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.)

[Gimpy_Fac]

Hi 108 fountains.

My boat ventured south from the mainland out into the China Sea. Our operations took us into nearly all of the southern river estuaries and out to the islands. The Plain of Reeds was our most “active” area, but on occasion we would be as far out as the Cambodian border.

The Riverine War raged in every corner of the Delta from 1964 until Vietnamization. When I was participating in it, 1966 – 1968, the boat tactics were in their infancy. It took time to perfect what was required, by 1971 that had been achieved. If there were navigational access, even for the smallest of craft, such as the 13 foot Boston Whaler, then the fight was taken to the enemy. Surprisingly, the real VC was actually quite thin on the ground with the majority of those deemed to be opposing forces in fact NVA regulars. It amuses me when I hear the old urban myth used, “farmers in black pajamas”. The NVA regulars were certainly no farmers, and neither were the vast majority of Viet Cong.

Take care.
Bernard.

[Mike Tevion]

Hello 108 Fountains.

Ca Mau, I flew over the City many a time.

Mike.

[Steven Hunley]

Ok Buddy, here's some advice and an assignment if you're willing to take it. You gotta litterize this sucker. Instead of telling us, make it an experienced old timer explaining it to a newspaper reporter or some new recruit in the field. Use the quotes effectively, and add more from the narrative. Think about where he'd be telling it, in a tent? A fox hole? In a whore house in Saigon while on leave?

In other words, give us specific characters and specific settings. Make us fall in love or hate with them, (both the characters and settings) Add suspense and foreshadowing. Mix it all together just right.

Look, you're making chicken soup. Get me? Your diary is the chicken. It's got the flavor, the meat, and the bones. The setting, dialogue, all the rest of the literary stuff is like the rice and seasonings.

Together they make up a story, or a soup. I'm thinking I'm getting lost here. I think I better shut up. LITERIZE IT!

[Gimpy_Fac]

Ok buddy, thanks for the gastronomical challenge, and the chicken / soup recipe. I have taken them onboard (excuse the pun). Perhaps, at some later date, I may go down that alternative literary route you suggest, but not at this time. I have in mind the old adage of, “Never change your horse mid-stream.”

Take care.

Bernard

[Gimpy_Fac]

Hello 108 Fountains.

Ca Mau, I flew over the City many a time.

Mike.


Hi Mike

Thanks for your observations. I read on your “about me” page that you served with Helicopter Combat Support Squadron HC-7. Did you ever operate near Quoc Island ?

Take Care.

Bernard

[Mike Tevion]

Gimpy.

For a time during the war I worked along the coastal area which included Son Island,
Quoc Island and Cape Camau.

Mike.

[cacian]

the whole point of a title is that it is born out of the story find it as you go on or when you finish. I am sure it will pop out one way or another. :D

[Gimpy_Fac]

Cacian.

Thanks for the observation about a title. I have had one for some time but can’t edit the original posting title.

If any of the forums monitors can alter the title for me I would appreciate it.

My chosen title is… Tout Acier Américain

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Hi Mike.

Interesting, then we served in the same AO.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Mike Tevion]

Gimpy.

Looks like we did. Contact me at Military.com and I will introduce you to the other guys.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

I have decided to take a lead from MANICHAEAN and keep my stories tidy, and in one place, by posting any re-vamped versions and the new here, on my original thread.

This will also allow new members stories to remain on the board for longer.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Vietnam Bénédiction


“The Marine Corps demands, Teamwork – Discipline – Devotion to duty. This is your first step! “

As written on the welcoming board, USMC Recruit receiving Barracks, Parris Island, 1966



United States Marine Corps Boot Camp, Parris Island, South Carolina, in the early summer of 66

There were those within the training staff, the old timer gunnies, the hard cases, products of the War in the Pacific and the Korean battlefields, who still believed in the physical and verbal abuse tactic when training recruits. They also believed that the Ribbon Creek incident should have been considered as simply Marine Training in the raw, just a little no account foul-up which was best ignored.

The reason given for this mindset was that the Vietnam War had escalated, thus forcing the Marine Corps to shorten Boot Camp from its normal twelve weeks to just eight. Marines serve to fight and die, don’t they, was the attitude which pervaded the place in the late 1960’s. And it certainly was true, going by the odds given at the time, a Marine could expect to do just that in Vietnam, die that is, and be mightily surprised along with the Corps when he didn’t.

Then there were others, the new thinking gunnies, products of the post Korean War era, who believed that the Ribbon Creek incident was a tragedy which had changed the Corps forever, that recruits training should emphasize the need to lead by example, give encouragement more in the way an older brother, or father would. Recruits were put into various Special Companies to assist them with any particular problem they may have had. Such as the Fat Buddies with a weight problem or the poorly educated. Even those with obvious psychological hang-ups were given help. Unfortunately, most of those pushed into the Special Companies took longer to train and graduate.

Whichever way a Marine Corps Drill Instructor, with a campaign cover strapped to his head, decided on his training approach, either by old school or new, he was still a serious force to be reckoned with when it came right down to basics, and the basics being the deliverance to recruits of soul destroying, physical and mental purgatory for eight weeks. However, those few weeks, if you managed to survive them without suffering an injury severe enough to put you out of the Corps, a nervous breakdown, or death by exhaustion just meant that you had completed phase one of United States Marine Corps training.

The real training did not start until after you left the Island. Everything that had gone on before, the punching, slapping, the tearing down to build up again scenario, was but a summer’s day walk in the park compared to what lay ahead. Sporting a 'white sidewall' haircut whilst wearing a blues suit, and being able to shoot straight only meant that you were in the Marine Corps. However, to complete the metamorphosis from civilian to Marine Specialist would take months, not just eight weeks.


"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 in, 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 bullsh*t.

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 over with the piety of the moment he looked to the heavens 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-fu*king-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-like 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 fu*k 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 on a short but welcomed break from Parris Island, 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?” 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 onto 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, and also heading for Florida, were the preacher’s son and the lone wolf. Sitting at the trucks tail-gate I had a near 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 the 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, 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!”

[MANICHAEAN]

Merci mon vieux.
J'espere que tout va bien avec toi.

Might I suggest as a title "Vietnam Benediction."

Regards
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

M, many thanks for the suggestion, and as it is a good one I have changed the title accordingly.

Bernard.

[MANICHAEAN]

It sits well.
But the main meat and veg is yours.
Keep writing as it answers a demand from a large audience.
Regards
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Une fois qu'une Marine - Toujours une Marine



The actual enlisting in the United States Marine Corps was the least stressful part of a process; you just walked into a recruiting station of your choice, and told your up-to-date life story to the recruiting Staff Sergeant, then gave him your reason for deciding to join the Corps. Easy as pie, people were wanted, and what better type than a volunteer.

In those days, if someone still had all of the body parts with which they had started off in life with, and didn’t have an outrageous police record, they were accepted. The periods of enlistment were set out in increments of two, three, and four years. Being of a somewhat cautious disposition I signed up for an initial two, with extension options.

A “cooling off period” was in place, but by mutual agreement it could be foregone. It was there just as a precautionary measure until the FBI had time to check someone out, for if they had lied to the recruiter it was a federal offense which carried serious jail time. Otherwise, as they had signed there was no way, other than by death; the Corps was going to let them renege on the contract. It was like doing a deal with the devil; they now owned the persons body and soul, and on which they planned to collect.

Seven days later I received instructions to make my way to Beaufort, and there to stay in a bug infested Marine Corps approved, and paid for motel, before being moved by bus, along with others, to “Sandy Rock”, an 8,095 acre island where my summer of transformation would begin. Ever since I can remember I have admired the way Mother Nature conducts herself in that monumental struggle called life. At the very moment in which the spark of life ignites everything has an even chance to make it, or fail. And so it was with the United States Marine Corps in what proved to be a hot summer, even for South Carolina, in the year 1966, as the Marine Corps speeded up their graduation churn-out rate to a wartime level.

Just as Mother Nature lets the weak and infirm fall by the wayside so did that great bastion of the US Marine Corps, our appointed Drill Instructor, for he did not tolerate by even one degree, or part thereof, any form of weakness, nor failure. In his mind it was either live or die in what was black or white military thinking, where shades of gray did not exist.

Our Drill Instructor was not a reformer, nor was he in any way interested in the usage of neither psychology nor any other, as he called them, “Goddamn highfalutin college boy theories” as a process in the training of Marine recruits. He was of the old school era, being a hard, intolerant, and rigid man, who by unwarranted force blasted a door near off its hinges to gain entry, then invaded a room with his presence like a grenade going off!

It was claimed, possibly true, that the average 1960’s Drill instructor was born with a book nestling within his skull cavity, as an alternative to a brain. Had this presumed book been a wide spectrum encyclopedia of intricate knowledge, well then, it would have been a wondrous thing indeed. Unfortunately, the book in question was narrow-minded in content, being stuffed to the full with rules, regulations, and interspaced with carefully selected passages of pain and suffering taken from the writings of the Marquis de Sade.

Late on what had been a gloriously sunny day, with the sweet smell of magnolia blooms lingering in our nostrils, a band of nervous looking reluctant heroes, of which I was one, stepped from a Greyhound bus in South Carolina at a place nicknamed Sandy Rock, better known to the world at large as Parris Island. There we passed through a portal into an alien world called a United States Marine Recruit Depot, that military green parallel universe which exists side by side with the more colorful civilian one, and were instantly transformed from being individuals into what our Drill instructor lovingly termed his, “little green fu*king maggot platoon”.

We were offloaded at the Receiving Barracks, and there met with the “great yellows”, painted yellow footprints of which each recruit was assigned a pair to stand upon, at attention, in silence. Any slouching, fidgeting or talking meant the Marine Corporals gave out the first glimpse of just how brutal boot camp was going to be, as punches and screamed instructions rained down on any transgressor. Movement orders were gathered up and final induction paperwork completed by the duty clerks.

A few recruits had long, shoulder length hair, and were dressed as if for a trip to Woodstock. As they stood out from the others who had a more conservative cut to their jib, it was inevitable that the training non-coms gleefully zeroed in like angry bees on those “flower people”, whom they considered to be almost clown-like.

The first two lessons had been learned if nothing else. One, it was best to remain inconspicuous by quietly blending in with the herd, and the second being that the four main vocabulary words chosen for use on recruits by the training staff were fu*k, fu*king, Fu*ker, and maggot.

The virgin recruits were speed- marched off to the Mess Hall for a Marine Corps meal, high in bulk and calorie count it left many feeling bloated and uncomfortable. It also left some with sore faces, or throbbing eardrums, having been slapped in punishment for leaving part of their meal uneaten, as it was considered, “a fu*king goddamn insult, to such a magnificent culinary effort by the catering staff for you fu*king maggots!”. That first night spent in the Receiving Barracks I heard many a wailing sob of self pity, and homesickness. Sounds of the tormented, of which I would hear on a regular basis throughout my volunteered incarceration at boot camp.

The culture shock at such events, especially for those who not a few weeks before had been going to high school; eating mom’s apple pie and dating the girl next door, left some reeling from fear and fright. Others were moving around in a zombie like trance from the near deafening screaming of orders which had started the very second they crossed that portal’s threshold into what was to be for eight weeks, a new domicile.

Some wanted to run back through the portal and escape, but there was no way off Sandy Rock except out through the front gate, which was blocked by an enormous Marine corporal, who from past experience knew that the first reaction of many was to run from the place. Over the eight weeks I was there some did, try to escape that is, and try being the operative word, for none I either knew or heard of, who made that crazy break for freedom ended it with success.

They could of course have swum from the island if brave, or desperate, it had been done in the past. However, due to the presence of sharks, and other predatory species the chances of a clean getaway was extremely limited, if not near impossible. If they succumbed to exhaustion and lay out in the swampy salt marsh, or on the shoreline, then the infestation of sand flees would in all probability have driven them mad, or, if they happened to expire, then the enormity of the blue crabs that were scuttling about would indubitably feast upon them, stripping off flesh to the bone in no time.

When an escapee was caught a severe punishment was meted out, for they were classed as deserters, and charged accordingly, rather than with the more benign AWAL, absent without authorized leave. If extremely lucky their punishment would be decided by their recruit platoon, and not a court marshal. It was extremely difficult to decide either way which sentence was the more unwelcome in its ferocity.

The best of all worlds was to simply conform to a regime of discipline and transformation. Shutting the mind off to the norm and concentrating on producing a conditioned response to any command that was given. Inevitably it meant putting aside such foolish thoughts as an escape back to that world from which they came. Above all was to try and avoid the at times unreasonable punishments for even the minutest of military infringements.

For those who could not, or would not, conform there was always the possibility of confinement at the Correctional Custody Platoon, in essence a jail, or if deemed as “rejected, unfit for further induction” they were housed in an isolated building before being unceremoniously kicked out. In that era, being a failed Marine carried both a social and military stigma that most of those who fell into the category didn’t realize, until they tried to join another branch of military service, or returned home.

The only solace to be gleaned for those who did conform lay in the fact that hundreds of others were enduring, and many thousands more before them had endured, that torturous process of turning generally unfit, soft living flabby, young men into basic Marines, in as short a period as possible. The Drill instructors tools of the trade for doing so were voice, fists and boots.

From the first day to the last of those eight weeks we lived in Quonset huts, awoken every morning at 05.00 on the dot by a large garbage can being thrown down the center of the hut by a bawling Drill Instructor, as the transformation processing continued relentlessly. Anywhere we went it was done in double-time, whilst clutching a bosom buddy, the “little red monster”, a little red book of everything a recruit was required to know. It had to be learned verbatim from its front cover, to back cover, and we were tested on our knowledge of its content anywhere, and at anytime. Failure to answer correctly meant receiving the usual blow of disapproval.

Eating, sleeping, going to the can, there was always a Marine Corps way of doing it, and an insanely impossible Marine Corps time for doing it in, as there was for everything else, even when it came to religious worship. The believer, non believer, and the not quite sure all received with equal enthusiasm from the various denominational Marine Corps Chaplains high-speed spiritual guidance at Sunday prayers, like it or not, as it was considered an essential part of “molding a Marine”.

Some recruits, encouraged by the Chaplains and Drill Instructors, prayed throughout their training that somehow God would allow them to graduate as a United States Marine. Graduation by the “Grace of God” was their expectation; many were to be bitterly disappointed. The Marine Corps demanded a strong love for God, Corps and Country; whether someone actually believed in God or not made not a jot of difference whatsoever. It was a requirement to believe so you did, even if it meant by pretense. There was no need for any pretense when it came to the Corps or Country part, everyone was definitely a patriot and were in the Corps.

All in all, the first two weeks was undoubtedly the worst to endure, as the Drill instructors systematically tore down the recruits mentally and physically, readying them for the building of basic Marines. Once the building-up started then life at Parris Island took on a slightly more favorable outlook. The actual seaborne infantryman training content is not worth mentioning, as it was more or less the same as our brothers-in-arms the Royal Marines, during their phase one training. Whereas they remained at Lympstone, CTCRM, Commando training center, for phase two and three, we moved on elsewhere for more advanced military skills, and selective MOS, Military Occupation Specialty, training after our basic graduation.

For Graduation the marching band played a variety of John Philip Sousa marches, and the Marine’s Hymn as we displayed our hard won ability at drill, and passed in review. Halting in front of the reviewing stand we listened to the standard set piece speech welcoming us into the Marine Corps. Being ordered to dismiss we took one step back, and bawled out at the top of our voices, “Aye,aye,Sir! “. Just as a runaway freight train would eventually come to a shuddering, crashing halt, our acknowledgment to the dismissal order meant that boot camp, for the surviving members of that “little green fu*king maggot platoon”, was numbingly over!

My time at Parris Island has followed me throughout life, in one way or another, like an accompanying ghost of a time long past, and I can’t say that it bears me that many happy memories, other than perhaps my first promotion. It was nothing more than an unpleasant means to an end. Even after all the decades now passed since that long ago bus-ride there is no escaping the influence of the place, and thus proving, at least to me, that the time worn phrase, “Once a Marine – Always a Marine”, is a powerfully true one.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Well done brother. The 1960’s USMC boot camps were no place for the half-hearted.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks Charlie.

Yes, to some the Parris Island regime was akin to a custodial sentence in 1940’s Alcatraz, and its nickname of Sandy Rock reflected such.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Encalminé


" Ok, listen up! As far as the Navy is concerned, under our rules and regulations, the only person solely responsible for a ship and her crew is her Captain! I say again, her Captain! Therefore, those of you who manage to qualify will be held responsible, for both boat and crew. Remember it, your decisions will decide their fates, so don't go fu*king things up! For there are no accidents in the military, only foul-ups: Got it? "

The Marine Craft Operators School, Naval Facility, Norfolk VA, 1966.


We were out where, as in the old song, the scattered waters rave and the tempests roar. However, that would be on a bad day for boating in the South China Sea, for such weather can produce vast rolling, and tormented waves. Better off onshore than out venturing forth over the bounding foaming main, on such a dismal day.

On the other hand, what we did have was a good day for boating, with a flat calm sea, and no wind blowing other than a gentle zephyr, with a burning sun blazing down, which turned our steel Mike Zippo boat into a giant frying griddle. In fact she had already been used as such, by the engineer, who had rubbed a patch of shaft grease on the top of the flamethrower turret, and used it to fry eggs for breakfast, appropriately sunny side up.

As we had been detailed out to Phu Quoc Island, the Port Captain, in his infinite wisdom, had saddled us with taking along one of his pet annoyances and dispose of it at sea by scuttling. After leaving the river estuary and out to sea we encountered a problem which made us in a way, becalmed. At least that was what an olden time sailor would have called it, if aboard a windjammer and its power source, the wind, gave out leaving it sitting there static, as in the tale of the ancient mariner, "as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean", and there it would wait for the wind to return.

A Mike Zippo was not a sailboat, she was driven by diesel motors connected to shafts which in turn had propellers fastened to them, and those propellers had a problem, something was stopping them from turning. So, just like a windjammer without the wind to drive it, she was going nowhere in a hurry.

However, unlike the windjammer sitting peacefully in mid ocean where there is little or no current to be drifting along on, nor any dangerous lee shore to go fretting about, the Mike Zippo was in a War zone, which by their nature tend to be extremely unpredictable. In addition, she was securely fastened to a half rotten, end-of-life, wooden, coastal trade junk that had been converted into a type of dumb barge. This in turn was piled high with a cargo of unstable captured munitions!

The barge's piled cargo was acting as a form of sail, and driving the Mike Zippo and her tethered charge slowly landward on a light breeze towards a mangrove tangled shoreline, which had the bad reputation of being VC Charlie's back yard. In the military operational term of the day, that coastal area was designated "fu*king Red hot", the emphasis being more on red, as in Communist.

The engineer was leaning on the aft .50 cal weapons quad, and puffing away on the stub of a fat cigar, whilst watching a big fish lazily swimming around close to the surface at the Mike Zippo's flat stern. The surface is the danger zone for fish, and especially for that one, for every so often the engineer, between cigar puffs, and in his boredom, would take a poorly aimed pot-shot at it with a colt 1911 automatic pistol. It was in no great danger of being hit, other than by chance. The fish would dart off under the boat's hull in fright, but quickly reappear after regaining its nonchalant swimming posture, and continue on with its leisurely cruising pace.

Although obviously irritated by the intrusion into its watery domain by the fired pistol rounds, it never lost track of why it had been attracted to our boat in the first place, an easy meal that's why, supplied by a large shoal of gaily colored smaller fish, who were greedily feasting on a cloud of debris coming from the propellers as two of our boat's crew hacked away with battle knifes at the seaborne trash, which had screwed itself tightly into a rock hard ball on each of the propellers.

Instead of smoking and pissing about by annoying the fish, the engineer should have been showing a little more diligence when on shark watch for the guys working over the side. There had been the odd dorsal fin breaking the surface which belonged to small juvenile pigeye and blacktip sharks.The real predators, human eaters, with certainty had been out there somewhere. Even with the shark watch our "divers" may never have seen a denizen of the depths as it raced up from its domain in the deep blue sea to take a bite out of one, or both. However, it was better to have one, even if he was less than attentive when on the job.

A Mike boat had an air compressor, and it wasn't advised to go about breathing the diesel fuel tainted, and foul smelling air it produced, not if you wanted to retain your lungs in good condition you didn't. Therefore, our "divers" were forced to surface for fresh air every few minutes, as any air breathing, sea diving, mammal would, which didn't have an alternative air supply allowing it to stay down in the briny sea for longer.

Squinting in the searing sunlight, I looked at the shoreline trying to gauge our drift value, and we were moving along faster than I had originally estimated! Just an hour before it had been no more than a mere shimmering line on the horizon, like a mirage in the desert. Now individual mangrove trees could be made out! If things weren't bad enough, here was another unwelcome fu*king complication added to the pile of problems needing dealt with!

The current was set shorewards, as was the breeze. I could not understand why I had missed such fundamental maritime calculations! The worst of the situation we found ourselves in, being that there were still two or so hours of daylight before night fell, and the relative safety of dark, even then, it was never really safe off that coastline. Charlie had been reported as running arms and men into the area using sea-going Junks.

Finally, the "divers" managed to free the props, and brought up a sample of the offending fouling for my inspection. It was a seawater sodden bundle of Stars and Stripes newspapers. And I had a good idea as to how they came to be floating around in the South China Sea. A "Slick" helicopter had been reported as crashing into the sea after mechanical failure, its cargo being thousands of the Stars and Stripes newspaper destined for the grunts in Saigon, and the surrounding operational areas as moral boosting bul*sh*t.

If you ever felt depressed, possibly just from the every day stress of trying to stay alive, or receiving a jody letter from your wife, or girlfriend, you didn't go on an irritating visit to medic, who was busy enough treating the more deserving. The best self cure available, other than the life wrecking drugs option, was to read a copy of the Stars and Stripes. The jingoistic crap written within it would have you laughing for weeks. You had to choose carefully on which article to read, for some could throw you in the very opposite direction of what was intended, by making you even more depressed than when you stated off!

The sun was barely beginning to set, and the sky reddening a little with it, when I finally fired up the motors ready to tow our dangerous charge further out for scuttling, per my instructions from the Port Captain. I climbed up on the wheelhouse to increase my horizon a little, and as I looked towards seaward my heart gave a little panic flutter, for heading straight towards us, but still a good way out, was what looked like a large Junk with obviously no intention of standing off.

The impressive white moustache of a bow wave showing within the sparkles of the blue sea's surface meant it was no ordinary Junk. She would have one, possibly two, high speed diesels racing away below her deck, driving her on. The smugglers out of Hong Kong and China had similarly converted Junks, which could do in the region of eighteen knot's or more. This meant that the one heading towards us could easily catch a Mike boat with its hammer down, for at full throttle, with the wind on its stern and tide in favor, could make at the very most nine!

As she drew closer I could see figures on her deck, silhouetted against the sky, like a carelessly minded patrol sky-lining on a ridge, and far too much in number for any normal fishing Junk crew, even a high speed one. My mind cried out fu*k! Charlie! I wanted no action with the Junk; in fact I was determined to avoid it, if at all possible, for if the munitions on the barge exploded it would dash all in proximity into fragments, us, them if too close, and both vessels. If the barge wasn't hit by direct fire, it could still easily be if we were to be fired on first due to ricocheting rounds from our steel hull, for any hits on us could easily spark off.

And it was at that moment of pondering I decided to scuttle the barge, there and then. Regardless of the depth she would rest in as a watery grave. The Port Captain wanted one hundred fathoms or more, he would have to suffice with eight or less. I ordered the tethering lines that fastened the barge to our boat cut, spun the wheel and headed off at full throttle away from the damn thing. Once in the region of 600 yards out the quad .50s came into play, with the gunner "walking" his rounds in over the water to his target in the proper way, and raked the barges hull along the waterline.

Within five minutes the riddled barge's deck was already near awash, she was settling very quickly, much more speedily than I imagined she would. The quad 50's rounds had ripped great gaping holes in her rotten hull, and we could clearly hear over the idling note of our motors a loud sucking noise, as the sea eagerly invaded the barge's hull spaces through them. What stunned me more was the sudden appearance of the unknown Junk on the opposite side of the sinking barge, and people jumping on to it, who then began throwing boxes of ordnance on to the deck of the junk.

Before I could decide on a considered response, and in the blink of an eye, a millisecond, there was a great blinding flash, closely followed by an enormous, near eardrum bursting explosion, which instantly disintegrated the barge, above and below its waterline, into billions of fragments! And took the junk, and its people, with it! The shockwave produced from the detonation made a "dent" in the surface of the sea, and drove a twelve foot mini tsunami outwards from the blasts epicenter!

Traveling at an unbelievable rate it struck our boat on the stern, lifting her high then dropping her down with a bone shaking shudder, as the explosion produced tsunami tore under us, heading for the mangroves, and leaving the Mike Zippo boat lolling around in its foaming after-wash, like a playful porpoise. It then rained splinters of wood, none larger than an index finger. Our boat deck was covered with them, as was the surface of the sea.

Once the sea's turmoil returned to near normality, we cruised around the immediate area of the blast. All that was left of the barge and its cargo, the Junk and its people, was a shredded Kapoc life preserver, a few scraps of clothing, and the odd floating sandal here or there, locked within a massive raft of wood splinters, which was peacefully drifting shoreward to be deposited amongst the mangroves. On the same current and breeze our boat, and the now disposed of barge, had recently been.

Amid this raft of debris we could see the occasional splashing flurry, but they were not generated from some poor drowning sailorman's last frantic attempt at clinging to life, these were produced by fish out for an easy meal.

[MANICHAEAN]

Bernard
Ever been back? A friend of mine went on a work assignment and said he still got the "ebee jeebers " from when he was in the military.

[Armaane_Writes]

Pretty interesting, I like where the story is going. Nice work solider!

[Gimpy_Fac]

Bernard
Ever been back? A friend of mine went on a work assignment and said he still got the "ebee jeebers " from when he was in the military.

Hi M.

Yes I have, once. 108 fountains already asked me the very same question and this was my reply:

“ 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 Vietnamese had no idea that the wreck even existed. As we had to give the exact position of the wreck before permission to visit the site would be given I am convinced that the time delay in granting such permission was to allow their own Navy divers to survey the area first, for all of her ordnance and weapons had been removed.

Some people who fought there are drawn back to Vietnam time and time again, and I understand why they would be. However, my visit was to our Mike Zippo boat, and was not intended as any form of pilgrimage to the war regret others suffer from.


Take care.

Bernard

[MANICHAEAN]

So glad to hear it. Though one can be pompous enough to say they understand the hang up of all the aspects of "war regret," there are those that came out stronger. Unfortunately this was never given enough emphasis by the press coverage at the time and is only now being realised more explicitly.

In my fathers generation, they used to speak quite honestly of having had what they called " a good war." Basically, a formative experience they could talk of with more than an element of pride.

Be well and have a good Easter.
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Hi M.

I quite agree, for war regret is such a variable that it can’t easily be defined, nor explained, with just a few simple words in press coverage, or by some pompous a*s claiming to somehow understand it. We all regret something in life, and that something could be either simple or serious.

That is how it is with war regret; it is a deeply personal thing. When I say that I understand why some veterans return to Vietnam it is with the personal aspect in mind.

My father fought in the Second World War but never hankered after “Going Back” .He only ever talked of the good times, just as my grandfather did.

Take Care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Des morts en sursis

“Yup, you boat grunts are crazy fu*kers for sure! Sitting on a target filled with inflammable and explosive crap, and sailing around inviting a response from Charlie! Ok bud , 10000 rounds of mortar HE for delivery, and 4000 in AP, tracer and ball for your boats BB guns, coming right up!”

Ammunition loading port, from USN Ammo handler to Riverine, Vietnam, 1967.


It was intended to be our boats maintenance slot, but the Mike boat detailed to run munitions and supplies up to a F.O.B, forward operating base, had been ambushed. She had been hit by rocket propelled grenade and recoilless rifle fire, which resulted in her receiving severe structural damage. One of her crewmen being killed and another three wounded.

Making water and listing badly she had barely managed to limp home as dusk fell. Had they been ambushed in a canal instead of the river I doubt they would have managed the return. You simply couldn’t turn a Mike boat around in a canal that was half, at times even less, a boat’s length wide. If ambushed in a canal all that could be done tactically was to run the gauntlet of fire, and return same.

We were ordered to act as a replacement on the same detail as she. No crew ever wanted their boat to act as replacement for a damaged boat because bad luck always tended to come in threes! It was hard enough trying to survive in the boonie without increasing the risks by being ordered to take on the bad karma of others. The land grunts were in no way different to us when it came to that way of thinking.

Our military boating, in the practical, was no different from someone doing civilian boating; other than we had the added hassle of weapons, tactics, and of course water mines to contend with. Then there was at times an unpredictable enemy to consider. Following the standing order that our boat had to be in a constant “ready-to-go” state was one thing, but our own enforced protocol of checking everything at least twice still applied.

Get caught out in the boonie with no machinery power, or out of ammo and supplies, and then you were, using the most used “in-country” word of the time, fu*ked! Sure, a dead-in-the-water boat could technically be used as a fighting platform, but it wasn’t really that enthusiastically recommended. However, if one did, and rescue didn’t come quickly enough, either by another Riverine boat, or more preferable in the shape of a helicopter, then the boat would need to be abandoned, and the long walk home would begin. At which point you would end up being at the mercy of whatever the fates, jungle, but more importantly the enemy, would throw in your direction.

Then there was capture to consider, a frightening prospect in itself, and needless to say one best to be avoided at all cost. So, regardless of anyone or anything, orders or otherwise, we stuck doggedly to our double check protocol.

Checking, and checking again, turned what was a normal boring chore into a crazy rush as we prepared for the task we had been given, and this made the crew irritable. I was also in a crap mood, so came down hard on their bit*hing. Finally firing-up the boats motors we were rolling within an hour of receiving the order, everyone was pissed off, with none of the normal joking and friendly banter going on, just sullen faces.

Once maneuvered out of her berth into mid-stream, and heading down river towards the estuary at cruising speed, with the big diesels gurgling away happily, the crew resorted back to some normality. Everyone loved a night run out on the river, regardless of any lurking dangers. On a clear night, such as this was, there was always the stunning view of a blanket of stars over the silvery sheen of a moonlit river surface, and if a warm jungle scented breeze was blowing it could be quite beguiling. Had it not been for the war factor, we could easily have had a tranquil rhythm of life in the Mekong Delta.

The threat of ambush for all boat’s crews was of a constant concern. They ranked well above the water mines on our list of “biggest dangers manifesting” when out boating in Vietnam. It was always a strain, for encounters with the enemy were seldom planned. They were normally unexpected and tended to be fleeting by nature.

We had just turned off the river and into a side canal which led to the F.O.B when a B-40 rocket, rocket-propelled grenade, sailed through the air, bounced off the flamethrower turret and exploded very close to us, with pieces of shrapnel striking the full length of the hull. By instinct, we flung ourselves down, and as we did so, there was a clattering bang as a second rocket hit, but this one failed to explode!

We had no time to go peering about in the darkness of the well deck to see where the damn thing had gone, due to some shadowy figures starting to fire at us out of the canal bank reeds! Ball rounds and Tracers flashed across the boat without hitting, and we could clearly hear dull thuds as they struck trees and bored into mud on the opposite bank.

Our only available tactic was to open the throttles to their maximum and charge forward, like cavalry of old, at the same time “Fire-Trash” with multiple small-arms, the reed beds, including bringing into play our aft “quad 50’s,”whilst getting the flamethrower clicked-up and ready to burn-out the reeds. A few quick squirts of the flamethrower’s red and orange flame towards where the firing was coming from settled the issue by putting an end to the firing.

The VC were completely terrified of a Mike Zippo, for they knew that if we set fire to a reed bed in which they were hiding, they hadn’t a hope in Hades of outrunning the ensuing wildfire created. To escape the inferno they either had to jump into the canal, and take their chances against our small arms fire, or toast. Either way, it would have been a devils choice for anyone to make.

The obvious advantage to this enforced cessation in hostilities, was that we could thunder off just as fast as or propellers could shift us. This was no time to go worrying about possibly fouling a propeller, so off we went with motors racing and exhausts blaring. Like a farmer spraying cattle slurry, a mix of foul smelling canal water and bottom ooze shot out in twin jets from the rear end of our boat!

There was one draw back, as normal we were traveling at the "speed of a crippled snail!”. It was enough, and sometimes enough is all that is required in life! Charlie, having to fight his way through a near solid curtain of reeds, couldn’t keep up, even if he wanted to.

Protesting furiously at being ordered to do so, our engineer, using a flashlight, found the unexploded ordnance. It had lodged itself tightly under the well deck edge, and was bent almost double, its fuse housing distorted; hence it’s failure to explode. We had no choice but to leave it resting snugly and take it with us, praying that it didn’t change its mind and decide to detonate!

In the direction of our intended destination we could hear a small arms battle raging. Then the night sky lit up with arc lights, colored flares, and bursts of “Willie-Peter”, white phosphorous. These produced a glittering shower, similar to a fourth of July firework display; pretty to look at but deadly to be anywhere near, for once adhered to flesh it would burn to the bone. A fantastic amount of ammunition and pyrotechnics could be fired off by both sides during nighttime battles. Strange as it may seem the casualties tended to be light, on either side.

Overhead, and flying high, passed a flight of “Fast Movers”, Phantom jet fighter-bombers of the tactical air support fleet. A few minutes later a group of helicopters, made up of “Slicks”, UH-1H, Hueys, used for transporting troops in tactical assault operations, headed towards what appeared to be a quick heating up battle area.

The fast movers dropped 25-lb bombs. We felt the jarring vibrations, and heard the thumps of their detonations. And a none-too-gentle slap to our faces as the blast waves reached us. Shortly after, great slow rolling balls of black tinged fire, accompanied by a strong smell of gasoline, Napalm! Hideous stuff in the extreme, even the water surface of the swampy ground and canal would be on fire! Like the various colored defoliant agents, napalm destroyed everything it happened to came in contact with.

As there was no way on earth we were going anywhere near that battle, we set about making the boat secure in what was now a guaranteed hostile area, and wait for the fight to die-down to an acceptable level. This decision was not made through any battle reluctance; it was made through good practical thinking, in that a slow moving Mike boat and her crew wouldn’t last even five minutes in that hells cauldron. All it would do was present a mad-moment fun target for the FOB’s attackers.

The battle din crescendo reached a deafening peak, and then slowly tapered off in the night, and the deck watch heard movement along the opposite canal bank from where we were moored up, On hearing this activity they had frantically awoken me, I said “no contact”, deciding it was better to keep silent and not compromise our position. Whoever it was hadn’t seemed particularly concerned about their own safety or security, as they had made no effort to keep their voices low, but we could hear the lilting tone of Vietnamese being spoken. So off they went unmolested, for we were in no position to encourage any form of a fire-fight with an unknown enemy strength.

By the time there was enough daylight for us to clear away our standard make-shift camouflage of reeds, and get the boat moving again, the battle had faded out to an occasional pistol round going off, which we discounted as the VC dispatching their more seriously wounded. Charlie always knew exactly when to press the fight, and when not too. Something our own people in Da Nang and Saigon took a long time in learning.

As we eased our boat along-side the FOB’s half destroyed landing stage we could finally see the battle damage. It was a scene of mass destruction and desolation, Charlie had pressed the fight home and hard for sure! The FOB no longer existed, for practically nothing stood above ground level; it was just a smoking ruin of its former self. All of the plant life had been destroyed, leaves covering the ground in a dense carpet, branches and wood splinters lay everywhere. Here and there the remains of fire damaged helicopters poked up, twisted into strange obelisk like shapes.

Grey faced, helmeted, smoke blackened Marines, who never said a word, started to appear. Arising out of the green carpet of leaves, like the dead from their graves. They just stared at us with dull, near lifeless red rimmed eyes, as if we were aliens from another world invading theirs! A Marine Staff Sergeant, who had been tasked with going around any badly wounded VC giving them the coup de grâce, fired his last pistol round. Complete and utter silence descended, as if a thick cloak had been thrown over the land, shutting out all sound!

[Gimpy_Fac]

Vagues sans Gloire



“The first thing you will notice in war is that absolutely nothing, and nowhere, is safe anymore.”

Our Drill Instructor, a Veteran of the Korean War, Parris Island Graduation, 1966.



On a morning that had broken clear and sunny, our detail had started off in an agreeable and pleasurable way, with a sun-warmed little flotilla of Mike boats heading down the placid mid-channel of a brown colored, kilometers-wide Vietnam river, towards the sea in a line astern formation. Thick, tall jungle, appeared as smoky purple in the misty early sunlight, and the lush bloom spangled trees along the river’s edge subtly tinged the air with their scent.

The flotilla had consisted of two GS Mike boats, general standard cargo “humpers”, working in a troop transport role with lines of round green helmets just barely visible above their gunwales, and looking like peas in pods. Ahead, as the vanguard, an armored Monitor “Lawnmower” boat, so called due to an ability to literally “scythe” an area with its weaponry, and our dependable “Zippo” brought up the rear as stern guard.

It had been a “Sweeps and Stops” detail, a simple and deliberate military action which had entailed dropping off the human cargo of one GS Mike on the river bank near where the river estuary joined the sea, after which the troops headed inland through the reed beds and elephant grass to pre-chosen relatively clear areas, and once there to set-up choke points using stops, four man squads armed with two M60 Machine guns.

The next phase of the operation entailed the remaining boats heading out of the estuary to the mangrove mudflats which formed the chosen seashore, to an accessible point where the second GS would discharge her S V Marines. These were to act as the sweeps, a long line of Marines, who, as beaters on a bird-shoot, would drive Charlie before them to the chosen killing ground, and onto the machine gun fire of the stops.

Each of the flanks had to be secured to take care of any attempted “bug-outs”. To achieve this, two companies of SV Marines from the second GS were to cover the left flank, and as the river was effectively the right flank then the task of securing it inevitably fell to the Lawnmower boat and our Zippo, the two GS Mike boats standing by to retrieve the Marines at the mission’s conclusion.

“Sweep and Stop” operations were conducted for one reason only, and that was to clear out any VC from an area by completely annihilating him. There was never any quarter given, on either side, for Charlie soon came to realize that these were killing missions, so he reacted accordingly. Anyway, the VC very rarely gave quarter, only doing so when it suited their purposes, and even then our most seriously wounded would be killed. If taken prisoner it was a case of either being capable of marching, or you died.

I had been mighty grateful that my boots would not be stomping around in the boonie on that detail. Acting as a Sweep trying to push through twelve feet high elephant grass with a forward visibility of no more than two feet, accompanied by the ever present fear of a rifle, or pistol, round fired at point-blank range at ones face, or being a Stop, slaughtering everything which presented itself that wasn’t dressed in the same uniform as I, was, to say the least, completely devoid of appeal.

Walking on the sand with not a care, warm sun on my shoulders, a summer breeze played with my hair as the ocean hissed a mournful tune on the beach. I was lost in my dream as I napped on top of the wheelhouse in the early morning sun’s influence, until I was rudely dragged away from it, and back into the real world, by weapons noise. The Zippo’s forward 50’s had opened up with short test bursts, and then the aft quad joined them in the racket of weapons being fired.

Small, interspaced blobs of red and green light, produced by tracer rounds, lazily arced away from our boat with the normal illusion of slowing down as they reached the peak of their trajectory. Then the other boats joined us in the mad moment, for testing weapons before an operation was an imperative. The Lawnmower’s ranked mini-guns, Gatling guns, always proved the most spectacular. Firing with a sound similar to that of ripping silk, their muzzle flashes rippled along her hull in a terrifying display of fire-power, similar to cannon blasts during an ancient sea battle.

Going exactly as pre-planned we had left the first GS where she had disembarked her contingent of South Vietnamese Marines, and a small group of Special Forces who had bummed a ride, and were going off on their own somewhere. With them were a few Montagnards, a somewhat primitive highland people, who detested communism and were part of the CIDG, Civilian Irregular Defense Group, a paramilitary force working exclusively with our various Special Forces. As with their SF handlers, and trackers, they had been trained in Commando techniques at the British Jungle Warfare School in Malaysia.

Continuing down the river and out to sea, and daringly running close inshore, we headed for the next deployment point, when two great water spouts shot into the air, one ahead of our three boat flotilla, and one astern, then two bracketed the GS. The down-shower from what we took to be artillery bursts saturated the packed troops in her cargo well-deck. The rounds being possibly fired from an old Japanese 75mm field piece, abandoned at the end of World War Two, or even an NVA supplied US made “75” pack howitzer, and both of which had the easy ability to sink a Mike boat. Prudently we changed course, moving out of firing range. If a statement was required as to the Viet Cong laying claim to Delta real-estate, and his ability at hitting back, that was it.

With the tide running near the top of the flood we approached the mangrove tangles at a place known for its furious tidal rips. It had to be a quick off-loading to make the most of slack water before the turning when the ebb tide would generate the rips. Inflatable rubber boats were quickly made ready to convoy the SV Marines and their equipment ashore. Known in the service as an IBS, they were ubiquitous in Vietnam during the war, and even considered by some as easily expendable, apart from the two purloined by us from the Vietnamese Navy, as those were our “life rafts”.

Paddles were made useless by a swift current and the tidal eddies, also were outboard motors due to the shallow nature of the silted beach, with its many thousands of partially buried mangrove root snags. To get the heavily laden rubber boats ashore it had to be done by hand hauling, a continuous running line was rigged; one pulley end fastened to the bow of the now securely grounded GS Mike, the other to a large mangrove tree.

By late morning there was a menacing rough, dark line forming on the horizon, as if a child had scrawled it with a crayon between the sea and sky. In a short time the onshore wind had started to freshen, driving accompanying tropical rain in soaking sheets, and angry short waves, before it into the mangroves.

The peaked waves capsized two of the rubber boats, spilling their packed weapons and gear, which were immediately swallowed by soft, foul-smelling, black, mangrove mud. The now empty, but still tethered, rubber boats started flailing around in the wind until eventually tearing themselves free. Sailing off in the strong wind they became impaled on the mangrove roots and slowly deflated, looking more like trash stuck to a garden hedge rather than boats.

Only the life preservers worn by two Marines, who had valiantly attempted to control the madly cavorting boats, saved them from joining the weapons and gear in the morass. Having no more success at clinging on than amateur steer riders in a rodeo, they had been quickly bucked off, and into the foaming brine. But still they had a struggle remaining afloat as the waves continually rolled over them. Threatened with surface drowning they made for the mangrove tangles in an unconventional swimming style forced by fear and desperation.

