice at the preacher, who was now receding fast from our view. "Hey! You! Holy man! If we are young Crusaders doing the lords work how come he always pisses on us? Explain that!" So our lone wolf had taken in some words of the prayer after all. With eyes fixed straight ahead, and thus studiously avoiding having to look back towards his father, the preachers’ son answered the lone wolf’s question, “The lord moves in mysterious ways, or so I have been told, over and over again!”

[LongCharlieSlim]

Cool stories brother. They invoke in me memories of Quantico, Recondo and Hue.

[Mike Tevion]

Your short stories regarding the Vietnam War are of a refreshing style.

As MANICHAEAN correctly states “Thank God Gimpy, that your piece was not another glorified piece of macho nonsense”.

I would like to add them to my recommended reading list at Military.com.


Take care.

Mike.

[Mike Tevion]

Your short stories regarding the Vietnam War are of a refreshing style.

As MANICHAEAN correctly states “Thank God Gimpy, that your piece was not another glorified piece of macho nonsense”.

I would like to add them to my recommended reading list at Military.com.


Take care.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks for your kind observation LongCharlieSlim. I went to Parris Island instead of Quantico. When “in country” I also attended the MACV Recondo School in Nha Trang. By the time the battle of Hue came around I was “back in the world”, as we used to say.

Take care.
Bernard.

[108 fountains]

Gimpy Fac,
I agree with MANICHEAN that developing your characters more and having more of a plot would make the stories more interesting. More dialogue would also help greatly. I enjoyed your Young Crusaders post much than the previous ones because of the dialogue and characterization.
Have you been back to Vietnam? I worked there from 1998 to 2002 and met a lot of American Vets who had come back to visit for the first time. For just about every one of them it was a positive, cathartic experience.
I was a diplomat at the newly opened American Consulate in Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City. One of my first activities was to attend the school year opening ceremony of Saigon University. As part of the opening address, the university dean introduced the diplomats who were seated in the front row. He introduced the Russian, the Japanese, the Brit, and the Australian in turn, and each received polite applause from the 500 or so university students that filled the auditorium. Then he introduced me, the American (the first time an American diplomat had attended this annual ceremony since the war), and the entire auditorium erupted in a standing ovation that must have lasted at least five minutes. I had similar experiences throughout my four-year assignment. I just thought you might like to know; the Vietnamese old-timers in the South generally remember you guys with fondness, and their emotional ties to Americans are still reflected in their children (and grandchildren).

[Gimpy_Fac]

Hi 108 fountains.

I have only returned once, 1982, and that was to dive on the wreck of my Mike boat and leave a personal tribute. However, we approached the wreck from seaward and never landed on Vietnamese soil, but we still required a special Government permit which took years to obtain, and even then they only gave us a 48 hr window to complete the dive. The Vietnamese Navy made their presence known from our arrival in their waters until our departure. By the late 1990’s, your time there, relations had thawed out considerably.

The reason I started off with the “technical” side is that the majority of people have never heard of the Riverine War. As the stories progress characters will appear, such as Tante Bee whose work with the intelligence service played a major role in my boats service operations during the Vietnam War.

Take care.
Bernard.

[108 fountains]

Did you ever go as far south as Ca Mau? I know there was a of riverine activity there. That was where I went on my first "provincial trip." My boss told me to go down and meet with and get to know the Communist leaders. I asked who they were, and he said "We don't know. That's for you to find out." (Remember, the Consulate had only just opened.) So I made appointments with the Fatherland Front and the Women's Union and the Farmers' Union. Our meetings were pretty cold - most of the participants were former VC, and apparently Ca Mau was the site of a lot of heated battles. I invited the Fatherland Front (about a dozen of them, men and women) to lunch. The atmosphere remained pretty cold until the beer started flowing, and then things loosened up considerably. I almost felt like I was at some Vietnamese version of a VFW fish fry as I listened to them talking and laughing with each other. They then invited me for dinner , and I met them at one of the canals outside of town where an old ferry had been converted into a restaurant. The beer flowed freely there, too, but the conversation took a more serious turn. They started talking about the war, partly with nostalgia, partly with sadness. They had all suffered a lot, but at least in their conversation with me, they did not blame the Americans. One guy said he realized even at the time that soldiers on both sides were fighting for what they believed in and regretted that, given the politics at the time, both local and worldwide, the war was inevitable. Another guy told me of how he had probably spent more than 400 hours of his life in tunnels, listening to the muffled sounds of fighting above and wondering what was happening. The head of the Ca Mau Fatherland Front said that he spent more time now thinking about the war than he did when he was a VC commander. In those days, he said, he spent his free hours writing poetry and chasing women. All of them who spoke said they had never spoken with an American before and that they appreciated the opportunity to remember old times with the former enemy. It was actually quite an emotional dinner, more for them than for me. (I was one year to young to go to Vietnam during the war - my draft number was 9.)