There is no title. Yet.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks’ Charlie.

However, our land battles in the Delta was nothing compared to the grueling and savage built-up-area kind of fighting that you and your buddies faced at the battle of Hue.

Take care.
Bernard

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks’ Mike.

No War's experiences are exactly the same for those who fight, or have fought, in them. But when it comes to the fighting for survival we all become the same animal.

Take care.
Bernard

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother, the battle for Hue was a learning curve for the Corps. It is true that we took a casualty for every yard gained, and we soon learned it was better to crawl everywhere, for anything standing drew immediate fire. But the craziest part of it all was the loudspeaker war which screamed out propaganda 24/7, making it impossible to sleep.

Even so, for me, it was preferable to fight at Hue than in the Delta and jungle. As they say, better you than me!

[Gimpy_Fac]

Charlie, the only part of your FIBUA at Hue and our boating was that both were all about timing. During my NCO skills training it was taught that the safest and most efficient way to clear a building of the enemy was to just blow it away with an artillery fire mission.

Take care.
Bernard

[Gimpy_Fac]

Survie du plus Apte.


“Ok, here is something for you maggots to remember! When fighting in jungle there are no towns or cities to be captured or ground to be taken. The only measure of success will be in the body-count you produce, and the only way to achieve a large count is with aggressive offensive action. This Marine Corps has only one objective in battle, and that is to kill everything! “

USMCRD, Port Royal, Parris Island, South Carolina, 1966.



Helicopters, at first thought, would, to the majority, seem the obvious choice for quickly moving Fire Force teams in and out of their given task areas, and at times they were. However, helicopters are inherently noisy beasts, and can be heard some klicks away from their destination. Consequently, being highly vulnerable to small-arms ground-fire, many were shot down by dedicated anti-aircraft weapons and missiles supplied by the ever meddling Chinese and Soviets. These weapons, along with various other types of ordnance, were smuggled in through supposedly neutral Laos by the NVA, VC and Chinese mercenaries, who were employed by both sides, but owed allegiance to neither.

In a land overly abundant of canals, creeks, wetlands and rivers, and with a long, estuary and cove studded coastline, not to mention its myriad of islands, only a fool would not exploit both the natural and man-made waterways, and relatively quietly, and effectively, move men and equipment around. Hell, the French had, and Charlie did, so following their lead, so did we!

Appearing from behind some trees they showed themselves, apparently physically intact, but looking ill, and shockingly thin, each of them wearing rags that once were well cared for uniforms. Scarecrows would have looked better attired, and much healthier, than the bearded men now standing at the river’s edge. The jungle, even with the sun blazing brightly in an azure sky above its green canopy, is at times full of an oppressive dark hostility pervaded with a clawing, dank, background smell of decay and damp. In that type of atmosphere, clothes and equipment can quickly rot on the wearer, weapons rust and boots fall apart.

I took our boats binoculars, and trained them on the men who began to wade out though the river shallows to stand on a whale-shaped sandbar, and patiently await our Mike boat to rescue them. Then I felt slightly embarrassed at the very thought that these men could possibly need rescuing, for I had met their bold creed many times before, and found them to be happier when out in the heart of the jungle than in the comfort and safety of their home town. Once securely aboard our Mike and heading back, the surviving members of the fire-force team hesitantly told their story, and I listened with barely a word of interruption, for what a dreadful one it was.

Their mission had become ill-fated when disaster struck, and Charlie marked up a real success as the low-flying Slick, detailed to deliver their Chalk, had been hit by a burst of cannon fire which instantly killed the door gunner, and passing up through the fuselage tore a great chunk of metal from the rotor gearbox. The helicopter, now mortally wounded, went into a mad, and uncontrollable, spiraling decent. It then crashed into triple canopy, immensely thick jungle where the trees grow at three levels, ground, intermediate, and high, and there it hung smoking for a short time, before tearing itself loose. Accompanied by broken tree limbs festooned with leaves it plummeted the final hundred or so feet to the ground, where, with the sound of a dull “pop”, it quickly started to flame. The short time between the helicopter wreckage hitting the ground, and the flared burning, gave five survivors just sufficient time for a scrambled escape from the crumpled carcass of what had been until minutes before, a flying wonder.