My throat felt raw with shouted orders that had become empty and meaningless against the now quickly strengthening wind, which had already reached near gale force, as sweating Marines worked furiously to complete the final part of the off-loading, allowing our Zippo and the GS to reverse off the beach and head for the river at best possible speed, before the fast approaching tropical storm descended like a mad thing in flight.

Blowing out of her exhaust ports enormous clouds of blue- black diesel smoke from her overworked motors, the Lawnmower boat had managed to drag her monitor class bulk out of the beach ooze, and stood-off about two klicks out waiting on the GS Mike and our Zippo to do likewise, whilst she rolled and pitched in a rising sea she was not specifically designed to endure.

It took what seemed like an eternity in getting the GS and our Zippo off the beach and out the surf on a falling tide, to regain the relative security and safety of the open sea, and rejoin our cohort the “lawnmower” boat. A fly when adhered to fly-trapping paper must feel the same way as we did, for no matter how much power our motors produced, or every suction breaking trick tried, we were held firmly by the beach mud, and there we would have stayed until the next high tide, if not storm-wrecked beforehand.

Fate looked kindly upon us as an unusually large wave rushed in, and effortlessly lifted us up and off! Going with its after-wash, and at full throttle, we had reversed into the next hissing, roaring wave, which smashed into our sterns with a force only the sea can produce. Massive amounts of water cascaded over the boats threatening to completely swamp them.

With the only thing keeping us afloat being the inbuilt buoyancy of double-skinned hulls and with tons of seawater sloshing around in the boats altering their stability, we finally had committed to a turn with bilge pumps going flat out trying to clear the well decks of their flooding. Counting the waves from the highest to the seventh in line, in normality the shortest, and still listing dangerously, we acted in harmony and turned in its trough, both boats together as a pair of dancers would in a ballroom.

Propellers bit deeply into the face of the next surging wave, driving the pair of Mike boats upwards towards its white-capped crest, and once there perched for a second, nigh-on twenty feet in the air! With motors racing and propellers spinning, our boats unwillingly rode the wave shoreward’s as if it was a tamed beast, before gravity enforced its will, making them tip forward to slide down the waves reverse face. With bluff bow-doors hitting the trough with a booming slam, and diving into the translucent water before shaking themselves free of its grip, they started on the next climb.

There was no horizon to judge distances by as the great towering waves, and flying spume and spray, blurred out everything. We were riding on a roller coaster of the gods, where the dull sky and sea seemed to merge into varying hues of gray, blue and white. Slowly but surely we clawed our way out to deeper water, where the raging seas became just that little less steep and severe, allowing us to turn once more, and make a run for the river. The stern quarter-on sea gave the boats a corkscrewing motion so violent all hands became terribly seasick.

Sailing in such perilous seas had made the passage from the beach to the river long and agonizing, but once in the relatively calmer water it had become surprisingly quiet compared to the raging world outside. I had felt stiff and bone-weary from fighting the weather at the helm of such an ungainly craft, like an arthritic old man. Even though I was finding it hard to keep awake there was still no rest to be had for neither my crew, or I, as the mission had to be brought close as possible to its designed conclusion.

It proved to be a bitter-sweet one as our latest encounter with the forces of nature meant we had arrived too late to properly participate in the action as had been ordered. Other than the short spate of near-miss artillery rounds we had encountered no further enemy fire. Not so the river GS which we had earlier parted company with, for she had serious damage from B-40 rocket and small arms fire, and looked it by the amount of punched holes from shrapnel and rounds that riddled her hull area. In addition a rocket had penetrated the motor compartment, and exploded. It smashed the port motor killing her engineer who was working on it at the time.

The final analysis was that the mission, taken as a whole, had proved to be a waste of resources, both human and material, for what little success there was. The casualty tally being two SV Marines wounded, and one so severely he later died. The river GS engineer killed. On the Viet Cong side nine had fallen victim to the operation, and two of those were later found to be innocent civilian reed cutters, who had, in all probability, spooked at the battle noise, and then, inadvertently, coming in contact with the sweep line had been shot-down on sight without challenge.

We had needed all our seamanship skills and knowledge as we faced and endured hardships greater than those penciled in for us by the military planners in Saigon, and Da Nang, who gave the impression that they seldom took into account the temperamental weather pattern of the area. But the heroes of the day were undoubtedly our boats, for a half dozen times we had been within an ace of destruction, but still we had survived due to nothing less than their stout construction.

[Mike Tevion]

Excellent and interesting Bernard, keep it up.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks Mike, very much appreciated.

Take care,
Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Le fou Courir


“Bro! The 1960’s Nam code of the Grunt says that If there is even a remote chance for survival, don’t go fu*king around trying to be a dead hero, grab it with both hands!”

Corporal “Bayou” Lejeune , Plain of Reeds, Vietnam, The Summer of 67.


To be suddenly surprised by the enemy when in jungle is a terrifying experience, and the Marine Corps training manual states that you must know the distinction between cover and concealment. The first may give you some protection against any incoming enemy fire; the second only keeps you out of his line of sight. Ok, fine, but in jungle it is odds-on that neither of them will stop 150 grains of full metal jacket travelling at 2750 feet per second.

Oh how we detested leaving the sanctuary of our Mike boat, but it became more and more demanded of us as Charlie honed his guerrilla tactics into perfection. First he would ambush a boat with a light force, similar in size to a standing patrol, about three or four guys. They would fire a few rocket and small arms rounds at the Mike, and then withdraw at speed when we dumped snatch squads, made up of SV Marines and Mike crews, on the river and canal banks. Forcing us to pursue them deeper, and deeper, into the jungle they would re-group and hit us in force. Inevitably, our casualty rate started to soar, just as they did for Charlie in these vicious and costly skirmishes. However, the VC didn’t seem to give a fu*k how many guys they lost.

Standing orders gave us no other option than to pursue these small enemy groups. Everyone knew it was a dumb fu*king idea crawling all over the jungle hunting a few guys, when all the time knowing that a large attacking force was lurking somewhere ready to rip into us hoping to raise their kill tally

After one such an ambush we had moved a considerable distance into the jungle so decided to stop for the night. We sent out a listening patrol. These were normally two guys who would quietly walk a track for say fifty meters or so, stop, close their eyes and listen. Then, after a minute or two, move on for another fifty. They would continue in that way for about a klick, and then head back. It took a couple of seconds for your ears to tune into the night sounds but it was extremely effective.

Then in the early light our tracker found fresh evidence of movement heading to the west of our night harbor, so we quickly packed up and headed off to track them. We had been moving for about three hours when the tracker gave the stop sign and we went to ground. The tracker had found fresh spoor, track signs, converging on his original that we were following. It looked like a large force was building so we sent him and a SV Marine scout forward to check it out. They returned about half an hour later to say a force numbering about thirty Viet Cong were just ahead of us. They were heavily equipped with a variety of weapons which included our most feared, the RPG. With an unpredictable burst radius, depending on what they hit, they were deadly when used by the experienced.

What happened next only took a second to register and it scared the fu*king crap out of me! For running down the track towards us was the thirty or so VC our tracker and scout had spotted! All that we had available was a lightly armed six guy force, made up of the tracker, two SV Marines, and three of my boat crew, one of which was I. The shock was electrifying, excuse the pun, for all six of us dived into the jungle and took off in varying directions.

Not exactly a glorified exit I admit, but we stood absolutely no chance in a fire-fight against so many. Sure, we could have done a “Sergeant York” and stood our ground in the face of overwhelming odds, but we would all have died doing it. So, working on that time old human principle of fight or flee, common sense ruled the day with flee, in that it was every man for himself! We went crashing off headlong through the undergrowth, with birds screaming in alarm and animals running in fear, just like we were!

I knew that our radio guy would have ignored the normal Morse protocol, and instead be screaming a warning over the radio to the other snatch squads following. Once compromised as we were, radio security was pointless. They in turn would head for a pre-arranged emergency RVP, rendezvous point. There to set up a strong perimeter defense, and wait for any of us who made it. They would wait at the very utmost eight hours, but more than likely less. Anyone who arrived after that would have to take their chances, and try to walk back alone, regardless of their physical condition.

Like any of us, our radio guy would not ditch his gear to enable a faster legging, which would simply be like a signed death warrant in the jungle. All you have is your gear, for your gear is your life! Loose your gear and then break a leg, or anything else, tear some skin, and with no compass, medical help or ability to make fire then you are guaranteed fu*ked! Better to sit against a tree and blow your brains out than face the inevitable agonizing slow death which would follow. As the risk of being captured was high he would only get rid of the radio, by smashing and burying it, in so doing denying a freebie communication monitoring point to the enemy.

Head down, and with helmet on I just ran for it! Legging it as fast as I could, trying to put distance between any human being in near proximity to myself. As I ran, I could hear barked shouts of command in Vietnamese. Then, short bursts of automatic gunfire. I automatically ducked as I heard the “Zing” of rounds as they passed over my head. I also knew the enemy would become the hunters in a role reversal. Just like we they would quickly break down into teams of three or four and follow each of the spoors heading off in varying directions deep into the jungle.

Our guys, if they caught any of them, would be beaten bloody then dragged off to some stinking North Vietnamese sh*thole, and be used like a pawn in a chess game, and if lucky possibly sold back. The tracker and the SV Marines, being local guys, would be killed. If they found any alive, they would dig a hole in the jungle floor, pistol shoot him in his elbows and knees, then place him at the bottom of the hole and piss off leaving him there. Unable to do anything but scream he would just lay there until everything within a reasonable distance of him that could crawl, slither, walk, fly or run, would fast as possible be heading in his direction for a free feast.

If found dead he would be left there, just like any of us, as a food source for the jungle. I knew that armed with a Colt 1911 Auto he would choose the better option. I did not have that kind of courage, so was spurred on by the thought of it. I started heading for our emergency RVP, and its safety. I could hear behind my enemy laughing excitedly as they locked onto my spoor. The chase had begun in earnest!

Within twenty minutes of running, I was on my chinstrap; the humidity was literally killing me! The sweat poured from my pores and my head was swimming, and if I did not change my tactics, and very quickly, I would collapse. Unable to defend myself my pursuers would have me and the beatings and humiliation would begin.

This had happened before on the training course in Florida. It was basically the same scenario minus the possible deadly outcome. There I was, confidently bombing along when, without warning, I collapsed; the training team caught up with me and slapped me about a little in punishment. They pressed home the need to think, to remain in control!

Every blow I received from the training team was to emphasize each verbal lesson in survival. “Don’t run blindly, for we will catch you! Don’t dehydrate, for we will catch you! Don’t be overly defensive, for we will catch you! Don’t assume we are superior, for we will catch you! “Every statement made had an emphasis and that was a hard slap! Now it was my time to emphasize, to give the enemy my form of hard slap. This would be my tactical change, to attack! It is known to those with military service as the Aggressive Defense Action.

I burrowed backwards into the soft moss covering the jungle floor beneath some large leaved fauna and waited. Within a few minutes four figures appeared intently searching the track in front of them. A quick burst of fire and two went down, either intentionally to cover, or from being hit by my rounds. The other pair remained standing, another quick burst to disorganize those remaining upright. Then I was up and off again!

The jungle is not only the impenetrable mass as shown in War and adventure movies, where every step requires a pre-whack with a panga or machete at the foliage. Far from it, it is also crisscrossed with a myriad of tracks, both animal and human. Animals are not stupid, unlike some humans, for when animals make a regular track it is for them to make a safe and swift passage, and it was down one of those which I ran!

After another klick I was on the very edge of collapse again, and I knew it! I had uncontrollable heart palpitations, my breathing rasped in my throat and the sweat gushed from me as my body made one last brave, and defiant, attempt to keep going by mass cooling. Only those who have been this close to the end of their physical stamina will know as to what I am referring .Then salvation, in the form of our emergency RVP, where I literally just passed out at the feet of a forward sentry. Lucky for me he defied his standing orders and did not fire at the staggering, exhausted fool who had fallen out of the jungle!

[108 fountains]

It seems to me that in the last few installments, you've really found your voice. This last one and the piece above entitled Encalminé not only were filled with tension and excitement, but also were very well-written. When I cruised in the same canals, around Can Tho and further south around Ca Mau, about 30 years after you did, in much more peaceful times, I often imagined what it would be like to be aboard a Mike boat in these small waterways with a possible attack always looming, always threatening around the next bend. Your descriptions bring those imaginings to life.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks.

Your cruising the canals and rivers of South Vietnam was no different than I doing the same on a Mike boat, other than I had to contend with the dangers of war. Had it not been for those dangers it would have been an exceptionally pleasurable experience, for the Vietnamese people are friendly and welcoming, as are the vast majority of the world’s population, when left to live out their lives in peace.

Unfortunately, the politicians, and others, always seem to find a way to frustrate the fulfillment of what is the most basic of human desires.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Bateau de la Mort


“An AK 47 has a powerful reputation; is brutally simple, easy to operate, and has a noticeable popping-rattling sound when fired. But don’t go picking one up on a battlefield, for I will guarantee that due to its distinctive noise and silhouette some dumb fu*king cherry will blow your brains out, thinking you are Charlie! “

Weapons of your enemy orientation lecture, Port Everglades, 1966.



When going on missions in the Plain of Reeds, our Mike boat normally set out from one of the forward support bases which were some distance away from our main base at the Colonial boat yard. Lying close to our areas of operation, the forward bases were heavily fortified and defended by artillery and mortar capability.

Some of the forward bases were built in the style of the old French forts, which were triangular in shape. The bases perimeters were a mass of barbed wire tangle-foot and razor wire, interspaced with claymore mines. Some had foo-gas, a mixture of explosives and napalm in fifty-gallon drums buried at the points of their triangles, or a particular strategic point, which would be detonated in a last resort scenario, such as in the event of the base being overrun. When the war visited these forward bases it proved to be medieval in its barbarity.

A couple of Vietnamese teenagers had come to a forward base our boat was operating from with an intriguing story about one of our boats lying empty in the river, and not very far from their village. They were Hoa Hao Buddhists; a sect that was fiercely anti-Communist, so could be trusted. A gunship, armed helicopter, was dispatched on a reconnaissance flight, and true to what the teenagers had said, there she was, lying against the river bank. It required recovering, and our boat pulled the detail.

There had been a thin, mist like drizzle falling from an unexpectedly gloomy sky as we approached the grounded Tango boat. All that could be heard was the rhythmic rumble of our motors pulsing away at the lowest revolutions that could be set. The jungle on each side of us had taken on a look of foreboding, as if it was a haunted house, daring us to enter at our peril.

Hung-up on the riverbank she looked abandoned, and to any landsman, probably seemed a wreck, in the way a proud ship would, having been caught in a storm and driven ashore, there to be left broken and discarded. The Tango boats’ gently fluttering and wind ragged ensign gave off a sense of loneliness, as if she missed her crew who had taken themselves off somewhere never to return.

Stopping our motors to drift alongside we passed mooring lines on to her, tying them off swiftly using half-hitches, easy to put on, and just as easily taken off when in a hurry if any rounds came our way. All the time speaking with low, soft voices, as though desperate not to break an atmospheric spell by any loud talking. Then, exercising great caution we boarded the grounded boat, with weapons off the lock and at the ready, our movements slow and quiet.

What greeted us could not have been expected by anyone, for there was no sign of life and the Tango boat had the look of a homicidal maniac having been let loose on her. There were great pools of semi-congealed blood that moved with feasting maggots, their parent flies rising in buzzing clouds, annoyed at being disturbed when doing their natural work. Her blood spattered mounted weapons were pointing skyward, as when used in an air-defense role, and spent cartridges of varying calibers, by the hundreds, were scattered everywhere. But there was no crew; she was a river Marie Celeste! My mind, although stiff with the mystery that now filled it, knew that it was not possible for all hands to be lost in that area without someone knowing the reason why!

Our boat had been dispatched to recover the Tango boat, not to go traipsing about the jungle looking for her missing crew, but we did it anyway, after spotting what looked like blood trails. We moved through the scattered scrub of the riverside, then thickets of bamboo, and on into the secondary jungle following the recent trodden path. I had felt a wave of nausea sweep over me, for beneath the shadow of some sapling trees we had found them, lying in a rough pile, like cut wood destined for a stove, and naked as when born, other than socks.

Regardless of whoever had stripped them, or why, it was of everything else. To me that pitiful pile bore all the hallmarks of an action by the Dac Cong, the Viet Cong Special Forces, and the Delta District’s Mobile Company, a large and ruthless Viet Cong fighting unit. Both were amongst the most evil minded motherfu*kers that could be encountered in the Vietnam War.

The cadavers had taken on that gray-green porcelain look specifically reserved for the recently departed when starting out in the process of mortification. The stench of death mingling with the sweet smelling blooms and fungus funk of the jungle made me gag; overpowering aromas never to be forgotten. A head count revealed one man was missing from the crew of the Tango boat, if he was a prisoner there was nothing to be done, if not, and in hiding, or lying dead somewhere, it was beyond our immediate resources to find him. It had to be faced without any feeling of guilt, as I had to concentrate on recovering the grounded boat, and more importantly, the dead.

There were no glad bags, body bags, on either boat, so poncho liners were used to wrap them in, and each securely tied off with cut lengths taken from a heaving line. Waving palm fronds to disperse what seemed like billions of flies, all the time retching uncontrollably at the foulness, for even with wetted rags tied around our faces, in such a way to cover the nose and mouth, there was no escaping it, we set about the disgusting work of transferring each dead man from the bloated pile onto a poncho liner.

My conscience, eventually getting the better of me over the missing crewman, made me decide to give the near-area a swift sweep. He had crawled to a tree and lay there, propped up against it and waited for the end. With a terrible wound to the abdomen, it must have taken a heroic effort, and I wondered how many horrors he had witnessed during the deaths of his shipmates as machine guns rattled, and rounds whined and whirred through the air. The Poor fu*ker looked as if he’d never made it a day past twenty. One long nightmare of pain before dying alone in a stinking jungle at the a*s-end of Vietnam, what an epitaph!


“No one can tell how much future they may have, so if you are killed or wounded the next rank in line will take over. There is no need to be a hero, just do your duty, nothing more is required of you,” had said a barnacle of a Chief Petty Officer during a lecture on marine craft operation. Well, the sailor propped against the tree had done his duty and was killed doing it, but there were no ranks on his boat to take over, that was for sure, the next rank in line had to come from our boat.

Searching for, and recovering the Tango boats’ crew meant I had taken, by far, too much upon myself by irresponsibly placing my boat and crew in what could be claimed at a later date as unwarranted harms way. For during the Vietnam War everything had to be done exactly by the book, grunts had been court-martialed for even a minor deviation from orders, or the Rules and Regulations, and ended up in the stockade at Long Binh. Regardless of what may have come later, the decision had been made.

When in the final stages of loading our cargo of dead brothers-in-arms onto our boat, laying each one down in the well-deck, with as much respectful deference as could be mustered, considering the stomach churning stench, there came from far off, deep within the jungle, the unmistakable sound of a 14.5 mm KPV heavy machine gun being fired, accompanied by muffled, undetermined excited shouting, and the sharp barking of a dog.

An aircraft with its motor giving off an unstable sound, and oily black smoke dribbling from behind the propeller, came barreling over the river from the direction of the firing. It was a Skyhawk with South Vietnamese Air Force markings, the “Crazy Water Buffalo” as their pilots called them.

We could clearly see the pilot staring down at us, and lifting a hand in the form of a salute. There were holes in the fuselage made by large caliber rounds, then the dribble of smoke burst into a flame-studded swirling cloud as its’ motor gave one noisy cough and stopped! Heading off in the direction of the coastal airstrip, it glided on out of sight, a few moments later there was the thump of a small explosion, and a sliver of ochre colored smoke rose in the distance.

The crashed aircraft was the herald for an urgent departure, flushed with success upon success, Charlie would be hunting for new victims, possibly by blocking the river where it narrowed a couple of klicks up from where we were by using a makeshift log and chain boom, it had been done before with stunning results. A couple of PBR’s, Patrol Boat River, had struck one when traveling at speed. Being hung-up on the boom and unable to break free Charlie had set about chopping them into chunks with recoilless rifle fire, and although giving a spirited defense the majority of their crews were either wounded or killed.

If a Mike boat hit such a boom I knew there need be no fear of the result, because its mass alone would probably break the chains. However, as the Tangos motors would not start-up, our Mike, acting in the way of a towboat, would make hitting one a completely different ball of wax. Quickly readying for the tow, a bridle was fastened onto the bow cleats of the Tango boat and a heavy steel-wire towing warp shackled onto the centre of the bridle, and made fast to our boat.

Then, with our hull shuddering and shaking under the strain, we hauled her out for the hopefully event free long run home. But along came a disaster, when there was an ominous loud “twang”, accompanied by the clang of metal being struck, and the hull lurched with such force it made me stagger, for as in some farcical sketch the wire towing warp had parted, allowing the Tango boat to shoot-off on its own! Carried along by the strong river current she grounded hard on a mid-stream sand bar before our boat could catch up with the runaway, and refused all our efforts to pull her off.

Outwardly I gave the impression of sheer frustration at not being able to recover her as ordered, but inwardly I was jumping for joy. I couldn’t believe my luck at the parting of the tow wire and the Tango deciding on going her own way. No towing meant a faster run back, depending on Charlie not screwing it up! The only chores left were to remove her weaponry, and flood out her motor room by cutting the main cooling pipes. Eventually, she would be either salvaged or destroyed by aircraft targeting, either way, we were done.

As some of the crew took a “Gods Shower” in what seemed as never ending rain, I stood at the stern of our Mike next to the crewman on the aft quad 50’s watching the now half sunken Tango fade into the misty distance, the boat looked even more forlorn, for not wanting to give Charlie a war trophy the crewman tasked with retrieving her weapons had also removed her ensign. I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a small pack of blood smeared letters from home. On my final quick look around onshore I had found them lying next to the river’s edge. The first few lines of the top letter told me they were from a mother to her son.

I pondered on the faceless admin officer who would write to, and forward the sons personal effects to his mother. He would write using melancholy words, saying that her sons place in the military would not be easily filled, and expressing manifest feelings of sorrow over his untimely death. Even though he had never known of his existence he would act as if he had served with him. I dropped the blooded letters into our churning prop-wash. The quad 50’s gunner caught my eye, and gave a little nod of approval.

My thoughts then turned to a very dangerous subject by starting to wonder who would write such a letter to a dead VC’s mother. Thankfully, my training took over and I immediately rejected such foolish thoughts, for we had been taught in the Marine Corps that to give a human face to the enemy seriously reduced your ability to kill him, and therefore, by that measure, increased his ability to kill you!

[Mike Tevion]

That is another classic story Bernard. The brave South Vietnamese pilots who flew Skyhawks were undervalued, underfed and underpaid.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Many thanks mike.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Une âme perdue


“Insects, and botulism bacterium, poison molecules injected when bitten or stung, malaria, typhoid and cholera. These are but a few of your worst enemies in the jungle. Forget about Charlie, he is tame compared to these little suckers; anyway, bugs bite and kill him, just as they will bite and kill you! “

Riverine survival lecture 8, Florida Everglades, 1966.



The living area on our Mike Zippo was small, adequate, even considered by others as unfairly comfortable. Minimalism in military life is an absolute requirement, just as civilian boat living is. Clutter just gets in the way of efficiency, so claimed the Marine Corps training manual.

One great advantage we had over the land Marines was that we did not have to sleep out in the mud and rain when operational in the boonie. With the exception of when any jungle time came our way, and if that time came when the monsoon season hit, then our life turned into a soaking wet, mosquito biting, insect ravaged, fu*king misery!

There is no need for someone to go on a seek-and-find mission aboard a spacecraft, whizzing around the outer reaches of our solar system, or beyond, and boldly go to find a planet inhabited by frighteningly strange looking, vicious and deadly life forms. All they have to do is crawl around in a jungle, right here on this planet called earth, and I absolutely guarantee they will not be disappointed.

Rain! Again! Torrential rain, which dumped so much moisture into the fetid air to be found under the jungle canopy that it felt as if we were drowning with every breath we took! Standing on our boat’s deck stark naked, and taking one of “god’s showers” in warm tropical rain was one thing, but squatting for dubious shelter under a broad leafed plant in the jungle, whilst being pissed on by the very same warm tropical rain, as it cascaded down in a Niagara Falls like torrent from the upper canopy, and bringing with it a myriad of all sorts of nasty, weird and biting bugs, was quite another!

As soon as these washed down bugs hit the jungle floor, and recovered composure, their little legs carried them at speed to the nearest available food sources. Needless to say, that those food sources which they eagerly sought after being us, for indeed they proved ravenous.

I was absolutely furious at out latest NFG, new fu*king guy. For, acting like a damn tourist he had gone wandering off from the boat into the jungle when we had stopped to clear her propellers of river trash, a regular requirement, especially in the monsoon season. One guy had seen him leave, and had not thought the NFG’s action of leaving the boat important enough to report it at the time.

Rightly so I was furious with our wanderer, and at the guy who should have told me, for they had not acted in a proper military fashion, and had placed my boat and her crew in an unwelcome, and extremely dangerous situation, by forcing us to remain static for longer than was prudent, in an area know to be hot with Charlie’s aggressive fighting patrols. In addition, the Vietnamese jungle was, and still is, no place in which to get lost, either in war or in peace. You can wander in circles in any jungle anywhere until you just drop from exhaustion and expire, and you may never be found.

Taking two of the crew along with me, one of whom was the crewman who was amiss in not reporting the NFG leaving, we entered the jungle at the point where the wanderer was last seen. After an hour or so of fruitless searching, and as night was closing fast, I decided to wait until first light before continuing, one halfwit adrift being enough! Anyway, there would be little, if any, spoor to follow. The waterfall like downpour saw to that.

That night spent in the jungle proved to be a living nightmare! We fought what seemed as a losing battle against an army of bugs. I felt that I was beating myself to death, as if caught up in a form of demonic ritual, for I slapped at myself until near senseless in that bug war. Had any of us been an entomophobic, they would have experienced such a panic blow-out at the sheer size of some bugs that were scuttling around, at times over us, they would have run off screaming in the style of a mental asylum escapee, into the jungle. As it happened, none of us were.

We fought those bugs in a near pitch-black environment. However, occasionally a break would appear in the downpour, allowing silvery beams of moonlight to spear down through the canopy, and illuminate the jungle floor in a green-tinged, spectral light. When that happened, the larger of the bugs, would scamper away and gives us a small respite. Unfortunately, those few moments of big, bug-less, bliss, were sparse in appearing.

Morning’s first glow forced the vast majority of the bug army to retreat, probably to re-group for another major assault when darkness returned. However, I had no intension of allowing them their will. We were utterly exhausted from lack of sleep, and above all we had no coffee! There was a critical need for coffee when out in the boonie, just like a drugs dependant smack-head needs their morning fix, we needed coffee! It would instantly start to strip away the tiredness and nervousness. It was a fact of life that grunts could barely function without it. C ration coffee was atrociously disgusting stuff, horribly bitter. However, just breathing in the aroma could have a near magical effect on a grunt’s morale.

Accompanied by squadrons of mosquitoes, and a black mass of various flying insects, which dived in with glee to attack any exposed skin, we set off to start the search again. A few hours into it, and thousands of bug bites later, I was just about to call off and return to the boat when an excited shout went up, "Hey! Look at this!" One of the crew was holding a “Steel Pot”, a helmet, aloft in triumph. "I told you Sarge, this would be a likely place to look!” He added loudly. I stopped, turned, and said in response to his cockiness, “So what, do you want a numba-ten mamasan in reward? Knock off the self congrats and keep on looking, with mouth firmly shut!”

Noise in the jungle can be heard hundreds of meters from its source, and there I had an idiot shouting at the top of his voice, and probably scaring the crap out of everything that relied on hearing as a form of defense. Worst of all, if Charlie was sniffing around, then that one careless shout would act as a homing beacon. We now had to head for the boat soon as!

Infantry training encourages a commander, at whatever their rank value, to pick the ground on which to stand and fight, thus denying the enemy an advantage. Fighting bugs in the dark on their chosen ground, well, ok. However, fighting Charlie on his home ground in the dark, and with no chance of support, then, no way! The likelihood of loosing more guys in an unfavorable skirmishing fire-fight wouldn’t find the one who was already lost through his own irresponsible actions.

The other crewman found an M16 rifle in near pristine condition, and then noticed he was standing beside an indentation in the jungle floor; he looked around and could see another similar to the one he was standing beside. "Hey, guys, what do you think these are?" he asked in a low voice, pointing out the depressions on the ground. “Probably old shell scrapes" said the helmet finder with confidence, but this time he also kept his voice down. "Looks more like graves to me!" said the indentation finder warily.

I looked down with a frown at the grave like indentations on the ground, but instantly dismissed them. For if they were graves, they were too old for one to be holding the guy we were searching for. Anyway, Charlie only buried our dead Special Forces, in an attempt to keep us guessing as to their whereabouts. So I took a grid reference for them, just in case some SEAL team or other had been reported adrift. Charlie never wasted time, nor expended valuable energy, burying our dead grunts. In normality he just left them where they fell.

As the light started to fade, the finds of discarded gear grew more infrequent, like the paper trail of a game running out. But that was no game to be played, that was deadly serious. Literally, for the missing guy, as the time I had allotted to the finding of him was truly up. To search longer would have been pressing our luck just a little too far for comfort.

That time our luck held, for no weapons firing had been heard from the direction of the river. If Charlie had attacked the boat, then the remaining crew would have returned fire, opened the throttles and pissed off, leaving us to our own devices. With all that in mind we made one last visual sweep, and then I ordered a speedy return to the boat, before evenings black blanket fell upon the jungle, and its bug army set out on their nightly foraging.

[MANICHAEAN]

Bernard, there are those that write from imagination, and then there are those that write based on experience. Yours is the latter. But it is something more. There is an intensity in it which gets my attention every time, combined with a flow that would be the envy of many writers. This is especially so regards the responsibilities of command under the most adverse of conditions. There is the cold reality of the Marine code, but you always introduce in there, the human qualities.
Best regards
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Hi M.

Many thanks for your kind words.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Ordres Mouvement


“The best plan in the world will fail if you cannot communicate it. Similarly, a poor plan can be saved by good confident orders. Only competent orders will leave a Marine in no doubt as to what is expected of him.”

Selections board, NCO leadership training, 1966.



The sun appeared, rising above the horizon like a giant shell-burst, laying a line of gold along the top of the surrounding trees. It replaced a night of torrential rain with a day of glorious sunshine and wispy cirrus clouds. From the blue-gray wash of the false dawn our Mike Zippo had been used by gaggles of iridescent dragonflies as a bug aircraft carrier.

Those wondrous insects had dried their wings and preened themselves like birds in the sunbursts tendrils of light, preparing for feasting on the first appearing flies of the day. As if a signal had been given they suddenly rose amass into the air, all facing the same way, and hovering like helicopters absorbed the early sun’s energy giving warmth, before some individuals started breaking up the formation by spearing-off after prey.

As was becoming the norm, our boat had been ordered straight into another detail without respite. I couldn’t sleep, for even in my exhausted state sleeps velvet embrace was eluded, and I had taken the deck watch upon myself, leaving my crew deep in their comatose like slumber. However, it was more through a case of selfishness that I had left them to their dreams, or nightmares, for I dearly cherished those little snippets of solitude away from my fellow crewmen. Everyone had some means of leisure time employment; otherwise the individual could quite easily trespass close to insanity, my own was a craving for solitude.

It was the smell of coffee that brought the crew to life, and they heard our orders with sick hearts, for they knew it was going to be a highly dangerous situation we would find ourselves in, making their scorn for our superiors whom they considered incompetent click up another notch. Such was the dearth of suitable boats our orders to move had been left nigh-on too late as usual, even though the situation for the South Vietnamese Marines relying on us was deteriorating hour by hour.

On such a fine morning the river was packed solid with traffic and all going in various directions without any heed for the “rules of the road”. A small fleet of Sampans which got in the way of a charging ferry were swamped, spilling their market goods as they slowly sank, PBR’s and Swift boats darted about like terriers chasing rats, an ancient river dredger blocked the channel when her boiler blew. With all this and more going on, it took an absolute eternity for our boats to muster into any resemblance of order before heading off to find a suitable spot for embarking the SV Marines. The sheer volume of troops waiting to be recovered made the use of helicopters completely out of the question, the only way was by boat, and it was down to us.


The raging battle had lasted all day and the casualty rate had been awesome, in the region of four hundred dead and as many wounded, yet still more Viet Cong and North Vietnamese regulars had been thrown at it again and again, trying to force the battle front. The critical part was that their training had been insufficient so they had no idea of a need in battle for independent action, but their zeal for the communist cause made them idiotically brave, as if it was a virulent infectious disease that drove them to self-sacrifice, as their numbers were decimated by the SV Marines more rushed in to take their place.

To win, modern infantry must fight an aggressive war of fluid movement, one where even the smallest of opportunities are seized upon, and then ruthlessly exploited. In such fighting the section commanders initiative becomes king, but Charlie hung on to the futility of frontal mass attacks, and although success with press of numbers went into military planners trash cans decades before, the NVA senior commanders still clung to it. Rushing forward with a grand hurrah! And the blowing of tuneless bugles to boost moral, only resulted in their troops being slaughtered. The moving spirit behind such an outmoded tactic was the North’s General Giap

From the moment our boats sailed into view from around a bend in the river, machine guns rattled and rifles cracked, as Charlie opened fire on them from along the line of a low ridge. Following the cardinal rule “Obey the order first, ask questions later” that had been drummed into each and every one of us, the Tango boats, braving a deluge of fire which included mortar rounds and B40 rockets, dropped their bow doors onto the riverbank. The SV Marines having held out for over a day against phenomenal odds, soaked, miserable and hungry, awaited the order to withdraw, but instead received a hopeless disarray of counter orders, or lack of orders, and leaving behind those beyond help flooded aboard the Tangos, all the time returning fire as they went. To my sheer surprise they managed it without taking further casualties.


Lending our armaments to the covering fire, and standing there like a Marine in a recruiting poster, with incoming rounds banging and sparking off the gun-shield, our gunner had become battle-crazed. As the forward fifty’s sprayed the ridge two more black clad figures of a machine gun crew skidded and cart-wheeled down the slope, their bodies torn and bleeding. One stood up, then staggered and fell, and the next burst smashed him to a bloody pulp. Another burst from the 50’s towards the ridge was immediately followed by distant shouts of “ ban thiu quy - chung ta giet bạn! “, “dirty devil - we kill you!” as the return fire intensified and kept on coming in regular bursts. It became so heavy it rattled off the hull like hail stones hitting a tin roof! One round passed through my shirt just below the armpit as I dived headlong for the steel sanctuary that was the well- deck!

Charlie’s machine gun crews proved not to be the mad rushing fools of their infantry, instead they were amongst the best trained, and had taken on a personal battle with our gunner, whose own prowess at reducing their numbers had been proven. To concentrate an apex of rounds on him, they had begun “walking” machine gun fire over the riverbank towards our boat! There was something surreal in watching rounds trimming the grass and marsh plants, with a cricket-like chirping sound, as if an invisible gardener was at work.

Just on the point of my bringing our flamethrower into action, and although Charlie was out of range for an effective display, it would act as a distraction against the ever increasing rounds being directed at our boat. When, throwing everyone into confusion, and without explanation, the firing suddenly ceased, apart from the odd rifle going off. At first I thought my senses were playing tricks, as just audible to the ear came the sound of jet whine, which, in what seemed like no more than a second, grew into a whooshing roar as a “V” formation of fast movers, F4 Phantoms, flashed over the now near silent battlefield. Wiggling their wings as a signal for us to keep our heads down they came back running parallel to the river on what looked like a strafing run over Charlie’s positions, making him come back to life and start concentrating his gunfire on the fast movers.

Ye who challenge the Valkyrs, let all hope abandon! For completely ignoring the small-arms ground fire and the occasional rocket propelled grenade, the lead aircraft came in low and fired rockets, the second dropped 25lb bombs, which detonated with a thunderous rumble and the blast waves made the air rock and quiver, the third blanketed the rocket and bomb carnage with napalm. At slightly higher ground behind the low ridge a line of little dark figures appeared in the distance, dancing and cavorting in mortal agony as the liquid fire engulfed them, a scene which chilled the blood! Carried upon the air came a nauseating smell, that of burnt flesh, and the sound of crackling flames mingled with pitiful screaming. Thankfully, billowing, dark brown smoke, full of flying sparks, lifted into the sky, blotting the horror from view.

With the surviving SV Marines and their casualties finally secured aboard the Tango’s I started our diesels and opened the throttles, drawing our boat away from the riverbank meant we had become sailors once more. To the crew I looked for signs of enthusiasm, but there was none, for no one could possibly come away from such military actions without eyes older than their years, and a mind dazed and bludgeoned. The battle had died with an immense sense of utter futility, and as such, was mourned by no one.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother, you tell it as it was! I laughed at the “Orders”, clear and precise were hard to come by. During the battle of Hue we advanced up to the shrine of the warrior, and then withdrew from it, eight times each way in one hour due to cr+p “Orders”.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Yes Charlie, I at times wondered how the hell some were actually allowed to play so fast-and-loose with grunts lives the way they did when giving out “orders”.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Lutte à la Corde.

“There is an ever increasing danger of boats being ambushed by the VC. Our main bases are now fairly secure, but that danger will escalate the further out you travel from them. Obviously the best way to avoid such a risk is to travel in convoy as lone boats are a prime target. But since the vast majority of our military operations are a compromise between capabilities, resources and cost, you will just have to accept that risk. “

Mike boat operations oversight briefing, Colonial Boat Yard, Vietnam, 1967.



The laughter was highly infectious as it rippled along the landing stage amongst the other boat’s crews, like a distant ship’s bow wave as it finally reaches the shoreline, for we were reading within the “Stars ‘n’ Bars”, Stars and Stripes newspaper, the latest offering of jingoisms from the politicians, sitting safe, snug and secure within their plush surroundings back in the world, the USA.

Sailing orders had always been a subject up for conjecture by the crew, and that trip proved no different, for uneasy rumors abounded as to where we were going, and what we would be doing when we got there, but three things were guaranteed whatever the truth behind those rumors, there would be mosquitoes, oppressive humidity, and Charlie! There was a nasty feeling in the air that we were about to be sent into harms way on one more seemingly pointless whimsical errand.

The plan was to be a very simple one, and my interest instantly picked up at such a bold claim, for I thought, but hell, are not all military plans supposedly so designed? What concerned me greatest was the part of the briefing which stated that no alternative plan was required. At NCO school, they had told us that when planning any action there must be an alternative plan ready to go, just in case the enemy fu*ks-up the original plan by doing the complete opposite of what was thought he would! In fact it happened quite often during the Vietnam War, and I never heard of any American military commander truly capable of understanding the oriental mind, as their unpredictability made it quite impossible to know which way they would jump next. Consequently, the western habit of predictability definitely proved to be one great disadvantage in the war.

So, sure, there it was, the errand! Two Mike boats, a “Zippo” and a “Lawnmower”, detailed to escort an iron tug of dubious vintage, which had survived longer than her builders ever intended. The creaking maritime relic, looking as though she had been paroled from an asylum for end-of-life steam tugs, would be towing a dumb barge, packed to the gunwales with construction material, nearly one hundred klicks up a Charlie infested river to one of our furthest out forward operations bases, and hopefully back, without any contingency to back us up!

The briefing officer’s response to the boat commanders’ objections was that our military resources were, as he put it, “required on more tactically important tasks”. However, he did suggest that if things turned bad we should use our initiative and improvise, which we would do anyway! Unfortunately, the ability to improvise was no substitute for reliable military support when such was required.

Everyone serving knew that all military plans must be kept simple, because under pressure men’s minds get tired, and they also knew that there were some real dumb-a*s “Butter Bars”, Officers, serving in Vietnam who could take what seemed like a lifetime to absorb even the most basic of plans. Once they did, their enthusiasm for the fight would run away with them by believing that the plan would overcome all difficulties. Unfortunately, most of the time they were proven disastrously wrong in pinning their faith to something that proved no more than false premises and great optimism. Just as an over-complicated plan is more difficult to change, and will usually end in failure, so is a simple one without an alternative written into it!

To make matters worse for our boat, we had been saddled with an overly keen young “Butter Bar”, one of the beardless boy churn-outs from an ROTC College, a real “Shake ‘n’ Bake” type. His grandfather had been amongst the great philanthropists, but that particular inspirational part of his supplied gene-pool had unfortunately been lost to him. However, he did consider himself as being “born to lead”, but such arrogance of self belief could hardly inspire anyone.

On deciding that our Zippo boat was to be his “war teething ring”, as he liked to term it, had taken over the helm, much to the dismay of the crew who reckoned that he wouldn’t be getting many bets on becoming, “The Officer most likely to succeed in the Corps”. A good Officer, amongst other required attributes, leads by the respect from others, “notices” what is going on around him, has an inquiring mind, and can express himself clearly, whereas that guy walked around with a cold-as-ice attitude towards subordinates, and like a horse wearing blinkers saw practically nothing, but thought he already knew absolutely everything, and gave out orders that were muddled and hard to understand.

He soon found out that our particular Mike Zippo was no daddy’s motor boat cruising around on the Chesapeake in the heat of a summer’s day, the subaltern’s vessel and place of previous boating experience, but could be frighteningly unpredictable if not handled with extreme care. She had a general unruliness about her when answering the helm, and a tendency of sheering-off heavily to starboard when going astern, was playfully skittish when making any form of headway, and for no reason, nor warning whatsoever, would decide to sail broadside on when fully laden with flamethrower fuel!

Her stern gear was so temperamental it was liable to fail at the most inopportune moments, such as going alongside a jetty packed with visiting senior ranks. But when handled well she never got into any serious mishaps, and so it came to pass that after a few heart-stopping moments when we nearly ran aground, collided with the other boat, and rammed the barge, our intrepid “Butter Bar”, to our immense relief, and taking the river-Pilot with him, jumped-ship by going over to the elderly tugboat.

Once aboard he caused a furious argument between himself, the tug’s Vietnamese owner, who was also her skipper, and our local river-Pilot, by demanding a right to command, which was firmly and thankfully, declined! No surprises there as both had witnessed his distinct lack of prowess at Mike boat handling. But he did win one crucially important command decision, and that was which of the three vessels would be the vanguard, he chose the tug. Up to that point she had been where any escorted civilian vessel should have been, in the middle of the flotilla line, but our “Butter Bar” was obviously one determined to lead from the front.