Once the wreckage had cooled sufficiently the band of survivors set about searching it for anything that could be useful in what was to become their battle for survival, and in the process they removed what was left of the helicopters crew and their Chalk. It was grim, terrible work, but like all service people they felt duty bound to their fallen and saw it through, burying what remains they could recover in a shallow grave beside the now melted, skeletal frame of the Slick, which would act as a marker. However, the wreckage proved barren of anything useful.

All communication with the outside world had gone; they were effectively cut-off without method of making fire, had no drinking water or food, nor weapons to defend themselves. So with two personal jack-knives, a marching compass and the uniforms they wore being their total stock they set about making weapons from bamboo, a stabbing spear each to double as walking staves, and pointed sticks as makeshift “stilettos” for personal defense. Then resting until first light they set out on the long march back, another day had begun, and the start of a journey which none of the men who eventually survived it were ever likely to forget.

Higher jungle has notoriety for low cloud, which spreads over it like a white tablecloth, and fills every nook and cranny with mist. This natural phenomenon added tremendously to their existing difficulty of navigating, for there were no landmarks by which a course could be set. As a compass is never a sure-thing guide in jungle, all they could do was take an approximate course for South, head downhill, and hope to find a good sized stream in the valley, follow it to a river and be content with that, for every stream leads to a river, and every river to the sea, eventually.

Because of the mist it was impossible to make any real progressive going, and the team’s leader, a Color Sergeant, soon realized they were getting into trouble, and to his consternation the going got steadily worse with huge tangled masses of creepers, vines, and thorn looming up, making it impossible to set a straight course. It was no good turning back, so they pressed on as best they could with the general downhill line of advance, and hoped the mist would disperse before their strength started to fade.


As a result of the helicopter shoot-down, all were well aware that the Viet Cong were scattered around, at times not far off, and if one of their prowling scouts spotted them and fired his weapon, and as they had nothing of any real consequence to fight back with, they would be fu*ked! Consequently, at the least noise they froze with every nerve jingling, waiting on a deadly challenge, in the knowledge that it could only be a matter or time before contact would be made with the enemy. It must have been similar to slowly walking down a dark alley waiting on your throat being cut.

For many weary days they fought doggedly on with admirable determination until the inevitability of meeting with the enemy came just as they finally reached the valley floor, where a small group of VC was encamped next to a small stream. So all night they had crouched in a flimsy hiding place where ants made a concerted attack on them, and bit unmercifully until the hiding men were near frantic. But if one of the VC had detected their presence it would have meant all being killed, so they tried to forget the malicious ants as best they could and waited for the dawn.

Abandoning any caution every man among them agreed the plan as had been swiftly set out by their leader, knowing that the only way to kill an enemy in the jungle is to surprise him, converting him in a moment from a living being into a dead one. There is nothing sinister in such an action, for it is simply a natural consequence of war. However, an added incentive to their dispatching the enemy mercilessly was that the Viet Cong not only killed Special Forces who fell into their hands, but frequently tortured them first.

Some months prior, four limbless and decapitated skeletons fastened to trees with barbed wire had been found by a fighting patrol, all proved to be the remains of a missing four-man “brick”. Meaning that such a find, and others before them, ensured that no one could forget the horrible cruelties inflicted by the Viet Cong if ever captured. With all that in mind the team leader already knew there was only one thing to be done.

Unarmed and with his hands up, he had walked deliberately toward the group of VC. It was an extremely desperate risk to take, and had said to me he felt very uncomfortable, and frightened, having to do so. More especially when he came within a few yards of the group, but it had worked, the gamble paid off, for when the VC saw that he was truly unarmed they didn’t fire and lowered their weapons, all the time shouting and gesturing for him to lay down on the ground, obviously thinking they had made an easy catch.

As he obeyed the command the other survivors grasped the moment, for the least hesitation on their part would have guaranteed the death of their leader, and rushed out from their night cover to attack the now startled Viet Cong. Descending upon them with brutish ferocity they impaled the VC on their bamboo spears, and stabbed at them with the “stilettos” until their shrill shrieks ceased. Unfortunately, the VC had managed to claim at least one or their attackers when getting off a few rounds, some of which had found a mark and ripped open his chest.