Fifty klicks, and the halfway mark was reached, then passed, and still no appearance of Charlie. In defiance of the tropical sun, some fingers of low-lying mist still lingered on the river, and settled on any steel surface making it drip with moisture. In the water laden atmosphere helmets and weapons became slick and slippery to the touch, and we uncomfortably clammy and sticky with damp and sweat. Everyone became isolated in their own little oasis of differing fears and apprehensions, as if at any moment they would be delivered into the open arms of the antichrist. More so after reading the note penciled in on the margin of the river chart supplied for the trip upstream, “This river is liable to radically change without warning!”, whatever the hell it meant no one knew, but was enough to get any sailors naturally occurring superstitions fervently active in his mind!

The sun grew hotter, tempers grew thinner, and helmets became like tiny ovens slowly cooking the heads they covered, so to take my mind off the heat-seared irritable crew I settled my interest on the river-Pilot, who now stood on the tug’s wheelhouse roof giving out to the Mike boats helm directions in the way of hand signals, and shouted orders to the tugboat's coxswain as the river rapidly narrowed, and the bottom became shallow and treacherous. Depth soundings bore no relation whatsoever to those displayed on the chart, and in addition mud bars, rocks and snags appeared where clear passage was claimed. Then it quickly deepened again as enormous steep banks rose up forming a previously unknown narrow winding gorge in the way of a mini Grand Canyon, our motor noise bouncing and echoing off its walls.

Ahead, as the gorge fell-away, the country opened up again and we could see a range of low hills off in the distance, at the foot of which lay our destination. A huge detonation quiver was felt throughout our hull, and the deck bucked like a startled colt beneath my feet as the tugs complete bow section flew into the air, amidst a giant water spout, before going through an impressively perfect summersault to land with an almighty crash in a low lying swamp, all as if it was a trick from a conjurer’s grand finale! The remaining part of the tug sailed on for a moment or two before gracefully sinking, and gently took to the river bottom where it remained upright, as a submarine would on a practice dive. The barge, now securely at anchor using the wreck, sheered around like a nervous puppy on a lead before settling down to the influence of the river current, and quietly lay there peacefully, as a yacht would on her moorings.

It was now glaringly obvious why the VC had let us to sail on in their claimed territory such a distance in peace and without interference. For knowing of the deep gorge and the narrow navigational channel, they had, with joyful minds, placed in the river’s mud a 25 lb bomb converted into a magnetic bottom mine, the type our Air Force seeded in their Northern waterways and harbors, and thus returned it to its rightful owners with spectacular results. But instead of sinking a Mike boat with the bottom mine, thanks to our subaltern, their return for such a grand effort was a floating scrap-heap!

I had the vision of terrified drowning men trapped within the wreck, and in their desperation to escape pounded on iron bulkheads with blooded fists, but there were no trapped men, all the tugs crew had survived, as did the river-Pilot, having been blown from his navigational perch on top of the wheelhouse by the blast. Our “Butter Bar”, well ahead of the splashing mob, was striking for the riverbank using a snappy style any Olympic swimmer would have envied. I watched him with a mix of reluctant gratitude and disdain, being of the certain knowledge that his unwavering demand for the right to command had unwittingly saved us, but would shortly blight our lives once more.

The note on the chart’s margin had proved accurate after all; the river had indeed radically changed without warning, as it now had a fresh wreck completely blocking the narrow fairway. The tugs smoke-stack, black and spindly as was Abraham Lincoln’s Chapeau, stuck above the surface, pointing towards the heavens like an accusing finger, and for a fleeting moment I though the God of War was roaring with laughter, but no, it was only large bubbles of escaping steam from the now sunken tugs boiler as they burst on the surface, with sounds similar to that of raucous guffaws.

After countless decades of boringly uneventful service, the old, worn-out tug had been destroyed. Not being left to fade away as a river hulk, or at the hands of ship-breakers, she had died with dignity.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Pieux de Renseignement



“Top priority must be given to capturing Eastern block and Chinese advisors. Remember, they are of great intelligence value to the Agency, so don’t go killing them if it can be avoided, but if it can’t be avoided we still want the body!”

CIA Directive, US Embassy, Saigon, Vietnam, 1967.


The CIA’s contemporaneous intelligence based war had become more complex. Units would be put together for specified tasks, those that proved successful were given more work, those that didn’t were disbanded and their members dispersed amongst the more successful units. It was an innovative approach and extremely effective.

Mirroring a British Second World War concept, and using their excellent training facilities in Malaysia and Hong Kong, local tribesmen and other minority groups within Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos were recruited and trained in behind-the-lines warfare to form a secret army, eventually reaching numbers in excess of 60,000 by the time the South Vietnamese were abandoned to their fate by the US Congress.

And it was into this clandestine war within the Delta, and many times beyond, our boats were slowly drawn, by ferrying, supporting, and resupplying various counter-infiltration groups in the way of heavily armed Fire Force teams.

On one such detail a Fire Force team had been after a North Vietnamese sapper unit, part of the D65 group, who were known for their expertise with land mines and booby traps. The area map was covered in red dots marking out previous mine explosions, and needless to say everyone feared mines and booby traps. The NVA and VC were no different than any other grunts when it came to either of those nasty devises, for when involved in a firefight there was an even chance of survival, but not when it came to mines!

If you set a mine off anything might have happened, but the best that could be hoped for was to only lose a foot. Unfortunately, Charlie’s mine layers had a real dirty little habit, for they buried together with a mine glass bottles and jars filled with all types of disgusting material, such as human or animal feces, urine, and putrefying flesh. They had also been known to fill them with gasoline, diesel or acid. Not only did this practice possibly increase the mines kill radius, it also reduced the victim’s chance of survival through secondary infection as glass was hard to detect with X-rays. D65 sappers had also been known to crawl into our own defensive minefields and change the shape of them by expanding the boundaries and closing the safe lanes.

During the previous night there had been a confused contact, then in the early hours there was another with the NVA sapper unit, that time it was short but vicious, just a flurry of rounds, but enough to leave one of the Montagnards wounded, and blood trails to follow. There was something wildly unreal about those short battles; some lasted but a few seconds and others minutes, but none ever longer than ten minutes, during which time a phenomenal amount of ammunition could be blasted off with practically no result in the way of seriously wounded or killed for the rounds spent.

When following blood trails you had to keep the pace to a slow steady walk, but too slow and Charlie would have time to set a stay-behind crossfire ambush, or melt away. Too fast and you would quickly catch up with him, and end up in an unknown number firefight. There was only one way to learn the correct pace, and that was on the job practice, so only the most experienced acted as a pace-man, and led the group who followed the trails.

The primary aim of any military advisor is to survive, but the one the blood trails led to hadn’t managed it. He was found lying partially camouflaged by hastily cut fauna on the edge of a track, and in life he must have been tall and smartly dressed, but in death he looked like a battered scarecrow. Beside the corpse lay a West German made Heckler & Koch HK4 pistol, which was an unusual find to be had on an Eastern block advisor as the Nagant M 1895 revolver was their normal sidearm choice, and although rounds for it were hard to find during the Vietnam war it was still highly prized by our grunts, for the heavy 7.62 mm round was a true “man stopper” of the same quality as was our Colt .45 automatics.

However, the advantage any revolver has over an automatic pistol is that it has few working parts, thus making it practically devoid of stoppages and consequently far more reliable in a close combat situation, where one pistol round can make the difference between your survival, or oblivion. It truly was an impressive revolver, for due to the Nagants sturdiness it could still fire in the harshest of conditions, even underwater!

I did consider keeping the H&K pistol, but that would have opened a massive can of crap to be poured over my head if the agency ever discovered such a move, and in truth they undoubtedly would have, for they had an uncanny ability when it came to uncovering those with devious intent.

Unfortunately, having to follow the CIA’s protocol of recovering all dead enemy advisors meant it was late in the evening and darkness had fallen by the time the one we had found was placed in an Agency supplied special container, for his journey on to Saigon. Our accompanying Tango boat had taken an unusual length of time to embark their Fire Force troops, and it was going on midnight before the boats started on the long sail back to the forward operating base.

A harvest moon shone through thick dark clouds giving an eerie look to the canal’s surface, and the landscape around us. The crew and I were bone weary; there was a lassitude about us, for we had been on continuous details for several days, being heavily involved in various Fire Force actions. The task of navigating a Mike along a boat-width canal was hard enough in daylight, at night when exhausted was terribly difficult, and the passage of time seemed to stretch into infinity as we burbled along with the motors at low revolutions, and a heaped on burden was trying to do it inconspicuously. Unfortunately, two seventy five foot long diesel driven boats, cruising along a narrow canal, couldn’t possibly hope to blend into the natural environment.

Two thirds of the distance into our journey found us approaching an extremely large and deep bomb made hole in the middle of the canal, formed during an earlier B52 strike, the periphery of which had eased an unusually sharp bend in the canal. As we scraped along the canal bank to make the turn there was with startling suddenness, and the strange dreamlike quality which accompanies any sudden violent action, tracer rounds began streaking all around and passing over the boats! At the same time there was a massive explosion which brought down into the canal a couple of towering mature trees!

We were now unable to execute the first rule for those in boats who have been ambushed, don’t stop until you are clear! Then Charlie appeared, running forward out of the dark shouting Communist slogans and firing RPG’s, and short, well controlled bursts of between three and five rounds from their automatic small arms! Which meant our only chance of survival was by the second rule for those being ambushed, an immediate aggressive reaction, in our case it was in the way of an artillery fire mission!

The Fire Forces radio man on the Tango began screaming his lungs out for the fire mission, but as not a trained artillery spotter the first shells sighed overhead and landed in the canal, blasting the blocking trees bare of their leaves, and as luck would have it, out of the way to leave clear passage, which we couldn’t take advantage of due to the Tango coming under intensive machine-gun and rocket fire! Charlie had picked his ambush point perfectly, and knew if he sank the Tango we were trapped like fish in a barrel, and all would be destroyed at his pleasure. A wet peppery stink of high explosive filled the air as the second salvo blew out the canal bank directly in front of our Zippo, flinging clumps of earth, stones, and splintered rock whining like shrapnel in all directions!

Someone on the Tango boat with more savvy on gunnery directives had taken over the radio and gave proper corrections to the distant gunners, thus making the third salvo hit the intended mark, and wrought havoc amongst the NVA and VC, who were cut down by white-hot shards of steel, but still they continued to advance, yet more cautious than before with their lives.

The tide or war turned and ran against them as the shells continued to hammer at their ranks, it seemed impossible men could withstand such an awful onslaught, however, they did, but going inevitably to their deaths! Once they had passed through the curtain of shell-fire, and into the hail of rounds produced within the boats direct fire killing zone, they might as well have never existed.

On the realization and acceptance that their ambush was a fail, Charlie’s survivors melted away like smoke caught by a breeze, leaving their dead and dying on the land and ours on the boats, like pieces of wreckage on a shore. Corpses bobbed and nodded in the canal, and one badly wounded VC, who had made it to within a few paces from our boat, sat weeping on the shell-flayed earth.

Being ahead of us, the Tango had borne the brunt of the ambush assault, and the misplaced artillery rounds. She had great shrapnel and fist-sized punched holes everywhere, lumps of steel had been torn away, a cavernous blast made dent in her hull, and her wheelhouse had been practically flattened by a gigantic boulder, which had proved true the adage of what goes up - must come down. For after being blown into the air by the second salvo it came roaring back out of the night sky like a meteor, and smashing into the Tango with the force of Thor’s hammer crushed her helmsman flat, as a bug would be under a thumb.

Our own boat hadn’t escaped unscathed from the artillery barrage, and Charlie’s valiant, albeit seemingly failed attack, since there were ragged shrapnel holes of varying sizes in the bow door, our hulls portside was riddled like a colander from high velocity heavy machine gun rounds, and I could smell diesel fuel. One of the forward 50’s was missing, including its mounting, a curled-back deck plate indicating where it had been, the crewman who had manned it was lying in two ragged halves. He had lived neat, his allocated space never wasted, personal gear stowage well thought out, and everything was exactly where it should have been. But his ability of living neatly could not help him in those final moments of life, for death in war is untidy, messy, but above all wasteful!

I stared, mesmerized, as our engineer whilst smoking a cigarette, and looking entirely unmoved, calmly stowed the two halves of the bow gunner in a glad bag, body bag, and cleared away the remaining foulness by kicking it over the side. There was something wrong with my left foot, for every step I took felt as if I was walking over broken glass, and blood seeped from a split in my boot, but seeing to it had to wait as we couldn’t rest on our laurels for even one second, and so, with the massively damaged Tango down to the use of one motor, the Zippo hemorrhaging fuel, we had limped on our way, like cripples needing crutches.

At the forward operating base the dead were landed, and the wounded cared for. I was desperate for sleep, and our Zippo badly required boatyard repairs, but it was not to be, for our boat had been given a task, an uncomplicated and straightforward one to deliver the Agency’s container to Saigon. We were not even given the time to eat, nor to flush away with the deck-wash hose the garish stains up forward, just enough for a rushed refuel of the undamaged diesel tank, and an ammo-up. The thought and realization made me angry, but food and rest was not be the answer for driving fresh memories to the back of the mind, that would take alcohol, and lots of it!

In balance there was always an upside to look for in every sailing order, and that particular one gave me certain latitude. Therefore, in Saigon, there was a chance of going into the City to purloin some brain numbing booze, but that would all depend on the some good will from the CIA. I just hoped the contents of their damn fancy shipping container would bring some, and prove worthy of the sacrifices, for as in a Greek tragedy, the heroes, and what little glory they gleaned from the action, had not long since departed.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Combattant pour gagner

“This Assault operation must be supported by the maximum small arms fire available! Which means all squad machine gunners must produce overwhelming firepower to win the fire-fight, and let you gain the initiative! The position you will be attacking has no depth, therefore, a straight aggressive fight through! That is all, and good luck! “

Squad commanders briefing, pre deliberate attack, Plain of Reeds, Vietnam, 1967.


Once more our Mike boat was out in the boonie working with the South Vietnamese Marines on one of their expeditions into the Plain of Reeds, a place so vile that the least false move could mean drowning in its putrid waters, where rifles, machine guns, and side arms became jammed with fermenting vegetation based mud, and into which men laden down with equipment sank up to, and at times above, their waists. To the Grunts who had to fight there that area of the Delta gave over the impression it was floating on a sea of glue-like slime!

Two other Mike boats made up the numbers of our little attack flotilla, both being Tangos, the standard troop and cargo humpers carrying the main attacking force, and the chosen landing point for this force was thick with tall reeds and elephant grass, which in turn was infested with large red ants and mosquitoes, and the stagnant water was nearly heaving with enormous leeches, which, to we the Delta grunts, were considered the devils own spawn! Those vampire-like aquatic parasites fastened tightly to flesh, as would a limpet mine to the hull of a ship, and were just as hard to remove.To avoid infection their removal had to be done carefully, by either douching with "bug juice", insect repellant, or by the old tried-and-tested method of burning off with a lighted cigarette.

Peering out through our cover within the elephant grass, and into the man-made clearing, it was the first close-up look I had of North Vietnamese Regulars. Unlike the irregulars of the VC those enemy grunts had an air of capability and self-sufficiency about them, and appeared tough, fit, and disciplined. All were armed with new Chi-com, Chinese Communist, AK rifles, with their fighting gear, uniforms and pith helmets well cared for. In essence, that time we had been up against properly trained and dedicated soldiers.

I caught some movement out the corner of my eye, but it was only our squad's machine-gunner squirming into a firing position with his M60, digging his toes into the mud against the weapon's recoil which would come once he opened fire. He was lying in a little watery dip in the swampy ground, a good natural weapons position which reduced his ground profile to practically zero. However, he was soaking up water like a sponge, and probably collecting leeches at the same time. Anyway, adrenaline always overcame discomfort before an anticipated fire-fight. His only other companions, besides the leaches, were red ants and the ever present mosquitoes, the usual cloud of determined insects that seemed to follow us everywhere when we took to the land.

The M60's gunner, just like all others awaiting the attack order, ignored their annoyance, and did not react to, nor swat at them. To the trained eye, even the slightest movement can be spotted, so breathing shallow, we lay there, under cover, letting the leaches, red ants, and mosquitoes feast away on us. But better a drop of blood to them than risk an enemy weapon round hit, and its probable resulting fatal bleed-out.

It was late in the afternoon when two young NVA grunts, that looked no more than fifteen years of age, began walking towards our cover, as if without a care in the world. The M60 gunner, hidden from their view, must have been waiting in hope that they would about turn and head back the way they had come. Alas, it was not to be, for he waited until the strolling pair was no more than 100 yards from him, and then opened fire. One of the NVA grunts was hit in the lower abdomen, the other on the point of his left shoulder, which spun him into his now crumpling buddy.

As always in these situations, there was a second of complete silence after the machine gun fired, as if the world was holding its breath, then mayhem erupted! The NVA grunts who had been hit by the M60's burst of fire started screaming, and their buddies in the clearing, who had stood like statues in a park when the automatic weapon fired, came to life, and started firing their own weapons in all directions, unsure of the exact direction from where the attacking threat was coming from.

Within that split second of indecision on their part we had taken advantage of it and were up on our feet. Then, running forward, began firing by instinct at any target that suddenly presented itself, at the same time trying to avoid hitting any South Vietnamese Marines, or our own guys, if possible, as the attack force flooded into the clearing. The attack squads quickly broke down into rifle pairs, and then to individuals as the fighting turned from a controlled action into a muddled melee, and I could see that the inevitable hand-to-hand fighting had already started as the NVA tried to make a fighting withdrawal, and the SV Marines being just as determined to stop them. Personal survival, being of the utmost in the mind, made these small individual battles extremely vicious, as each man tried to gain the upper hand over his opponent by kicking, punching, biting, and using any weapon available to hand, even helmets!

In these skirmishes, if one of your opponent's buddies ran past, he would fire at you, or slash with a fighting knife to assist. Otherwise, if left to the original gladiatorial pair were fought to a standstill, either through exhaustion on either side, or the death of one, or both, of the combatants, just as in the games arenas of ancient Rome. To anyone who happened to pass by, these struggles would probably have resembled a Saturday night drunken fight, resulting from idiots spilling from the bars into the highway, completely wrecked out of their skulls from the consumption of alcohol, and full of fighting bullsh*t. However, these particular little personal battles were by far more deadly!

A hard faced NVA non-com, with a Nagant revolver in his hand, who, whilst ignoring the stray rounds that were flying around looking for a non-intended target, was standing bawling at his men in the knowing that their situation was becoming desperate as we had experienced little difficulty penetrating deeply into their positions. It appeared, at least to me, that he was trying to form a fighting withdrawal line, exactly as any other experienced non-com would have done. For the last thing any commander wants, regardless of rank status, is a mad scramble by the herd to the rear, and possibly beyond. Anyway, you can never tell if the fight could be turned around, for it is all about the judgment to make your counter-attack at precisely the right moment, and a battle win could be secured.

But he may just as well have been shouting at the wind due to the battle din, which seemed to poise in the air as if it were a natural atmospheric phenomenon and not a product of war. The din was made up from people shouting and screaming orders, or in pain, machine gun and rifle fire, sharp bangs from detonating grenades and the dull thump of pistols being used at extremely close range. At so close a range people's clothing smoldered as a result of a pistol's muzzle flash, after it was pressed into their torso when fired!

Pistols were immediately discarded after having a "smoke-stack", or any other form of blockage which rendered them useless until cleared. You simply didn't have time to go fu*king around trying to clear any weapon of a blockage; you just brandished it in the way a medieval club would have been, or dropped it. If discarding was the choice, then, pulling your bayonet from the scabbard, or fighting knife from its sheath, you got right back at it, full of the fighting madness!

The NVA non-com, in obvious frustration at his orders not being heard, or disobeyed, fired his revolver at a fighting pair, hitting an SV Marine in the back of the head. Unfortunately, the heavy round from the revolver traveled straight through the Marines head and smashed into the face of the NVA grunt he was struggling with. Both went down immediately like pole-axed cattle!

At that instant, from my left, a figure ran at me, and as I turned to fire he came in at me unchecked like a football lineman would, hitting me so hard it knocked the wind out of me. As I went sprawling from his body check my rifle flew from my grasp, I scrambled onto my back, and at the same time tried to pull my pistol, but my attacker was on me in a flash! With a knife in one hand, and a US La Gana tomahawk in the other, in all probability a battlefield find, he started to slash and hack at me with the ferocity of the demented!

I dropped my pistol in the rush to free it from its holster, just as a swinging blow from the tomahawk cut deeply at the base of my left thumb, and a knife stab went into the muscle on the side of the palm. As I tried frantically to fend off the attack with my left hand, his knife blade made a deep cut on the inside of that wrist, just missing a vein. All of this was going on as I groped away frantically for the pistol with my right hand! In that instant I was already starting to lose the fight, so abandoned the pistol idea to one of defense only.

Kicking, trying to dislodge my attacker, who had a leg grip on me like a professional wrestler, and trying to grab for the knife, also fending off more attempted tomahawk blows all at the same time, I understood how a murder victim must feel during a frenzied knife attack for my stamina and strength were fading fast, as I fought to defend myself from a fatal stab, or life finishing blow from the tomahawk.

If I had been an actor playing out a scene in a Hollywood movie, or in program made for TV, then I would have come up with a fantastic martial arts move, which won the day. Alternatively, a novel hero, whom it appears, is a super-soldier capable of killing his enemies by just using a thumb. Even if I had been capable of using these far fetched, unbelievable magical methods, my left thumb was in a bad way from the tomahawk blow, and my other hand was busy trying to grab at my attacker's knife wielding hand.

The Marine Corps taught us some great self-defense moves; no doubt about that, and they may have proved very handy in a more controlled situation. However, they taught only one form of self-defense move when unarmed, and then attacked by a battle crazed nut wielding a knife and tomahawk, and that was to run, just as fast as your legs could carry you, and don't look back, nor trip. Similar to running from a bear in the woods, except trying to keep some self respect and not scream, unless caught. If caught, and can stay on your feet, you may just have a chance to break away, and start running again. But once down on the ground, your defense becomes extremely limited, as it was in my situation.

When on the ground and someone is on top of you slashing and stabbing away, your immediate reaction is to limit the attack result by blocking with your hands and arms, trying to protect your vital organs and face. The size of your attacker can be a major hurdle to overcome, but it is frankly an irrelevance, as you must survive to win! It becomes a battle of wills, and stamina, rather than one of strength.

My attacker was smaller, and of a lighter build than I, but I am no giant either, being considered small by American standards. But I was strong and fit in those days, and gave me just that modicum of an edge in trying to save my life. As the next knife stab came, intended for my face, I just managed to dip my head sufficiently allowing my helmet to take the blow, and my attacker lost forward balance slightly as the knife glanced off the steel. Lifting my head again, the rim of my helmet accidentally caught him under the nose on the philtrum! Luck is luck, whatever shape it comes in, and you should always be grateful when it appears.

Had I not fastened my helmet before the assault on the clearing, which I seldom did, it would probably have been lost in the struggle. That accidental blow was sufficient enough to break his determination for a split second, and enable me to muster one last supreme effort, and kick him off me, and on to his a*s!

Rather than come back at me before I could recover sufficiently for a more spirited defense, he jumped to his feet sporting a spectacular nose bleed, which had resulted from his nose encountering my helmet, and ran off towards the far side of the clearing after his retreating buddies, who were now doing a controlled fighting withdrawal, and off into the elephant grass he went. Sitting there with legs outstretched, and so physically fu*ked I couldn't even find sufficient energy to pull over my pistol, as it lay there not a foot from me, and fire it at the little fu*ker as he ran after his buddies.

It is ineffable as to why he did not press home his advantage, for it must have been obvious to him that I was seriously on my chinstrap, and vulnerable from the damage to my hand. It could have been that he had felt vulnerable being out in that open clearing, and fighting alone, whilst his buddies took to the cover of the head-high elephant grass, either trying to make good their escape or to re-group for a counter-attack. Then again, his nose must have been blindingly painful, but regardless of the reason, I was mighty thankful for it as I was when no immediate counter attack materialized.

If you could, you had to see to yourself after being wounded otherwise whoever got to you first would help you. Lightly wounded men could carry on fighting once treated, and were actively encouraged to do so. An encouraging word from a Corpsman could get them going again, but sometimes it could take some physical encouragement like pushing, slapping, or a good kick in the *** to motivate them.

Self-help for me came in the form of making up a strong saline solution from my salt tablets and water bottle contents, and dowsing my wounds with it as a hopeful preventative measure against infection. Then I stuffed my hand into a semi-clean spare sock, and strapped up the whole thing with electrical tape which most of our guys carried, as a roll of it was ideal for tailoring or repairing gear. My hand now looked as if it were encased in a black winter mitt, but I have to say that I was really quite proud of my fist-aid effort, as not being a combat medic. Looking around the clearing I could see there was still the occasional running SV Marine and NVA figure, and here and there a few dazed, bloodied wounded, slowly and painfully trying to crawl away, others just standing stupefied in battle aftershock.

Whilst our Corpsmen helped both friend and foe the carnage wasn't over. It was obvious that the NVA had no available reserve squads to bring into play, or they would have used them to break our battle momentum. However, we had, and still within the cover of the elephant grass witnessing the spectacle of their buddies in the life or death struggles, and being relatively newcomers to such a close fought action were in all probability praying to whatever god they worshiped that they wouldn't be required!

However, being in a state of nervous tension, and thinking that a large group of wounded NVA was in fact a counter-attack; our reserves opened fire and killed most of them, including one of the attending Corpsmen, before the ceasefire order was eventually given. Everyone longed for the relative cool of the evening as the day's heat had become stifling, and many a wounded mans raging thirst was quenched by water taken from the dead.

Starting from the first round being fired and the fighting finally dying away, people had discovered that contrary to their basic training it was by far more important to shoot fast than accurately, that a knife or bayonet had much greater value in close proximity fighting than did rifles or pistols, and even something so simple as a good hard punch could save your life!

After the struggles of the day were over it also became obvious that our main strategy, being a war of attrition, was not going to result in a win for us in the marshy lands of the Delta. For when we cleared out one stronghold, Charlie just made another, but stronger and more impregnable than the one prior. As his Command and Control structure became more astute in battle planning they chose the fighting ground well, and fought with an admirable idealistic bravery in the effort to retain it.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother, that is a prime description of close fighting in battle.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard. I agree with Slim, and I know many veterans would do likewise.

[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.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Fin des temps.


“I’m too godamned short timed for any more of this crap bro! And I aint gonna go burnin out on any fu*king death wish action either! I just wanna go home! ”

Our quad-fifty gunner, Rung Sat Special Zone, three weeks before his DEROS, 1967.



The Marines who had come ashore in the early part of 1965 riding in Mike 6 landing craft to be greeted by a large sign reading “Welcome Gallant Marines”, and Vietnamese women with garlands of flowers, had long since rotated home by the time I arrived in 1967. However, many of those who had flown into the Ariel Ports during 1966 as replacements for the last of “LBJ’s First” were now approaching their own rotation, and were understandably starting to become just a little “nervous in the service”. For the longer a grunt served in the fighting areas the hazards increased rapidly, so in turn the more cautious he became, until he decided that the price of victory could prove just too high.


Against the popular urban myth that the average Grunts tour in “Nam” was six months, the true average for those with an “E” pay grade, enlisted, was twelve months. However, those with an “O” pay grade, Officer Status was indeed six, and understandably one full year of doing in-country sh*t, for those without “Butter Bars”, bred great resentment amongst some at the injustice of it. For it didn’t matter whether you were a draftee, volunteer, or a career “lifer”, battle grunt or an “immune”, a REMF with little or no risk to life nor limb, sadly if you had an “E” rank you did your twelve!

The only way to shorten it legally before receiving a DEROS, date eligible to return from overseas, and boarding the “freedom bird”, flight home, was by receiving a promotion of a type that required out-country training. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean you had a guarantee never to be returned, on the other hand, ending up in a “glad bag”, body bag, or being seriously wounded did. The “Short Timers” had to remain switched-on more than most, for letting your mind drift away from the job-in-hand was a mighty dangerous practice, and I suppose it goes without saying that absolutely no one in their right mind who were serving in combat units wanted to risk their life once “short-timed”, in that their out-processing date was fast approaching.

However, there were also the “burn-outs”, those suffering from survivor’s guilt, the guys with an uncontrollable death wish because they had survived as their buddies died around them, and who didn’t give a damn how long they stayed in theatre, or what risks they were required to take for to get the chance of killing just one more Gook!

Helicopters had been ferrying in stores, gear, weapons, and extra guys on a regular shuttle service until the base commander had to call a halt, for he was running out of space to put it all! The last Helicopters to land were medevac slicks, which stayed, one was full of “glad bags”, for those who would be “kool-aid” , killed in action, and any “expectants”, casualties expected to die. The bags were an unnecessary reminder to all that casualties were going to be inevitable. As the Marines squared away the now cluttered FOB, forward operation base, we Riverines prepared our boats for the coming action.

Normally a company, or more, manned a forward operation base, or a jungle fort, which had an operations control room, a helicopter landing site, and mortars to support patrols. They were defense fortified by wire entanglements and "punjis", sturdy fire-hardened bamboo or wood sticks sharpened at both ends and driven into the ground at the appropriate angle at thigh height, presenting any attacker with an array of needle sharp spikes on which he would impale himself.

Trench and bunker systems were built to allow operating the perimeter in safety. The ground was cleared for at least 100 meters out from the perimeter to allow a clear field of fire in an attack, and Claymore mines finished the job. These were electronically connected to the CP, command post, and if a breach in the defenses occurred were the last line before sheer blind aggression was required to repulse the enemy.

Unfortunately, for us, Charlie’s camp defenses would be built in a very similar fashion, with the added exception of deep tunnel systems, improvised mines and booby traps. Poking out of sandbags next to trenches would be heavy steel tubes fixed at a ground level trajectory, and were “once only” firing. Being packed with small pieces of scrap metal, shards of glass, or small river stones such as quartz, they were devastating when fired, for spraying out projectiles in the same manner as the old “grape-shot” they cut-down everything within a twenty meter range.

The Viet Cong were brave opponents, and his fighting determination demanded our respect as it was never easy to defeat him. In addition, any jungle operation is extremely expensive in manpower, especially when attacking a fortified camp, so at the very least, we were going to need a three-to-one ratio in the attack for even a remote chance of success. But a more immediate worry for the average grunt was just how many of the estimated 83,000 VC, not to mention the 25,000 NVA, who were operating in the Delta at that time he would be facing off against.

Our Zippo boat was detailed to follow the main group of Tango Mikes filled with platoons made up of South Vietnamese Marines, and some of their Sections had been specialist tasked to clear away any obstructions in the chosen assault paths through the enemy camp defenses. The paths had been marked by scouts, who had lain out for hour after hour only meters from the VC’s sentries, and watched their camp for weaknesses in its defense perimeter. They had also identified the primary targets of Command Post, Communications Hut, and heavy weapons support pits.

Once the platoons had been landed I was detailed off to work in a co-ordination capacity by helping an S.V Marine Lieutenant command one of the assault units, if either of us were to be killed or wounded, the other would take over, if both, then, as normal, the next rank in seniority would take command, and so on. However, just like everyone else about to take part in the action I had absolutely no intention of being killed or wounded, if it were possible to avoid either!


Most of my designated unit was under eighteen years, and many had been in the South Vietnamese Marines from the age of fifteen, had seen action many times before, thus making my job much easier. The Lieutenant was also a veteran of Jungle warfare and went about the business with the ease of a professional, and I liked him from the moment we shook hands. Then a weapons check, a talk-through of our role, one last weapons check with a lock-and-load, then the order came for the SV Marines to board the Tangos, and we were committed to whatever fate the Gods had decided for us.

Then the battle objective was designated as strategic at the last moment. Therefore, regardless of losses, the attack would push forward to conclusion. It was to be a “hammer and anvil” operation, the tactic where we surrounded an enemy base, then sent in other units to drive the enemy out into the killing ground. The trickiest part of such an operation was to land the encircling troops with the minimum of fuss, and with the maximum of surprise.

Battle noise, in almost all small-scale military actions, starts with just a few rounds going off, and a grenade burst here or there, it then reaches a crescendo of noise, by which time the sheer volume of sound that is generated can be deafening as the air quickly fills with bangs, cracks, screams, shrieks, shouts and booms. Working to that maxim the whole operation fell apart at the exact moment an RPG round breached the hull of a Tango, and exploded with devastating results amongst the troops that were packed into her well-deck. It made a distressing sight when another Tango, at the point of reaching her landing area, suddenly struck a large mine and sank immediately, leaving the Marines and her crew struggling to stay afloat.

Then Charlie’s machine guns played their deadly tune, resulting in the river being cluttered with sinking corpses of men, being dragged down by weapons, and web gear filled with ammunition. The radio net suddenly burst into life with other boats demanding assistance after being damaged or disabled. In essence, the carefully planned attack had turned into a disorganized waterborne scramble to get out of an ambush killing zone, for Charlie had caught us in a cross-fire, and it was obvious he had previously zeroed in that section of the river!


My attempting to turn our Zippo in the battle trash constricted river without sucking into our madly spinning propellers the now floating living and dead must not have looked particularly impressive, for I rammed the river bank hard with her stern, tearing out great clumps of earth and grass, and left a long deep furrow like a ploughshare would in a potato field. But the lack of any immediate action could have resulted in serious consequences for our boat, now B40 rockets, en mass, leaving behind smoky-brown trails, were fizzing their way over the river at surface height.

A little twin motored 0-2A Cessna flew over, and looking more like a tourist sightseeing trip than a participant made a couple of dry passes, then on the third fired its white phosphorous smoke rockets to “point-up” Charlie’s deadly riverside machine gun bunkers for a flight of incoming Skyhawks, who gave out their usual powerful display of pyrotechnics for the machine gunners to savor, by blasting with “Eighty- Deuce”, 500 lb bombs, complete half klick long sections of riverbank up into the air, and out into the river. Somewhere within that torrent of soil raining down were Charlie’s bunker positions!

Due to the intervention of the Skyhawks the battle pressure slackened off immediately, but we knew from past experience that the VC, and the NVA, never took very long in recovering their military composure from such a dent in their defenses, and sure enough, Charlie’s mortar rounds began producing water spouts, which shot into the air as if a pod of blue whales were blowing their vents.

In the end, only two of the boats that went into the action managed to give any genuine assistance to the others, and in complete disregard to the pleas for help made by men in the water, and in spite of the fact that they came under atrocious gunfire, managed to suppress Charlie’s mortar crews just sufficiently for a more measured withdrawal. The bravery of those on the two boats was of the highest order, for as each gunner was killed or wounded an SV Marine would scramble out of the well- deck and replace him, and so it went on, until those boats still under power withdrew for the re-group.

A momentary flash at our stern, then the explanation of it came in the way of huge clouds of black smoke, followed by sheets of flame, erupting from the exhaust ports, and I knew we had been hit by a mortar round! There was no need to go rushing down into the motor room to confirm it as a grinding and hammering from the propeller shafts finally brought our withdrawal journey to a shuddering halt. Up until then our boat had been the only vessel of the group left undamaged. Then we drifted a spell with the current before gently grounding on a sandbar as the air around us whined with high velocity bullets, but we were now so far out of range they posed no great threat.

Having remained at his gun position throughout our quad-50 gunner looked relaxed, leaning over the weapon as if he was checking something, but it didn’t take long before the realization set in that he had been killed outright by shrapnel, then one of the crew gently pulled him down and rolled him on to his back. He had enjoyed great popularity amongst the other guys, and with nerves stretched to the limit as the rotation time for some drew ever closer the first cracks in the mental fabric of the crew started to appear, as great emotions swept unchecked amongst us at the loss of yet another of our own.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother.

It’s a very long time since someone mentioned anything about the burnouts out on ultimate survivors guilt trips. That movie The Deer Hunter had a guy supposedly a form of burnout who played Russian roulette. In real life he wouldn’t have come anywhere close to being classed as a burnout.

For those who have no idea what I mean, the actual Vietnam style Russian roulette was to do crazy things like go solo into an ambush or charge a machine gun position armed with nothing more than a phosphorous grenade.

One of our burnouts at Hue suddenly stood up and began walking up the street like a cowboy at high noon, and being cheered on by Charlie the mad mother waited until his target fired at him before firing back!

[Mike Tevion]

Charlie.

Those serving as ground forces were not the only ones to have their burnouts. We bird pilots were not immune, for I know of two slick jockeys who flew into unsecured landing zones due to them having burnout. One took a complete chalk of infantry with him to the Promised Land, the other only his co-pilot and door gunner.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Brother.

It’s a very long time since someone mentioned anything about the burnouts out on ultimate survivors guilt trips.

Charlie.

Burn-out has been ignored since the war, and in the past been wrongly linked to post traumatic stress disorder, which is a completely different ball of wax.

I was diagnosed with PTSD five years ago after having lived with the symptoms for decades without seeking help, solely due to the stigma once attached to it. Since the Gulf and Afghanistan Wars that stigma has rightly disappeared. In fact, the writing I am involved in was suggested by our Veterans Affairs as a form of therapeutic exercise for my PTSD.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Mike.

The Burn-out rate was higher within those with an “O” pay grade than in the “E” grades, and has been cited as the reason why Officers tours were restricted to six months. Understandable when you recall that the average survival rate for a combat officer in South Vietnam was about the same as a front line flyer in WW1.

Take care,

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Mademoiselle Béatrice de Funès. Tante Bee.


“Ok, standing orders for Saigon, no one, I repeat no one, other than duty Officers who are allowed one holstered sidearm, will enter the city armed. In addition, those of you I can see who are wearing jungle camouflaged gear will change into suitable walking out rig. Yeah, and any smart-a*s who thinks he can wear a helmet as an alternative cover will feel my wrath! Got it!

Furlough Warning order, Colonial Boat Yard, 1967.




The City of Hue to the French was known as La cité-jardin, the garden city, and those of us seeking a more cultured in-country furlough would head for it. Saigon was known as Le Paris de l'Orient, the Paris of the east, and was aptly named, for it was just as corrupt and seedy as 1960’s Paris, and was effectively run by one of the same crew, the French Mafia, the Union Corse. But they had their rivals in the shape of the Chinese Tongs, and regardless of their internal wars where disappearances and murders were rife, and just like everyone else running a “business”, both had to pay “tribute” to the Saigon Head Honchos.

Just like the out-country R&R hot-spot of Hong Kong’s Kowloon, Saigon in 1967 was the perfect “Sin City” for in-country, a place to be for those out seeking sex, alcohol, and drugs. The most sought after marijuana was “Cambodian Red”, sold openly on the sidewalks by cigarette sellers in “reloads”, cigarettes emptied of their tobacco and refilled with weed, and for only $1 US a pack they sold faster than a fresh- made New York bagel.

The Saigon Cowboys, the street pimps, individually known as a “lonesome cowboy” because they didn’t have the protection of neither the Union Corse nor Tongs, would ride up wearing local made jeans and cowboy boots on a Jap manufactured 50cc motorcycle or Italian scooter, and offer his pillion, clap packed with “Heinz 57”, a variety of clap that had no known cure, for $10 US. The lonesome cowboys who were not feeding the Viet Cong with cash, or paying tribute, ran the terrible risk of being murdered along with their prostitute, but the money to be made was an irresistible incentive to ignore the risks involved, for a single “pillion” could earn in the region of $900 US a month for their pimp in a time when $30 US a month was classed as being top earnings.

For us, the streets of Saigon, such as Tran Hung Dao or Truong Tan Buu, were in many ways just as dangerous as being out in the “Boonie”, up-country, for the city was nothing more than an overloaded urban jungle full of pornography peddlers, black marketers, pimps, drug dealers, thieves, and murderers. And the worst of it was situated down at the docks area where we would have to berth our Zippo when on a duty run up to Saigon. It was a place the “Soul Brothers”, our colored guys, congregated, away from “rabbits”, white guys, who were not welcome, and it went by the name of Canh Hoi.


All of our various boating excursions in and around the Mekong Delta on behalf of the CIA had thrown up and involved some dynamic, interesting, larger than life individuals. One of these was the “Cabaret” Club owning, petit and slender, Mademoiselle Béatrice de Funès, who had been recruited into the murky world of military intelligence by our agency operating out of Saigon. Being a natural linguist blessed with a phenomenal eye for detail made her an invaluable addition to their clandestine activities.

In addition to her various socialite connections she had others via the “Cabaret” Club, a more up-market establishment catering for the nouveau rich of Saigon, where dodgers, deserters, nor any others classed as living the low-life were not welcome. The Club, being some way out in the suburbs and reasonably near to our home berth, was stocked with the more graceful of Saigon ladies rather than the hard-assed, opium wrecked, working girls of downtown. Where, as in the establishments lining each side of Tu Do, main street, anyone partaking of pleasure had to “Buy-out” their chosen date from her mamasan with hard cash or MSC, military script currency, Tanta Bee sent a more discreet monthly invoice to her clientele.

As an old sidekick of Madame Nhu she had a unique relationship with the Can Lao a shadowy political party of the Diem government, which pervaded the entire administrative, intelligence, and military structures of South Vietnam. Our military intelligence people rightly judged these alliances perfect for information gathering, especially within the Can Lao, as they had a strong suspicion that some within their ranks were playing the old two-card-shuffle, the double game, and hedging their bets with Hanoi against the final outcome of the war.

After the Agency backed an overthrow of Diem in 1963, some of the Can Lao did exactly what was suspected of them, and swapped sides. Their defection put Béatrice in an even stronger position within our military as she now had contacts on either side of the fence.

Béatrice de Funès was reputedly her given name, but was never officially confirmed, neither to me, nor for that matter, anyone else. If the Agency knew for a fact either way, they never said, this being standard practice in all cases. However, those who self-styled themselves as being close friends to Beatrice claimed that it was. Intriguingly, and true to her frosty personality, she always coldly stated that she never had friends, only acquaintances.

Known to the majority by her intelligence operative name of Tante Bee she was, with all certainty, by birth a product of La Troisième République, the third French Republic. She was the only female child within the strata of an haute bourgeoisie, upper class, family living on the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, who enjoyed partaking of the decadent Paris style of the time. This Parisian lifestyle could well have been a gilded one for Béatrice, and would possibly have remained so indefinitely, had not the Great War come along and destroyed it forever. Not only did that war violently take her beloved, devoted father from the family, it also removed her brothers and uncles from her young life in exactly the same cruel manner.