On the other hand, all the Viet Cong were dead but proved as near weapons, equipment, and food poor as their attackers. Just a small satchel containing some old French grenades without primers, a revolver, empty of cartridges, a small palm-wrap of sweet rice , and a few 1950’s era rifles, which were, as was the revolver, empty of rounds due to their recent firing, and thus rendered them useless, for a firearm without ammunition is nothing more than a hi-tech club. So, carrying their killed brother-in-arms they had set off once more, laying him to rest about a klick distant from their attack by digging into the streams bed and covering the watery grave with rocks to avoid any macabre revenge on him by the VC.


If there are no obvious tracks to follow then movement through dense jungle is painfully slow as it is hard to penetrate, especially if laced with swamp, and it had taken them over a month to cover forty five miles on foot, hiding by day and travelling at night. They had been continually soaked to their skin, turning it to the color of putty, and being in constant danger of starvation had taken to eating snakes and rats, which were plentiful. Jungle rats are on the large side, have an evil temper and can be quite hard to kill, but they make reasonably good eating as their flesh, as with snake, has been said to taste very similar to shark meat, even if eaten raw when starvation forces it upon one. However, it is imperative for future health to make sure all of the rat’s blood has been removed, or possibly suffer some horrific medical consequences.

As day followed day their condition became steadily worse, and the stream steadily transformed itself into an infant river. The traveling had been dreadfully bad, for every foot of the way was through virgin jungle, which had to be cut by hand with a near blunt-edged machete taken from one of the dead VC. Shaking with weakness from dysentery, and other jungle enforced ills, they somehow struggled on. Hundreds of little black blisters appeared on their flesh from bug bites, and the myriad of mosquitoes were perfectly maddening. It is beyond argument that the worst part of travel in swamp or jungle is the awful plague of savage biting and stinging insects.

It therefore came as no surprise when I learned that one of the survivors had expired on the trail, solely due to the unrelenting hardships. Bacillary dysentery and a resulting raging fever, brought on by drinking parasite packed water, had made him shout and sing in delirium before slipping into a coma. With no medicine to doctor with they nursed him as best they could, but he subsequently died within two days. His companions buried him in a lonely grave beneath a towering hardwood tree.

Once more they found the resolve to struggle on, getting weaker and weaker yet somehow still moving although falling down every few steps, till at last they had a stroke of good fortune, for upstream came a small sampan crewed by local fishermen, and although startled by the sudden appearance of the three emaciated individuals they took pity, and after cooking for them a meal of fish and rice they volunteered to take the trio of survivors to their village where the headman sent a messenger to one of our forward bases, and where the news was received with some skepticism. However, as it was deemed prudent to confirm the story, our boat and a PBR, to act in a roaming patrol come flank guard, was dispatched with the hope that three men, already listed as missing believed killed, were indeed still very much alive.

As they concluded the rendering of their ordeal it could have been due to the noise from our boats machinery and thrashing propellers that they did not hear my offered words of admiration and understanding, but it was more likely their minds were far away, trying hard to accept all, or any, of what had happened to them and hardships bravely borne. Undoubtedly, those three hardened soldiers had achieved by sheer stubborn purpose what would have been impossible for the ordinary man.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard. Having served as a helicopter pilot your description of the Slick being downed by ground-fire brought back some dark memories.

Keep up the great work.

Mike.

[LongCharlieSlim]

During my NCO skills training it was taught that the safest and most efficient way to clear a building of the enemy was to just blow it away with an artillery fire mission.

Take care.
Bernard

Brother, what you state is fact! At the battle for Hue many a commander came to the very same conclusion by deciding the use of fire-missions as best policy when dealing with Chuck holed up in a building, and by the battles end we had managed to destroy half the city, but received a presidential citation for our efforts!

[Gimpy_Fac]

Mer Bleu, sur, Mer Bleu


“Ok, now we turn to Flack Jackets, fiberglass filled useless crap which can hardly stop a BB from a kids play toy rifle! But yet, even knowing of their abject uselessness at stopping high velocity rounds, and high explosive produced shrapnel, any of you heading for Nam will be issued with one!