Shells and other war ordnance have no particular preference as to social class when doing their work. By the war’s end the complete male line, seven in all, of the de Funès who lived in a grande maison on the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, lay amongst the near million and half other French military dead.

The fall in fortune for the now all female de Funès was not a swift one; it was more a case of just gently withering on the vine. Eventually the money started to run out with the Great Depression speeding up the process, and thus allowing their creditors to eagerly strip away what few assets remained.

They had descended the social ladder to complete financial insolvency. Being now destitute, the de Funès found themselves having to live hand-to-mouth in the Mediterranean city of Marseilles. Having few options left, it was by far a better choice than having to do the same when forced to endure the bone-chilling cold of a harsh Paris winter.

Proof that she was one of a life’s survivors, it was by sheer determination, and supreme personal effort, that Béatrice eventually dragged herself out of the Great Depression’s induced gutter. Escaping the despair and poverty, she emerged from the squalid slums of Marseilles just as les années folles, the crazy years, were drawing to closure.

Around the time when the Yen Bai Mutiny heralded the slow demise of French colonial rule in Indo China, Béatrice became romantically involved with a low ranking French government official, who was to be banished to serve in Morocco. This posting was regarded as a punishment for a minor financial transgression. To Béatrice it was to be one more recovering step on society’s ladder.

By the time German jack-boots were crashing their way through much of Europe, and with the fall of France, Morocco’s carefully constructed French society started to split and fall apart, into which, due to her original social standing, Béatrice fitted so well, started to lose its appeal. It was at this point her life took another completely different direction.

Whilst her previously disgraced Official grasped the opportunity for his redemption within l'État Français, the French state, by returning to Marseilles and enthusiastically serving Doriot’s Parti Populaire Français, the French Popular Party. Béatrice, on the other hand, not wishing to be considered as directly supporting the Vichy regime, made a much more intellectual choice by heading for pastures anew in Guyane Française, French Guiana, on South America’s northern coast. Securing, using various contacts, a lucrative post assisting in the planned closure of Bagne de Cayenne, the French Guiana penal colony.

Having not emulated her lover’s folly did prove, by passage of time, an astute decision on her part. Following the allied victory in Europe, her Official, who so dedicated followed the French fascists, went into hiding in Sète. There he was tracked down and treated to a swift, summary execution for treason by members of a local resistance group.

Within months of the Japanese surrendering in Vietnam, and the reestablishment of French colonial rule, Béatrice was once more on the move. Her excellent work in Guyane Française had not gone unnoticed, nor in a certain way unrewarded. On hearing that a city secretariat post had become available in Saigon she immediately took interest.

The prospect of being marooned in Guyana, or returning to France, when the penal system finally ceased held no appeal. Making full use of a portfolio containing influential acquaintances she had compiled, the post in Saigon was soon to be guaranteed. Vietnamese Independence was just a fire glow on the horizon when the then vibrant and elegant, cosmopolitan city of Saigon with its tree lined boulevards first encountered Mademoiselle Béatrice de Funès, and she it.

The area from the west of Saigon, all the way up to the Cambodian border, and to the south west, a vast Everglades swamp called “The Plain of Reeds”, which reminded us of our training time in Florida’s “Sea of Grass”, was of the greatest interest to our intelligence agency. These areas were where the VC and NVA had started to concentrate the majority of their infiltration, and supply efforts. The Delta, as a whole, did see similar enemy activity, but it became to a lesser degree once our Riverine forces engaged the problem more forcibly. Firstly, by directly taking on the “no flag fleet” of Chinese built fishing trawlers which were smuggling arms, personnel and equipment, in the coastal waters. Then progressively punching our way into even the smallest of waterways the Delta had to offer.

In the years of Riverine warfare, Béatrice and her ilk participated in operation Phoenix, the intelligence-based campaign to disrupt, and whenever possible eliminate, the Viet Cong. Had it not been for them producing accurate, detailed reports, regarding many VC and NVA planned activities, in and around Saigon and the Delta; our tasks would have been made that much harder, and certainly more deadly. They were amazingly adept at gleaning all sorts of important intelligence, but exactly how this was done I was never made privy to.

Béatrice did give me one piece of valuable advice regarding any possible clash of cultures, if or when I would have to deal directly with the Vietnam populace, by saying, “Remember, you are in their world, not of their world”. I took this as meaning mutual respect will achieve more than mutual mistrust. Interestingly, during an alcohol fueled candid moment, a senior officer confirmed that which most of us had already come to realize, by saying, “For us to win here will take replacing our natural contempt for an enemy with respect. Unfortunately, as our arrogance will never allow this, we are going to lose.”

Regardless of the projected air of ice cold indifference which she gave out to others, I always found Béatrice to have a motherly concern as to my wellbeing, which I believe arose from my personal connection with Montréal, having told me that it was her hearts wish to quietly live out the remainder of her life in either the French speaking parts of Canada, or the United States. Returning to her beloved France was not an option for it held too many painful memories for her.

In the spring of 1968 when on an enemy enforced visit to the military hospital in the King’s Park area of Hong Kong, I lay on a hospital beds rock-hard butchers slab of a mattress with a badly infected wound. The offending limb, my leg, was strapped to a board, and a broad smile decorated my face. This out of place cheerful look soon attracted puzzled interest from the ward nurses and corpsmen orderlies, for being marked down as possibly requiring an amputation they were unable to fathom out just what I had to smile about. It was beyond the effort of explanation, for I was listening to an unknown in the adjoining ward rendering a whistled version of non je ne regrette rien. As the tune echoed around the ward, once more, in my mind’s eye, I could see Béatrice.

Just as Piaf who had dedicated the song to them, she adored the French Foreign Legion, and had backed their putsch against the leadership of Algeria in 61. On any occasion when an ex Legionnaire, most of whom were Union Corse, entered the Club, she would vigorously bang on the Club’s bar with a beer mallet for silence, ascended a short staircase to the cabaret stage, and sing the timeless, and haunting, non, je ne regrette rien in their honor, as it being an imbedded part of French Foreign Legion heritage.

For this she received an enthusiastic, raucous chorus, of appreciative whistles and shouts, accompanied by deafening applause. In response to such an accolade, as an encore, she would sing la vie en rose, then, ne me quitte pas. Had anyone in the early years of the 1960’s wished to seek a later-in-life Édith Piaf look-alike, and in their quest took to the backwaters of the Mekong Delta, there was available, the one and only, redoubtable, Béatrice de Funès.

Two of my crew hailed from Louisiana and couldn’t get enough of these impromptu programs of song. Being sons of that state they had an understandable natural love for French, and especially Cajun, music. They used to drive us to near insanity, by playing on a little portable player their collection of bayou classic records, at a near eardrum bursting volume, as if doing a brainwashing exercise! Over, and over again, they would relentlessly play their favorite tunes, with la danse de mardi gras being the most often chosen.

This activity we had to suffer in silence, for one reason, and one only, in that they were a tremendous asset to our boat. Being used to a humid, subtropical climate similar to that found in Vietnam, and from an area made up of delta marsh and swamp, the Mekong Delta was a second home to that Acadian pair; they just fitted right in, and understood all of its little quirks and mysteries. Something crews on other boats always tended to struggle with.

It is beyond doubt that some of those who still live in Saigon, now called Ho-Chi-Minh City, will ever forget Mademoiselle Béatrice de Funès, also known as Tante Bee, for her efforts undoubtedly saved many lives, both Vietnamese and ours. Unfortunately, the heroes and heroines of the intelligence services regrettably, but in normality, remain unsung. It took a particular style of courage, which very few possessed, to brave-up and accept being an overt or covert in-field operator, surreptitiously gathering intelligence during the Vietnam War.

[Mike Tevion]

Charlie.

Burn-out has been ignored since the war, and in the past been wrongly linked to post traumatic stress disorder, which is a completely different ball of wax.

.

Bernard.

Self destructive behavior being a recognized symptom of PTSD, in all probability, is why burnout in our time was wrongly diagnosed.

The burnouts suffered from a pay- back attitude to the point of it being suicidal. They were very dangerous people to be anywhere near when the burnout came.

Mike.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother. I always wanted to visit Saigon but the furthest south I managed when in country was China beach at DaNang, which had nothing really “special” on offer.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

There is no doubt from the feedback I am receiving from other Viet Vets via Military.com that you’re writing is doing great historical service.

The description of Saigon during the War years is certainly very accurate as I know from an occasional visit to the City during my first tour. However, I did return to Saigon on my second for operation Frequent Wind.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Bernard.

There is no doubt from the feedback I am receiving from other Viet Vets via Military.com that you’re writing is doing great historical service.

Mike.

Please extend my thanks to our brother Vietnam Veterans at Military.com.

Take Care,

Bernard.

[Mike Tevion]

Mike.

Please extend my thanks to our brother Vietnam Veterans at Military.

Bernard.

I have now done so, and was surprised by how many have listened to Edith Piaf on youtube.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Chiens de Guerre


“Well Sergeant, if you consider that our losses were damn excessive, then just you go and take a long hard look at Charlie’s! And ask this of yourself, which fu*king side is it preferable to be fighting for! But I guarantee you one thing; there will be no immortal glory to be had for either side in this War, regardless of losses! “

USMC Platoon Commander, Bassac River, Rung Sat Special Zone, 1967.


The Viet Cong fully understood the advantages, and limitations, of the jungle and develop their tactics to make best use of the terrain. They had a brutal will to attack, and never wavered in their faith of the final victory over the American invader, which was locked in their minds.


One of Charlie’s tactics to keep us away from their larger camps was to harass with small, mobile groups armed with RPGs and automatic weapons trying to induce us into pursuit, then ambushing, and after making a clean break-contact from the engagement, would melt away into the jungle, or a sea of reeds. Often they left stay-behind parties of single machine guns or snipers. However, we had developed a counter tactic for this by using some of our guys, formed into an aggressive fighting patrol accompanied by a CTT, combat tracker team, consisting of four or five men with a dog. Both men and dogs had been intensively trained at the British Jungle Warfare School in Malaysia.

The use of these British training facilities, and the little known fact their Royal Air Force flew in supplies and equipment, opened up their Military hospitals in Hong Kong to treat our wounded, and many of their Military and intelligence personnel were regular “Visitors” to all fighting Zones, discredits the misguided claim that the British didn’t help out during the Vietnam War. However, where it was true that no “Combat” forces were deployed by the British, unlike Australia and New Zealand, there were volunteers from Britain and Canada fighting alongside us, as well as others from within the British Commonwealth. Some of those volunteers were killed in action; others remain to this day missing in action with no known resting place.

Our CTT dogs were in the norm either Labrador or Alsatian breeds, unlike the specialist dog teams of the South Vietnamese Military which used both tracking and attack dogs. When attack dogs were required they were brought in during an air-lift, and were mostly a breed similar to our American Pit-Bull, but were many more times as aggressive. If these “Pit-Bulls” locked on to you, they would never release, they would just keep on ripping and tearing unless their tracker/handler gave the command. Apparently, like we were, Charlie was completely terrified of them, for even if their Tracker/Handler gave a release command the dogs regularly paid no heed to it.

Charlie’s sappers worked with great skill when building camps so that an attack anywhere on the perimeter came under a cross-fire. Machine gun emplacements were built so that the weapons were masked when fired, thus making them difficult to locate and eliminate. Subterranean passages, some twenty feet below the surface, led to bomb proof bunkers and makeshift hospitals. Our grunts were well aware of the bunkers, tunnels and vaults located deep beneath a camp, and their use as a safe haven even through very heavy bombing. Unfortunately, the only tactic we had available to penetrate such a third dimensional battlefield was a grunt armed with a pistol, and the near suicidal courage to go crawling about in the dark deep underground.

These bases were extremely difficult to pinpoint from the air, meaning that Air Support from jet or prop-driven aircraft was virtually useless. Unless the intention was to trash the jungle with a B52 air strike over a massive area, but with such a strike there was no guarantee of destroying the enemy in sufficient numbers to make any real difference. Anyway, as a VC looked just like any other within the rural population, getting an accurate “body count” of real combatants was virtually impossible.

Helicopters in support were also of limited use over one these camps due to the closeness of the jungle tree canopy, and as a helicopter is vulnerable in the hover it made it more than likely it would have received an RPG or Missile, fired from the cover of the trees. In addition, Chinese and Soviet made heat-seeking missiles were a hazard to bear in mind when flying above the Jungle and going about your business, for it was not exactly rare during the Vietnam War for an aircraft when buzzing around to just simply disappear, and possibly found by accident years later as no one ever bothered to search for them.

Thankfully, and much to my relief, I was only involved in but a handful of attacks on Charlie’s camps, and only one where attack dogs were used.

As our main force moved forward at a slow walk, in the distance came the sounds of small-arms firing, muffled shouts and the sharp barking of dogs, which meant the fighting patrols were doing their task of clearing away any enemy out-camp forward positions. Although this meant we would probably not come under fire on the approach to the camp, it gave the VC’s officers the luxury of having time to prepare their defenders.

Then suddenly we were there, at a large jungle clearing, and although the front line of defense trenches could be seen, it was impossible to see anything of the second. Dotted about the clearing large trees had been left standing with the branches cleared halfway up their trunks, making them look similar to giant sun parasols. To thicken the overhead camouflage thinner trees surrounding the clearing had been hauled over at an angle and tied with creepers to the parasol trees. This had formed an enormous structure similar in shape to an Apache wickiup, and was interlaced with a spider web of leafed creepers which had been allowed to flourish. Only trees with a large top leafing had been used, thus making the camp virtually invisibility from any air reconnaissance. It was a truly phenomenal camouflaging effort well worthy of praise.

At the chosen start line we went to ground in heavy undergrowth just inside the jungles edge, and in front of the camp clearing. Being so close I could smell Tiger Balm, a foul smelling oil used by Vietnamese to ward off evil spirits, and could have reached forward and touched the punji in front of me, it was one of many thousands, and unlike ours had been dipped in putrefying flesh, or human excreta before use, maximizing any infection for the careless.

Behind the deep, formidable array of punji spikes lurked “Bouncing-Betty” mines, and hanging on bamboo poles about head height, were “Chi-Com”, Chinese communist, DH5 and DH10 claymore style mines and old car headlamps which would be used to illuminate any night attack, the wires leading from the lamps and mines were quite visible. These wires ran back to the final defensive trenches and connected to a car battery, where one wire would be left undone for flashing on one of the battery’s posts to detonate the mines, and, or light the lamps, simple and effective.

Looking through broad leaves, I could see the last of the NVA and VC sliding into their defensive positions, and from the numbers doing so it soon became clear that we did not have enough guys to swamp the enemy as had been planned, which ensured there would be no stopping for casualties. Hard as it may have been not to stop and help your best buddy when he lay torn and bleeding, was, in the practical, impossible to do, as keeping up the battle momentum against the enemy being critical for a win. Anyway, a successful assault was their best chance to survive their wounds.

With an enemy waiting for you it is the most depressing way to start any attack on an in-depth position, and as the defenders machine gunners looked for likely targets there came the occasional silvery flash of binoculars lenses, reflecting the sunlight of the clearing like tiny mirrors. Then Charlie’s troop’s raised home-made flags, and their rough young voices began singing patriotic ballads to boost morale, which was also intended to unnerve us by giving an impression they simply didn’t give a damn how many were going to attack, for they would stand their ground regardless! It was quite extraordinary to be lying in the jungle, being bitten to the point of near madness by mosquitoes listening to their impromptu concert and the calls of birds that seemed to be answering them, and knowing that within a short time we would have to do our damn utmost to kill each other.

A swift glance at my wristwatch showed there was less than one minute to go before Zero hour, and, since the attack was imminent, I quickly looked left and right, checking on my half-platoon formed up on either side of me. In the last few seconds before an action there is a phenomenon which is a perceived slowing of time, where clocks, watches and everything around you seems to go into slow motion. Then bang on Zero hour came the dull cough of our howitzers firing, which were mounted on a river barge towed by one of the troop carrying Tango boats. That fire-mission was our prep for initiating the action, and at the exact point of a second and final salvo detonating we were to attack, hoping the smoke from the shell bursts would give even some scant cover in Charlie’s pre-set killing zone, as navigating the punjis and mines would make progress painfully slow.

I could plainly see the men in Charlie’s forward trenches duck as shells exploded, covering them with dirt and the blood of their friends. The battle noise had begun, rippling and rattling its way through the hot damp of the jungle as Charlie’s mortars and machine guns increased their rate of repulsing fire, the ear-splitting noise reaching a point where it was impossible to pick out individual weapons as they went off, and just as I raised up in a half crouch shouting for the committal there was an almighty, deafening explosion, as one of the last howitzer rounds fired detonated the contents of a log and soil constructed bunker!

The blast wave shot across the clearing destroying all in its path, and as that destructive pulse radiated out it felled trees, completely stripped others of their leaves and creepers, flattened huts, ground bunkers and anyone above the prone position. It tore through the jungle for a further 500 plus meters before petering out. The stripped leaves had produced a torrential green shower, and allowed dusty sunlight through to where it had never been for countless years, and an uncanny silence meant the birds I had heard earlier had gone.

I found myself on my back with a loud whooshing noise in my ears, as if I was on a beach listening to the oceans rush, and whilst trying to extricate myself from a tangle of felled branches and a massive covering of foliage the firing started up again, then came the sharp crack of grenades exploding. Obviously some on either side must have recovered more swiftly from the blasts aftershock, allowing the battle to recommence, and by the time I had wrestled clear of my covering, regained some dignity, and ordered the half- platoon forward, the fight-through was well into the final stages.

In the end, around half of the VC who had been defending survived, and although shocked and dazed recovered sufficiently to bravely re-start the action, but they were too scattered to have any real effect, and as Jungle irregular forces, as was the Viet Cong, are not ashamed to withdraw to fight another day, Charlie’s unwounded survivors fought a spirited withdrawal into the jungle, but unwittingly headed straight for our last Poker Card. That card was the fighting patrols and attack dogs, which had been ordered to flank and set-up as stops for any bug-outs.

Then once again came those distant shots, shouts, and loud barking as the Stops cornered, then dispatched, any Viet Cong escapees they could find, and as the action closed down, we knew it had been a success. Sure, we had taken casualties, we always did, for it was inevitable in any form of assault, but they were far fewer than anyone had expected thanks to the unexpected massive blast. But Charlie had lost many more in being either killed, captured, or dispersed.

The air seemed heavy, but instead of the normal fungal damp it was filled with the metallic “iron” smell of fresh blood, and the sickly-sweet cloying stench of death, and everywhere was flash burned and scorched corpses. Bits of men hung in trees and what was left of the undergrowth, some remains floated in a little stream which had served as the camps water supply and duck pond, incredibly some chickens and ducks had survived with no other injuries than a few scorched feathers.

While the chickens pecked and the ducks paddled, one man, still alive and wailing, was standing surrounded by debris from the tremendous blast and a mass of corpses in various stages of dismemberment, having been torn apart by the high explosive shells, and by the time the bodies, and any parts thereof, were collected the ghastly pile stood six foot high with a radius of nigh on twenty feet! As we stood there looking at that monument to torment and sacrifice all were stricken silent, and it was impossible not to wonder where they had found such courage, and admire them for it.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother.

In response to your mention of Canadians and British in Nam, there was an ex-pat British guy who completed boot camp in San Diego. Whether he went on to serve in Nam I don’t know. It is a definite fact that Canadian volunteers fought at Khe San in 68.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Charlie.

I know of the Canadians who fought at Khe San. Those killed in action are listed on the Canadian Vietnam War Memorial, the North Wall, at Windsor Ontario.

Take care,

Bernard

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

I was flying in and out of Can Tho in 66 and the British Air Force were doing the same with transport aircraft. They also had a fully operational ground crew facility there.

The flights were out of Hong Kong and Singapore and were said to be just humanitarian cargo humpers. Also, in 64 a fairly senior ranking British Air Force guy by the name of Lee was killed when a slick crashed in the South China Sea after it came under fire from Charlie.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Mike.

British armed forces in South Vietnam during the war also included both Royal Marine SBS, and Army SAS. Their SAS out of Malaysia were in fighting areas associated with the LLDB, Luc Luong Dac Biet, the South Vietnamese Special Forces, in 1958 / 1964, and later with ANZAC in the central highland zone doing a claimed “observer – advisory” role.

The Marine SBS conducted a similar role in the Rung Sat Special Zone with Riverine forces, SEAL, SOG, and the Coastal Surveillance Task Force. It was not unusual to come across an occasional British Warship lying off the Delta coast in my time 1967-68. Hell, they even gave us what they termed “Pussers Rum” as a welcome if we went alongside, which was something we had been ordered not to do but chose to ignore on the basis of good allied relations. Anyway, Royal Marines are automatically associate members of our association, just as we, the US Marines, are of theirs.

Take care,

Bernard.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Charlie.

I know of the Canadians who fought at Khe San. Those killed in action are listed on the Canadian Vietnam War Memorial, the North Wall, at Windsor Ontario.

Take care,

Bernard

Brother. I would take a guess you already know that every year the US sends an honor guard to the North Wall in Canada, which faces south towards our own Vietnam Wall. It is the very least we can do for the Canadian guys who volunteered to fight beside us. As far as I know the British and other Countries don’t have any Vietnam War memorials for their guys who fought there.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Charlie.

The British have never been enthusiastic about their citizens serving in " Foreign" forces, regardless of how friendly to Britain they may be.

Take care,

Bernard.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Charlie.

The British have never been enthusiastic about their citizens serving in " Foreign" forces, regardless of how friendly to Britain they may be.

Take care,

Bernard.

Brother. The Canadian government considered their guys who volunteered and joined our military as traitors because Canada kept on trading with North Vietnam during the war, but refused to deport our deserters and guys who were evading the draft.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Bravoure Inutile.


“Amazing, isn’t it bro! With nearly the whole of the fu*king Viet Congs’s 263d battalion lining up against us, yet here we are, offering these people things they don’t want and rebuilding what we have destroyed, then, when it suits the Higher-Higher, we will destroy it all over again and take back everything we gave them, but still expect their goddamned gratitude!”


Corporal "Bayou" Lejeune , “Hearts and Minds” mission, U Minh Forest, Rung Sat Special Zone, 1967.


The 1966 decision to break Charlie’s grip on the Delta by all means available had come and gone by the February of 1967, but more had to be done, so Rinverine, SEAL, SLAM, and SOG operations intensified against the VC and NVA. It began by concentrating all efforts on the mangrove swamps of the Rung Sat, Southeast of Saigon, and less so in the vast Plain of Reeds to the West of the City.

Charlie initially tried to thwart such efforts by standing his ground, but the sheer volume of firepower that was directed against him decimated his ranks, forcing him back into the guerilla tactic of hit-and- run, the simplicity of which worked perfectly in his favor. This resulted in a near constant contact-with-enemy situation for we Riverines, and with the VC’s three-man “Cells” out for blood, no one could sail anywhere within the Rung Sat without a near daily dose of Charlie’s small-arms, rocket, or mortar fire. At one point, we became the most fired on troops in South Vietnam, next to Charlie, thus enabling replacement crew members to become battle veterans on their first day of joining a boat.

During the training classes we had been taught how to conduct ourselves in battle, which included the strange notion that if a fighting situation became so dire it may require that we should not hesitate to expose ourselves recklessly when under fire to give others courage. The tragedy was that those who were overly keen, full of gung-ho enthusiasm and entirely lacking in combat experience did exactly as had been suggested, and died doing it.

But a more personal tragedy that came with the training, and even more so when I was eventually given command of a Mike boat, was, that the agony of any wounded hadn’t occurred to me as it had never been mentioned, nor that it would be my responsibility for getting casualties the proper treatment required. I simply assumed that such responsibilities were best left, and belonged, to people properly trained in such things, our Corpsmen. I was wrong in that assumption.

The stars were not bright and the moon had barely shown its face, and I still felt a little seasick, a touch of the old mal-de-mer, having just suffered the worst ground swell imaginable. For all the way from one river estuary to another we had taken it on the quarter and with our flat bottomed Mike having an excessive top weight and poor hull height when loaded, the swell had given her a slow, lazy, stomach-churning, pendulum style roll. Then after navigating the estuary it was the river with its myriad of small lonely isles fringed with rocks and silt, and shallow, narrow channeled tidal creeks, one of which had been set-out on our sailing order.

Mist hung in the dense mangroves and palms that grew to the waters edge, and seeped out over the surface with snaking tendrils as if it were something alive. This reduced visibility down to a few boat lengths, and made the creek banks barely discernable. Although the humid heat of the day had gone it was still very warm, but at least it was another night without rain, which was something to be thankful for in a land where the tremendous rainfall helped produce amazing plant life of a thousand shades of green and the splendor of vividly colored blooms, but made your life a washed-out misery in the process!

With throttles set for slow and heavy foliage trailing along the deck, we headed for a long shadowy black line that indicated tidal mud, and was our intended re-supply rendezvous point for a SEAL Spike Recon Team. I tensed and my nerves gave a little jingle as our hull scraped over something submerged with a grating, metallic squeal, and a sudden vibrating from the stern meant we had damaged a propeller, forcing the immediate cutting of our motors to avoid extending the damage by running a shaft bearing, or even worse, the wrecking of a gearbox. Hardly had I recovered from that unpleasant thrill before, for a third time in two days, we found ourselves in extreme peril!

A VC fighting patrol must have watched the boat being slowed by the unknown underwater obstacle and waited, holding fire until she ran out of momentum before materializing from what seemed like nowhere, and on the stroke of midnight a ragged fusillade of small arms rounds whined through the air and ricocheted off the hull, shattering the silence!

Caught off-guard, and with no immediately recognizable human targets to aim at we began firing with M16 rifles and a couple of M63 MPMG “Stoners” fitted with box magazines, that we had managed to glean from a SEAL team, at not much more than faint shapes, and Charlie’s scattered muzzle flashes that pulsed in the night like sex-crazed fireflies. The laying down of suppressive fire from the only pieces of cover our Mike afforded us, the wheelhouse and flamethrower turret, was intended to slow down or deter any assault rush, and also in the hope of scoring a few lucky hits on the “shapes”.

The act of reloading in such cramped positions proved a nightmare, and the chance of being hit by an “ND”, negligent discharge, grew by the second as rifle muzzles swept dangerously about on weapons being reloaded, and as we jostled shoulder to shoulder for a more effective firing position. Then the inevitable happened, and an unintentionally fired round smacked into the steel of the wheelhouse just an inch from my head, leaving a coppery smear from its jacket before screeching away!

When out on the firing range you have time to follow exactly to the letter range safety protocol, but when locked in a night fire-fight there is no possibility of a “Safety-on, Show-clear” before changing magazines, you just drop the empty and get the next one in fu*king rapid! Your life depends on the volume of rounds, “Trash Fire”, you can get heading towards the enemy, and not necessarily any intended accuracy. It is one thing being joyous at rendering great scores as a “battle-shot” on static range targets, but it is quite another when firing at darting "Feux Follets", in the near pitch blackness, over iron sights, amongst incoming rounds.

One disadvantage for the land grunts, and Charlie for that matter, was that they had a limited amount of ammo available as they had to hump it in their web-gear, ruck, or a sand-bag, but on the boat, we had literally thousands of rounds to throw at Charlie. That being if we didn’t go nuts and burn the weapons out with “Cook- off”, a point where an automatic weapon has fired off so many rounds the heat built up in the working parts sets off the remaining rounds in the magazine or belt without the use of its trigger, and possibly burning out the barrel. Undoubtedly, having such an enormous stock of ammunition the boat could be defended for a mighty long time against any small force.

Then, during an unexpected slight slackening of the incoming fire, and without warning, nor by order, the replacement for our quad 50 gunner suddenly grasped the moment and broke into a crouched run, making a dash for one of the forward 50’s. But bad luck came his way as he tripped over a neglected mooring wire, and on straightening to retrieve his balance from the stumble received for a most courageous effort a burst of AK rounds. His boy stiffened as they impacted, and I could hear the dull thudding of hits on his torso, a sound very similar to that of a cushion being beaten with a metal rod.

He didn’t go down hard as someone would if killed outright, just sort of sagged on to his knees, then lay down on the deck as if suddenly terribly weary and had to rest. I have no idea why he took the gamble; perhaps he was overly eager for the fight, or thought that rockets would be heading our way and wanted to deter their rocket team. Or being a Newbie, an “NFG”, new fu*king guy, felt he had to impress, who knows, but whatever the reason it hadn’t paid-off for him.

With the moonlight increasing by the minute the VC eventually just got bored with us and called off the attack, as the situation was pretty well down to a Mexican stand-off with us down to the use of one propeller, so couldn’t get the boat moving fast enough for a clean break-contact, and the VC too few in number to enable any proper assault. Also, Charlie wasn’t stupid, knowing that at first chance the flamethrower would be roasting their nuts!

But little did they know that we were running light due to the river being reported shallow and had been ordered to leave fueling-up for the thrower in favor of carrying a few extra supplies. Suddenly, several small dark shapes, faintly silhouetted against the fading mist, darted into the mangroves and the firing ceased, and as I watched them vanish it left me with an uneasy vision of them doing so wearing wide, tooth filled grins of ferocious satisfaction at their catching us with our breeches down.

A spreading pool of warm blood, which always looked oily black in poor light, enticed the first of the insects from their night hiding places in the nooks and crannies of the boat, who then busied themselves by gorging upon it. They were just as unwelcome as the as*holes with the musical morning show on Saigon radio! Then, going from pitifully whimpering to sounding like some helpless human being under torture, our casualty started throwing his head from side to side and shrieking in agony, which became unbearable, as the wound-shock numbing started to wear off and the pain hit him.

There was something outrageously offensive about Charlie always preferring to gut-shoot our grunts whenever possible, as if wanting them dying in agony just for kicks, and although a couple of the holes in his midriff looked painful, to we the untrained in medical diagnosis, neither of them seemed to be life threatening. However, one round had entered side-on, cutting its way deep into the abdomen.

When we rolled him on to his side and inspected for exit damage a thick glob of arterial blood flopped out, for the distorted round had exited near the spine, and in doing so had blown out a massive amount of flesh and bone, leaving a torn kidney exposed and a strong smell of urine, and I knew in my heart it had been a fatal shot. The sight that had confronted us would have made even the most compassionate reel back in horror, as if they had suddenly come upon some awful disfiguring sickness.

With his life seeping away on the deck it made his appearance one that would have incited pity in anyone, and to ease his suffering we had given him morphine and wrapped the gaping wound with number 1 battle dressings, the largest we had, which stemmed the flow of blood for a short while before they became saturated, allowing the leakage to start up again, and leaving all there grim faced and anxious.

It was with a feeling of helplessness we listened to his tortured breathing, which indicated a gloomy outlook for any chance of survival, and then his breathing became even more ragged. He screamed one final time as if protesting against the inevitable; a momentary look of disbelief in his eyes, then departed this life, making the atmosphere around the fresh corps suddenly feel terribly oppressive. Then for a while we all stood in silence, before we spoke about the way of his death in hushed voices.

All that was left to offer him in consolation for that foolishly brave, but failed, run along the deck, was a green plastic body bag and a booby prize of an automatic Purple Heart donated at Division and processed by a “decorations” clerk. Our only comfort, if it could be called such, lay in the fact that even if our boat had been a floating Aid Station nothing could have been done to save him, for anyone with a blood-letting wound of that magnitude would had been a guaranteed “expectant”, and there had been no point calling for a “Dust-off”, medical evacuation by helicopter, to a hot area for one wounded grunt who was well beyond any medical help. Anyway, requesting a helicopter of any kind would have seriously pissed-off the Spike Recon Team if their operation had become compromised because of it.

The dead crewman had gone into the Marine Corps with the disadvantage of his father and older brother having served with distinction, and being a shy, reserved type, suffered more than most when at boot camp, but had proved not short in physical courage. He had stood a head higher than I in life, but as always, it struck me as strange the way people seemed to look smaller and raggedly untidy following such a violent death.

Our replacement had only been in Vietnam for nineteen days, one day for each year of life, and a weapon in his hands for less than a week, due to a crazy policy on not issuing weapons to replacements until joining the unit to which they had been assigned. That policy had pretty well guaranteed that his training edge, so hard won at boot camp, had been blunted, and perhaps his judgment, but not it seemed his sense of duty.

Marine Corps training and discipline taken together bred confidence, and in turn that confidence gave the courage not to waver at the touch of battle when, with the stench of damp decaying jungle in your nostrils, there was the near constant sight of torment, death, and noble sacrifice.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

Another classic added to the list.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Mike.

Many thanks, your kind comment is appreciated.

Take care,

Bernard.

[Lee]

Bravo! My father and Father-in-law are great fans of your writing.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Lee.

Salutations to your father and father in law. Feedback is always appreciated

Take care,

Bernard.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother, you sure know how to prompt the memories. “ The as*holes with the morning show on Saigon Radio”. Yeah, as*holes! Goooood Morning Vietnam! The most hated man in Vietnam to the boonie beasts doing the fighting, and 1st Marines at Hue had a bounty on his head for trying to turn the war into a goddamn musical adventure.

Shucks, we can always rely on Hollywood to turn an as*hole into a hero.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Charlie.

Radio Saigon was greatly enjoyed by the furlough guys, REMF’s, bored “in country” replacements awaiting deployment to a fighting unit, and, which may come as a surprise to many, even the Vietnamese population of the City, especially those who were not exactly “culturally active”. Even Charlie enthusiastically backed that radio station by declaring it a prime example of western decadence, therefore effectively turning it into a propaganda tool in his favor among the rural population. Charlie set about lampooning the station with his own version, which was by far more entertaining.

All of what you have written is fact. However, it was not only 1st Marines who had a genuine grievance with the “Gooood Morning Vietnam” idiot, for many a boonie rat I came across had longed for a by chance meet with him in some dark alleyway.

The urban myth of Saigon Radio being a spirit lifting entity for those crawling around in the jungle and its swamps needs to go into history's garbage can, just as many such myths about the Vietnam War should. Including the one claiming that fighting veteran returnees were regularly spat upon. No returned combat veteran that I know of was ever spat upon. Had that happened to any of the Marines I had the honor of serving with, then those doing the spitting would have, in very short order, experienced the true meaning of close combat.

Although some people were spat upon, they were either uniformed non-combatants, ROTC, or National Guard , all of whom it seems were regularly accosted and lambasted over the war ,even though they hadn't been anywhere near Vietnam..

Take care,

Bernard.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.


Charlie. No returned combat veteran that I know of was ever spat upon.

Now that you mention it neither have I.

Mike.

[Josh Drummond]

Hello Bernard. I have a personal interest in your work as I served with TF71 in 65, then Coastal Squadron 3 (second tour) in 68.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Josh.

I still have much to write regarding my time in Vietnam, some of it may be of interest to you. A year in the boonie was considered by many a lifetime.

Our boat worked at times with the Coastal Surveillance Force, Boat Squadron 1 Coastal Divisions in the January and February of 1967 when they ran out of Cam Ranh Bay on Swift Boats, in conjunction with the Junk Force.

Take care.

Bernard.

[LongCharlieSlim]

I served with TF71 in 65, then Coastal Squadron 3 (second tour) in 68.


Welcome Josh.

CS 3, were you blue navy or coast guard?. At Hue the CC crewed Mike boats running our guys over the Perfume. They said that volunteering to join the CC was a better choice than waiting to be drafted due to a high risk of becoming army infantry.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Homme de Glace


“ What a goddamn waste! But I guess for him it was easier to die because of it, rather than try to live with it!”

A Corpsman, Jody letter suicide by enemy fire, Ong Doc River, 1967.



The building and expansion of sea-port and river-port facilities for the supporting of operational activity in South Vietnam increased rapidly during the early months of 1967, and the demand for ever more personnel, ammunition, and equipment escalated dramatically as Charlie became bolder and more audacious in his attacks. Those port operations included providing direct logistical and supply support to all of the units deployed within the Rung Sat Special Zone who were attempting to drive the VC and NVA out of the zone, with varying success. The NSA Port in Saigon ensured there was an uninterrupted supply of war material to the Riverine, Junk Forces, Coastal Surveillance, River Patrol Forces, assault teams, and the variety of Special Forces and infiltration units pressuring Charlie by their clandestine operations.

In addition to supply and logistics, NSA Saigon provided dockyard style repair facilities, and spares, for vessels from the ships all the way down the size list to the Boston whalers and inflatable boats. These facilities were expanded out to the “satellite” bases in the various navigational rivers, such as our home base at the old colonial boat yard.


One day, during a time when our Mike underwent intensive modifications which included, as far as we were concerned her “neutering”, the removal of the flamethrower which had been deemed redundant due to our developing support role for special forces operations, and be replaced with mortars. However, to our immense delight her flat bow door was also to be removed and a conventional “V” bow welded in its place, thus making her extremely more seaworthy, we received the news that an unwelcome visitor had arrived on an east wind. A sea mine of second world war vintage had been observed randomly cruising around the harbor, as if it were a dog searching for a lost bone. Then shortly thereafter along came an update telling it had found a playmate in the shape of a recently arrived and heavily laden Ammunition Ship.

Apparently the mine had just bobbed there, playfully rubbing at, and scratching itself upon the hull plates of the ammo ship, keeping in perfectly timed rhythm to the wavelets of the harbor as a soldier would to band music. It was covered in green Sea-Slime and heavily encrusted with barnacles, having drifted for countless years with the currents. In all probability the mine had traveled aimlessly for many thousands of miles in wayward wandering, now it had finally docked, and a long journey was over.

Two guys, who had been hanging over the ship’s port rail shooting the breeze, were not quite sure what was making the loud banging on the ship’s hull like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, with the wash from passing vessels. They discuss it, pondered upon it, then decided, and jumping back in a clammy fear began shouting for the Officer of the watch, and having realized exactly what the ominous object was they had taken off for the fantail at a fast sprint. Once there they climbed on the after-rails and refused all orders to budge, even when under threat of court martial by the master-at-arms.

Within a minute or so on hearing the news, the ship’s Captain, accompanied by his XO, executive officer, grabbed the chance of increasing the distance between themselves and that harbinger of doom, the mine, went ashore like arrows shot from a bow, straight to the Port Captains office, and began noisily to demand that immediate action be taken to expeditiously clear away the mine. But the Port Captain, using his normal response to someone with the outrageous audacity to set about telling him what to do within his kingdom, the harbor, flew into a frightful rage. At which point the ammo ships Captain, reeling from the unexpected verbal assault, knew in his bones he had been treading on very shaky ground, and immediately changed tack by retreating to a humbling request, and in the heat of the moment volunteered himself, the XO, and his ships motor boat and crew to assist.


The Port Captain, whose actual Naval rank was one of Lieutenant Commander, was a very tall, fine, upstanding, huskily built man of immense strength who had a permanent black scowl etched on his face as if it were tattooed there, and had been never known to smile or laugh, which suggested an extremely ice cold and hostile personality.

He was not reckless or flippant in nature, nor was he of the sentimental type, although he had framed photographs of various naval ships he had served on decorating the walls of his office. He had joined the Navy young and to the envy of his contemporaries rose in the ranks at a phenomenal rate, but by 1967 his promotional windows were no longer opening, he had reached the peak of his career.

However, he had more medal ribbons coloring his dress tunic than were signal flags in a fleet of warships. Among the standard “hand outs”, those for an achievement on some course or other, were gallantry and “hearts”, Purple Hearts, which left one to wonder just what the man had been doing in all those years of service, and proved he was certainly no ordinary pen-pusher. In addition, he had an unsurpassed way of dealing with Vietnamese civilian officials, whose minds he claimed didn’t work like other people’s, and he was certainly not alone in that thinking, so he just trampled roughshod over them and achieved everything by brute force, making his friends and enemies alike admire him for it. This included his subordinates who found such behavior excellent entertainment, and were convinced he thoroughly enjoyed being so warlike when dealing with his variety of responsibilities.

It was beyond any doubt there was never any “daintiness” involved, such as tact and finesse when it came to the Port Captain, anyway, such words were unknown to those of us serving in the Marine Corps, for such words didn’t feature anywhere in the Training Manual, being classed as among the politically used “soft” words and therefore best left to the less abrasive of the services.

In the Marine Corps, as with the Port Captain, it was always better to be tactless, and get straight to the point when involved in military issues such as orders, that way the message got across to even the dumbest of grunts as loud and clear! More importantly it removed any possibility the recipient might make claim at a later date his misunderstanding of what had been required.

But what made Port Captain unique among the other Naval officers on that station, as far as we the Riverines were concerned, was that he didn’t sheer around when giving out his orders, he just spat them out, fired them at you straight from the hip, just as a Marine Corps drill instructor would, and like one expected them to be followed without any deviation whatsoever! That in itself was designed to make military life a more simplified one.

Unfortunately, if it hadn’t been for my breaching the code of the grunt by revealing to a senior rank something about my personal life before being first asked, in that I had unwittingly volunteered to the Port Captain that I had done a little SCUBA diving when in high school, I might never have become involved in what was later dubbed by the harbor clerks as “the ice breaker”.

Breaks from routine were rare, and although not exactly enthusiastic about being summoned to the port operations office for an unspecified reason it was still a welcome distraction from the work that had been piling up, with motor parts to be replaced, bilge pumps to be overhauled and electrical systems to be upgraded. Anyway, our training and discipline required and ensured that we did exactly as told, well, more or less it did.

Obviously, I was well aware there was trouble on the wind as I stood at attention, stiff and motionless, in front of a gray painted metal desk cluttered with instruments of navigation, charts, and books detailing military port regulations, and being stared at by the Port Captain and two other Naval officers. Curious to see how that trouble concerned me I waited patiently for my superiors to speak, but at the same time feeling like a western pioneer who knew Comanches were preparing to ambush his wagon train, and knowing there was damn all he could do about it!


All military operations start out with an objective in view, and the one laid out by the Port Captain did not differ. It was the safe destruction of the sea-mine beyond the boundaries of the harbor as he would not allow such an odd piece of floating ordnance to interfere with the smooth running of his Port. However, within his order there seemed to be uncertainty where assurance should have been, and although I had become used to action, had even come to expect it, that lurking old sea mine made me nervous. Probably in knowing that something,anything, might have set it off, and the words from an old sea-shanty came to my mind,“no roses bloom on a sailors grave”!