Personal equipment lecture, Riverine Training Facility, Florida Everglades 1966.



To many of us it seemed as if the war had been started by accident, for like all wars few in the population wanted it, and even fewer had expected it, although tensions between the western countries in general, the USA in particular, against Communist style ideology had been building for years. This “cold war” between the East and West needed a blow-hole to vent aggression, and for the more hawkish or our American politicians, who were determined to stop the “Red Tide”, the ongoing struggle between North and South Vietnam supplied one. It is undoubtedly true that both sides went into battle for a cause, and we knew exactly what the Communist’s one was. Unfortunately, we had only a vague idea about our own.

The war, as fought in the Delta, was a daily grinding business, and we were in a constant state of alert being under the incessant threat of ambush, and at times this made it difficult to tell friend from foe. We were always pushed for time with the ever increasing duties, and as there always seemed to be so much to think about, and so much to remember, that it all became part of the recipe which made mistakes inevitable.

We had been waiting for three Yabuta Junks of the Vietnamese Navy with which we had lost contact in poor weather, so were now at a pre-arranged emergency rendezvous position for such an event. It was another beautiful day with a calm, deep blue sea, and bright sunshine that made the mercury rise to 110, and it kept on climbing. The humidity inland must have been close to past the tolerable level, but I was not interested in the weather as I searched the sea through my binoculars, for that corner of the South China Sea had become a damn dangerous place to be, and it was wise not to linger there for long on such a beautiful day, but as luck would have it, this time the horizon proved to be empty.


We waited there until darkness fell, and as the Junks still didn’t show had coasted all night upon an oily sea devoid of swell at an economical speed of six knots to the next emergency rendezvous position near to the river estuary. Then, unexpectedly, for when we had left the sky had been full of stars, on the back of a fickle wind, the rain came, a few pattering drops at first, and then in a drenching downpour. But as the hiss of the rain died away we heard another sound, the growling mechanical sound of powerful motors. Quietly at first, then threateningly growing in sound until it matched that of our boat’s motors. I could see a fairly large, gray in color shapeless mass, misted in the after- rain gloom shadowing our course, and as there had been unconfirmed reports of either a Russian made P-4 patrol boat or a Shanghai class gunboat prowling the area in an effort to give some protection to their “no name fleet” of trawlers and Junks, which were running ordnance and men into the Delta, once again, for our boat, discretion had to overrule any valorous thoughts.

Undoubtedly, it was better to risk a small-arms land-to-sea fire-fight with Charlie than the possibility of taking on a well armed Patrol boat or Gunboat, and leave to slim chance our survival from such an encounter, so I ordered a violent turn towards the shore, and increased speed, heading for the relative safety of the mangrove shallows with their natural hazards. When in the military you train for every eventually envisaged in the manual as written for your rank value, and we did, but there comes a time when that text-book stops, when the imagination of whoever compiled the tactics to be used never considered that an enemy who would shadow his adversary before going in for the kill. At that point, you are left on your own to try and out-fox the fox.


With the menacingly mysterious vessel sailing around there seemed to hang in the air a sense of rising tension as the Junks finally appeared in line astern from a particularly heavy and misty rain squall, about a klick seaward from us, and we, and they, didn’t have the slightest idea that one of them was steaming towards sudden and final ruin!

The South Vietnamese Navy crewed, Norwegian built, 80 ft Nasty Class PTF, Patrol, Torpedo, Fast, looking sleek and deadly, made a brave sight indeed as she darted out of the dense sea-mist towards them at full speed. With stern almost submerged in a soaring wake, bows flinging spray as high as her masthead, and her ensign whipping and snapping on a yard-arm halyard she had come slicing down like an executioner’s axe to attack the junks. At that stage of any attack there could be no other order left to her Captain but,” Gun action! Open fire!”

As the Nasty roared past the lead junk, doing in the region of fifty knots in speed, it began shooting, hitting her on the stern with 40mm and 20mm cannon rounds, which tore at the hull and deck like a ship-wrecker’s claw, lifting planks and removing metalwork. In the poor light the muzzle-flashes of the cannons looked like a fireworks display but not to the men on the junk whose lives hung in the balance as shells burst among them. Some were lifted clear off the deck and pitched over the side by the large caliber rounds, falling like corn before the scythe, and others jumped into the sea next to the now stricken Junk!