So in the early morning pale sunshine where the ammo ship lay anchored among other ships in the harbor roads. Carefully, very carefully, a towing warp was passed around the mine, and then what seemed like kilometers of the towing line run out. Then, with a piece of ancient ordnance of an unknown origin, which had been lassoed like a maverick steer, we waited on the highest moment of the tide, and when it came started the tow just at the turn to the ebb. Now we were fully committed, and there was no turning back, and no escape if things went badly wrong!


We had hardly cleared the estuary before the motor failed, and not once but twice it was coaxed to go again, but we had not gone far before it finally broke down. There were no oars to row the heavy motor boat, but even if there were we would have been rowing against the wind and tide. So the only thing to be done was to just sit there under a glorious sun, on an oily sea of cerulean blue, listening to the sound of the sea as if we had it to ourselves whilst the stout little motor boat rolled on a long lazy swell, just hoping for the best. We had become marooned out there, just as castaways on a makeshift raft are no more than slaves to the will of the wind and the ocean currents.

Within an hour we had drifted further than expected, well past the estuary's headland, and the mine, having less drag than the motor boat, was quickly gaining ground on us so we cast it adrift, watching as it sailed on past, and when it was in the region of 500 meters out from us and increasing speed on a swift current the moment had arrived for a quick decision.

The original plan was to attach some C4 plastic explosive to the mine and a timed fuse to detonate the charge, thus giving us more than enough time for a retreat to a safe distance. But now we had been forced into a second option, the discharging of a shoulder fired LAW, land to air rocket launcher, which had been prudently brought along as the emergency backup.

The ammo ships Captain seemed bold in the claim that he could fire the LAW without having any prior training on the weapon, but as the senior rank he had the call. That claim made me wonder if he had the brains to aim it properly as I looked at him fiddling with the rocket launcher for he seemed to be nothing but all thumbs, and it took tremendous will power not to succumb to a sudden urge of diving over the side and making for the shore.

Refusing all help from those who were used to firing the LAW he eventually figured out the firing procedure for himself, stood up in the rolling boat, and lifted the weapon into the firing position. The concept of that action was right but the implementation was wrong, for just as I offered the advice to wait until there was an up-roll on the target he fired on a down-roll, and the missile was away!

We had one shot, and it was heading for the surface of the sea, but as in many things luck took command and the missile ricocheted off and hit the mine! There was a bright orange flash as the missile struck home, and it surprised me that he didn't even blink, when, after several seconds, the mine actually detonated. I watched in awed fascination, for after a great thundering explosion a tremendous column of water shot towards the heavens, leaving behind it an angry boiling sea of surging foam.


Inevitably the little motor boat rocked dementedly in the detonation produced turbulence as if caught in a mill-race, pitching first the still standing Ships Captain over the side before the gunwales were suddenly awash as she quickly filled, then sank, leaving all splashing around like kids playing in California beach surf. Then one guy gave out a loud cheer when looking towards the land and spotted a PBR, patrol boat river, heading towards us at full speed. No rescue boat ever looked so welcome for the sharks would have soon arrived, following the underwater explosion pulses to their emission point in anticipation of feasting upon some great water beast thrashing around in its final death throes, in that they would have been disappointed but of course we were there as morsels for them to snack upon!


The harbor clerks later told me that the port Captain had watched the whole farcical operation through very fine Japanese Naval binoculars which he had claimed as a war trophy from one of the few surviving Japanese submarine commanders. On the instant the ship’s Captain went over the side he had started to chuckle, but when the motor boat sank he had burst out in uncontrollable laughter with floods of tears streaming down his cheeks, and that hilarity had melted the ice man.

[Josh Drummond]

Welcome Josh.

CS 3, were you blue navy or coast guard?. At Hue the CC crewed Mike boats running our guys over the Perfume. They said that volunteering to join the CC was a better choice than waiting to be drafted due to a high risk of becoming army infantry.

I was career Blue-Water Navy, a "lifer".

[Josh Drummond]

Bernard. Homme de Glace

The Lt. Commander mentioned in your story went on to work for a while at the DSU San Diego after retirement . I recognized him from your physical description and his famous black scowl.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Josh.

Many thanks for the information. The last info I had was that he passed away some years ago from a terminal illness.

Take care,

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Aucune île Moyenne



“You Americans are so slow and clumsy in the jungle, and today I killed four of you, and that is a victory for me. Tomorrow my friends will kill even more Americans, and so it will be until you are driven out. All we have is our land, and when you leave we will still have it!”

A VC prisoner, Hatchet Force operation, Rung Sat Special Zone, 1967.


The Rung Sat Special Zone actions were a series of medium sized conventional battles punctuated by numerous minor engagement and special forces operations. However, within it there was no “front line” in the normal meaning of the phrase. The only front line in 1967, if it could have been called one, lay hundreds of kilometers to the north at the DMZ, demilitarized zone, and sat on the “17th parallel” by agreement in 1954 at Geneva.

The Southern river deltas were areas of stale,stagnant water saturated ground with kilometers of rice paddy fields, abandoned colonial plantations, dense mangrove forests and jungle, over which two antagonists fought constantly without, so it seemed to those of us participating, any obvious long lasting tactical gains.

Some of the places within those deltas where enemies met had no known name beyond one given to it by the grunts involved in a particular action, others to remember them by had no more than a grid reference. Such a no-name place was on a “funny paper “, topographic map, of the Rung Sat, and showed up as just a black dot within a “blue feature”, an area of open water.

A Mike boat was only a landing craft, slow but sturdy, broad in the beam, flat bottomed and hard to steer on a straight course. However, one could sail over shallows denied to vessels of deeper draft, and that advantage meant a sailing order had been written up for our Mike and two Tango boats towing artillery barges to follow a river, then narrow waterways that wound through marshland and swamp for a dozen or so kilometers before they expanding out to form a shallow lake. On an island in the lake was a newly constructed FOB, forward operating base.

It was solely due to a lack of proper map surveying that on many an occasion a promising looking side channel within the marshy swamp proved to be annoyingly not feasible as a sailing route for the cumbersome barges, in which case we had to reverse course and continue the search for another that was. In addition, it was easy to come close to disaster in those waters as there were no tides to ebb and flow, thus enabling a vessel if it grounded hard to lift clear. Any boat or barge so done would have to stay where it was until the seasonal rain floods did the work of tides.

After two days of twisting and turning, probing those water “alleyways” for a clear passage one was finally found, and we entered the sleepy, placid lake on a hot sunny afternoon under a brilliant blue sky. It was an oasis of peace edged with fan-like palms and thickets of bamboo that was suddenly, even rudely, disrupted by the loud growling rumble of idling-ahead motors. Alarmed flocks of birds rose into the air shrieking, and spooked fish shot-off from our bubbling bow wakes, leaving behind rippling trails that took on the color of electric blue in the sunshine.

Ahead was our destination island, set in the middle of the little lake much like a center piece jewel is in a crown, and like that jewel it had its own particular luster in the way of exuberant, heady fragrant flowers everywhere, their colors punctuating the eternal green of the isle.

Once warped in and securely tied off to the landing stage of the base, and under the sun’s burning rays, which pressed on my shoulders with a fierce heat, I went ashore and reported to the base commander, then had a look around. In essence the FOB was constructed in the classical way with a miry series of obstacles laced with a tangle of razor wire, barbed wire, and mines, which seemed to represent the dead hopes of any intended attacker.

The wire and mines surrounded the main in-depth defensive positions made up from a circle of interlocking fire trenches, with sandbag and PSP, Perforated Steel Plate, reinforced fortified bunkers, and dug-in soil covered Conex shipping containers in the center, all of which was intended to be an attackers futile finishing point if they managed to breach the outer defenses.

Beyond the island home of the FOB, no more than a kilometer away, was the profile of a tiny islet, and on what was a quiet, oven hot evening, the sun went down behind it with a sudden blaze of golden fiery-red, but in war such tranquility could never last.

As if to prove the latter, and the base commanders belief that well constructed fortifications located upon an island meant there was little danger of surprise attack was overly optimistic, charlie landed in sampans at dawn directly in front of the heaviest defended part of the FOB. A tactical error that would cost him dear.

However, it would be easy to criticize if on a winning side, and especially when not knowing how much actual intelligence gathering went into the planning of an action. Anyway, we certainly had our own “cluster-fu*ks “, operations which went bad, produced by those considered to be “strategists”, for everyone had heard the rumors and stories from other grunts of what seemed like great military blundering.

Although we had become used to large bangs, absolutely nothing could drag us so quickly away from satisfying slumber than the sudden crackle of automatic gunfire. Meaning, that seconds after the first burst we were suddenly wide awake and running for our allocated stand-too positions.

By the time I was sliding into a forward fire trench the VC, unhesitating and advancing as one, were already opening the action by rushing up the sloping beach of the island yelling and screaming like fiends, even though being in such a perilous position militarily meant they were on the very threshold of sudden and violent death.

To overcome and repel a frontal assault your maximum fire capability must come in to play immediately, you have to hammer, and hammer again the enemy, keeping him out of your perimeter defenses. You have to make his losses so damn grievous at the outset it breaks his assault momentum and resolve. For, once he is in them he will use your own trenches as a springboard for a fight-through.

A deadly hail of rounds from M60 and M2,“ Ma Deuce”, machine guns smashed into them. Within minutes of that first devastating wall of fire the gun crews began shouting for more ammo, as we Non Coms bawled pointless orders for them to keep up the dwindling suppressing fire, which was being bolstered by independent fire from the fickle but deadly M16 rifles, and M79 “blooper”, grenade launchers.

In that type of action there is no time to think, no time to ponder or plan, everything has to be done by a conditioned response, automated, and it is why you train relentlessly. The procedure is a simple one of, sight on target and fire, over and over. If there are no glaringly obvious targets you just act as if there were. Time passed words from the training staff at Florida during battle appreciation instruction on the “QBR”, quick battle range, still echo in my mind, “ qualifying at Pendleton rifle range can’t always save your life when a determined chuck is trying to end it, so never mind the goddamned bulls-eye accuracy! Increase your rate of fire and get the rounds towards the enemy, for that is the real key to success”.

Then, just as charlie started “walking” his mortar rounds through our trenches towards the CP, command post, a mass of electrically detonated M18 “claymore” mines spat out their steel balls, and hundreds of projectiles from each mine blasted the outer perimeter wire of the FOB, quickly followed by the combined gunfire of the barge mounted howitzer batteries which had joined in with a devastating salvo of shells. The shells whimpered over our heads before thudding into the packed ranks, spraying out high explosive driven shrapnel, and I could almost feel the anguish and agony of charlies dying and wounded.

Regardless of the shelling, the Viet Congs attack, although severely damaged, was by no means ruined as they had not been discouraged by their troop losses. Communist bugles blew, and charlies reserves raced in to fill the gaps left by the ravaging small-arms fire, AP mines, and the first howitzer rounds. A pointless, terrible waste of lives, but no less magnificent in bravery. However, as the battle advantage always lies with a defender such ambitious attacks using low numbers could only result in slaughter for those attacking a heavily defended FOB.

Along with the early afternoon came the final roar of the guns, and so close was the exploding shells that showers of dirt and stones cascaded over the trenches, but we had managed to achieve the trench warfare tactical rule of keeping an enemy beyond their grenade throwing reach.

With charlies officers and NCO cadre finally realizing the attack was heading for a complete disastrous result it finally tottered to its end, leaving well over half of their peasant-soldiers dead, discarded corpses among the other ugly war garbage littering a narrow area of bloodstained ground. Some as they fell had caught their clothes on the razor and barbed wire, and hung there with arms thrown wide as if begging for deliverance from their terrible ordeal.

Still under murderous fire, the survivors, most likely shocked and dazed, turned and ran, somehow managing to get back over the lake in what was left of their sampan fleet and in the jungle, having achieved nothing.

Then following our SOP, standard operating procedure, for enemy dead we stripped them of clothing, weapons and gear before they were “pit” buried, meaning that all of those half starved cadavers went into one hole.

Our wounded and dead , along with VC prisoners, some of whom were wounded but still going for interrogation, were taken out by a flight of UH-1 Slicks. Sadly, during the Vietnam war, a sound of beating helicopter rotors after an action became synonymous with losses and casualties, just as those heard before and during an action meant carnage and destruction.

The general belief that the Viet Cong guerrilla only wore a “uniform” of pajama style black silk and “Chi-Com”, Chinese Communist, equipment, like some sort of AK47 rifle toting ninja assassin is wrong headed. Other than rural recruits and infiltration units, their real fighting attire was much more a mix of civilian, north and south Vietnamese, French , and ever our, uniforms, weapons and web gear. In essence anything they could possibly lay their hands on.

That “pot puree mix” could prove at times just a little unnerving, for occasional a line of Japanese WW2 helmets would be spotted on the move in the jungle, and even more surreal the distinctive shape of German “coal scuttle” helmets of the same vintage. Therefore, it meant that the piles of clothing and gear collected for the standard ”Body Count” confirmation took on the look of discarded rags and scrap metal, rather than uniforms and equipment issued to members of a regular army.

Interestingly, a couple of sentries later reported they had noticed a vast hush had fallen over the lake and the jungle beyond prior to the assault starting, a phenomenon I had come across before, sometimes just before the start , or shortly after a firefight. Never the less, that action was only the first of many such failed attacks on the FOB over the years of its existence, as if each one that followed was to avenge the loses of the previous one.

However, it was not those attacks which finally removed the FOB and it’s defenders from the island, it was President Nixon's Vietnamization policy that eventually completed the task without need for any ongoing actions by charlie. An added but unplanned advantage of the policy was that it let nature reclaim the little lake and its islands.

Within the Marine Corps it was known many grunts believed that what they were doing in Vietnam might change the world, and indeed it did, but hardly in the way they thought it would. Unfortunately, as things transpired, what they were doing in Vietnam changed them far more than it ever changed the world.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

From my own experiences what is said in your story about the sound of helicopter rotors is most certainly true. Infantry Veterans have told me they had a variety of emotions when hearing our helicopters approaching.

Mike.

[LongCharlieSlim]

[QUOTE=

Infantry Veterans have told me they had a variety of emotions when hearing our helicopters approaching.

[/QUOTE]

Brother

The chance of being raked by helicopter gunfire by a chicken-plated dummy of a door gunner, or toasted by napalm when receiving air support was a constant worry for all ground troops.

[Mike Tevion]

Charlie.

Yes,the chances of a blue on blue certainly increased with any close air support, and it all depended on just how close that air support was requested for.

In defense of door gunners, their primary duty was the protection of a helicopter from ground fire. They were in constant communication with the pilot and co-pilot of the bird they were defending, which blows away all the bull about door gunners listening to music when on operations. He could have, only if he wanted a court martial and time to serve at the Long Binh stockade.

Mike.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother

The claim about grunts playing transistor radios when in forward fighting areas also falls into the category of fantasy bull.
There was no stockade waiting for anyone who tried. They had the notion kicked out of them by the other guys in the platoon as punishment.

[Josh Drummond]

Josh.

I still have much to write regarding my time in Vietnam, some of it may be of interest to you. A year in the boonie was considered by many a lifetime.

Our boat worked at times with the Coastal Surveillance Force, Boat Squadron 1 Coastal Divisions in the January and February of 1967 when they ran out of Cam Ranh Bay on Swift Boats, in conjunction with the Junk Force.

Take care.

Bernard.

Hello Bernard.

There are many people including myself who find your stories shine a light on an area of the Vietnam war which has been side lined. Please keep the stories rolling along.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Josh.

I shall endeavour to keep the stories rolling along.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Les Lignes D'animosité

“For the benefit of those who don't know, the general consensus from the Pentagon is that those serving in Vietnam are about to be fu*ked-over by the United Nations”

Up-sight Briefing, American Embassy, Thong Nhut Street, Saigon,Vietnam, 1967.


One morning found me moving stealthily along a makeshift wooden jetty, which the previous night’s rain had left extremely treacherous underfoot, and towards our Mike boat with the purposeful intention of drinking coffee, the real stuff, not the C ration bitter variety. When, just as I was about to set foot on her deck, our radio guy in an excited state began waving a signal flimsy at me.

The radio net had gone crazy with the disturbing news that some 2000 plus Viet Cong and NVA regulars had infiltrated the Rung Sat.They overran an FOB, forward operating base near an abandoned rubber plantation, inflicting a high amount of casualties before dispersing in smaller groups throughout the zone.

What had amazed and alarmed everyone at MACV, Military Assistance Command Vietnam, was that such a large column had managed to pass within a few klicks of Saigon completely undetected after crossing the Cambodian border in the thick jungle of what was called “The Iron Triangle”. That stinging news meant our forces would no longer be walking in tall cotton, for all the hard work of trying to deny Charlie the zone up to that point had gone by the wayside.

Every Riverine knew that the VC were drawn to their boats like iron filings are to a magnet, and it took very little time before the first fire contacts were being reported. Small at first with single sniped shots, or charlies three man cells using small arms and mortars. They would rapidly send two or three short-spaced rounds out of the mortar-tube, quickly followed by long spraying bursts of automatic gunfire before scooting back under cover.

Charlies guerrilla tactics when used in the terrain of the Rung Sat proved to be an inexact science for both sides. One example concerns the Viet Cong sharpshooters who were dead shots, and must have diligently studied the old three-card-trick. For they would fire once, quickly show themselves, then switch positions in the jungle so fast it deceived the eyes of any grunts looking on, and leaving their returned fire doing nothing more than trimming the leaves and branches.

But we had witnessed that tactic many times before, and learned their dashed move would be no more than a maximum of 30 paces before going to ground and firing again, a prime example of predictability in war becoming a disadvantage. So we developed our own unconventional counter tactic, which was to trash-fire with the boat’s 50’s on the left and right of where the sniped round had come from, at the same time blasting the firing position with mortars, or if close enough,“blooper” grenade launchers.

The success rate of our tactic could never be verified as we were prudent enough to quickly increase the boat’s speed after the fire-contact. Anyway, a good blasting by such firepower would most likely have left very little of the sharpshooter intact, other than his weapon and gear. However, as in the majority of cases the firing ceased it can be reasonably assumed that our tactic had proved successful.

Those apparently ad-hock attacks were in fact carefully planned, just like many others before them, and were designed to create a sensation of random and uncoordinated military action. However, what actually lay behind them was a well thought through strategy of fighting mobility, and the dividing of enemy forces before any larger operations were mounted. It also gave Charlie a wider area for the infiltration of his troops , for we couldn't be in two places at any one time. Meanwhile, as a proper response would take time to coordinate, all we could do was as Charlie had predicted in his planning, by reacting to each attack as best we could. Unfortunately,as always, for lone boats the further out they traveled from an operating base the greater the risks became of a full blown attack.

Military planning can reach such a fevered pitch that common sense begins to disappear. However, the CIA were there to steady the ship, to put the common sense back into the planning. They knew that no battle is won without first gathering intelligence on an enemy so they gave over the task of doing so in the Delta to the Navy SEALs Spike Recon Teams.Which were units born from Combat Swimmers, the Navy’s underwater demolition teams, and of course being the specialists in such things.

The Navy SEAL of the Vietnam War was a do anything, go anywhere fighter. He was supple,tough and knew how to survive in the worst case military scenario, and was by nature completely ruthless. He also knew no thanks would ever be given when he succeeded as it was expected of him, for failure was not in his creed. Neither was surrender, as that was not consonant with the training, and in times of difficulty he acted on his own initiative, with no one and nothing to tell him what to do but discipline.

However, those words could just as easily be used to describe the men of the unit on which President Kennedy instructed the Navy SEAL was to be so closely modeled, the British Royal Marines Special Boat Squadron. His high regard and admiration for the British Special Forces meant he also instructed that the US “Green Berets” wear a color and style of head gear as did the British Commandos.

In Vietnam during the war, a Navy SEAL reveled in a reputation of being a tough guy. Even more so as a troublemaker when on furlough, especially if let loose in Saigon where the SEALs had established their own “no go area” of bars and brothels. Anyone entering their “domains” uninvited risked being humiliated by some very rough handling at the hands of their “defenders”. In addition, they openly challenged the SO,standing order, that military personnel on furlough could not enter the city armed. Whereas the Shore Patrols, MPs, and “White Mice”, Vietnamese Police, rigidly enforced that SO against everyone else, they wisely turned a blind eye to the many examples of “disobedience to orders” practiced by SEALs openly carrying a variety fire-arms when in the City

The leading SEAL, known in the game as the “wheel”, of the Spike Recon Team that our boat had been detailed to assist, appeared to have an ambition of being the toughest and most troublesome of the whole damn batch. However, although loud, big, looked clumsy, and like myself seemed a little too young for his rank, there was something about him that impressed.Which may have been that he was in no doubt as to where his duty lay, and had played the clandestine operations game for a long time. To be exact, ever since the birth of the Navy SEAL in 1962, and their subsequent arrival in Vietnam during 1966.

He looked the sort who took great care that his war work was never likely to need any form of investigation. The sort who would never let the masses of blooms, bright birds, stunning butterflies and dragonflies that softened the harsh reality of the jungle, at any time drag his mind away from any cold mission of assassination, where he would hurl his victim into eternity without the need for any prior provocation. Above everything else, it was guaranteed that his particular military skills set would be required by the agency long after the war had ended. Although most fighting in the “zone” called it the Rung Sat, somehow appropriately a Navy SEAL would always prefer to use its other name, “The Forest of Assassins”.

Being considered separate but still equal in the service to everyone else, Riverine Marines, everything taken into consideration, including normal unit rivalry and friendly banter, tended to get on very well with the various Special Forces and Vietnamese Indits they worked with. Perhaps, if nothing else, it was that the Riverine field training staff had been in the greater part those of the Special Forces. In that training, as when out on operations, they never held back, and the worst beating I ever received in the Marine Corps was at the hands of a Navy SEAL “interrogator” after being caught during the “escape and evasion”. At boot camp, the open hand slap was an accepted “punishment” to be meted out by the drill staff, and you just had to take it or for ever be branded a pussy in the Corps. However, the SEAL “interrogator” used a clenched fist and a shortened broom handle, and after that “instruction” I did absolutely anything to make damn sure they never caught me again!

When it comes to survival in interrogation most human beings are selfish, but everyone involved in a special forces operation has to rely on each other, trust each other explicitly or it will fail. In that vain, at Florida, you had to brave-up and take the beatings and humiliation, and, if caught in the real life by Charlie, there was the strong possibility of a very long and painful death. Therefore, the rule, as always in the military, was a simplified one of, "don't get fu*king caught!"

My first confrontation with the ”wheel” came when the decision had to be made regarding the departure time. Whereby he used the approach of trying to bully me into accepting that he alone was in charge of the operation, and I was no more than a bus driver, the “bus” being the boat, taking his team into action. However, as it is always best to be unbending and decisive with that type of personality by not showing any weakness that could be utilized by them at a later date, I loudly pointed out that the Navy, whose boat it was, made the safety of all on board my responsibility, and mine alone, and there was no proviso mentioning the sharing of her command.

After staring at each other with a mild hostility for a few seconds, he gave a fleeting wry smile, and I decided to do most of the trip in darkness, a decision that drew from him another little smile and a nod of the head.

It was not in any form a flash of brilliant thinking on my part as night departures for operations were becoming very much the norm for us, and wanting to leave as little to chance as possible we had personalized the modifications to our boat. That personal touch included the fitting of more effective exhaust mufflers, painting everything we could in a mat-black, and the removal of all glass surfaces to avoid reflecting moonlight.

As our Mike boat slipped from her berth leaving behind swirling pools of oil slicked dark water, dim figures of other boat’s crews appeared on the jetty to watch us head out, and bid us “bon chance”. On the other hand, my interpretation of their unexpected appearance was they wanted one last look at our Mike as not expecting to see her, or we, ever again. Understandable, for two other boats, a PBR and a Swift, when out on previous missions with Special Forces never did return. Eventually their depleted crews did, but not before first experiencing the joys of true jungle fighting, with Charlie constantly harassing and snapping at their asses.

Sailing up the river to the drop point for the Spike Recon Team proved to be uneventful, other than when we disturbed a small fishing fleet of sampans. For just as the early-morning sky cracked with blood-red shards of color we had sailed round a wide bend in the river to suddenly find ourselves surrounded by angry fishermen who resented our presence among their boats. They certainly had good cause to be so pissed-off with our unexpected arrival, being aware that Charlie could open fire on a Mike at any time, consequently putting them at great risk.

The last two klicks upstream was covered by using an inflatable rubber boat, minus an outboard motor, just paddles to propel it. The four-man Spike Team acted as security with three of my crew and I paddling until we reached a small mud beach with heavy overhanging foliage, and ideally suitable for landing. By which time we paddlers were near collapsing with exhaustion and sweating profusely, much to the amusement of the physically fitter Spike Team members.

During the Vietnam war at times there was a curious “dead time” in the early afternoon when nothing seemed to happen, a little similar to when in Mexico during a siesta and everything around you appears to be asleep. But not on that particular time, for the “wheel” was staring over my shoulder at the far bank of the river with a killers cold eyes, as if sizing up his next victim, making me whirl round expecting to see a cell of VC. Instead, standing motionless and staring right back at us ,was a young girl.

She was not beautiful but had a serene quality about her, and the way she had slightly tilted her head when examining what she could see reminded me a little of my sister, then she gave what seemed like an uncaring shrug and walked on. The very thought of killing that girl was a horror beyond my imagination, but when I looked at the “wheel” I could see that he had no such qualms when it came to eliminating anyone who might have threatened the success of his mission. At which point I knew had she been within the acceptable range of his “Hush Puppy”, Smith and Wesson Silenced 9mm pistol, he would have killed her without any compassion or regret whatsoever.

Apparently, from what I had been told by the Spike Team’s “powder train”, explosives expert, the “wheel” knew exactly what to do in any situation concerning Charlie that just happened to present itself, and had the uncanny ability to deduce VC intentions from even the minutest of intelligence data. But to that the “wheel” made no reference when stating that the girl was beyond doubt a VC scout, and it was time to part company, and they to “take some names”, recon the enemy.

We never shook hands, perhaps it was the lack of friendliness in his personality that prevented him, only an understanding look from one soldier to another. Then he and his team were gone, as if suddenly swallowed up by the jungle.

It had been agreed that we would give the Spike Team an hour to make some distance before we headed back to the Mike, in the chance that if either group became compromised, the other would not be too far away to make up the distance if any assistance was required.

Although making observation of the river bank difficult, squatting behind dense bamboo, palm, and river scrub gave good cover, listening rather than looking as the hours minutes slowly ticked away, the thick and heavy air seemed packed full of insect noise. Such loose time when in a fighting zone can corrode the mind, and the “Fu*king sh*t-loaded country” classic grunt mind set was an easy trap to fall into. It was the result of months in and out of the boonie being forced to exist on ones nerves, and it seemed to me I had been relying on doing so in that stinking watery wilderness for ever! But a man can only do that for so long before he starts to worry that his nerves would no longer sustain him, before he reaches the point of a burn-out. Then a metallic tinkle made me start, and the time wasting, navel-gazing ceased, in an instant wiped away, to be replaced by weapons drilled-in discipline, which immediately kicked in.

However, thinking it might be the Spike Team returning due to some unexpected reason or other we held fire, where normally a full magazine of rounds would have been blasted off in the direction of the noise as recce-by-fire. For when meeting with the enemy in jungle warfare there is only the quick or the dead, stealth and silence keeps you alive, fast movement and noise gets you killed, and it only takes a split second of indecision to be quickly transformed into a casualty. In dense jungle there are no long and weary battles to be fought, just a primal struggle for survival in a fire-fight that can last no longer than the exchange of single rounds.

Moving with a speed no faster than poured molasses in wintertime, I carefully spread apart some foliage and saw an NVA,VC mixed squad led by a sergeant reach the water’s edge. Shortly after an NVA officer joined them waving a revolver, and to my immense shock, next to him stood the teenage girl who had earlier walked off so casually and uncaring.

I could clearly hear their talking as they began searching for spoor, but the “wheel” had advised on removing our boots and socks before landing the rubber boat, and it had worked just perfectly. All the searchers found were some muddy prints made by our bare feet, which could easily have been left by the local fishermen.

There is more than just an irritation when in such close proximity to your enemy without taking action against them, and it sure as hell can get the blood racing. It takes a lot of discipline not to open fire, as that is any soldiers natural reaction when an enemy blatantly presents himself so off-guard and in a formation that makes the perfect target.

Then the officer gestured with his revolver towards upstream, and, as he did so, the firsts large spots of rain began falling, before the heavens suddenly burst in a torrential downpour. The noise produced by the rain battering down on heavy, broad leafed foliage gave just sufficient noise cover for us to head unheard for the rubber boat we had hidden among the jungle scrub, and, paddling like demented, we got safely back to the Mike unscathed and unchallenged.

There is a crude thinking among some of those who were not participant in the Vietnam War that the Special Forces were nothing more than people with an automatons mechanical indifference, and disregard for human life. However, there are others with the vision to see the truth, that they were men who were constantly called upon to pay the highest price a human being can pay for doing their duty. Undoubtedly ruthless, their duty demanded it of them, but at the same time they had the frailties of being flesh and blood, like everyone else.

[MANICHAEAN]

Well written as usual.
I'm due to leave within the next 2-3 weeks for a 16 month assignment in Vietnam to work on the new refinery about 200 miles south of Hanoi. I normally like to research new countries before I go there, and your work has been invaluable Gimpy, although I'm in the strange position of being paid to look after the safety of Vietnamese, as opposed to fighting them. It will be interesting to see the present day interrelationships.
Best regards
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

MANICHAEAN

Congratulations on your latest assignment. My understanding is that relations between Hanoi and those of us who fought in the War have thawed considerably. For all others the Vietnamese people appear to be just as welcoming as they always have been.

Due to the advice of Tante Bee when she said that I should remember I was in their world, not of their world, I found them to have a natural dignity, and both generous and friendly.

There is a particular thing I have to be grateful for with regard to my time spent in Vietnam, it gave me what was to eventually become my life's work, a Marine Salvage and Charter company. Unfortunately, old wounds finally caught up with me in 1993, forcing me into retirement. However, the Company is still going strong, even if I am not.

Take care my friend.

Bernard.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother.

When at Hue we were constantly pinned down by Chucks snipers and sharp shooters. As you say they were damned good at their job and killed a lot of Marines and ARVN but we killed a lot of them too. Mostly by mortar, artillery and tank fire.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Se Battre Avec les Serpents.


“Three days of fighting the goddamn gooks leaves the Lieutenant dead, the Sergeant dead, and half my platoon all fu*ked-up! Now, if that's what you wanna call a victory, it’s a mighty fu*king strange one! So motherfu*ker! Semper Fi, and kiss my sagging a*s!"

US Marine to a Combat Correspondent, VC Lake, South Vietnam, 1967.


To a sailor, nothing that ever concerns ships, the oceans and seas, can ever be called humdrum. Even common sounds, such as the mewing of gulls, the ocean booming against a reef, or the hoarse sound of roaring surf on a beach cant. Neither can the everyday tasks and chores that come with the sailing of a vessel.

The air was fresh, and a calm sea was devoid of any natural malice on a day that grew hotter as the sun moved further through its axis, baking all there on the steel deck of our boat like a cow-punchers camp-cakes on a griddle. It was the sort of day that would prove a Vietnam war sailors life was certainly not a humdrum one. For all aboard who were dreaming of a snug harbor of shady palms, or a safe and pleasant lagoon tempting us into its cool depths, knew that Charlie would, as always, be seeking any chance to spoil the daydreams.

Our boat lay at anchor in a shallow, rocky bottomed bay sheltered by a lonely headland,some fifty klicks from our home base in the D-10 Special Military Zone, the Rung Sat. Many of the bay’s shoreline mangroves had suffered severe die-back from the regular spraying of defoliant during ”Ranch Hand” missions, and now looked more like decayed broken teeth, rather than a vibrant habitat for hordes of nursery and adult fish as they once were. The die-back, and the incessant pounding from the oceans rush and pull had uprooted many of the dead and dying forest trees, exposing a previously unseen sea-piled beach bluff of sun dried mud.

Our radio-guy, the only person doing any actual work, had climbed out of the motor room humming tonelessly between his teeth, and poured a foul smelling mix of his urine and oily bilge trash from a bucket over the side, and I held my breath against the stench from that “cocktail” as it wafted over me. Then he threw what was left of his cigarette after it, before disappearing again to continue with bailing out the bilges with the bucket, which also doubled as our “heads”, toilet.

We had developed a very high regard for our radio-guy, for he was the only one among us who was happy to get “down-and-dirty” by first bailing out, then crawling around in the cramped bilge spaces of our boat’s hull to remove the bilge pump strum-box filters. The rest of us considered those filters to be the devils own spawn, and regardless of how clean and careful we were, the filters seemed to have a mind of their own. They would seek out all sorts of odd gash to choke themselves with, allowing the bilges to fill, and, if it was by river or canal water, eventually give off the foulest of odors in direct competition to our “heads” bucket.

Over a few months our Mike had collected so many repaired punched ordnance holes they made her hull look like a patched-over heavy weapons range target. The larger holes, from shrapnel, had been patch-welded, whereas the smaller holes, made by rounds, had been repaired by grinding off the inner steel rags, then using nuts and bolts with rubber backed washers, sealed up. Unfortunately, neither of the repair styles proved to be completely leak-proof, leaving a constant chore for us to do of bilge water pumping, and strum filter clearing.

His strange love for the boating sport of bilge crawling meant our radio-guy was always reeking of diesel fuel, motor oil and bilge, even when scrubbed red-raw for a furlough into Saigon. Regardless of that, he continually proved to be an enormous hit with the ladies. It was something that mystified all who knew him, for his mind, located beneath a crown of greasy slicked-back black hair, was always filled with lewd thoughts of women, and he had an impressive collection of porn magazines locked away in a “mermite”, a large food container, as a private picture-book library.

His favorite response to any Officer who happened to question where he was going, or coming from, what he was doing, or why he was doing it, was, “An idle Marine is an inefficient Marine, Sir!”, a somewhat perplexing answer for any Officer to deal with, but as it was stated fact it couldn't be contradicted. He knew that he had heard it used when at boot camp, but couldn't tell who said it, or why, but he had liked it, so remembered it, and used it at every opportunity, as if pulling out a pistol against a personal threat.

Incredibly, at any time, whilst strutting around as if he were Caligula on his fist day at being Emperor of Rome, he could recite our Corps history in its entirety from the first second of its conception. Also, without missing out one word, all fourteen and a half volumes of the infantry training manual, including their sub paragraphs and the codicil for weapons specialists. Unfortunately, those near biblical style recitals made him sound and look more than just a little mad. However, like all of us, he had an immense pride in the Marine Corps, and therefore subsequently in himself.

The radio guy had entered the Marine Corps as one of the first 1966 “ Project 100,000 New Standards Men", having scored exactly the required basic floor level mental category of 1V, of the new test for induction. That score tended to show up repeatedly during any classroom instruction at boot camp, requiring him to be handed over to one of the special companies.

However, by sheer guts and determination, supplemented by an impressive memory, he eventually graduated. In addition, he was a crack shot, the highest scorer in his platoon when at Pembleton, and should have been considered a candidate for sniper school, the best place to receive him after graduation. Unfortunately, his mediocre educational achievements before joining the Corps prevented it, so he went on to radio school instead, where his ability to memorize what he heard served him well.

Over our boat radio came a “sit-rep”, situation report, on a “ballgame”, a contact or an operation, taking place near us. The voice on the radio began calling for air support, and sounded overly excited and panicky, as it would be if the contact was an ambush rather than a planned operation.

Once you had been at it for a little time you could feel when a contact was coming on. Some guys, like myself, had a weird, niggling little heart flutter, others suddenly felt a chill, even when the sun was blazing down. The grunts called such a feeling the “fu*ker factor ”, and it was a sixth sense, a slow, but expectant build to sudden action. The “code of the grunt” said that the sensible should always follow the instinct, but the stupid tended to ignore it. And by the tone of the radio transmission I guessed that someone may have chosen to ignore their “fu*ker-factor”.

looking towards the grid-references given by the unknown radio grunt I could see a thin tracing of rocket smoke on the land horizon, then the sporadic sound of mortar-bursts and small firearms could be heard in the distance, but within a short period of time the sound of battle was coming closer,then getting ever nearer and louder as if a chase was on. Then I was taken completely by surprise when helmet-less, mud-caked figures began running down the slope of the beach bluff.

A running figure stopped, turned, and quickly fired a few rifle rounds in the direction from where his group had come, but it seemed to be wild shooting at no particular target, more like a defiant protest than anything else.There were shouted commands before a ragged volley of shots rattled out in the same direction as had the previous ones. Someone yelled, more men appeared on top of the bluff, then others appeared, the sharp cracks of frag-grenades exploding, some of those on top of the bluff screaming shrilly, clutching at their groins as they fell, before rolling down the sloping face of the bluff into the mangrove tree-stumps.

One of the first group ran over to them and blasted away with some type of machine-pistol. It bucked and stuttered in his hands, but due to the distance it was impossible to recognize what it was from the profile. However, an immediate recognition came from the echoing sound that bounced off the bluff. Hell, I had fired one often enough in training not to know the sound of a “grease gun”, an M3A1 sub-machine gun, firing. However, it may have been American made but that was no sort of guarantee it wasn't a VC or NVA grunt firing it.

The figure with the grease gun held it aloft in the “rally-on-me” position, and the rest of his group emerged from their swiftly taken-up single cover among the tangle of dead mangrove trees, and did as had been ordered, under a constant hail of fire from the group on the bluff. As they ran to the rally point one was hit and fell, another turned back to help him, probably the first guys buddy, and then he too was hit. Those on top of the bluff concentrated all of their gunfire on the fallen, giving the other runners just sufficient time to make the sprint safely, and start digging for a tight defensive position, and to return fire.

When breaking cover like that it is best to “squad rush”, run as a group, by taking a leaf out of the “herd book on survival”. Legs going like the racing pistons in a drag car’s motor, lungs searing, heart pumping fit to burst, no looking back, just concentrate on reaching the rally point, fear and flee reads as fu*k everyone else! Slow down, stop or turn, and like an animal cut-out from the herd you are fu*ked, simple as that.

Another sound overlapped the beach-battle noise, this time from the direction of the headland, like the fluttering of gigantic wings, before a large flight of helicopters burst into view. Huey “Slicks”, a mix of armed and medivac, and the recently arrived in Vietnam “ Snakes”, Cobra attack helicopters , even more deadly than their reptilian namesake due to an array of firepower.

The helicopters took a sharp swing out to sea, turned like a squadron of fighter aircraft, then came in low, skimming the surface in an attacking run. Massed downdrafts produced a swirling mist-like spray, and with the “Snakes” leading they must have made a terrifying sight for anyone who would be an intended target. They sure as hell terrified me as they bore down upon us, for just one goddamned tiny mistake, like opening fire a split second too early, or just a fraction off in their weapons aiming, and we would have been cleared off the deck in the way bread crumbs are swept from a table.

One of the crew, who had been watching the onshore fire-fight develop when sitting on top of the wheelhouse, jumped-up into the vertical with some urgency, and held our American flag out from its halyard, stiff and full, as though it were flying in a hurricane of wind. Showing the colors, although not actually guaranteed to be foolproof, was the best thing we had against a “blue-on-blue”, a friendly fire incident. A previously agreed recognition panel would have proved the ideal, and if there had been a thirty-foot long, Stars ’n’ Bars fleet-flag to be found somewhere in the signal locker it would also have been used, just to make sure.

In a bewildering visual blur of green livery, the helicopters shot past us at our deck height, and at that point the “Snakes” opened fire with a near deafening snarling rumble, spent round casings cascading out from their fuselages in a glittering, golden rain. The fired rounds made joined-up spattering spurts of water as they raked and raced towards the land. Then similar spurts on reaching it, but this time they were made up from black ooze and mud, as the rounds plowed their way through the ground of the beach, then the bluff, and finally into the figures who were firing from its crest.

An arc of green tracer rose lazily from behind the bluff and hit an armed “Slick” as it attempted a premature recovery hover, it sheered off quickly, banked away, and headed out to sea squirting burning fuel. Now I was fairly sure which of the mud caked, and helmet-less groups was Charlie, at least it appeared to be so, for the fighting had been extremely fierce,chaotic and fluid, thus making it still too early for any absolutely positive conclusion on which side were which. Or, on the other hand, there was always the possibility that the “Snakes” had just creamed a sh*t-load of our Allies, or Americans, or both. It was the reason we hadn't intervened before, for blasting away with our boats weapons would have been, at the very least, idiotic. For after the cry for support there had been no further radio transmissions from the excited radio grunt.

In all probably he had been killed, or perhaps his “prick-90”, PRC-90 field radio, had been rendered useless. That part meant ,with no sure way of identifying “friendlies”, and no discernible enemy to shoot, which created the risk of killing our own, we had been forced to become no more than spectators with a ringside view of what seemed not far short of a sinister mass suicide by first one group, then the other, as if taking turns at it.

In response to the “Slick” being hit the “Snakes” climbed high, turned, and came back at the reverse slope of the bluff in a savage revenge run. With it, over the radio, came the confirmation I had been waiting for, and giving an opportunity to try out the boats shiny new mortar. The two guys on the mortar removed powder increments from the rounds, fiddled with its traversing handle, dropped a round in the tube, and I watched as a little black blob reach the top of its trajectory before falling and exploding on the top of the bluff. Smart shooting first time, then another little fiddle with the traversing handle and the next round sailed over the bluff to explode on the reverse slope. After that they just kept on feeding the tube with rounds.

However, unexpectedly a large group of figures carrying rifles appeared at the far edge of the bluff, obviously trying to work their way out on the flank, and attack the survivors of the first appearing group from the rear, now confirmed to be our own guys.

Without being ordered to do so, our radio-guy climbed on the wheelhouse roof with an M14 rifle on Iron Sights. Lay in the proper prone position, and calmly began firing at them in the deliberate way, as if out on a firing range. At first his aim was off a little, but not enough to matter as the first round hit its mark, tearing open a leg. A sight adjustment and he killed the first mark as the guy sat holding his freshly gimped leg, the next mark had his chest vented, another had his head shattered, a little puff of red mist proving the hit. On and on he went, eliminating them one by one. Even when they took cover, he drove them out to their deaths with his carefully placed shots. My final tally was eleven, but there could easily have been more, for my attention had to be turned elsewhere.