Finally, as the Nasty raced away to prepare for another attack run the mortal blow to the Junk came from a long burst of 40mm shells, her stern quickly dipped beneath the surface, and she rolled over in a great welter of foam and bubbles, and all that marked her sinking was some swirling wreckage and a spreading diesel stain upon the surface of the sea, a pang of regret ran through me as I watched her slip away.

The Nasty came around in a flamboyantly high-speed turn, which produced a spectacular curling wake of sea-green, sparkling water, and completed the picture of a deadly sea-going thoroughbred. With one swift kill to her credit the obvious intention was the sinking of the other Junks. Suddenly, the water at her stern began to thrash and boil as propellers raced in reverse, and the whine of her motors grew higher in pitch as the screws clawed her to a halt, for just at the point of opening fire once more her Captain must have realized his grave error, and immediately began picking up the destroyed Junks people. In doing so they had to be quick, as no sailor likes to see another drown, gurgling and trying to shout but unable to, as the seawater choked them.

Now heading towards the scene of what had been a terrible case of friendly-fire, a blue-on-blue, of which there were many during the Vietnam War, we could clearly hear the angry shouts of the men in the water, coughing and spluttering as they cursed all aboard the Nasty for their predicament, at the same time loudly demanding they got a move on, and pluck the wounded from the seas embrace before they gasped out their life.

At the mouth of the river estuary we reached the fairway buoy in a light drizzle of rain, and passed up the channel towards the Colonial boatyard. Whilst sitting on an ammo box, which also doubled as a desk, I pondered upon the day’s tragic event and watched the shoreline with its low-lying mangrove and nipa palm swamps and slowly shelving mud-banks, until the farther inland we travelled the ground began to rise and the jungle closed in as we neared our home base.

Then, writing in standard military square-hand, I penciled into our boat’s log the unfortunate loss of the Junk, but in doing so I studiously avoided laying any blame on the crew of the PTF, as it was not wise to point such a finger at those you may have to rely on in the future. Anyway, in all truth I could only blame myself for those short moments of tragedy, as it was not the fortunes of war which had sent the Junk falling slowly into the depths, it was my decision to move off station towards the shore.

Although she and some of her crew had been needless losses, they were just more unfortunate victims of the suspicious times we lived in, for most serving in the battle areas had become like people who are so scared of a home-invasion they will shoot the mail-man dead, rather than take a chance!

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

Your first paragraph describes exactly how the majority felt about the Vietnam War, and your term used in Une fois qu'une Marine - Toujours une Marine, “reluctant heroes” sticks in the mind, for that is what the guys who fought in Vietnam were, patriotic reluctant heroes.


Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks for your kind words Mike.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Avenir Précaire



“It never pays to be sentimental about war. Even if you end up with a row of medals and a few dog-eared photographs it would be best to just place them in a cigar box for your grandchildren to find, and forget how you came by them in the first place, or risk being constantly struck by painful memories that your mind will be desperate to turn away from. Then, when you die, your family can pin your medals on your chest, place the cigar box between your feet, and bury you like a Crusader!”

A Royal Marine, USO, Saigon, 1967.




It was a perfect time to be in Saigon, the whole city breathed of spring, and the CIA proved they were quite capable of magnanimity whenever the mood took them, in that they gave out on loan a truly magnificent Citroen built limousine, with a hood as high as an elephants eye, doors which closed with a massive comforting clang, like the closing of a submarine’s hatch, white-walled tires and was painted in a black that could have rivaled the finest of jet.

I drew in a deep breath, experiencing one of life’s supreme pleasures, that of the opulent aroma which accompanies any quality car’s interior that is filled with hand-tooled leather, walnut and ivory. I turned the radio on and tuned into Saigon radio where some colossal prick had “Yankee Doodle” on his turntable, blasting it out over the airwaves like some goddamn cripples victory march. I couldn’t bear the pain of listening to it so quickly tuned into Charlie’s propaganda station, which was always good for a laugh, and wasn’t let down, for some crazy duo were rendering their version of the Beach Boys "California Girls".