Shortly after, in the normal way, the action just petered out, finishing as it had started, quickly. The “Slicks” came down from a safe height ceiling, where they had gone after the other “Slick” was hit, which had crashed in the sea about two Klicks out, the crew survived, and made their recovery of our guys on the beach, the living and the dead. The “Snakes” continued to harry Charlies survivors for a little while as security for the hovering “Slicks”, and as a deterrent against any idea Charlie had of re-grouping, and counter attacking.

Our Mike was listing a little due to our leaky repair patches, so we weighed anchor and moved beyond the headland to finish clearing the strum filters, and pump-out the bilges. Anyway, there was already a funky stench of rotting flesh coming from the shore on an early evening breeze. In the tropics you have to get the dead buried in very short order, otherwise they swiftly give off a cloying stink.

Later I wrote in the boats log about everything I had heard,and witnessed, obviously including the part played by our Project 100,000 radio-guy. Slowly that log entry worked its way up the sh*t-hill to division, where someone put him forward to receive a Bronze Star, and there the story may have ended on a reasonable note. Unfortunately, he never received the Star, for by the time the citation recommendation was accepted he had been shot in the gut when on a furlough in Saigon, by a street porno-peddler during a heated argument over money. As it was not considered by the “Higher-Higher” exactly best protocol to award such an honor to what they considered a now tarnished hero, the gallantry award was withdrawn to be replaced by a “heart”, purple heart.

Our Project 100,000 radio-guy had no more, nor any less failings than anyone else, either past, present or future. He was a good Marine and loved the Corps as if it were a mother, and to him I suppose it was a kind of mother. For the Marine Corps had fed him and clothed him, given him things he never had, and taught him things he never knew. Then, when all that was over and done, it sent him off to a place he didn't want to be.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

Your description of our helicopters in action is extremely accurate,and well done.

Mike.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother.

Project 100,000 guys. That piece of human trash Calley of the massacre at My Lai (Pinkville) was a Project 100,000.

[Josh Drummond]

Brother.

Project 100,000 guys. That piece of human trash Calley of the massacre at My Lai (Pinkville) was a Project 100,000.

The Navy refused to take any of the new standards men, as did the Air Force. The Marine Corps did induct some on the condition they passed a rigorous physical selection process. The vast majority of Project 100,000 went to the Army.

[Gimpy_Fac]

C'est la guerre


“ So that's what they teach them at OCS, stand up, take aim, and every shot will guarantee a dead zipper-head? My a*s! Look at the stupid motherfu*ker bro, out in the open like that. Well, there goes another butter-bar down to Chuck, Hey, what was that dumb fu*kers name? ”

Corporal “Bayou” Lejeune , death of a “cherry” 2nd Lieutenant, skirmishing action, D-10 Special Zone, South Vietnam,1967.



Next to staying alive, good food and good water were the main items on the daily personal agenda for the average grunt fighting in South Vietnam. Sure, when in a City, a main base or large FOB, forward operating base, good food and water were in plentiful supply, and always available. Hell, if you visited an in-country PX there were all sorts of “home comfort” goods to be bought, such as your favorite soda, cigarettes or candy. However, when up-country, out in the “boonie”, there was only C rations or local food. Unfortunately, the consumption of the local water and food could carry dangers for someone partaking of them.

Bad food. The commonest dangers in South Vietnam for grunts eating the local food was the onset of stomach bugs, the infestation of parasites, and diarrhea. All of which were usually due to partially cooked rice, and poorly prepared meat or fish, or if they were eaten raw. In addition, the consuming of uncooked vegetables that had been fertilized using excrement, and melons encourage in growth with the use of urine. Interestingly, Dragon Fruit, Mangoes, and Peppers never proved to be a problem, especially the Peppers, which could help ward off parasites of the gut.

Bad water. The drinking water of South Vietnam had such a vile taste that the guys who had been raised on US City water literally threw up after their first swallow. But others from the more rural areas of the United States, whom appeared to have a more iron like constitution from being used to bore-hole or well-drawn water, just managed to keep it down. However, it was always a fifty-fifty risk when drinking local water on whether or not it had been contaminated in some way, even perhaps by the defoliant agents and insecticides that had been profusely sprayed practically everywhere in the Delta, and then filtered their way into the ground water. There was of course the issued “purification tablets”. However, they didn't kill everything, and they certainly couldn't neutralize any chemical contamination. Unfortunately, it can take just one drop of bug contaminated water to render a soldier unfit to fight.

Yep, fresh drinking water, that’s important stuff, helping to keep you alive and healthy in tropical climes. Our problem was that in the Rung Sat Special Zone the Navy SEAL Spike Teams had been ordered to destroy all the water wells, in an attempted to deny the VC drinking water. Which was just one more of the many “boondoggle”, absurd, strategies that emanated from the “Higher-Higher” military minds. Such an ill thought through plan not only denied to the civilian population their traditional source of clean water, making them hate us even more, it also denied it to the very people having been sent to fight Charlie.

The downside of that policy meant drinking water became a premium having to be humped around in the boonie by the fighting grunts, thereby creating its own downside of less ammo, and, or, rations being available to them. For in the military your carry load, what you hump on your back, is a trade-off between what you need to stay healthy, and what you need to kill the enemy.

Marine Corps training in peacetime is still one of training-for-war, so you are trained to have a mindset of concentrating on what will increase your combat effectiveness, which includes the tailoring of your battle load, and what it contains. Importantly, that battle load, in the region of anything between 12 kilograms and 40, at times another 15 kilograms will be added if spare water has to be included, must be so arranged it suits the climate and terrain in which you will be fighting. During the war, a badly arranged ruck cluttered with useless gear, could mean the difference between living or dying.

In jungle terrain, where noise becomes a critical factor, everything in your battle load had to be silenced. Loose straps and weapon sling ends taped down, all items wrapped, or placed in spare socks, and water bottles required filling to their maximum capacity for the avoidance of sloshing. And that's where the “water factor” kicked in, and why you had to hump much more than you may need. During a water stop, and they are all too frequent in the jungle, your section or team supped from one water container at a time, anything left over was then poured away to avoid slosh noise.

Therefore, in South Vietnam, if there was a clean water supply available as you went along it left room in your ruck for spare ammunition, everything else being secondary. However, if you couldn't, then extra water took priority. Not that going short of C rations bothered the grunts, as they detested them with a passion. The average VC grunt could survive on a small pouch of sweet rice, a little flask of fermented fish sauce to pour on the rice called “nuoc mam”, and a quarter pint of clean water a day. Whereas our grunts couldn't survive on such a meager amount of sustenance, neither they nor the Viet Cong could fight without ammunition for their weapons.

It had been a few days since we sailed away from the non too romantic Naval harbor of Saigon, heading up the Saigon River to meet up with and collect a fairly large SOG force, a Studies and Observations Group, of the Special Mission Force who had formed part of an effort trying to find out what Charlie was up to after his latest infiltration. CIA Intelligence information had pointed towards a buildup of VC and NVA forces covering a massive area. Starting from the Tri-Border, the point where Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia meet, to the Iron Triangle.

With Saigon being only 40 odd klicks from the Cambodian border, effectively the main water route into the Rung Sat, and as Charlie used the “one slow, four quick” fighting technique of Preparation, Infiltration, Attack, Fight-through, and then Withdrawal, it was imperative to keep on top of the intelligence. For knowing which of the first two phases he was actually in, and the intended targets for the remaining phases, meant that an effective response could be designed and then enacted.

SEAL operations were both “active”, ambushes and raids, and “passive”, observation and intelligence gathering. On the other hand, SOG operations were in the most part “passive”. They were in essence a LRRP, long range reconnaissance patrol, which could require them to be out in the boonie for weeks, even months at any given time, but it didn't mean they did not fight Charlie. On the contrary, any contacts they had with the VC and NVA were often spontaneous, short in duration, and brutally violent.

Our Mike boat had eventually left the main river and pushed its way through the usual maze of shallow waterways and choking reed beds into the deepest recesses of a remote, steaming, unhealthy side swamp that was haunted by many diseases. Rain, misty light at first, then heavy, then light again before even heavier downpours that gave off thunderous roars. A sudden broiling sun showed us its power, making the humidity rocket to an even more unbearable level, then it started raining again.

Unfortunately, those sporadic bursts of heavy rain lasted no more than a couple of seconds, making it impossible to have one of “god’s showers”, or catch no more than a sip worth to replenish our boats ever dwindling supply of drinking water. So we all stank of mildew, and that nose-wrinkling fried onion smell of body odor. Our saturated fatigues slowly rotted away as they hung on bodies that were going exactly the same away, and which had taken on a satin look due to a layer of body slime. When we moved we left a faint smell of human decay as if we were walking corpses, but no one noticed, no one cared, it had all become quite normal when out in the boonie.

My body ran with rivers of sweat in the humid, oppressive heat, every carefully taken breath felt as if my head was thrust inside a steam filled boiler, red hot air laced with red hot moisture. Stupidly, I allowed myself to be tortured with a sudden thought of swimming naked in a cool, spring fed bubbling brook, laughing and splashing with the sheer joy of it.

It had been a fleeting, self indulgent, crazy thought, and taken along with the smell of unwashed bodies flitting the air, made me feel even more depressingly hot, sticky, and faded. We could of course have bathed in swamp water, but that was a heaving alphabet soup of bacteria, and with foot sores, crotch sores, bug bites, scratches and nicks on our bodies for any bacterium to use as an open gateway to enter our systems unchecked, making it better just to stink than risk getting some sort of rampant infection.

I had been carefully watching our latest “NFG”, new fu*king guy, who was a short, skinny, reddish haired kid with a sad face, and came from New Jersey. He still had the remnants of a “white-sidewall” boot camp haircut, which had started to be replaced with carrot-colored cotton like fluff sprouting from the side of his head, and an insane looking thick clump of hair adorning the top. Unfortunately, his pale complexion hadn't taken well to a tropical sun, which had burned it bright red like a lit port navigation lamp.

The kid was suffering from a sunburn that had caused severe skin blistering and blotchy peeling to his face and forearms, making him go a little “dinky dau”, crazy. Earlier, he had suddenly decided to jump into the swamp water in an attempt to get some relief from his discomfort, as if thinking he was at Liberty Lake day camp. He was stopped by my buddy, who laid him out for his own good with such a hard punch to the chin Cassius Clay would certainly have reeled under it.

The sparked-out kid sure as hell didn't look like any recruit poster Marine, not being granite-jawed with bulging arm muscles that were trying to burst their way out of an overly-tight blues uniform, exceptionally few Marines ever did look like that. But although being thin he was wiry, and a lot stronger than he looked, and like many before him had a stormy time when at boot camp, so stormy even he thought it not short of a miracle when he achieved graduation.

Well, boot camp aside, he sure was having an equally stormy time on the boat, being constantly having his a*s-hole torn for all sorts of irritating, and idiotic military misdemeanors. Such as not wearing his helmet or flack jacket in a fighting area, and removing his shirt when told not to, as his maggot-white body stood out like a goddamned here-we-are flag pinned to the reeds. Movement catches the eye, and something white even more so.

One troubling incident with our NFG came along on our way up to the SOG RVP, when the boat had to stop for us to clear her props of river gash, and there, on the riverbank, had been a rough dug grave, which barely held its occupier. Out of the shallow grave a partially covered bloated and putrid face looked up at us with liquid pools that were once eyes. A hand protruded from the soil, the fingers gnawed by an animal, making the bones stand out starkly against a carpet of greenery. It was a sight that made our stomachs queasy, and I thought we might vomit our breakfasts. However, our NFG just couldn't drag himself away from the horror, and stood there staring at it as if in some form of trance, with his helmet dangling from a tightly clenched fist. His small figure seemed almost crushed by what he saw, as tears welled up in his eyes, and that out of place emotional display had me thinking he was by far too soft for what lay ahead, and what could be required of him if the rounds started to fly.

I already knew he had become highly strung and nervous from listening with other “Cherries”, not yet having killed, to returning combat experienced grunts on his flight into Da Nang Ariel Port, who were yakking away in what must have seemed a strange foreign language to the cherries. Those bush-beasts had tried to pass on the “code of the grunt” to them, and it was an extremely important learning curve for any NFG. It was quicker to learn from the errors made by others, rather than risk not surviving their first self produced one. Unfortunately, going from the ever growing casualty lists, it seemed to me that many of them didn't really listen to the lesson given by those teachers.

As we had waited for the SOG force to appear, keeping a strict silence discipline on our steel island in the swamp, conversation and orders were held to the minimum, and even then they were whispered, for in such a noise suppressed environment even a fart could sound like a pistol shot. With that in mind, I decided to keep our NFG out of further trouble by giving him the one duty on board not required, keeping an aircraft watch, simply because Charlie did not have any in the Delta. However, that didn't mean our own “Birds” were always friendly. Anyway, little Cessna O-2 observation aircraft out hunting for Charlie had been coming and going above us, and occasionally one would turn back and circle around for a little time, its curious pilot looking down on our boat as if he had suddenly discovered a new species of weird water beetle.

However, there came one real heart-stopping moment when there was the rhythmic thumping of an approaching helicopter rotor, which eventually produced an overly curious Huey “hog”, armed slick, decked with Air-Cav markings. It began hovering nose-down not far from us, with its crew chief hanging out on a machine-gun pintle-mount for a better look. The Air-Cav had a notorious reputation of firing on our people without using due diligence, but even so, the grunts always had a sneaking respect for the boys of Air Cavalry. However, that ariel visit really pissed us off, as it was hard enough trying to keep a low profile and not be compromised, without flying dumb-asses making Charlie wonder just what the hell they were looking at. Normally, we would have told them on the radio in no uncertain terms to fu*k-off, but we had been ordered to hold communications silence when at the RVP, and I had absolutely no intention of breaking it.

In the late afternoon, a few hours after the Air Cav visit, a hint of smoke from the burning of camphor-wood, possibly a campfire, accompanied by a babble of voices before what sounded almost like kids excited laughter, and the sharp yelping of a small dog carried across the fetid swamp air, which announced someone was around. The voices and dog barking had put us on an instant alert, for Charlie used dogs as “stags”, sentries, as they were hard to eliminate, unlike the human variety where training and skill could make their takedown relatively easy. In fact, the killing of such canine sentries is how the SEAL silenced pistol earned its nickname of “ the hush puppy”.

Later, far off, a bugle blared briefly and disturbed my thoughts and the silence, making me wonder if somewhere Charlie was making yet another of his futile charges into oblivion. Shortly after, a staccato burst from a heavy machine gun threw up broken spray in a patch of open water quite a way off to starboard. Then the firing began in earnest, whipping across the top of the reed beds, and at first I thought we were under fire, but it was not in our direction, more towards where the mysterious bugle had blared.

A series of quick, dull, whooshing bangs that sounded like grenades detonating in the water, accompanied by the crackling of small-arms automatic gunfire. I thought I heard screams just as the heavy machine gun fired again, it was a slow firer compared to our 60’s, so most probably a chi-com .51 caliber, then another series of bangs, this time sharp in the way fragmentation grenades explode. Finally, a smoking cascade of bright phosphorous droplets sprayed into the air, and all of the gun-firing had stopped.

A great pall of smoke rose up, and I could hear the crackling of flames as sun-baked reeds were swiftly devoured by a furious flash-fire, obviously started by the phosphorous. Its roaring flames began swirling and dancing skyward as in the way of an Arizona dust-devil. I could feel a sucking pull of air as it rushed in to feed the flames with oxygen, then, quite suddenly, the fire died away as it ran out of fuel, the reeds having burned down to the water table. Anyone caught by that roaring inferno would have been unceremoniously turned into a “crispy critter”, burned victim. Thankfully, as reeds tend to burn clean, giving off relatively few sparks, there had been little risk of fire-jump between the one that had flamed and its neighboring beds.

Billowing, eye stinging, choking smoke slowly drifted over the boat, making us couch until our throats felt raw. Then, just as slowly it dispersed, revealing four sampans, the third in line towing the fourth, making their way towards us. Our NFG started lifting his rifle into the firing position, and quickly received another punch to the head, for the sampans were manned by the SOG force, their “Tiger Suits” clearly visible. Anyway, I had already recognized the guy who was standing up in the bow of the lead sampan. We had met in Saigon at Tante Bees “cabaret club”, where he had been face down in a pool of his own vomit, on a table covered with a forest of empty 1 liter “Biere La’Rue” beer bottles.

Three of the sampans were so overloaded with people and gear they had only a few inches of free-board. The fourth had a hole knocked in it which had been plugged with a shirt, and carried the bodies of two people wrapped in ponchos that were oozing blood, and some patched-up wounded “yards”, montagnard grunts. One, his belly having been blown open by a grenade blast, within an hour was dead, despite the best efforts of our corpsman.

Once aboard our Mike the SOG force leader said it had been rough and tough going all the way during their mission, but all had quietened down until traveling up a narrow creek when they saw a head and shoulders rise above some reeds, but before they could open fire the head and shoulders vanished. Seconds later they were hit by a VC ambush started with a short bugle blast, the force leader knew there was only one thing that could counter an ambush, the use of a controlled offensive action. Meaning, that they had to break out of the killing zone by making an immediate, and unhesitating assault into the ambush, so they rammed their sampans into the reed bed, leaped out, and charged!

It was inevitable they took casualties during the first seconds Charlie initiated his ambush, for that is the aim in an ambush, to do the maximum damage in those first few seconds, but the swift action on their part put them among the VC, whom they killed with CAR-15 rifles, preferred by special forces as it had fewer issues than the M16, and “lemons”, M26 frag grenades. Then on withdrawal, set alight the reeds, using a “Willie Peter ,” M26 white phosphorus smoke grenade, as a departing gesture.

In Vietnam the Special Forces constantly rehearsed anti-ambush drills, but that drill was only one of the many others that were rehearsed until such drills became automatic, became conditioned responses. The rehearsing for an anti-ambush action was paramount for the chance to survive it, as there was no time for any reluctance nor hesitation. You had to charge straight in before the enemy could do anything about it, get among them, and kill them. If possible, you ran through the ambush whilst blasting away, then quickly turned and fired like fury. Unfortunately, some guys were always killed or wounded doing it, but far more remained unscathed than would have if they had stayed in the killing zone.

At least one thing was pretty well guaranteed, Charlie wasn't expecting it, being already sure in his mind, he had the upper hand, and those he had ambushed would be squirming for cover, or trying to make a futile break out of his killing zone. Unfortunately, Charlie had his own particular form of ferocious anti-ambush drill, and enacted it many a time on our preset ambushes.

On reflection, I am sure that the inquisitive Air Cav “hog”, albeit unintentional, caused the ambush to happen which in turn resulted in the deaths of the three SOG force guys, and the wounding of others. However, if I took a more objective view it could also be partially blamed on my refusal to break radio silence when first spotting the “Hog”. Either way, it isn't really relevant what caused it, for the dead were dead and the rest weren't, which going by “the code of the grunt” meant, C'est la guerre, better them than us!

[Josh Drummond]

I have just read elsewhere on the internet that your stories do great justice to those who served during the Vietnam War.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother.

Your NFG reminds me of a kid from the 12th Marines who was killed in the courtyard of the emperors palace. Hadnt thought of him for years until I read your piece.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Drapeaux de mes Frères

“ Welcome to the Navy’s Riverine course. Your only concern will be to absorb vast quantities of information within as short a time scale as possible, and hope you have the mental ability to retain it. This course will require of you a determined state of mind, but on the final physical test, nearly fifty percent of you will fail! “

Navy SEAL training team leader, Port Everglades, Florida, 1966.


Riverine operational task areas were designated by three color coded zones of blue, green and brown. Blue represented the ocean, green the coastal waters, in the region of twenty-five klicks out from the shoreline, and brown being associated with the estuaries, rivers and any inland water within the possibility of navigation. Needless to say, blue and green’s weather conditions could at times cause serious sailing difficulties regarding the smaller of our craft, and made all operational sailing orders, just as it would for any cruising yacht, very much conditional upon it, as no sailor ever wants to be caught off a lee-shore during a storm.

The main boating dangers for any coasting Riverine boat came with the monsoon of South Vietnam, which is split between an early “Northeasterly,” November to February, and a later “Southeasterly”, May to October. When the monsoon struck it brought with it an air thick with the stinging taste of sea salt, lashing rain, and unpredictable roaring tropical storms, that battered the South China Sea coast with white crested rollers. Later, it thunderously crashed into the Gulf of Thailand shores, driven on by fierce storm force winds.

Added to the weathers wild rides was Charlie, who went about the business of screwing-up with alacrity all sailing orders so carefully designed by the battalions of “REMFs,” rear echelon motherfu*kers. Those guys worked out of “MACV”, Military assistance command Vietnam, facilities in Da Nang and Saigon, and who, to the resentment of those out in the boonie, sat on their asses all day in air-conditioned offices, when wearing carefully tailored uniforms purchased in Hong Kong's Kowloon district with the combat pay they unashamedly drew. However, they were quite entitled to do so, as it was simply another crazy fact of the war, for there was no actual “forward area” with South Vietnam being designated as a fighting area in its entirety, therefore, everyone received the enhanced combat rated payment.

All sorts of wondrous war things were dreamed up by those people in offices for the Riverines and fighting grunts to enact upon the enemy, in the belief that a futile war could be won. However, by 67 every grunt in the boonie could have told them what the end result would be, but their opinions were never sought after. Instead, they were expected to do their duty, and carry out orders, which they did, but the majority did so with great military cynicism for those who had done the ordering.

The U Minh Forest had been considered by MACV a reasonably quiet backwater sector within the Rung Sat Zone, but Charlie changed that status when he began night-raiding and ambushing in large numbers, which not only wasted their lives, but ours also, as there appeared to be no logical reason for the raids and ambushes as the sector held no real military significance. Especially since the forest was difficult to penetrate on foot, and near impossible to access by vehicle. However, it did have a few deep water rivers and canals which were used regularly for moving personnel and gear around.

Nevertheless, the VC always had a damn good reason for attacking, and it was proving impossible to figure it out. Their main objective was the same as ours, the destruction of the enemy, his intention was also the same, to attack whenever possible, day or night. Also, again like ours, the element of surprise was his key strategy when raiding and ambushing, but where he differed was that his troops were inculcated with the belief that they must obey all orders that meant a guaranteed certain death when doing so. Such an enthusiasm for wanton sacrifice made them unpredictably dangerous, especially for any boats which plied the waterways alone.

The sun’s morning face was still in hiding below the horizon as we breakfasted early on lurp rations, freeze-dried precooked meals, which were vastly superior to the C rations that everyone detested. It was one of the up-sides that came from working alongside the Special Forces, as they were issued with those rations due to the sheer weight of having to hump enough cans of “C” into the bush on a “LURP”, long-range recon patrol, or any other mission associated with their clandestine operations. The watchword for Special Forces operations is mobility, from the first step, to the last. Everything taken has to be cut down as low as possible to facilitate any need for rapid marching. Unfortunately, the lurp rations required a great amount of precious clean water to re-hydrate.

After breakfast, I watched as a damaged Tango boat had been warped in alongside the jetty. She had taken three mortar hits when attempting a “lone boat” resupply run to an “FOB”, forward operating base, upriver. One mortar round had started a fire after hitting sacks of mail, making us wonder how many of the dreaded Jody letters had been destroyed. Although there had been some casualties among her crew, none were serious enough to get them out of the sh*t, much to the great annoyance of those who had been wounded and were arguing furiously with the corpsmen to be allowed a trip to Saigon for further treatment.

No one of a right mind wanted to stay out in boonie for one second longer than was absolutely necessary, making many take drastic action just to get a few days respite. Some guys tore at their wounds to make them worse, or infected, others opted for dysentery by drinking river water laced with koolade to kill the taste, and others drank masses of grape juice to give them the less dangerous chronic sh*ts. The really desperate breathed in the smoke from the burning of C4 plastic explosive, which we used at times for heating C-rations. Any inhalation of the smoke made you desperately ill, but if not extremely careful, it could also destroy your brain cells faster than a 9mm round to the skull, and consequently, as with a severe dose of Saigon syphilis, an early case of dementia.

Regardless of the attack on the lone Tango, the FOB still required to be resupplied with stores. So a sailing order had been rapidly drawn up for a flotilla of five boats to take over the delivery, and I mean many tons of the stuff, not just a few boxes of C-rations or ammo that helicopters could deliver. Two “Tangos”, standard cargo humpers, had been loaded to their maximum capacity with everything it would take for a large FOB to fight and survive for a month or more. Artillery, mortar, and small arms rounds, mines, barb and razor wire, fuel and food, generators, medical supplies, radios, weapons, various spare parts, and the mail. In fact, they carried all the back-up crap it took just to keep fighting grunts effective when in the field.

The flotilla consisted of two “PBRs”, patrol boat river, for fast support, the two Tangos, and our better armed and armored Mike boat, out front to act as the vanguard. We had the unenviable task of drawing any initial fire, therefore giving the lightly armed and more vulnerable Tangos time to get out of the way, and allow the PBRs to get stuck in as required.

At least that was the plan, but nothing can test a planned tactical movement, and command and control, better than sailing a small group of boats, that had surprisingly little time to prepare, up a river and deliberately into a recently proven hot area. Especially when the general feeling of “the fu*ker factor” among the crews of those boats being that Charlie was still there, waiting for the next set of boating fools to try their luck.

Sailing upriver over a sheet glass like surface, and holding to midstream away from the mosquito infested riverbanks, our churning props attempted to keep time with “Psychotic Reaction” that blasted out at full volume from the boats portable turntable. Curiously, you could always tell if a guy was a bush-beast or a REMF simply by his music preferences.the mosquito infested riverbanks, as our churning props attempted to keep time with “Psychotic Reaction”, that blasted out at full volume from the boats portable turntable. Curiously, you could always tell if a guy was a bush-beast or a REMF simply by his music preferences. The beasts went for what they termed the “Fu*k it!” tunes, those with driving, heavy beat rhythms, whilst the “back in the rear” types seemed to have preferred something a little more on the “softer” side. However, the black guys were a law unto themselves when it came to music, and shied away from the “rabbit”, white guy, preferences.

Not one person on the boats saw the sudden flash of a well concealed artillery piece on the left hand bank that started the action, they only heard the screeching-cough of it firing, and a resulting thunderous bang as its heavy round smashed into the second in line of the two heavily laden Tango boats, directly amidships.

The gun sounded like an old French “75”, and as it had been fired at such a close range the Tango seemed to bend inwards with the impact of the hit, then sank immediately. As the stricken Tango’s crew splashed around in the river, Charlies machine guns, situated very low in long grass, about 200 meters from our boat, started ripping into them, and we looked on helplessly as some threw up their arms with hands clawing at the air, before disappearing below the surface. Being shot through the chest and lungs by high velocity bullets had made their bodies lose natural buoyancy, so down they went.

We had been well and truly caught out, and with that realization came the gut-churning sickness you feel in war on the expectation of having great violence done to you by others. However, once you have squeezed a trigger mechanism, it readily converts itself to battle euphoria. But when under great pre-combat stress things start to slow down, and it is funny the way how clearly precise your thinking can become when it does, and at first, like us, the remaining Tango and the PBRs appeared shocked into inaction. However, that only lasted for a second or so before the training kicked in, and they started reversing at speed to get out of the killing area. leaving our boat to keep the VC busy until a called air-strike arrived to blast them out of the way.

To achieve an effective reduced target size our boat had to be maneuvered so as to face bow-on to Charlies positions, but there was no way, even with our mortar, she had sufficient weapons-punch available, so the forward fifties fired quick bursts in the hope it was enough to put Charlies machine gunners, and a recoiless rifle that had joined the attack, off their aim. However, it was really a waste of ammunition as there was nothing to see, nothing to aim at, and gave an impression that our weapons were firing without meaning or purpose. Unfortunately, Charlie just wasn't the kind to be so easily put off, and to prove it turned his unwelcome attention on our Mike.

Our boats forward weapons ammo quickly started to diminish, and consequently so did our firing, requiring that the boat once again be turned to bringing the aft quad fifty into play, and retain some form of fire momentum. Once the forward fifties had reloaded, we turned back with the bow towards the riverbank, in what was a most dangerous moment for Charlie had also quickly reloaded, and began hammering at us with even more determination than before.

Rounds ricocheted with a whirr off the reinforced bow, whilst others splattered themselves on the forward fifty's gun armor, like bugs hitting a car windshield. Incredibly, and to our luck, his “75”, for whatever reason, was having a hard time ranging, and kept on switching targets from our mike to the other boats, which were now nearly a klick away downstream. Then Charlies small arms fire, in an instant, became a near overwhelming blizzard, and it was a flurry of rounds so fierce that we were forced to turn away and increase speed. Unfortunately, as we did so, a couple of rounds hit one of our guys, spinning him around and onto his side, an arm totally destroyed.

He had lain there quiet, and at first I thought he was dead, but he started wailing in pain, proving he wasn't. The usual voracious blowflies appeared, and descended on his shattered, bloodied arm like a swarm of locust upon on a ripened crop. There was no good reason why the sight of him waving his now one good hand, trying to shoo away those flying black monsters made me burst out laughing, but there are sights in war enough to make anyone lose their self control. However, military humor can be a spontaneous, and strange phenomenon, for service people will laugh at things that leave civilians quite shocked.

A Mike boat was no sprightly PBR by a mighty long way, for akin to a lumbering leviathan it took an agonizingly long time just to turn the beast. Like a grossly overweight ballerina attempting to pirouette, each added second taken to complete a sluggish turn increased the risk of a debilitating hit by an artillery round, or recoiless rifle fire. But she made the final one without receiving much in the way of damage, other than a few bullet and shrapnel holes in her thinner steel plates, and at full throttle we retreated back the way we had come, with tracer darting after us. Even so, we were not out of trouble by any means, for Charlie was scoring well aimed hits on our stern at an alarming rate, making it just a matter of time before someone on board would be mortally wounded, or killed.

Our aft quad-fifty gunner, having finally run out of ammo, and with no intention of leaving to get some, and no one being foolhardy enough to run a gauntlet of fire to deliver any, was keeping low behind its armor shielding as rounds terminated on it with a clang of doom. He had an expectant look on his face, like a condemned man would in front of a firing-squad, when resigned to being struck at any moment by a death dealing round. Which, had it happened, wouldn't have surprised me not one little bit due to Charlies superbly accurate shooting.

As we retreated, the PBR’s, in a bold attempt to give our boat some covering fire, tore past on our port side, close together, going flat-out in a battle run with all guns blazing. Their pristine American flags, colors brilliantly clear in the gleam of the sun, were proudly snapping full and stiff on the halyards. It was an inspiring sight those little boats charging forward, and was just as stirringly patriotic and brave as it was perhaps dangerously foolhardy.

The VC instantly diverted their attention from us, and towards the new threat of racing high speed patrol boats skimming over the river. Then the boats seemed to stagger under numerous hits that chewed bits of fiberglass and deck fittings from them. However, regardless of being under such punishing gunfire, the PBRs did not falter in their resolve to keep a ferocious returning fire on the hidden Viet Cong positions, and therefore giving us sufficient time to get out of gun range.

Once the PBrs passed beyond the “EFL”, effective fire line, of the ambush, they turned for a return pass, and as they did so the requested air cover, in the shape of Skyhawk aircraft, eventually appeared. Unfortunately, as the planes tilted steeply their attack seemed indecisive, and initiated at a much higher altitude than was normal, making their bombing of Charlies positions prove inaccurate.

Several of their finned bombs landed in the river directly in front of the returning patrol boats, where they detonated with a muffled boom, and did no more damage than saturating the VC. However, their poor aiming gave over one memorable moment, when a PBR, with hull nigh on airborne, and weapons muzzle flashes sparkling, shot out of the middle of a massive column of boiling, bomb blast water, and had that precise moment been caught on camera it would have made one of the great classic images of the Riverine war.

I certainly cannot be claimed as being an advocate for gung-ho, for good training is so designed that it drives such foolish notions out of you, but if ever there was a time when I could openly admire it, those PBR crews had seized their moment in the sun with a furious flair.

Undoubtedly, they had not been driven by a lust for battle, far from it, theirs were unselfish actions to assist brothers-in-arms during a time of need, and had it been within my power to do so I would have decorated every man crewing those boats. But alas, it was not, therefore, my only accolade available to give for their bravery is as written here.

By sheer tenacity Charlie had won the day, and that left us with little choice, other than to head back downstream with the mission abandoned. Then, on navigating a bend we happened upon the drifting figure of a VC grunt, face-down as if inspecting the river bottom, the flotsam of war. However, some things about him seemed obvious in that he had joined the ranks of the unknown, was probably near forgotten, and had attained peace with death.

[MANICHAEAN]

Bernard

You might be interested to know that after 9 weeks working in Thanh Hoa Province 200 KM south of Hanoi, that new arrivals still get the trots while adjusting to the food here, even if its camp grub as opposed to street food. Three weeks loose bowels seems to be the norm, whatever medicine one takes, then the body builds up a resistance.

What is strange is trying to put your finger on the strength of the Vietnamese; in this case, those from the north. It seems to be a bloody minded determination to overcome any obstacle they find unreasonable; like driving the cattle at rush hour in the opposite direction to the traffic, wearing safety helmets whatever. There are also some throwbacks you might find interesting. At site there are a lot of illegal workers that either infiltrate by sea or get fake ID's. Now we are experiencing camp infiltration and are beefing up the perimeter walls with razor wire, more guard towers and lights. A big difference from when you were here, but you would still find it a touch of deja vu.
Take care
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Hello M.

If your caterers are cooking with local water I can well imagine why you had what we termed “Ho Chi Minh’s revenge”.

I found the Vietnamese had a determination of purpose, but at times it seemed to be quite illogical.

Infiltration from the sea and fortified camps, as you say, sparks deja vu.

Take care.

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

L'embuscade (unredacted)

“My comrades hunt imperialists like wild dogs. They feel no pity for the Yankee invaders, and the more they kill, the more the American people will hate this War, and turn against their government, and when they do they will join with us!”

Viet Cong political officer, POW interrogation, SEAL Hatchet Force Operation, Bassac River, South Vietnam, 1967.


In the majority, the guys who enlisted in the South Vietnamese Armed Services were, like their Viet Cong counterparts, peasant farmers, and just as poor as any American rail-riding hobo. Their gear was poor, their pay was poor, their food was poor, and their chance of finding a woman was even poorer, once the US Military arrived. They never received a furlough, nor any out-of-country R&R to the fleshpots of Bangkok or Hong Kong, but then, as an upside on missing out on those Cities of pleasure, they avoided having to ship home with something sexually sinister, or as a dependent on mind blowing drugs. Nor did they get the chance of giving their mom or wife a $1.00 poorly carved hardwood religious figurine as a “conscience” souvenir, in an attempt to keep their own night daemons at bay.

Those guys were neither pro-government nor anti-communist, hell, their close relatives had fought the French, and some even had a brother or cousin fighting with the Viet Cong. In essence, they fought only for their personal finances, and if they judged it to be in their best interest to do so, deserted.

An incredible 120,000 went “over-the-hill” in 67, and even though a Viet Cong grunt’s pay was many piasters less than those serving in the government forces, sometimes being no more than a few cigarettes and a reasonable meal, quite a number of those worked “part time” for the VC. Then there were others who swapped over to the Viet Cong “full time”, after the wanton burning of villages and hamlets, and the killing of their relatives within the “Free-Fire” zones, areas designated as not fully restricted by the rules of land warfare.

However, that did not mean that some of the Viet Cong grunts didn't swap over to us. The bush-beasts termed those ex VC “Kit Carson Scouts”, and never fully trusted them, although their new military masters, the CIA and Special Forces apparently did. Unfortunately for a “KCS”, there was no returning once he had “jumped ship”, as Charlie wanted them back real bad, which made it preferable for them to blow their own brains out rather than be captured by their old buddies.

Such activity made the war even more complicated for our grunts, in that some people who had defeated the French at the Battle of Dien Bien Phu were fighting alongside them, whilst others, who the day before had been doing likewise, were by the very next facing off against them with the VC. In essence, the war, as with most wars, began to deteriorate into a mire of ruthlessness, being driven on by feelings of distrust and uncertainty.

On the other hand, there certainly was a psychological advantage to be had when we went riding around on our Mike boat rather than crawling around in the jungle with the more trustworthy South Vietnamese Marine grunts, in that we had a sense of detached security due to the ready made steel cover it provided. However, either out on the water, or when taking to the jungle, Charlie always did his absolute utmost to kill us, and we the same thing to him!

The Plain of Reeds was an area which fell within our vast operations zone. It could be reached via a main river, where in places was wider than the Mississippi, and then tree lined canals which, like the Canal Du Midi in Southern France, had a pleasant, even tranquil, feel to them being lined with shade giving mature trees. The Plain itself was klick upon klick of wind-rushed, reed choked, stagnant and disease ridden creeks and swamp, and not very dissimilar to some parts of our training ground in Florida . It was designated as prime “Indian Country”, and where our Special Forces and the South Vietnamese Special Forces, the Lien Dei Nugel Nghai, had operational control over all clandestine missions.

The CIA knew that the higher-higher “big battle” pacification policy at the time of “make the VC bleed for their every grain of rice ” was heading in the wrong direction, for as in the Korean War, the communists’ willing ability to absorb massive losses could be considered as mind blowing. On the other hand the agency preferred a more subtle tactic, which was one of using Special Forces, ours and the South Vietnamese, bolstered by ex Viet Cong “Kit Carson Scouts”, “Indits”, indigenous people, and Chinese, Malayan, Burmese, and Cambodian mercenaries.

Many of the Vietnamese Indits, Malayans and Burmese had been British trained, and as such were very highly regarded for their jungle warfare skills. It goes beyond any argument that British Special Forces jungle training took center stage when it came to initiating such warfare, and much of what was to be later written into our own jungle training manuals was directly influenced by British expertise.

As a result of that CIA policy, which, like most of what they concocted, proved highly effective, and many strange, and at times weird, people were sent forth to seek out and destroy the Viet Cong. One of whom was an ancient, squat little Chinese guy the CIA had operationally coded with the nickname of “Bigfoot”.

There was absolutely no derision in their choice of nicknames, although it was regarded by some within the intelligence community as being a little overly melodramatic, and hinting somewhat of a nickel-and-dime spy novel. Whether it was or not, “Bigfoot” obviously knew of his code name, and when it was explained to him that a legendary great beast of the American forests shared that name, he reveled in its significance.

“Bigfoot” had become a legend in his own right during WW2 when running a bunch of Chinese cutthroats supporting Allied Special Forces operating against the Japanese, and his new band of young Chinese mercenaries would be helping “allies” again. But do not get this wrong, for he did not help out of any love for democracy, or for that matter the United States, nor any other country, absolutely no way, for just as in WW2 to him it was simply all about money, preferably paid in gold coin, regardless of its currency.

Within the Plain of Reads there operated a highly dangerous VC leader, who was a self styled “cleansing” figure to the people, and went about rooting out those without complete loyalty to the communist doctrine. Being disgustingly ruthless in this endeavor, he had guaranteed himself a safe, spy protected, working base. The leader commanded in the region of fifty or more VC, all well armed, and like he absolutely dedicated, and who, like the Government “tax” collectors, were hated by many of the rural population. Incredibly, they operated quite openly, and were high on our agency’s wanted list.

Like any other VC, they would attack and kill any military or police they came across. But where they differed, was that if their leader considered certain civilians as not staunch supporters of the communist cause they would torture and kill them, at times in the most abhorrent of ways, and whenever any “Sat Cong”, kill communists, operation, or “SLAM”, “ search-location-annihilation-mission, were mounted against them, they dashed back to their well hidden den in the Plain of Reeds.

Their leader was a local born to the Plain of Reeds and therefore knew the area intimately, and, like many of the Viet Cong NCO and Officer cadre, was an NVA military trained returnee from the North. In addition, he had been a member of the NVA’s political warfare unit, renowned for their atrocities against what they termed “cruel tyrants and reactionary elements.” However, in essence, they were simply Hanoi’s death squad.

The guy had but one weakness which was women, and that really pissed-off his wife, and on hearing of this, the LDNN decided that the wife should become an ally by befriending her. To achieve this they called in the services of “Bigfoot” who on their behalf plied her with gifts, cash, and a handsome young bodyguard, come lover in exchange for intelligence on her husband.

The designated bodyguard was a trusted aide to “Bigfoot” and a vicious, nasty, arrogant piece of crap, but extremely loyal. Through this arrangement, it was not long before the LDNN knew exactly the location of the VC’s well defended bolt hole, and its strength of defenders, built defenses, and layout.

It was obvious from that intelligence an attack on the bolt hole, either Ariel or land, would prove to be tactically impractical within the reed beds of the plain, if all of the VC were to be killed or captured, so a plan was developed in an attempt to force the VC out into the jungle. There to receive an ambush, which would hopefully result in their total annihilation.

Bigfoot arranged that the VC leader’s wife would send her young lover to advise when her husband would be returning to the bolt hole after a “ nonconformist ” cleansing excursion. “Bigfoot” and the LDNN would throw a rough cordon around the area of the VC camp, leaving a weak gateway towards the jungle, and a known track used by the VC. Approximately one klick down that track, the LDNN instructed ambush would be waiting, made up with part of my boat’s crew and a squad of South Vietnamese Marines.

True to her word, and with the probable hope of being rid of her husband, the wife duly sent her lover with the information. The LDNN, “Bigfoot” and his mercenaries piled aboard a large civilian river junk, and set the plan in motion. There was no turning back on the mission, for there was but one chance to clear out the rat’s nest in the reeds, and that was it!

Normally, Special Forces operation radio communications were relayed through the “Leghorn” Radio Relay Site in southern Laos. However, as that operation had been classified as strategic, a runner had been sent to our positions in the jungle, rather than taking the risk of being compromised by Charlie if he triangulated a transmission. The messengers English was as piss-poor as was our Vietnamese, but we still got the drift of the message by using a pot puree of Vietnamese, English and French. Obviously, the SV Marines understood him straight off, and couldn’t stop laughing at the guy’s frustration over our antics when trying to do the same, but to our great annoyance made no effort to help out.

The rain had stopped, it had been thundering down for hours in a warm, continuous, unrelenting flood, then it just suddenly ceased, as if someone had turned off a bath faucet. My crewmen headed over to a mass of Nipa palms, and spent a few minutes going over, and rehearsing ambush procedures, before allowing another five to prepare their gear, for everything to be used in a preset ambush has to be checked again and again. We had everything required , weapons, grenades, flares, and information on other red forces in the area from hot tips supplied by the LDNN.