The very thought of tanned girls wearing bikinis on a California beach, or for that matter any beach back in the world, started to irk me, for instead of sitting on my a*s listening to a couple of crooning zipper heads waggling their tonsils I had planned to be splashing and cavorting around in the tepid waters of the South China Sea at Qui Nhon Harbor, catching some rays on its “American Beach”, and trying to capture for myself one of Vietnam’s version of a California Girl, then a few days propping up the bar at Tante Bees “cabaret” club.

“It takes all sorts to make a Marine, which includes those who will push their responsibilities onto someone else, and blame everyone else for that which befalls them, but that type never lasts long in any Marine Corps”. So said a Royal Marine of 3 section, Special Boat Squadron, during a conversation about our respective Corps as we sped along the highway in style, heading for the ARVN Ranger training camp North-West of Saigon.

The Royal Marines SBS had been fighting a Riverine War for years in Malaya and Borneo against insurgents, as had their British Army cousins the SAS, Special Air Service, and in the Spirit of Cooperation that tightly binds both Marine Corps, they had come along to give our own Riverine force the benefit of their vast experience, which had been generously offered, and without hesitation quickly accepted, for many a US Marine and Navy SEAL envied them their service.

So whilst the CIA acted as host to members of Britain’s Military intelligence and Special Branch, I found myself, on what was supposedly to be my long overdue in-country R-n’-R, detailed off to chauffeur Royal Marines in a limousine on what was officially described by our Embassy, and the British Consulate, a “Fact Finder”. Unfortunately, such welcome details never lasted any length of time, for sure as hell it didn’t take long before some REMF, rear echelon mother fu*ker, decided to fu*k it all up by finding something more unpleasant and risky for you to do. Many of them didn’t have the slightest idea what was expected of us, and didn’t give a damn anyway even if they did, for if we ended up full of serviceman’s cynical bitterness at losing the boat for some futile reason, and having to swim for our lives, it made absolutely no difference to their own survival.


Acting true to form a REMF had given us an “urgent” marked sailing order, and in growing darkness I could see that it was going to rain, for the sky in the east was changing to a deep violet-gray. Within an hour the first spots of rain were falling, and a long deep swell was forming, the heralding signs of a tropical storm, but there’s a quadrant in every storm configuration you must steer for to keep out of trouble, and we headed for it at full speed.

When forced to face such weather it leaves you feeling very small and helpless, so to ride out a storm you need a reasonably safe haven, and the only one I knew of within that quadrant was a break in the dense mangrove forest, a narrow entry to a lagoon shaped bay, which had a right angled dog-leg to port, and ran inland for well over a kilometer.

Once past the six fathom line of the approach there was no survey information nor aids to navigation to rely on, and working on a lesson covering “sailing in uncharted waters”, as was taught during the boat handling course, in that sometimes it pays to think precisely like the ticking of a ships chronometer, I crossed off in my mind each nagging doubt as they were resolved, and it was with infinite care we crawled forward at a snails pace to face the unknown navigational hazards of the narrow entrance and the deep bay beyond.

It has been said that a sailor only truly knows his ship if he joined her on a wet and windy slipway when she is about to be born, just piles of uncut lumber or rusty steel, boxes of fastenings, rivets or welding rods, and then to watch her grow from an imaginary conception, represented by blue-print drawings, into a solid entity. But I never had such a luxury, just had her handed to me as ready made, and left to find out her handling qualities in confined waters for myself. I felt a strong rush of relief as our Mike boat finally slid without mishap onto the peculiarly sour smelling ooze that shelved up to form the head of the dog-leg within the mangroves, and then I ordered her motors cut, waiting in funeral silence for whatever the future may bring.

The cloud base was low and thick, then there began a faint flickering of lights searing the sky below it, and we could hear the dim thudding of thunder, a sound full of menace, like the distant rumbling of artillery guns, and we knew the storm was about to arrive. Shortly, the accompanying wind would quickly increase to a full gale, then above to storm or typhoon force, at times screaming like a banshee, then dropping between gusts to a tormented howling moan, as if it were a trapped soul in hell! The first of the tremendous frothing waves would rush in carrying all forms of sea trash with it; penetrating deep into the mangroves, there to suck all the trash out again with the undertow, where it would wait swirling and dancing in the violent current produced maelstroms, for the next crashing wave to repeat the process.

The tide was near full by the time our boat was made secure within her storm haven, and scanning the area with binoculars I spotted a fairly large column of men in single file, keeping proper fighting patrol spacing, moving along the far edge of the mangrove root tangles, their feet splashing in shallow water, and holding their weapons at the ready as if suspecting an ambush. The lead man seemed irritated by mosquitoes and the smelly, stuffy heat, for although warm, tropical rain was now lashing down, the storm driven winds had not yet arrived to blow the insects and funky air away.

Undoubtedly, it was always extremely difficult to distinguish Dac Cong from any run-of-the-mill Viet Cong, for like the VC they wore standard peasant’s garb, of Ao Ba Ba, the mythical “Black Pajama Uniform”, synonymous with the Southern rural region, and operated from local command decisions rather than by waiting for higher authority to give orders. Also like the standard VC their team numbers would be small, only thee men, termed “cells”. Each larger formation was also built upon the “Three” principal, as in three cells would form a squad, and three squads formed a Platoon. However, in normality they operated as a single cell, other than when a large or special target was singled out, and then a number of Platoons would combine.

Special operation teams could range from just a single cell up to as many as thirty cells, and were always guided by a Vietnamese who was local to the area. Their advisers and trainers were in the most part Soviet Spetsnaz, from whom they took the practice of killing their own wounded, and ensuring that the fate of anyone they captured was beyond description. However, members of the North Korean SOF, special operation force, reputedly also took part in their training, but that was never officially confirmed by anyone, even though North Koreans had been killed or captured.

It was incredible they hadn’t spotted our boat, but the storm cloud gloom combined with torrential rain drumming down must have acted as a form of camouflage curtain. My heart skipped two beats as the lead man held up his hand in the universal military field signal for stop, turned his head and stared straight at me! In doing so it gave me a chance to confirm my worst fears, for those guys were without doubt members of Charlie’s Special Forces for none wore the leather wrist band used by the “normal” VC, but I suppose there was no need for they never recovered their dead.

Although the area was within the VC’s 9th division stomping ground, everything about them said Dac Cong, from their up-to-date Soviet and Chinese weapons and gear, which included many B-40 and B-50 rocket launchers, to their obvious military bearing and self assurance. They were men who would be splendid in their military skills yet terrible to encounter as their ruthlessness had become quite legendary, and I cursed my own stupidity in assuming that the enemy would be hunkering down in preparation for the weathers onslaught.

A second later slots of light whizzed past on either side of me as I stared straight into the muzzle flash of a medium machine gun. But it was not a pre-attack burst of fire; it was just recce by fire, a probe, designed to see if it received a reaction, and I realized just how well the rain, gloom, and our boats Riverine green livery against the mangroves and nipa palm overhang hid our true shape.

I prayed to a god I didn’t actually believe in that our gunners would hold fire, and wait to see if Charlie had any true battle advantage, for if he had it was pretty well guaranteed he would kill everybody on board. My heart was thumping in my chest, and my breath seemed to gag in my throat, as I thought of what would happen if one of the crew suddenly lost his nerve and fired, for a returning volley of RPG rounds at our Mike Zippo would have ripped her apart, and most likely ignited our flamethrower fuel for good measure! After which all that would be left of us being floating ashes, and our names typed out on a zulu, a casualty report, lost amongst the thousands of others somewhere in Da Nang.

Going over our options again and again there was no easy way out, with the tide falling, the storm about to descend upon us, and a mass of Charlie’s most dedicated lined up along the mangrove forest, the weight of responsibility for both boat and crew on my young shoulders and mind was starting to crush me, just a very short time away from no longer being a teenager a feeling of complete nervous weariness swept over me. But I knew that Charlie had exactly the same pressures to contend with, for in the main we were teenagers fighting teenagers.