The SV Marine leader and I moved off a short distance to form an “ O group”, orders group, and prepare a plan. we took our time, as one difficulty to overcome was the difference in combat drill styles used by the South Vietnamese. Especially with the “break contact drill”, which is a carefully choreographed squad drill that ensures maximum small arms covering fire is used for withdrawal if the enemy strength proves greater than first imagined. In addition, we tried to think like the enemy, from their point of view. However, we did not discuss the planning of the action with the others as it would have downgraded our command appointments by being considered as indecision, even weakness.

From experience, we knew that the VC would scatter at speed the moment any firing started, or, if trained for it, initiate their form of anti-ambush drill by firing off a volley of rocket launcher rounds towards the ambush, then attacking in waves. So a decision was reached to use the simplest style of deliberate ambush, the “linear”, which is a type of ambush that is preset by a squad strength of grunts, and at times, as then, two squads. Any more would have made the choke point of the killing area just a little too overcrowded.

A “linear” consists of using manually controlled spray-burst mines, to be in effect the “doors”, and two “stops”, grunts armed with general purpose machine guns at each end of the ambush, and a “killing group”. However, it also requires to have “Depth”, with a couple of grunts positioned beyond the killing ground to shoot down any escapees, and act as the “protection party” to cover the withdrawal route to the rally point.

Unlike in the movies, where a few guys hide behind bushes and fire uncoordinated weapon bursts at an unsuspecting enemy, in the real life, the ability to set an ambush is classed as a military skill, even an art, and requires professional expertise to set properly, and if to be initiated effectively constantly practiced. It is without doubt a short lived, brutal, and callous thing, for its only function is the intended total destruction of an enemy formation, and if done in a forest or jungle it is at so close a proximity you can see every detail of opposing grunts features, and you can smell them, hear their breathing and voices.

Part of Marine training is so intended as to make your enemy lose their life's meaning and personality, dehumanize the target, so to speak. Nevertheless, an ambush still becomes a very personal action, and it is not that unusual for an inexperienced grunt to close his eyes when firing, in an attempt to shut out the ghastly carnage unfolding in front of him.

As time droned on, all waited in a rain-soaked silence, eyes watching for even the slightest movement in what seemed like an eternity of time. Hell, a Riverine Marines life seemed to be made up of waiting for something to happen, interspersed with a few minutes of violent action. It was a test of discipline, and concentration, something ambushing troops must be strong with. Then the forward “stop”, who was located near the true jungle edge, spotted movement on the track and pulled the communications cord looped around my left boot.

Normally, having only a small force, along with our “bloopers”, grenade launchers, there would have been a LAW for a heavy weapons punch if required, but the South Vietnamese Marines had insisted on having a flamethrower. A weapon which was obviously close to my crew’s hearts, and not that unusual to have, if they didn’t go about clicking the fu*king thing for a “flame-on” before the ambush door was slammed shut.

My guys had the task of closing the “doors” and preventing any escape attempt with our “stops”. The SV Marines would do the main business of the ambush by acting as the “killing group”, and blast, or toast with their flamethrower, the VC to oblivion. Then, through the deep gloom beneath the jungle canopy appeared our targets, moving quietly but at speed in a kind of half run, which meant we had to be damn quick to catch them all in the net for sure.

In an ambush, all of the guys in the “killing group” must initiate a rapid fire, shooting to kill as soon as a mine, or mines, go off, and keep on firing until the order comes to stop. So, as the last of the VC passed our forward “stop” he pressed a clicker wired to a Claymore mine. A loud, sharp crack, and the running Viet Cong grunt had his flesh shredded like ground beef, and bones shattered by hundreds of steel balls, and at that precise moment the explosion slammed shut one “door” of the ambush.

Our “stop” then ripped into the now disorientated VC with his M60, and their fate was guaranteed sealed! They literally had nowhere to go, but some did manage to get a few AK rounds off in retaliation, and tried to run up the narrow track, but were quickly repulsed by the second exploding mine that closed the second of the “doors”, and fire from the M60 manned by the rear stop. They fell back, and were forced into the killing zone, where they came under a continuing storm of M16 rifle rounds from the “killing group”. The air filled with the zing and buzz of automatic weapons rounds, sharp cracks from exploding grenades, and the screams from the mortally wounded and dying.

Finally, the SV Marines team leader shouted the standard ambush command of Stop! Stop! Watch and wait! Then in response, and with eyes stinging from the gun-smoke, throats that felt as if filled with sand, and ears ringing from the battle din, everyone immediately ceased firing, but still remained on the alert.

Lying motionless in soft jungle moss, and on the track, amid streams of blood were the VC force, some nothing more than pulped flesh and bones. But quite suddenly one figure sprang to life, and took off at a tremendous pace, fear lending wings to his heels. Crack! Crack! Went a dozen or so rifles, but the fleeing figure kept on running, for with eyes still streaming from the battle smoke everyone had missed!

My only thought at the time was, “another Fu*king screw-up!” Then the figure ran straight into a grenade "Necklace", and was quickly and viciously cut down, his head had instantly disappeared in a bloody shower. Prudently, grenade necklaces had been stretched between Nipa palm trunks on the opposite side of the track from the ambush as a precaution against any such bug-outs.

Much to my surprise, as the VC force had obviously been decimated, the gloom was suddenly lit up by the flamethrower in an effective and terrifying display. The SV Marines then lobbed hand grenades into the burning mix of humanity and foliage, and poured in a torrent of small arms rounds, in a mass overkill mad-moment just to make sure!

The ability of some within the South Vietnamese Military to overdo even a small victory always amazed me, for somehow they never seemed quite satisfied with just winning. They always went that extra distance, at times crossing the line of what to us would be acceptable military behavior. Regrettably, it was something that would later rub-off on a few of our guys when Charlies guerrilla war neared a fevered pitch, and their constant use of ground and booby traps killed our grunts. In turn, that practice fostered in our people a hard bitterness towards the enemy, which manifested itself in some very vicious payback.

Inevitably the jungle caught alight, and flared at a tremendous speed. Everyone had to run for it, plunging into the side canal to escape the flames. After swimming across the canal there had been a three klick walk back to where our Mike boat, camouflaged by bundles of reeds tied to her, had been left moored up

The one casualty among our crew was a “NFG”, new fu*king guy, with grenade fragments in his face and an eye. For lack in “trigger-time”, experience, and being caught up in the excitement of the moment, had forgotten his jungle training and thrown, rather than lobbed, a grenade. It had bounced off a tree and come right back at him, catching him within its burst radius, but luckily no one else on our side. The “NFG” was in great pain, but to his credit suffered the wounds with a magnificent fortitude, and never cried out. Unfortunately, his eye looked well beyond any possibility of repair.

The flame thrower induced fire eventually burned itself out two days later, but not before destroying acres of jungle, and once everything had cooled down, we were ordered back to the ambush site to search for evidence. However, apart from some charred human remains, and a few fire twisted weapons, nothing else was found. Anyway, as always, the jungle would have quickly grown back and covered the scars of our little side action, as if it had never happened. For, if left alone to its own devices, then in all cases, nature will eventually eradicate nearly all traces of humanity’s follies.

We never did find out if any of the VC had managed to escape the carnage of the ambush, but I seriously doubt if they had, for enemy activity dropped off in that particular section of Plain of Reeds whist we were there, but it did eventually return with a vengeance when NVA Regulars with VC support started pouring in via the “Ho” trail, as the North’s General Giap, who had a known reputation for recklessness, prepared for his Tet offensive.

However, the idea that perhaps the leadership in Hanoi had a hand in feeding the intelligence which made the elimination of that particular VC group possible, has always played on my mind. In that their overly zealous viciousness towards the local populace proved perhaps counterproductive to Hanoi’s carefully crafted propaganda that claimed it was the invading Yankee imperialists who were the enemy of the South Vietnamese peasant, whilst they, the North Vietnamese, were their saviors. Yet, that “hearts and minds” strategy was in complete contradiction to their one of intimidation and murder.

Of the Wife who helped the LDNN via “Bigfoot” so effectively? Well,She moved into a large villa in Saigon with her lover, courtesy of our intelligence agency. Most likely the CIA had future plans for her as quite correctly, they never wasted an intelligence resource once it was found to be effective. However, in 1969 she was found floating and bloated in a Saigon cesspool, having been savagely beaten and strangled to death by a piano wire garrote, which was still fastened around, and embedded in, her neck. Therefore, it seemed that Hanoi also had plans for her.

Regretfully, our NFG casualty died from wound complications in the Naval Hospital, Yokosuka, Japan. But unlike the ever growing number of his peers who didn't, had boarded the Freedom Bird back to the world whilst still alive.

[MANICHAEAN]

One of your best pieces Bernard; balanced, objective and extremely interesting.

I have just come back today from a security training school course for Project guards in Thang Hoa University, and at the meal afterwards sat next to a very quiet, almost shy man who was the main instructor.

He explained how he had been 38 years in the Vietnam Army and was obviously of substantial rank. Appearances sometimes can be so deceptive!

Best regards
M.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Hello M.

Many thanks for your kind words.

38 years is a mightily long time to serve under any country's colors. However, as far as I know communist regimes tend to allow guys that are of importance to serve into their twilight years.

The longest period I have personally known someone to serve was 24 years.

Take care,

Bernard.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother. At Hue the VC young communist squads and the NVA political warfare unit set about murdering nearly five thousand civilians. But to me the worst of it was that after they murdered French priest school teachers the VCYC hammered pencils into the ears of the kids as a punishment for listening to what they believed was the priests western propaganda.

[Josh Drummond]

I agree with Minichaean, L'embuscade (unredacted) is one of your best to date.

[MANICHAEAN]

Its so weird for me now Bernard, after reading one of your pieces; to finish work, get into the car, drive to a local Vietnamese bar and relate it all to the daily life here.

There is a genuine, open friendliness to foreigners, the rice paddies still stretch out with local women in conical hats planting rice. Cattle mix at rush hour with buses and swarms of motor cycles. The police are dressed in light pastel uniforms, densely forested hills surround us, uninviting to climb in this heat, let alone to fight over.

There was in that war so much courage, an unimaginable naked striving to win and at the end today, from the young Vietnamese point of view, it was as if it had never happened!

[Mike Tevion]

Manichaean.

The average young American is no different to their Vietnamese counterpart when it comes to forgetting the Vietnam War.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Survivre à la Lutte


“Goddamned hammer and nail bullsh*t bro! CP moral boosting crap about our guys being the hammer and Charlie the nail! Well, this time the nail has fu*ked the hammer!”

Corporal “Bayou" Lejeune, FOB withdrawal action, D10 Special Zone, South Vietnam, 1967.


Tate's Hell, the Blackwater River area, the tidal marshlands and the everglades of Florida all supplied the perfect ground conditions for a budding Riverine Marine to have his stamina severely tested, for that to a Marine must come foremost in his mind before strength.

There is no dubiety within the training regime of any Marine Corps that being a strong fu*ker isn't a great deal of use if you haven't the stamina to get yourself by speed-marching from say point A to B, in a condition of being immediately capable of covering 200 meters, perhaps more, in a flat-out run with full battle gear, and still be in a good enough physical condition to get stuck in to the fighting when you get there, and more importantly, win against an equally determined enemy.

During the Vietnam War, one test of stamina for the average Marine bush-beast would most likely have come during the swift advance of a frontal assault, whilst under very accurate small arms fire, in murderous humidity or searing sunshine, and uphill. For the guy sitting on his a*s in a well-constructed defensive position, that also controls any high ground, has a natural battle advantage which can inflict massive casualties on any attacker trying to pry him out of it. Also, in the majority of cases, your stamina would also have to be called upon to keep you going during the actual breaching of that in-depth position. Then, if you survived the vicious forward trench fighting, complete the fight-through to victory.

At Parris Island, United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot, it wasn't that unusual to see a big, muscle-bound beach hulk lying in the mud on the assault course crying his eyes out, with the shame of being completely mentally and physically fu*ked, as he watched some skinny runt of a guy race past him thoroughly enjoying the experience.

Most guys who sported weight-trained muscles simply couldn't control their own bulk, and whereas the thin, wiry guy had few problems on the assault course, the “Pumping Iron - beach buddy” type recruit could hardly run any great distance, or drag himself over the course without collapsing.

The assault course at “Sandy Rock”, Parris Island, was considered by recruits as a killer supplied to the Marine Corps by the Devil, and it sure as hell was designed to be a killer, it had to be, for battle fitness is crucial for anyone to successfully take part in an assault action, and still retain any hope of surviving it.

Although first starting off on the assault course in a mild way, and being dressed as if out for a saunter in the sun, it didn't take long before you came to be terrified of it, and understand exactly why the drill staff members were always banging on about something they called stamina. For by the time a recruit platoon was no more than half-way around, their legs were shaking and cramping with muscle spasms, and overworked lungs were making heads swim with the lack of oxygen.

A large number of the recruits would already have dropped well behind the leaders, especially the ”fat buddies”, and the cigarette smokers, who, having given up climbing and traversing the obstacles, were giving a very fine demonstration of a staggering swaying walk, like boozed up sailors. Many were so nerve numbed they never gave any reaction to being screamed at, slapped, punched, and kicked by angry purple faced drill staff, who began making attempts to motivate them by delving out a little friendly administrative pain.

It took in the region of thirty five minutes before the last of the, “maggots”, recruits, completed traversing the assault course on their very first try, not counting any sobbing dropouts who had regurgitated their morning meal somewhere behind them on the course. In punishment for that lack of willpower to keep on going even when, as it seemed to them, the point of death from exhaustion had been reached, they were ordered back to retrieve the abandoned “breakfast pile.” That was done by scooping it up with their hands, and carrying it off the course, whilst all the time being “ear bashed” by the screaming non-coms, and woe-betide any if they dropped even one tiny particle of it. If they had, then another administrative pain session would be issued out to them. However, what had not penetrated their oxygen starved, and numbed brain matter, was the real bummer of fact relating to the assault course.

It was that recruits who reached the end of their initial training at boot camp had to face the harshness of the battle fitness test before they could graduate. Therefore, working with the “buddy” system of rifle pairs, part of that test required covering the course whilst wearing full battle gear, including weapon, in under six minutes, with five being better, and four considered to be such a magnificent and supreme effort it was worthy of a few grudgingly given words of praise from their Gunnery Sergeant.

For those heading for Vietnam, without being put forward for any further “specialist” training, meant that they had to rely on that “wellbeing” feeling which comes with a high level of physical fitness, and the “overcome anything” Marine state of mind as drummed into them at boot camp. Both of those gave them, at least for a little time, a slight edge over Charlie. However, the average VC grunt not only had an excellent knowledge of the jungle, he was also surprisingly fit despite at times having to live on a near starvation diet.

In addition, even though for many of the Viet Cong locally recruited grunts their actual military skills were extremely rudimentary, a religious fervor style political motivation, and the personal driver of receiving an extra ration of sweet rice for every three “Yankee invaders” they killed, meant they would take on our grunts in an impressive direct defiance to their larger physical frames, and available firepower.

However, Charlie’s greatest asset when it came to battle motivation lay in the understanding of a well-known military fact that any invader, then come occupier, can’t stay indefinitely, for no matter how long they chose to remain, eventually they have to leave. Unfortunately, in the interim, whilst politicians make long rambling speeches full of patriotic drivel, the grunts, regardless of which colors they serve under; always have to do the fighting and dying.

Therefore, whereas nothing can be done about a politician’s ability to produce enormous amounts of inane verbal bullsh*t as they attempt to build monuments to their own egoistical vanity, a grunt on the other hand, can certainly do at least something towards not dying in a battle area by keeping fit-to-fight, and retaining that hard to achieve, and possibly lifesaving, stamina.

To enter a Lion’s den, and come out again unscathed, is said to take great stealth of movement, for make a noise, or anything that alerts the beast, well then, you are fu*ked! So it was in Vietnam, when Special Forces operated against the NVA once they started to appear in ever greater strength all over the Southern Provinces. Whereas, the Viet Cong worked the guerrilla tactic of fluidity, where small numbers are always on the move, which made them hard to pin down and eliminate, the NVA were a regular army and therefore trained as such, and in the most part used many standard infantry tactics.

Although the most used tactic for the NVA, and at times the VC, was one of “weight of numbers”, another used by their “hero units”, Hanoi’s most dedicated, in which every basic grunt in a unit held a coveted title of “Intrepid Fighter First Class”, was one of closing with our forces to a point where neither a fire mission, nor air support could be called upon, before Charlie launched an actual full out, bayonet charge assault upon them. Little green clad, yellow faced men, screaming out their battle cries, would flood a position, and at that point a “Broken Arrow”, we have been overrun signal, would be given. In which case, subject to the commanding rank having big enough balls to call for it, supporting fire would rain down on our own guy’s heads in a desperate attempt to force the NVA, or VC, to withdraw.

Whereas our guys looked on death in battle as perhaps the worst of all the war’s ills that could befall them, the NVA and VC grunts took on a different view, in that it was simply part of the cost to be paid for driving the ”imperialists” out of their country. In essence, they accepted death just as easily as they accepted the phenomenal numbers of casualties, for Charlie’s grunts believed that personal sacrifices always had to be made for the greater good of the people, and their brother unit.

That warrior’s philosophy could also be taken as perhaps an unofficial motto for Special Forces, as it is akin to their thinking. For Special Forces are trained to have a state of mind designed to ensure that the success of a mission is more important than the individual, it has to take priority over all things, meaning that they develop a near insane self-determination for success of the “Mission”. In addition, to ensure that they get where they are going, and hopefully back again, they have to achieve a level of stamina that seems to stretch beyond human.

Although working alongside Special Forces certainly had many perks, there were times when doing so it seemed as if our boat and her crew had been given a suicidal deployment. Another downside of being given the “honor”, and that is exactly what it is considered to be, of working alongside any Special Force is that they don't particularly like having “strangers” imbedded within their ranks when on a mission. Very understandable, for to make their highly trained, tightly knitted little unit work effectively they have to trust each other unequivocally.

Unfortunately for those who had been ordered to be part of the small numbers of support troops with a SEAL Force, whether liking it or not, they had to adopt SEAL “SOPSs”, standard operating procedures, which included the ability to keep on going with a determination usually only found in those who are quite mad. In addition, before any operation was initiated the SEAL “wheel”, commanding rank, would closely question each one on their military skills, scrutinize every minute detail of the answers given, and where and when necessary refuse to accept anyone lacking in what was considered the critical military skills required for the task in hand.

Once satisfied with his weeding, the “wheel” would give out a standard, and stark, warning order to those found acceptable. It was brutally simple in content, in that there would be no stopping for any sick, lame or wounded. Dropouts would be left to their own devices, to fend for themselves, and if lucky enough, dead or alive, recovered later.

In addition, as it wasn’t the policy of Navy SEALs to leave their weapons in enemy hands. Charlie could not, under any circumstances whatsoever, be given the chance of receiving a present of weapons, other than a “lemon”, fragmentation grenade, intended for the personal use of whoever was abandoned, if of course they had the courage to use it. However, the “wheel” would also give out just a tiny morsel of comfort. That being if they could find it within them the willpower, the “heart”, the stamina, to keep on going regardless of encountered hardships; it would be in their best interest to do so.

During one Hatchet Force operation, when just the day before our boat and crew had been loafing along over a gin clear sea that didn’t even have a ripple on it, being beguiled by the quiet tropical splendor of the coastline, we were tasked with taking a SEAL team up a river to drop-off point, and once there to do what was becoming the norm within a sailing order, “assist as required or as directed”.

The first stage to the objective had been covered surprisingly rapid regardless of their being no water stops, nor time-out for catching a breath. However, such a pace, even for a SEAL team, couldn’t last, and eventually the “wheel” knew it was time for an all too brief respite, and called a halt.

That particular “wheel” had more going for him in the Navy than many of his fellows, and being considered a “bright star” had quickly become one of the best SEAL team leaders in the D10 Special Zone.” By stature small, by intellect a giant, a born leader”, had been one senior ranks description of him. He was detailed and meticulous in his planning, rigid in his sense of duty, and had the smile of a mischievous schoolboy, but for some unrevealed reason his dark eyes always seemed to reflect an underlying anger and bitterness within his character.

Every guy in the support section, apart from having his face painted in the distinctive “first coat green” camouflage preferred by a Navy SEAL when out in the boonie, was down on his chin-strap with exhaustion, and craving only for rest and the taste of coffee. In addition, all had in varying degrees one of the commonest of the myriad of ills that could befall a grunt when fighting in the water laden land of the Rung Sat special zone, and that was trench foot.

The trench foot made walking so painfully debilitating it felt as if jungle boots had insoles made from razor wire, and every step taken was over red-hot embers. Also, our fatigue shirts and pants were so saturated with sweat they rubbed us raw, and more so in the crotch area even though we were wearing “hanging loose” pants which were one size larger than our normal issue.

I looked on with great envy at the SEALs Degars, Montagnards, affectionately termed as “Yards”, who often wandered around barefooted, and scantily dressed, even at times with their “love tackle” swinging freely in the breeze. They were completely at ease with, and seemingly quite oblivious to, the leaches, biting bugs, and the harshness of any terrain they happened to be in at any given time.

Then, just as I was pulling on my last pair of dry socks after a personal “foot inspection”, which had to be done in super quick time as those from the west can’t run any great distance over rough ground with bare feet, the sound of an aircraft’s motor made me look up through a break in the tree canopy. With eyes blinking in the sun’s bright glare I watched as a prop driven black silhouette in the sky flew over heading in the direction of the border with Laos.

Charlie, as always never missing out on even the slightest of opportunities to strike back, fired off an unexpected ribbon of green tracer rounds. They snaked out of the jungle canopy, and there was a puff of white smoke as the rounds whipped across the aircraft’s fuselage, making it stagger in the air. Badly mauled by the gunfire it began an erratic flight, for it rose, then fell, and rose again, like a wounded bird struggling to remain aloft. Almost lazily, it went into a vertical climb before stalling.

Now completely out of control, it began a spinning, spearing dive, before hitting the ground at a tremendous velocity, where it exploded with a near ear shattering impacting bang, which shook the ground and made my limbs tremble. A vivid red, rumbling ball of flame and great column of thick black, rubbery looking smoke rose up, like old vehicle tires burning in a wrecker’s yard.

A section of the dense acrid smoke from the funeral pyre of both machine and it’s pounded to pieces pilot broke away from the main column, and accompanied by the sweet “candy” smell of aviation gasoline that mingling with a hint of charred human flesh, drifted along in the heavy air of the jungle. Almost solid but not quite, before it slowly faded way, dissipated into nothingness, like a ghostly apparition in a haunted house.

We had become reluctant spectators once more, forced to watch another torrid image of war being created by an unknown hand. “The realities of war are always written in blood”, who said it I can’t remember, but that statement has always proven to be factual down through the ages.

Looking at the “wheel” I could see that even he had been pushed a little off the steady by the unexpectedness of the shoot down so near to us and a goddamned pungent cloying stink, so reminiscent of a seriously fu*ked-up backyard barbeque. Then everyone froze, statues would have become envious of just how still our guys became in the blink of an eye. For moving in single file, slowly and silently through the tall elephant grass of a small jungle clearing not that many meters distant, was around half a battalion of what seemed to be disembodied NVA pith helmets.

What happened next would, if forming part of a flag waving, all out gung-ho movie, be scripted in as a “win predictable”. Unfortunately in war nothing can ever be judged as “win predictable”, for there is always the unexpected lurking around on the periphery of all operations. In fact, the unexpected was a rock upon which a surprising number of our own and Charlie’s operations perished.

Then, four scenes unfolded in swift succession, so swift in my memory they now seem to have been almost simultaneous. In response to the sudden appearance of NVA the “wheel” shouted an order, but that was lost unheard within the din of a violent explosion, a large tree shattered as if it were made of glass, the atmosphere filled with choking dust and flying debris, and our “KCS”, Kit Carson Scout, lay sprawled on the ground, gasping and screaming in dire agony due to his buttocks having been completely blasted away revealing his pelvis, and was then done a great compassionate service by the “wheel”, who pistol-shot him in the head.

Now, there will be those who consider such an action by the “wheel” to be inhumane, even cruel, and the guy should have been evacuated out, or left for Charlie to find and tend to medically. Well, all I can say to them is this. To risk a “dust off” helicopter and its crew for a casualty that a battalion of the greatest surgeons in the world could not have saved was beyond even consideration, and the only treatment Charlie would dish-out to one of his turncoats would have been packed with much horrendous pain and suffering.
Anyway, there was no way a casualty could have been carried on a pole stretcher, even if we had one, in that type of terrain. Therefore, a 9mm round to the skull was the only humane treatment available to administer.

The craziest thing of all being that the NVA had not spotted us, for they were running in varying directions away from the clearing seeking cover in the jungle, and not in the way some panic stricken mob would, but in the way disciplined troops react to an aircraft attack, by using a well-practiced drill for the event.

However, we on the other hand, now half deaf from the unexpected detonation, eyes gritty and sore from the dust, and no longer playing at statues, were trying to hightail in the opposite direction by frantically weaving and dodging in a mob-like fashion, our way through clinging vines and vicious thorns amid the dense undergrowth.

The indicators of where the explosion had come from were a muffled jet roar, heard in ringing ears, and the remnants of a signature black exhaust trail in the sky, glimpsed by grit sore eyes. That smoky trail meant for sure the clearing had been hit by an F-4B Phantom, which in probability had dropped a “snakeye” bomb on, or very near, the NVA column.
Whether or not the pilot of the Phantom had any knowledge of our guys being in the vicinity is at least to me an unknown, but the sight of an NVA column on the move must have been for him well beyond just the tempting. However, Charlie’s grunts would have known one terrifying thing, just like we did, in that the F-4B would have more “snakeye” bombs in its racks, and lots of other weaponry available to pound a target with. For when one or more Phantoms attacked a ground target, whether colored red in earnest or blue in error, it was fairly guaranteed that target would be, “O B F”, ordnance butt-fu*ked.

Once the “wheel” considered we were far enough out for the Phantom not to prove a further problem he ordered an eight klick “out of contact” speed-march that tested everyone’s stamina to the full. He had broken us down into four-man squads with ten minute moving out spacing between each, just in case as a more noise generating larger group we happened to blunder into an ambush, for in jungle small is considered beautiful, and that certainly includes any moving troop numbers. Then, as the last squad set off at speed we heard the Phantom return to its recent point of activity, and start pounding at the NVA.

At Parris Island, the push for stamina had been consistent and unrelenting as the drill staff tried to build fighting Marines out of young guys who had a natural fear for their future, but also had a sense of pride that they were part of a great fighting service with a mighty reputation for “getting it done”, so they had to develop a state of mind to do just that, get it done regardless of cost.

Unfortunately, such demands on some of those who were initially unfit proved to be beyond endurance, and meant that many never made it to the graduation review parade. Instead, they left the Island as mentally, and, or, physically failed Marines. However, it wasn’t our stamina, training, or pride of service that saved us from the Phantoms “blue-on-blue”; it was a more overriding state of mind called self-preservation.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother

Your reminiscences of Boot Camp and fighting Charlie are accurately hard hitting.

[Josh Drummond]

Another well written story that is full of Military facts.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard. An Interesting story. Especially your vivid description of an aircraft being shot down during the Vietnam War.

Mike.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Charlie, Josh, and Mike. Many thanks for your kind words.

Take care,

Bernard.

[Milnet]

In the past I have read many of your contributions to training manuals and articles in magazines. I always hoped you would take the time to write about your experiences during the Vietnam War.

Kaiden.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Kaiden.

The training manual contributions were by force of duty, the magazine articles were by force of persuasion. Many thanks for taking notice of both.

Take care,

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Un frère par les Armes

“Remember this well, in Vietnam a danger for one will be a danger for all, the two will always go together. Life is full of dangers, but in War dangers are infinite. When under fire rely on the Marine who is fighting next to you, your buddies, your training, and keep on praying for goddamn deliverance!”

Gunny "Capes", USMCRD, Parris Island, South Carolina, 1966.


Over two and a half million military dudes served within the borders of South Vietnam during the War. That’s over two and a half million personal stories, with the vast majority never to be told. But events in war experienced by others, to the general public, may seem relatively unimportant so many years on. However, to those who were there as the events unfolded can still find them to be at times all-consuming.

Not far short of half of those returning to the world did so suffering from, albeit in greatly varying degrees, the socially debilitating psychological problem once termed as “battle fatigue”, and now known and accepted as “post-traumatic stress disorder”.

Just a scrap of their time is what a day would probably have been to someone who was not at War. However, to a boot camp recruit, a “maggot”, or a fully-fledged Marine grunt, a “snuffy”, fighting in the Southland of Vietnam, time was not something they could afford to squander, for a day could seem like a lifetime, or even prove to be the end of one.

In the best traditions of the 1960’s land of liberty, freedom, and “back of the bus” equality, the South Carolina Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, ensured that all of the slow-thinking white dumbasses and the sharp-thinking white smartasses were compiled into training classes made up in equal amounts of each, whilst the mightily few “soul brothers”, black guys, though part of the new racially tolerant “two-tone” Marine Corps, had training classes allocated unto themselves. But Carolina isn’t all that far from Alabama and Mississippi, and old habits such as no integration tend to die mighty hard. Anyway, much of the Corps wasn’t quite ready back in 1966 for such a thing as ongoing “two-tone” racial harmony.

However, white or black, smart or dumb, a “maggot”, recruit, was still a “maggot”, and who lived in a world that could only function on, or by, numbers. Everyone and everything had a number; every squad, class, drill, weapon, and piece of gear from the tiniest to the colossal had a goddamned number which the “maggots” had to memorize, as their life steadily became defined by numbers.

For most “maggots” at boot camp, the short hours between lights-out, being in their rack, and the inevitable crack-of-dawn garbage can being hurled down the center of their Quonset hut by an uncompromising, bawling hard-a*s Marine Corporal was the only time they could possibly consider as being their own. There, snug in their rack, cuddling up to their ”bunk buddy”, an ancient M14 rifle that their fathers may have used to fight the Japs at Guadalcanal, or the Chinese at The Battle of Chosin Reservoir, was a place to reclaim an identity that was close to being devoid of a number.

It was a time to reflect on moments of raw emotion, to take stock of another day’s pain and suffering from the constant and seemingly pointless rushes from one place to another, and back again, whilst loaded down with gear like pack mules, and if so allowed could dent even the staunchest of spirits, as they sped through the training that would take their youth. If lucky, and they didn’t buckle under the sheer soul destroying weight of it all, the end result would see them becoming a fully-fledged United States Marine “cherry”, a grunt not yet having killed.

Every recruit had developed some form of grievance to b*tch and moan about, but they soon learned to keep it to themselves. To openly voice it would have increased the possibility of swift and possibly severe punishment. For any dissenting voice within the ranks could breed resistance to training, even threaten good discipline when it really came to matter, as in combat, so had to be swiftly silenced. Therefore, to vent their spleen everyone converted their grievances into “Military Humor”, and that way, in most cases, they could avoid punishment. For as the old military cliché states, “if you can’t take a joke, then you should never have fu*king joined!”

Within the Rung Sat Special Zone, the VC and NVA had footholds which grew slowly but ever stronger as their numbers swelled, and as a result any small force military forays into Charlie controlled areas met with stiffer resistance, especially by heavily armed marauding NVA and VC groups who were tasked with seeking them out, and eliminating them.

During 1967 there was a period in the fighting when arriving in an “AO”, area of operations as a cherry or new fu*king guy, had become even more perilous than normal. In the region of only ten percent of those replacements had any form of previous combat experience, and no more than thirty percent were deemed ready for immediate operational deployment. However, ready or not, after a short period of acclimatization they were all thrown straight into the sh*t storm.

A stiff wind sweeping across the wide river had driven short, steep waves ahead of it to break on grassy banks where sad faced Corpsmen tended to wounded grunts with a feeling of hopelessness and despair, in a makeshift dug-out aid-station covered with ponchos. The sound of sobbing and sharp cries of agony hung in its fetid atmosphere made up from the heavy aroma of human sh*t and urine, warm blood that seeped from ugly wounds and the already decaying flesh of wretched looking casualties, among them were the more silent, morphine drugged “expectants”, those expected to die.

At the river’s edge, a Corpsman was burying heaps of spent medical supplies and flyblown, blood clotted dressings. An assortment of gear and weapons taken from the dead and wounded were stacked high next to the aid station, and through which grunts were rummaging, the standard process of recycling anything that could be useful.

Our latest replacement, new fu*king guy, who was also a “cherry“, fresh in from one Southland to another, worn out and scared, utilities saturated with foulness from others, and looking like the proverbial war-weary raggedy assed Marine as seen in a World War Two movie, sat outside the aid station gaging on its strong stench, the odor of violent death. Such a stench could become unbearable even for the most experienced of bush-beasts, let alone a “cherry” in a somber, black mood.

He had stared at a discarded boot and what was left of a foot. The boot and the foot sat together under a windswept but brilliant blue sky, on a river’s wide bank, as if someone had taken the boot off to go swimming then somehow absentmindedly left the foot behind. Our replacement had been detailed to help load Mike cargo boats with the glorious dead, who had been pumped-up and motivated by love of country, and a strong conviction that America’s freedom was being challenged by Communist tyranny.

Being painfully aware of the bloated cadaver bags surrounding him that were slowly leaking body fluids, he had watched with a fatalistic depression the enormous clouds of plump buzzing flies that seemed quite indifferent to the wind as they feasted upon the spreading pools of vile gore that seeped from the bags.

Those bags held the once fresh faced, wide eyed and eager, of which, until that day dawned bright and clear, he had been one. No name bundles, packaged up like ground beef from a slaughterhouse, and left waiting in lush green grass to be collected and reported for graves registration, and if whole enough in body forwarded for embalming by undertakers in seedy old Saigon and the once sleepy, river straddling, city of Da Nang.

The operation had been another cluster-fu*k from the outset, plague ridden by inexperienced cherry officers and grunts, overly optimistic planning, poor intelligence on enemy activity, and just plain old bad luck. Yep, when it came to cluster-fu*ks it has to be said that it was an impressive example of one.

A search and destroy force had been caught between heavy scrub jungle and a river with their breaches down, in a well-placed pre-set ambush by a two company strength of NVA regulars.

Chucks “ball game”, action, had started with command-detonated mines that blew the “pointman” and next in line”slackman” to bits. By the time everyone else reacted Charlie was already ripping into them with a devastating fusillade of small arms fire and grenades from well concealed positions in the scrub.

In a mad fit of panic from being caught in a converging crossfire, and ignoring the more seasoned grunts screaming at them to run for the river, most of the cherries grouped together in an attempt to form a defense, and firing off hundreds of rounds they downed but a few NVA grunts that had openly shown themselves in what seemed to be a sacrificial faint. Charlie then took full advantage of the tactic and quickly flanked their positions left and right in a classic textbook maneuver. Rapidly smashing through the hurriedly prepared and weak fire perimeter, and with vicious intent, Chuck’s grunts set about chopping many of them to pieces.

It had simply been another case of success by numbers, for every one cherry there had been three or more gooks, and no matter how many they could have gunned down Charlie’s strong reserve numbers meant our guys had been pretty well guaranteed fu*ked from the moment they had bumbled into the ambush.

Unfortunately, their one slim chance at escape they had thrown away, apart from those who had managed to keep a cool head and concentrated on running with the group of bush-beasts who made a break for it. Then Charlie unexpectedly pulled back from their ambush area, and sent in fire teams to start picking away at the group that had reached the river and dug-in.

Again, inexperience resulted in a poorly coordinated fire-mission, having been called for by a panicky “just in country” platoon leader, in an attempt to lessen the pressure on the guys still trapped in the killing zone. But it destroyed more of them than it did Chuck, with many wounded being killed by blast trauma, or ripped apart by shrapnel, and some of those who had been unwounded and still fighting in turn became casualties themselves. It was a spectacle of suffering and horror, as the air filled with terrible screams.

Both the living and the dead fell victim to shells that punctured and tore at flesh, some air-bursting and showering down white-hot shards of steel, others, the high explosive rounds, having been fired short, threw out jagged lumps of shrapnel as they detonated in their midst. The thunderous explosions left many of the living barely hanging on to their sanity, and the dead hardly retaining human form, but scattered among the carnage were those who could still fight.

Even an attempted “dust-off”, air evacuation, went badly and had to be abandoned when two evac slicks, coming in low over the river flew straight into a furious fusillade of automatic gunfire from Charlie. Plexiglas isn’t armor, so the straight-on fire obliterated the front of one bird downing it immediately, it’s madly spinning and detached main rotor shredding the already dead pilot as the slick hit the surface of the river. The other, although badly damaged, vibrating and shaking, struggled on to reach the “LZ”, landing zone, where it was instantly destroyed by a well-placed RPG round. The birds burning fuel sprayed over Corpsmen and the waiting to be evacuated wounded alike when it exploded, producing even more dead and wounded.

Near all day long the noise of battle rolled on, and to their immense credit the guys still fighting in the killing zone and at the river,although taking relentless fire from Charlie, kept up a steady volume of returning fire at practically every point of the compass, as they defended themselves from attacks from left, right, front and rear. Unknown to the higher-higher in Saigon, everyone still capable had resolved to fight on to the bitter end. However, the higher-higher, seemingly stunned by the magnitude of such a chaotic cluster-f*ck, handed over the relief to the Riverine forces for immediate execution, and that resulted in Monitors, Zippos, and Cargo Mikes being ordered out to collect the dead, wounded, and relieve the now pitifully few survivors.

On arrival the Monitors and Zippos laid down furious suppressive fire, the sound of gunfire from the Zippos being swallowed by the formidable roar of the Monitors heavy armaments. Then Vietnamese Air Force jets screamed overhead for a “nape”, napalm strike, in an attempted to turn Charlie into “crispy critters”. Only then did our boat, acting as guard, and the Mike cargo boats race forward through a haze of gun-smoke, dropping their bow doors some distance out as they ran in at speed over the shallows. Their Propellers churned up the rivers bottom mud as they held the boats firmly against the bank for loading, and created great swirling pools of brown colored water that released a gas which permeated the air with a satanic like sulphurous stink, adding another dimension to a frightful illusion of having just breached hells gateway.

As with ours, their crews were in a state of high nervous tension, knowing that Charlie, regardless of being ordnance pounded, and toasted with napalm, could easily make another bold and devastating attack without any prior warning. Just to make sure, guys were posted with binoculars to watch for any telltale movement in the rising dust and smoke where the estimated NVA positions were being blasted. Even so, they had no intention of hanging around for even one second longer than it took to load their cargos of mangled humanity, before reversing at high speed away from being inadvertently caught in harm’s way.

However, we need not have fretted so, for the NVA, having finally fully satisfied themselves with the hurt imposed on our forces, melted away to leave the Riverine boats blasting away at nothing, and the Viet Air Force “nape” induced fire burning no more than foliage and already dead gooks.

Without exception, all of those crewing the boats was exhausted, down on their chin-straps, for during the previous night they had been taking turns at throwing grenades into the river at intervals, in an attempt to deter NVA sapper swimmers who might have a mind of attaching a mine to a hull. Two nights prior those swimmers had managed to sink a swift boat, a Vietnamese Navy Yabuta coastal junk, and seriously damage a Mike eight by blowing away part of her stern gear and the two guys on night guard, so no boat crew was taking any chances, and meant that the dull thump of grenades exploding underwater was heard near continuously.

In essence the cherries had made three basic errors; the first was in ignoring those among them with fighting experience. The second by going to ground and not immediately trying to get out of the killing area, and the third in not respecting the enemy by holding to the widely held belief amongst cherries that the enemy was some form of weird pantomime character, just a bunch of half trained military and peasant farmers running around with weapons they hardly knew how to use, and no match against our vastly superior fire power. When in fact, the NVA were well schooled in tactics, disciplined, ruthless, and hard as nails, whilst the VC were not that much different, being wily in scheming as any coyote, and led by battle experienced Northern trained regulars who were completely dedicated to the eradication of the “Yankee imperialists”.

The main point regarding the NVA and VC alike was that they were incredible at surviving, especially when it came to being pounded by our firepower. Grunts that had been cheering on an airstrike or artillery barrage one minute, could easily find Charlie pouring out of their underground hideaways and one-man fighting holes the next, practically unscathed and immediately getting back into the fight.

One thing for sure, that particular detail, as it did with many there, left a long-lasting deep impression on our replacement, which eventually culminated into the now accepted post-traumatic stress disorder. Due to no help being neither offered nor given for that disorder back in the day, other that the stupefying and addictive valium, and like so many of his peers, he had turned to alcohol in an attempt to block out the nightmarish images that ravaged his mind, before choking on his own vomit in a drunken stupor up a garbage strewn alley in his home city. Lying unfound for weeks and rotting away producing the same stink that had plagued his own nostrils a decade or so earlier wasn’t exactly the most dignified way for any combat veteran to finally exit this life.

To add insult to injury, city officials compiled and sent out a letter requesting that the guys with whom he had served raise funds towards his funeral, but Uncle Sam, mighty late in the day and with a reluctant magnanimity, stepped in and gave him a somewhat nondescript funeral but included an honor guard supplied by the local Legion hall. Unsurprisingly, our replacements name has never appeared on any war monument, for you had to die in a designated combat zone to receive such an accolade, and the manner of your death in that zone simply didn’t matter.

He had been just one volunteer out of many thousands who had fought in an unpopular foreign war that their country even now barely gives a fu*k about, forgotten heroes from that now near forgotten war. But since the Vietnam War there have been lots of other wars to swamp out their names, and generate new batches of dead heroes whose names can be carved with pride on monuments.

[Gimpy_Fac]

“The guys having a brain overload bro so let him police up his own damn crap. He blew the gooks away so he can clear the fu*kers away! Anyway, old butter bars there thinks he is back in Tennessee on a bear hunt with Crockett and we are here to hump off the trophies! Just wait till chuck starts peeling his hide, betcha the motherfu*ker squeals like a piglet at a boucherie”

Hey! Sir! Lieutenant Sir! What did you say? We can’t hear a fu*king thing back here!

Man, what an as*hole!”

Corporal “Bayou” Lejeune, Ong Doc River Patrol, South Vietnam,1967.