What the Royal Marine had said came back as blindingly true, for after receiving a sailing order, and once pulled away from the jetty, at that point every decision you made had a direct bearing on the survival or not of that and those placed under your command. There would be no one to blame, no one to push responsibility onto, or acceptable excuses to give if you fu*ked things up! Anyway, attempting to do so would have been a hard slap to the face for those who had put their trust in you, and the scandal of disgracing yourself so could never have been lived down.

Therefore, allowing your boat to be caught moored-up in enclosed waters by the enemy was but only one of such serious fu*k-ups classed as militarily beyond the pale. Then, as if to prove anything can happen in war, and that no enemy attack was imminent, without explanation the lead man stood up, looked to the heavens through the downpour at the scudding dark clouds overhead, gave the signal for “follow me”, and the column moved off along the stagnant mud beach a distance before disappearing into the mangroves, and my head spun with the sheer relief of it!

Everything had altered, for now the attack would come from a potentially more destructive force, the weather! As the first blast of brine and rotting wood smelling wind, carrying an assortment of plant foliage with it, screeched its way through the mangroves, we wondered if our boat would ever again sail upon a placid sea under a smiling sky.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

During my time in Vietnam I only ever came across Viet Cong after they had been captured then stripped for interrogation. The leather wrist band you mention, I am curious as to why they were worn.

Mike.

[DATo]

Gimpy_Fac,

I have only refrained from commenting on your thread in the past because I have been absorbed in reading it. I thought I would comment when it was completed but now is as good a time as any I suppose. There is perhaps another reason ... though ready to go if summoned, I was not a participant in the Vietnam War, and though the comments of the veterans who have responded to your thread are appropriate, and, I'm sure, welcomed by you, there is a part of me that feels I should keep my mouth shut in reverence and respect "... whilst any speaks who fought with us upon St. Crispen's Day." as-it-were.

Most of us who offer our modest contributions to this forum are pulling stories from our imagination on a lark; imagining, and perhaps flattering ourselves to be worthy of the term 'writer', if only amateur writers. You have lived your story, and the reality of your experiences is starkly evident in your writing. What you are writing and the way it is written cannot be taught in any school but the school of life experience.

My brother, who is much older than I am, was listed as a "severe casualty' in Korea during the drive to what became known as 'Heartbreak Ridge'. The physical pain he suffered the rest of his life was only eclipsed by the mental anguish he suffered. He is now in a veteran's nursing home suffering from dementia. Though still reasonably alert and functioning he has lost all memory of his time in Korea. It is ironic that a debilitating mental affliction has proven to be, in his case, an angel bearing merciful peace. It was he who discouraged me from enlisting. He told me that if I did to our mother - * broke our mother's heart the way he had done* - he would never have anything more to do with me if and when I returned. So perhaps I have some small semblance of understanding with regard to what you and the men you write about went through, but it is only a wisp - an ephemeral mirage of the reality.

I have no criticism to offer with regard to your writing ability - it is excellent. If I were a publisher I would accept your story in a heartbeat. I encourage you to make the attempt to publish it if you have not already done so. I think it would make an enormous and welcomed contribution to the compendium of the subject.

Thank you, and all who served with you, for my freedom.

- DATo

EDIT *

[Gimpy_Fac]

Bernard.

During my time in Vietnam I only ever came across Viet Cong after they had been captured then stripped for interrogation. The leather wrist band you mention, I am curious as to why they were worn.

Mike.

Mike.

Viet Cong, being ancestor-worshiping, feared a lack of proper burial so took to wearing a leather wrist band so that, if they were killed in battle, one of their buddies could insert a metal hook through it and drag their corpse away.


Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Dato.

Many thanks for your most generous words.

The urge to volunteer in conflict, and rush to defend the colors, is strong within all patriots regardless of Country. However, my volunteering for military service was more borne from selfishness than patriotism, in that I was seeking a military career.

The Korean War tends to be forgotten, even unheard of, by the majority of the public. The veterans of it seem to have been ignored, and in the most part gone unheard, which is a tragedy. In my military service time we relied heavily on those men to pass on their hard won battle skills.

I have a publisher who is willing to take a chance on my efforts.

Take care.

Bernard.