All week long we had been hurrying from one goddamn task to another, never still, continually on the move as there was always another sailing order awaiting our immediate attention. Sometimes it had involved humping a few Special Forces guys down the estuary, or up a river, along the coast or a canal, and at other times our boat would be guarding sand and gravel barges being hauled out to construct yet another forward operating base within the D10 special zone.

Occasionally a lone PBR radioed in saying they had shot-up or sank moored up sampans and river junks that belonged to fishermen and villagers. But those actions by the mad moment crazies went against protocol as they did jack-sh*t for the hearts and minds effort, and really pi*sed-off the local population who relied on those sampans and junks as transport, and for making a living. Such dumb excesses pushed the locals towards the very people we were trying to eradicate, the Viet Cong. It was similar to the land grunts that went around shooting pigs, water buffalo, and working elephants out of hand, another banned practice that the more unruly among us ignored.

However, regardless of all the waterborne activity going on, not once did anyone meet up with Charlie. The VC and the NVA had suddenly gone mighty quiet in the forest-of-assassins area; it was if they had vanished altogether, until along came Saturday.

A Zippo boat had been holding us back; her motors were giving trouble so she couldn’t achieve anything above two maybe three knots in speed. The rest of the patrol flotilla had left her to struggle on as best she could, and advanced along a canal towards two unusually large coconut groves situated on each side of the canal. A CIA paid local informer had spotted what was claimed as many VC and or NVA lurking about the groves, and as her previous intelligence passed on to her Saigon based handler was considered to be of a reasonably high quality, the latest merited sending along a strong Riverine group that included a two platoon sized detachment of Vietnamese Marines to act as an assault force.

Maybe the gooks were still there, maybe not, and just to play it on the safe side leading our band of boats was a heavily armored Monitor. However, if the boats took fire they would be effectively trapped, and not just for the reason of a half crippled Zippo that would block our way, it would be impossible to turn or reverse in that narrow waterway, a constant hazard which just had to be accepted when cruising along the more confined side canals. Once in the only way out was by going forward, unless you were lucky enough to find a pre-constructed turn-around warping hole, or blown out canal bank from a B52 bombing strike. If it were a dead end canal, then there would normally be a turn-around at the end of it. Going onshore to warp a boat is fine in peacetime, but could prove mighty dangerous in wartime.

Without any warning signs gook fire came in from the portside grove, and we were as expected, fu*ked! More intense fire, this time from the starboard side grove, Charlie was, as had been reported, squatting on the real-estate, and firing everything he had at the boats. It seemed as if he had been pre-warned about our appearance, even relished it, and that made me wonder if perhaps the CIA’s faith in their informant may have been overdone, and a little double dealing had been going on.

A mass of sparks danced like fireflies along steel hulls from the chi-com rounds, some ricocheting off, the distorted rounds producing high pitched whines and whimpering, but the portside firing seemed a little imprecise. The inside of our boat sounded as though we were sitting in a conex roofed hooch during a hailstorm.

The Monitors forward gun, almost lazily, began traversing this way and that searching for a target, and then locked onto something as if it were a gundog sniffing out quail. It fired, the muzzle flash produced a lick of flame, and after what seemed like a nanosecond its heavy shell struck hard at the edge of a grove and exploded with a massive boom. A spear of dirt, coconuts, palms, and two rapidly spinning silhouetted figures shot into the air. The mundane hiss of our boat’s radio was interrupted by loud yahooing and yipping, quickly followed by some idiot’s manic laughter directed at the Catherine wheel like figures.

The dumbasses doing the whooping and laughing obviously had that false sense of superiority and security you get when encased in something made of thick steel, a delusional belief that nothing and nobody can get at you. Stupid as*holes hadn’t realized that they were just as vulnerable in such a tight canal as would be if cruising in an M48 main battle tank up a narrow alleyway in Saigon. Anyway, a tank in Saigon can’t sink with you trapped inside wasting that last precious breath of life on pointless screaming.

A crackle from the radio meant someone was keying a mike, and then started the pumping-up each other dog-sh*t by those who were adrenalin excited. Inane crap about charging ahead with all guns blazing, just smashing our way through with the Monitor, and trash about making sure every goddamn round killed a zipper head, telling the Zippo boat crew to turn Charlie and their coconut groves into smoking charcoal, no one dies, everyone goes home. Sure, and everyone will return to the world as a goddamn hero with a shiny new medal dangling on his chest, and receive a no-expenses spared tickertape parade thrown in just for the hell of it. In the Pacific during WW2 the Corps had the bold “wind-talkers” on the net, but listening to the crap coming over the ether all we had were goddamn “pi*s-talkers”!

Thankfully the officer in command, who owed his rank to competence, an excellent military record, and a calculating sharpness of mind, was so angered by the foolishness he cut in with a growl filled with menace, telling everyone to shut the fu*k up, stow the bullsh*t, and get off the net. He also told them to goddamn concentrate on giving covering fire for the Vietnamese Marines offloading from an ATC Mike boat, armored troop carrier, in an attempt to flush out Chuck.

Low in the water and looking more like an iron-skirted blockader from the war between the states than a converted Mike landing craft, the Monitor quivered and shook every time her main armaments fired a salvo, and if you happened to be a little too close as it did the ear-ringing bang would render hearing painful to bear. It must have felt to those at the receiving end in the coconut groves as if an avalanche made from sheer destructive power had invaded their world, but I guess it would feel like that when so many shells exploded in your face with the intention of pounding you into fragments.

More sparks on hulls, and small, thin feathers of spray lifted in the canal as the gooks opened up with heavy machine-guns, and chi-com type 63 mortar rounds, Chucks preferred point target weapon, came in accompanied by B40 rockets, all in reply to the shelling. An enormous bang and a blinding flash as The Monitor was hit simultaneously by a mortar round and B40 rocker that killed two of her crew and put holes in the hull, so much for the earlier gung-ho bullsh*t on the net. Another bang like a heavy door being slammed shut as an RPG round hit our bows stem and exploded, making our forward .50 gunners shout and duck in alarm. It was a lucky hit on our part, for if our Mike still had her ramp instead of the conversion to a proper bow with its reinforced stem, well then; it would probably have been the end for both gunners.

With an unexpected suddenness the return firing ceased, the silence causing everyone to believe that Charlie had finally been smashed into the ground by the Monitors bombardments. No way had he, in fact, Charlie the great survivor was nearly still intact, and had far more fighting spirit than many gave him credit for. It would take much more than just a Monitors fire-power, a boat mounted flamethrower, and a scattering of machine-guns and rifles to defeat him, if defeat is the proper word to use, for Charlie at no time ever accepted that he was defeated, and neither did we. Anyway, I guess defeat is a word not best use when it comes to an active battlefield. The whole of goddamn South Vietnam was considered a battlefield, and as long as it stayed active there could never be such a thing as defeat or a win either.

With the boats still placing accurate shots into the coconut grove, the now offloaded Viet Marines began moving forward like well-timed two-man acts in a circus show, one up and firing, weaving as he bounded forward and taking no more than five paces, then it was down and roll, new mag in if required, open fire, covering his buddy as he repeats the same maneuver, all the time taking ground. However, there is always a price to pay in an infantry action, and Charlie was about to collect what was due. The gooks held fire until the Viet Marines were fully committed to a point where going forward was easier than going back, then pumped fire into them just as fast as they could slap another full banana shaped mag into an AK.

No one ever fires a weapon in exactly the same way for many factors are involved, such as physical build, how they hold the weapon, eyesight and so on will all affect their ability as a battle shot, and those factors can also affect the important MPI, main point of impact, the killing shot. It was obvious that some of the groves defenders knew all about the killing shot, for the gooks were knocking down Viet Marines at a rate that showed much expertise. In essence, such accuracy meant trained soldiers were among them, and that guaranteed the Viet Marines would be in for a hard time. For when an enemy is advancing on you, and still in the region of 150-200 meters out, then accuracy of fire means a reduction of how many you will have to fight close in. Once the enemy closes to 75 meters, it’s time for curtain fire to begin, firing everything you have at him, for it may just break up his attack formation, make him go to ground, and with that will go his battle momentum.

For although the VC always proved to be spirited in both attack and defense, when it came to accuracy of fire at distance their limited training tended to let them down, for their on-range training was practically nonexistent. Anyone can pick up a weapon, point and fire it on a benign range and hope to hit at least something. However, to use a weapon in battle conditions, and expect to be a competent quick-fire distance shot takes training, and lots of practice on a QBR, quick battle range.

Leaving their wounded, the Vietnamese Marines pressed on over the flat terrain. No more weaving as the gap quickly closed between themselves and Chuck as they advanced at a fast trot with bayonets fixed. Occasionally having to throw themselves down when mortar and B40 rounds exploded, they would rise and move on again, converging on a point at the edge of the starboard grove where the gook firing had been the heaviest. But once more Charlie’s fire just petered out to nothing as he began to fall back.

The grove was now a formidable barrier, a confused tangle of destruction, with fallen coconut trees, ripped off palm fronds, blown-out trenches and shell holes, ammo boxes, some still unopened, and the odd cloud of bitter smoke from where the place had caught fire. Here and there was equipment, severed limbs, and mutilated corpses. A fire-trench was cluttered with dead and dying, and adding flavor to that nightmarish scene would have been the inevitable accompanying whiff of burnt cordite and the sickly smell of corruption.

Instead of fighting through and then properly securing the grove against an expected regroup by Charlie, the Vietnamese Marines immediately began searching the dead for money, valuables, and papers. Whilst others went around gunning the wounded, and then raided the fresh corpses for any measly piasters and cheap trinkets they may have had, the ultimate in bad ideas. For the snap of AK rifles being fired started Charlie’s pay-back time, as a flood of gooks poured out of reserve fire trenches firing on the run. There was by far too many of them for the Viet Marines to handle, and once Chuck’s machine-gunners set up again the real slaughter began.

Now all helpless from being fully exposed to the intense gunfire, it forced the Viet Marines to break and start to run back, and it seemed as if every gook in the vicinity had opened fire on them. There began isolated acts of desperation with some flinging their hands in the air, and with wide terrified eyes yelled for mercy, but all they got back for the plea was exactly what they had dished out to the wounded, bursts of machine-gun rounds tearing into their bodies, for as always in the ebb and flow of war the tide had turned the other way. Having watched through binoculars the advance, then the broaching of Chucks positions in the grove, and the unexpected deteriorating situation for the Viet Marines, I couldn’t help but think it was like a crazed theatrical farce enacted by cavorting gun toting lunatics in a state of chaotic disarray.

Even with fierce covering fire from the boats, the Viet Marines seemed to have no idea what to do or where to run for cover, some went one way and some went the other, at times running into each other’s wild rifle fire, then changed their minds and ran back towards the grove and Chucks gunfire. They seemed to be in complete shock at the sudden change of fortunes, so sudden there was no chance to adjust, one minute they were wearing laurels, and the next they were fu*ked. And somehow by watching so much unfortunate human misery it made the heat of the sun on my back loose much of its warmth.

Charlie appeared to possess an extra special sense of knowing the exact moment when it was prudent to disappear, melt away in withdrawal into the terrain or down burrows and escape, and just as the thump of rotors could be heard from a duo of “snakes”, Cobras, called in for support, the attack dropped down to the occasional rattle of machine-gun fire, and the tap of rifles, most probably from a few stay- behind badly wounded acting in a rearguard role, and who would fight to the end. But the incoming Cobras would quickly make short work of them. The “Snakes” always worked in pairs, just like riflemen, with one bird covering the gun bird as it tore the a*s off a target with its Gatling gun.

As a rapidly dulling sky showed rain wasn’t far off, the final survivor from the Viet Marines somewhat clumsy action was taken back aboard the ATC, but the Viet Marine and Riverine dead had to wait for a flight of evac slicks, as the flotilla had been ordered to immediately press on along the canal. Charlie’s dead was a different matter altogether, their tattered remains would eventually be buried, even though some being little more than bloodied rags after being torn to bits by the Monitors gunfire. But if buried by our guys no time would be taken over identifying each as having been an individual, and no marker left on the communal grave.

As the first patter of rain brought a musty-smell to the air, one last shot was heard, and over the net came some really sad news, the skipper of the Monitor was dead. He had been killed on her deck by a negligently discharged rifle round fired by someone within his own crew. It sure made an upsetting sight him being carried from the Monitor wrapped up in a poncho, and placed alongside the two earlier casualties.

I wonder if sometimes he considered becoming just a memory by that method, but hell, who among us would ever have. Falling in battle was one thing, dying due to the action of a friendly hand was quite another.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Kaiden.

The training manual contributions were by force of duty, the magazine articles were by force of persuasion. Many thanks for taking notice of both.

Take care,

Bernard.

Brother.

You are being far too modest over your contributions. Many guys past and present have good reason to be thankful for them.

[Josh Drummond]

Congratulations on Aux Armes, another no frills as it was story of the Vietnam War.

[Gimpy_Fac]

La Plage.

“ Ain’t no use in doing all that goddamn screaming son, your all fu*ked up, so just you have this morphine and lie there quiet until the corpsmen come and sew you back together again.”

Staff Sergeant to 2nd Platoon expectant casualty, VC Lake, D10 Special Zone,1967


The dawn had come up fast on a damp and gloomy morning after a night of rain at our home base. A dense, opaque mist, drifted over the old colonial boat yard covering it like a gray shroud, and droplets of moisture hung in rows on the moored Mikes and PBRs, but the mist had started to burn off quickly as an appearing broiling sun took a grip on it. It was the start of a type of day that any Arizona ranch hand would curse, but a sun-seeking vacationist in California prays for.

Everyone had abandoned the dignity of a relatively quiet breakfast and their usual early morning sarcasms by being overly talkative, goddamn yakking on and on about what they eagerly termed as “the massacre”. Their noisy claim was that a small hamlet had been attacked by our allies the ARVN, Army of the Republic of Vietnam, where they had slaughtered every man, woman, and child, then set alight not only the hamlet but also the dead. The real facts of what had gone on were mighty sketchy to say the least, for the ARVN command were keeping quiet about the affair, and so was our higher-higher in Saigon and Da Nang.

That no comment line taken by those in authority meant the unsubstantiated story had formed a massive factual information void, so those with more vivid imaginations, and completely ignoring the military cliché that one should never place theory above fact, decided to fill the void with wild conjecture. And the more the story spread the wilder that conjecture infill became.

The original story doing the rounds was that a platoon of ARVN had entered the hamlet in the small hours, on a search and destroy mission against Viet Cong believed to be operating in their patrol area. Then during an overly violent search of the hamlet, shot all of the inhabitants and then burnt the bodies, not caring if they had been innocent or guilty of assisting the VC. It was certainly true that the ARVN had a well-known reputation for senseless brutality towards their fellow countrymen, and to deny such would have made any denier sound somewhat idiotic, but to me, having worked closely with the South Vietnamese Military the story appeared to be apocryphal, and much on the grossly weird side.

As the boating traffic on the river started to busily break up its shimmering glass like surface with their frothy bow waves, and just prior to our leaving on the latest sailing order, fact and fiction suddenly collided when the real story of “the massacre” came in over the radio net.

According to the now officially accepted version, a fighting patrol of ARVN decided to get shot-up on smack, heroin, they had found in the pack of a lone VC they had riddled, and were flying higher than a Blackbird spy plane over Hanoi when they entered a village. One of the heroin-filled ARVN, the patrol leader, a sergeant, shouted some garbled orders, then tripped over his own feet and let off a round.

That shouting and the round going off made his equally spaced-out buddies think they were under attack and start blasting off in all directions, and in doing so killed a couple of village kids, and who, not being fully awake, had stood there like cooperative targets. As for burning the village, that was true but in effect a quite normal procedure if any VC activity was suspected. It was a harsh, and in most cases unwarranted, collective punishment, for the justification of doing so by proof positive was seldom pursued.

The “massacre” title, and the burning of the bodies, had been added by overly enthusiastic numb-nuts looking to mold a little drama into what was a common enough story in a war that was steadily becoming governed by muddle.

To our own grunts, anyone getting high on drugs when out in the bush was classed as showing irresponsible, even terminal behavior. It could easily get their buddies killed, so smack-heads quite often never make it back from a patrol or operation, and in some cases it sure as hell wasn’t down to any enemy action that they didn’t.

Whichever detail you pulled normally depended on the luck of the sailing order draw, and although we felt that our boat already had her share of bad luck, we still drew a low man on the totem pole card due to the fact of having operated so often with Special Forces. For that we were now reaping the consequences.

All boats crews had a slight feeling of trepidation after receiving a sailing order, a genuine concern of what was to come, but that was tempered by the exhilaration of being cut-lose when their boats mooring lines were cast-off. Our latest sailing order had unbreakable restrictions written in, and that type always gave a crew cause for some agitation. Sailing orders could at times be quite liberating, with full autonomy being granted to a boats skipper, whilst others, like the one we were leaving on, tied him to a ridged schedule that had to be followed to the exact letter.

The gist of the order was simple enough, in that our boat would rendezvous with a SOG team on a beach in a bay, and whatever happened, the pickup could not under any circumstances be abandoned, unless either the SOG team did not show within the time frame arranged, or the enemy was waiting on the beach. It was that last part which really worried me, for it smacked of intelligence being unreasonably withheld for some reason or other.

Nothing of any great consequence had been reported anywhere near the part of the coast mentioned in our orders, other than two unknown sea-going junks way out on the ocean, and hugging the horizon. One motorized and moving fast, the other under full sail and just dawdling along on a light wind. Both had low freeboard which suggested they were fully laden, their holds packed to capacity, and probably with weapons and supplies for Charlie.

Even with the known vulnerability that came with such vessels sailing past a heavily watched coast, and the possibility of great violence being done to them, their crews would have been celebrating their luck at the perceived stupidity of our coastal forces leaving such a boundless vacant ocean to ply upon. Unfortunately for them, what they didn’t know was that the junks had been spotted, observed, logged, and reported to the Vietnamese Navy who had dispatched a Nasty Class motor gunboat to intercept them, and like the seagoing predator she was would eventually pounce on her prey, sinking both without neither fuss nor the favor of compassion.

Leaving the shelter of the estuary, we sailed along through calm, shallow coastal waters; the coastline itself was some six klicks from us, and looked no more than an uneven long thick line of smudged color in the heat haze. We were heading to a preselected point where we would wait offshore until the sunset faded. Then, like smugglers of old, upon the twilight, we would start moving inshore to find a little bay with its silvery sand beach, and be there as darkness fully set in. So far out it I didn’t even bother to look for the bays beach as it would be quite indistinct, just a faint speck of off-white between the blue of the ocean and the loom of the land.

There was a sunshine filled sky still free of rain clouds, and I hoped it would remain that way. For the weather always seemed to be made up of rain then sunshine, sunshine then rain, either one or the other, just as when the fighting stopped so had the dying, and when the dying resumed so had the fighting.

I had occasionally scanned the horizon for anything more than the reported junks with heavy submarine issue binoculars. Those I had traded for with a1st ANGLICO gunny using a bottle of Royal Navy rum, gifted to me by that very same Navy. The Marine Corps as a whole were on prohibition; even our goddamn ration cards had been modified to reflect the no-booze policy inflicted upon the snuffys by superior authority. It was typical mean-assed bullsh*t from those whose balls would never get squeezed in the combat vice. Therefore, if you had the urge to unbuckle the spirit from the daily trials and tribulations of dancing a death tango with Chuck by supping on a little “fu*k-it-fluid”, the only way a Marine could get any was to black market buy it, or barter for it.

The black market made Saigon and Da Nang kind of pseudo open trade zones, and I sure mean open, for no one made any attempt to hide their “business”. Both cities had the feel of being boom towns where vehicles, weapons, gear, all types of supplies, and at times even the grunts themselves went up for sale. Hell, a REMF, rear echelon mutherfu*ker, would trade with old scratch himself for a prime war souvenir, and if you just happened to be a fu*ked-up bush-beast desperate for a quick return to the world on the freedom bird, then an early DEROS could be traded for if you had enough of the required wherewithal to seal a deal.

Waiting offshore in sweltering heat from bright sunshine, and the idleness of just drifting along over glittering water listening to the sound of lapping wavelets blipping and gurgling under a hulls hard chine, generated a relaxed vacation like atmosphere on the boat. Then, just as the sun began to disappear and we prepared for our run inshore and adding to that lazy atmosphere, in the distance a small sloop flying an unthreatening South Vietnamese flag came spanking along under a head of sail. She sure made a pretty sight that little craft, especially as the red of the setting sun gave a color of burnished copper to her sails.

After the discomforting heat of the day, the closing nights salt sea air was cool and refreshing as our boat cautiously moved inshore. The rhythmical rumbling of her motors and sound of rushing water along the hull was strangely reassuring, and a little time later, surrounded by a fog of eye-smarting bluish diesel fumes,and with the motors revolutions dropped to idle, we glided slowly into the lagoon-shaped bay towards the beach. However, as I peered at my chosen landing spot in the low moonlight I could hardly tell the difference between the white of surf and a strip of sand that showed faintly.

All the time my mind kept reflecting back to the last few words in our sailing order, the enemy on the beach part, and I became haunted by an imagined specter of Chuck watching us approaching out of the darkness, primed and ready to close a trap, and send machine-gun rounds whipping towards us through bamboo and beach scrub.

But a sudden clear flash of reality overcame my minds objections about attempting the landing when an enormous rock suddenly manifested out of the gloom directly in front, and with a swift helm correction I barely managed to avoid it. That unexpected rock meant there was an obvious discrepancy in the chart I was using, and that brought me back to the immediate task of concentrating on not making a fatal decision, one which could have the Mike listed on the loss register as “missing in foreign waters”.

Beaching a Mike boat required clarity of mind, and to achieve clarity required the control of anxiety, which in turn meant deserting the thoughts of what if. However, I was not the only one with a mind full of what ifs; for everyone was on intense alert as the “fuc*ker factor” was much stronger than ever felt before, it seemed to be screaming at us to realize someone was there.

That particular “fu*ker factor” feeling was a brewing sense of doom, of pending ill-luck concerning trouble ahead. It was building up with an unstoppable momentum, and we would feel it until the precise moment a monsoon of crap descended upon our heads when the sh*t finally hit the fan.

For quite a time I had come to realize that our instructor on Mike boats, an old barnacle encrusted Navy Chief Petty Officer at Norfolk, had been bull’s-eye accurate, all the way down to its last nut, bolt, and weld, when he said that a Mike boat was no more than a big steel coffin. But what he omitted to tell was, that when our Mike would be out cruising waters owned by the land of the lotus eaters, she would be crewed by what any psychiatrist would diagnose as goddamned paranoids, and who were well aware that if they got killed it wouldn’t matter a fu*king thing to the “big picture”, for the war would just keep rolling along without them.

At slack water on a calm night any beach can be still, but that one was just a little on the overly quiet side for normal as our Mike Lifted on an unexpected swell that unhelpfully surged her forward to ground her deep into the sand with a gritty hiss. We were like flotsam deposited by the will of the sea onto a primeval shore, and shortly after the diesels were stopped for us to wait for the SOG team in silence.

Normally our boat would have been half in the ocean and half on the shore, so I had not intended that her stern and bow be so firmly imbedded, for our boats motors would struggle in dragging off her weighty bulk, and if so required, it would take time to rig a kedge anchor to help the motors out by winching. As an added irritant from now being more part of the land than first intended, we were soon pestered and bitten by our old antagonists the mosquitos.

It may seem strange to some, but whenever our boat passed a river village, or a group of fishermen, no one seemed to be the least bit interested in her. Most likely because the green painted oddity of a boat had a crew whose attire made them look more like a happy band of waterborne adventurers rather than people who lived by, and were bound to, a rigid military oath. But Charlie didn’t quite see us in the same light, all he could see were more imperialist Yankees to kill or maim, which guaranteed he would in normality open fire on us at the very instant we showed.

And just to prove that last point there was no prior warning of any kind when Charlie decided it was time to pour a bucket full of crap over us, but the gooks seldom gave a warning when it came to opening small action firefights. A soft cough, like someone gently clearing their throat, and a mortar shell suddenly exploded nearby in the shallows. A large spout of leaping water then cordite tasting spray so full of sand it fell quickly, like dirty rain. The blast from the detonation had knocked the breath out of me and made my ears ring.

What a bitter turn of luck, for the only way to avoid the possibility of being destroyed was to instantly pull back off the beach. But with her bow and stern now firmly held by the sand, we couldn’t do a damn thing until the turning tide gave the boat sufficient buoyancy. All that left in the way of choices was to find targets to engage, of which there were none in sight.

The mortar kept on firing uncoordinated spaced shots into the bay, and the main worry over the firing was that one of those rounds would rip through the stern deck and disable the steering, or wreck the motors. I flung myself to one side and bruised my ribs as a shell soared directly over the deck with a weird humming sound, possibly due to a damaged flight fin, and exploded on the beach. If the gooks manning the mortar had altered their trajectory by a degree or two then the high explosive round would have smashed directly onto the boat where I had stood, then another shell exploded nearby and yet another followed quickly.

We had been attacked by a single mortar quite a few times, but never without there being either a prelude or a follow-up with machine-gun or rifle fire, so it was a little disconcerting there being none. On the other hand, our little steel fort on the beach with its few defenders could fight off perhaps one or two forward assaults, but like with the Alamo, there could be no retreat, so eventually we would be fu*ked. Anyway, a good mortar team could stay well out of reach and just blast us into the sand.

Understandably, and just like any other grunts caught up in an unexpected firefight, our boats gunners were desperate to open fire and return the gesture to Charlie, they wanted to be unselfish and share with the gooks what they were feeling, but still there were no targets to engage, no muzzle flash to use as a marker, there was absolutely nothing of the enemy, just that low cough from a mortar tube firing before another shell exploded.

Skippering a boat in wartime and trying to disentangle from an engagement can force you to be either reserved and cautious or bold and reckless; whichever it will be depends on the boats situation, and what the enemy is actually doing to you at the time. Two large waterspouts rose, one on each side of the boat, and we had been bracketed, making it only a matter of time before a well-placed mortar round ended all speculation over what to do. The time had come to be bold and reckless, for even if they were firing blindly, that mortar crew could easily cripple the Mike, all it would take was one lucky shot and once again, we would be fu*ked.

Not daring to wait any longer for the SOG guys or the floodtide to lift the boat any higher at the stern, I decided we should go. As clumps of sun dried, coarse beach grass and scrub bushes ran almost to the water’s edge our radio guy came up with a great idea, in that it would make the perfect fuel for makeshift smoke cover, so he fired a flare into it.

Just as I fired-up the motors,a small figure emerged through the now slowly drifting smoke which made the shape look almost deformed. It appeared to be a SOG montagnard, and one of the crew, a good shot, covered him with an aimed rifle, ready to kill the figure with one round. Blurred, shadowy shapes moved on either side of him, but it never pays to act hastily and go blasting off at shadows. Just as well, for those shadows were the SOG team, fierce-looking men who showed no sign of weariness, or offered even one word of repentance for being late, and in silence they clambered aboard.

Reversing with motors roaring and mufflers blaring, props pinging and zinging from biting into the sand packed water, our Mike slowly started to shake off the land. The mortar continued its firing, this time with vigor, round after round dropped all over the beach and into the surf. Our forward .50 gunners started spraying fire to their front through the smoke, covering our withdrawal from the beach, and with our motors racing so hard I thought they might jump clear off their beds our Mike finally roared away.

I had given up trying to shout above the din of the mufflers for the gunners to cease firing, and eventually having finally run out of ready-ammo, and with their arms aching from the recoil of the twin .50 calibers, they were forced to stop. Only three things were now moving, our boat, the ocean, and wisps of smoke from sizzling gun oil on hot machine-gun breeches. That sustained gunfire at nothing had at least restored to them some sense of honor.

But at what price is honor when you can hear your enemy laughing at you? For once out of the mortars range, and having cut the motors to check them out as they had taken such a hammering when coming off the beach, I let the boat drift awhile. Then everyone heard what sounded like scornful laughter coming offshore on a light nighttime breeze.

Our own loud laughter retaliated when one of the SOG guys quipped with, “I hope that laughing don’t mean the zipper heads are running away with an idea they are good with a mortar, considering they didn’t hit a fu*king thing!”

[Dan Fitzgerald]

Excellent work!

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

I have flagged your latest story on our Veterans group website and look forward to the next one.

Mike.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother. You guys were not alone hearing the gooks laughing. At the battle of Hue we would hear the NVA laughing and cheering every time they raised that red blue and yellow rag called a flag on the Citadel walls.

[MANICHAEAN]

And now today in Thanh Coi in North Vietnam where I work, the hotels fly the Stars and Stripes next to the Vietnamese flag.

Its a strange old world.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Sans Sentiment.

“Traditionally Marines are not seamen, but with the correct training they can become both”.

Prefaced first words, Marine River Force, the “Riverine” training course, Port Everglades, Florida, 1966.


All military service people out of war regardless of ethnic or cultural differences have to live with their bitter memories, and although most memories can be blunted by the passage of time, the bitter ones never seem to be.

Some of those bitter memories are of regret, or shame, others perhaps guilt. In normality, a human being can’t watch the anguish of others without experiencing at least one out of the three, perhaps all, of those emotions. Yet, having said that, there are some who can see people being killed and crippled without having any lingering emotions whatsoever. An arm being blown off here a leg there, bodies torn and shredded, for them there would be no bitter memories attached, and in that there is a form of sadness.

However, to the vast majority who has fought in war that time of conflict can feel as if it was from another world. Nevertheless, any day from that time can stand fresh in the memory, as though it were only yesterday.

The sunshine smashed down then reflected back from the surface of the ocean, and heated up the wind to near the temperature of a blast furnace. It was incredible the way the weather had changed, from warm torrential rain one minute to oppressive sunshine the next. The humidity was incredible, and a hot unfavorable wind blew straight into our faces searing the skin as we crawled along parallel to the coast heading towards the repair facilities of our home base. On our portside was klick upon klick of empty rolling sea, on the starboard side nothing more than klick upon klick of hostile land.

Staying as close inshore as we dared it had taken what seemed like an age to cover the few nautical miles from one river estuary to another. Not only had we lost a propeller, a rudder, and had smashed a gearbox beyond repair, the bottom hull plates were bashed and buckled. In addition, we were taking on water at such a rate from a dislodged propeller shaft stuffing gland the guys had to hand pump the motor room bilge to help out the motorized pump, otherwise the flooding would have threatened the remaining good diesel motor which also had issues.

Under a relentless tropical sun a lively sea produced white crested rollers with deep troughs that made our converted landing craft pitch and roll heavily, thus making it difficult to walk normally on the deck area, so a strange penguin style swaying walk was required to traverse from one end of the boat to the other. Also, we had to contend with wild water leaping over her in a white torrent every time she fell with a spine jarring jolt into a wave trough which also made the hull bang and creak. However, wave tossed and crippled she may have been it seemed that our boat had a charmed life, escaping once more Charlie’s avid determination to destroy her.

Our Mike had become another mine victim when cruising down a main canal after escorting an under tow string of gravel barges. A well placed command detonated bottom mine had exploded just off our port stern quarter, and had we been sailing just a few yards closer to the riverbank the mine would have detonated beneath the hull with a terminal blast for the boat.

It had been luck in one way, but as always with the military unlucky in another, for although the damage had knocked the boat out of the war for a little time, any hopes we may have nurtured regarding loafing around the boat yard, or heading for the flesh-pots of Saigon, was dashed to pieces by a swiftly issued order for an advisory and support attachment to the Vietnamese Marines. That order heralded in the most dangerous phase of my tour, and also gave me my one and only regret of having volunteered for the Marine Corps, for the Corps didn’t believe in any form of idleness.

Movement orders for Riverine non-coms, at least at that time, seemed to be written-up using intelligently crafted semantics bordering on the devious. They gave over an impression that the recipient had somehow volunteered for something by the power of goddamn telepathy, and were therefore always look on with great suspicion. In addition, they also tended to contain a very vague hint of a possible promotion on the horizon, of course on a proviso that there would be no fu*k-ups. That part worked exceedingly well as a motivator, for all the drivel ever told about military people not wanting promotion is just so much hot air, for I have never known, nor ever heard of, any service professional not to crave promotion. The cliché of “It’s better to be a hammer than an anvil” defines that craving perfectly.

From late evening into the early morning scudding rain clouds had been gathering, getting ever thicker until finally they burst in a magnificent downpour. That was of course great fortune for the rice growers and their paddy fields, but misfortune for any bush-beasts out in the boonie chasing and fighting the VC and NVA.

Regardless of there being a clear sense of worry and tension over the orders, it had seemed such a simple affair at the time, when in lashing rain four Mike ATC’s, armored troop carriers, had dropped off two companies of Vietnamese Marines who were down to around 80% of their normal strength so had been bolstered by a fighting contingent made up from a curious mix of guys from boats undergoing repairs, which included a trio from my own boats crew.

The chosen start point for the operation was three klicks downstream from an abandoned coconut plantation that had been serviced by the river and one of the very few dirt roads in the area. The intention was to execute a limited sweep and stop mission against Charlie, but less than an hour into the sweep a sudden burst of machine-gun fire jerked every head up as one, and a frightened voice on the “prick -25”, PRC-25 standard field radio, told that their reconnaissance team had run head-on into more than three companies, possibly a battalion, of the opposition made up of both VC and NVA regulars about a half klick west of the main river where the stops were situated, and the boats were waiting.

By the time the rain clouds had receded and the main force of Viet Marines reached the stop area with the intention of supporting their recon team, regretfully that team had already been decimated. The planned stops, armed with M60 and M2 “Ma-Deuce” machine-guns and rifles, having set themselves up along a watery monsoon ditch covering the dirt road, were engaged in a desperate struggle for survival.

Veterans from other foreign wars have said that you only truly know the ground upon which you fight is when you dig into it. In the most Southern part of Vietnam, the Delta area, even in the so claimed “dry” season, you couldn’t dig into the ground without your fresh diggings filling with smelly, bug infested muddy water within a minute or so, which meant that shell scrapes or defensive trenches had to be dug relatively shallow and bolstered with whatever came to hand. That was a downside, but on the upside Charlie had exactly the same problem, especially if trying to construct his now famous tunnel complexes, which were in the main nonexistent in the Forest-of-Assassins area.

It had been the five-man fire teams’ second attempt to cross the road and outflank Charlie, so they had tried to work quickly by squad rushing across this time, hunching up against the gook gunfire streaming out of their fire positions behind a berm-style roadside banking, their rifles primed with triangular bayonets ready for some close action fighting. Those bayonets were terrifying hardware as they left extremely difficult to close wounds, meaning that any victim from a stab by one normally bled-out regardless of the best efforts by a corpsman to stem the bleeding.

The sheer volume of gook fire forced the fire team to abandon the idea and run for it, creating a shower of mud and stones as they skidded back into the watery roadside ditch, and mighty lucky they had been to make it back unscathed. The very second the team were safely back in cover two M60 machine-guns opened up on advancing gooks, who on a tuneless bugle blast, and with their normal unbelievably bold suddenness of attack, had left their positions to advance on the ditch.

Wincing under the machine-gun fire Chuck’s grunts struggled to keep some form of rank spacing’s as the M60’s blew great gaping holes in those ranks, with many getting no more than a few paces from their positions. But the gooks, as usual, didn’t give a fu*k how many of their numbers were smashed into oblivion; they were out for blood, thirsty for some, craving it. Our guys in the ditch began shouting to the Viet Marines to kill any gook that wasn’t already dead, so M16 and CAR-15 rifle rounds started to pepper the gook wounded as well as the advancing hoard. If a gook went down he was immediately riddled with holes like a goddamned colander just to guarantee his death.

Viet Marine M-79 “Bloopers” started banging off grenades and a few CS gas rounds left over from an earlier bunker clearance, the wet air helping to keep the gas where the canister rounds had burst; it made a writhing wall of sinus-irritant along the dirt roadway, and to reach the ditch Charlie first had to breach that wall without the aid of gas masks. The first gooks to appear through it were finding it painful to breath, gasping for air they looked like fish out of water, and with their eyes streaming they were downed by volleys of rifle and machine-gun fire, dead before they even hit the ground. Quick bursts of just to make sure gunfire made the corpses jump as if still alive.

A squad of gooks tried to flank-out past the gas wall by running across the road about two hundred meters from the east end of the ditch, was spotted, and shredded by M2 “ma-deuce” machine-gun fire. However, as the gunner tried to clear a blockage of the weapons feed tray another squad of gooks made the dash safely, moved in closer, and began to engage the gunner, who was killed along with his buddy, both having been shot through the head by sniper fire.

Charlie now had a solid fire foothold on one of our flanks, and was taking full advantage of it by firing directly along the roadside ditch. More gooks made the dash safely, bolstering their firing group, meaning there was now a clear and present danger that Charlie would trounce us by overwhelming our precarious position by numbers.

Supporting fire was being laid down by the depleted platoon at the east end of the ditch for a squad that had been cut off between the gooks doing the firing and the ditch. They were still being effective in suppressing Charlie but were beyond any other help and had to fend for themselves. Their only saving grace being Charlie’s love for the chi-com “chest rig”, which was great when upright patrolling but damn useless when rolling around in the sh*t. Not only did they raise a grunts ground profile, made spare rifle mags and grenades hard to get at, were uncomfortable when firing from the prone position, and by digging into the ribcage it also affected the wearers weapon aiming. Fixed bayonets were also affecting their aiming, as it takes considerable skill to fire a weapon accurately with one in place.

However, Chucks volume of gunfire, accurate or not, was producing results which could be measured by our mounting casualties. Corpsmen ran the gauntlet of gook gunfire to get at the wounded, their fingers already bloody from tearing at the clothing of other casualties to check or to tend their wounds. Gook grenade splinters shrieked through the air, chi-com SKS carbine and AK rifle rounds whipped past them and they didn’t even flinch, as they crouched beside each casualty making instant decisions on who they considered were beyond immediate help, and those perhaps in with a chance.

During a fighting situation like that people have only so much courage they can call upon to sustain them, when it leaves a kind of helplessness of mind sets in, but those corpsmen must have had boundless courage to call upon. Many of the casualties were too severely wounded to move, but that didn’t matter, for there was now becoming insufficient unwounded numbers left in the platoons to carry them away even if the situation allowed it.

Four quick salvos, a mix of RPG and mortar rounds, fell and exploded, instantly killing some Viet Marines who were upon the rim of the ditch returning fire. Geysers of blood enriched ditch water, mashed body parts, mud, road dirt, and shrapnel shot into the air. Such heavy and devastating salvos made it obvious to all that an attack by Chuck at the east end of the ditch was imminent, and when that impending attack came the shock of it was appalling.

Firstly, on the cessation of the heavy mortar and rocket fire, a large flurry of chi-com stick grenades sailed in, exploding near simultaneously, those were immediately followed by RPD light machine-gun fire, ribbons of bright green tracer streaked along the ditch from a .51 caliber machine-gun, and Charlie was suddenly right there in among the defenders screaming like madmen with bayonets stabbing. Pistols and rifles banged, their rounds tearing into the bodies of explosives deafened and dazed defenders, who started to fall back under such a fierce onslaught.

It became a pitched battle where lying at the bottom of the ditch in slimy liquefied mud the dying was being trodden on, and others lay sprawled in various attitudes of death, just wiped away wrecks of men well beyond caring what the outcome of the fight would be. Surprisingly quickly, the defenders came out of the initial shock at finding the gooks in their midst and were rallied by a Corporal, for all it can take to turn a battle is one brave soul who is prepared to stand his ground come what may.

There was heard many a harsh cry of pain and anguish as the press of rallied men and reserves began the process of driving the gooks out of that foul smelling ditch with a wildness of spirit that bordered on madness. Just a few more seconds of hesitation and the chance to force Charlie back would have been lost, but the fight was settled to the satisfaction of the Viet Marines within bloody minutes.

When grunts get killed in war it isn’t at all as portrayed in the movies, none of all that dramatic staggering around sh*t, clutching at a wound and pouring out long rambling strings of bullsh*t words. For those who were marked for it in the battle for the ditch death tended to come fast, there one second and fu*king gone the next, and apart from the odd twitch or groan they just lay there and quietly expired.

A battle knife or bayonet can end your life just as quickly as any bullet, so you can’t let your guard slip for even a moment when trench fighting, and that ditch was acting as a trench for the defenders, even if they hadn’t gone about constructed it themselves.

The very basics of trench warfare lie in defense, and an offensive determination of spirit that can be directed at the total and complete destruction of the attacking enemy, with a minimum loss to your own side. Any offensive action required will be dictated by your ability to keep the enemy out of that defensive position, and at a killing distance. However, once an enemy has breached your fixed position, even one as lowly as a line trench, your offensive action has to be enacted swiftly and with a maximum of aggression by using what was once termed as hand-to-hand combat, a term which under no circumstances can describe the sheer barbarity involved when having to evict an enemy.

Ideally when in “positional defense”, that position must have “depth”, multiple defensive positions with each capable of supporting the others, if your guys are going to repel any sustained attacks. However, if it is “shallow”, a hurriedly prepared single position such as that ditch, then any penetration by the enemy could speedily lead to disaster for the defenders. Another critical factor that can affect the outcome of any battle is reserves, for if you have few or no reserves and a superior strength enemy manages to break into the position you are defending, in the majority of cases you will be fu*ked.

It was no time to dwell on the mounting casualties, for the disaster of being cut-off from the river and the waiting boats was a threat ever growing. The only immediate reserves available, and few in number, had been used to what best effect they could in outing Chuck from the ditch, but that small victory didn’t alter the cold hard fact that it was but a matter of time before the opposition launched another attack, and cut-off any possible escape route. For that was one of Charlie’s favorite tactics, the removal of your line of withdrawal which gave him tactical control of the fight, and leaving our guys scrambling to find a breakaway from it.

From a tactical point of view we were in the sh*t right up to our necks from being bogged-down in such an insecure position without any heavy weapons support. Ammo was becoming so dangerously low that some of our people had taken to using Chucks discarded weapons. In addition, thirst was becoming a serious problem, as all of the remaining chlorine tainted canteen water had been confiscated by the corpsmen for the wounded, including the weird tasting water found on Charlie’s dead. Among us there were those who if pressed much further by raging thirst would have happily drunk the disgusting slosh in the bottom of the ditch.

With the ability to defend rapidly deteriorating by the minute the options were limited to just one and that was to make an immediate break for the river and the waiting boats.
As any fire mission by artillery was well out of range there had been only one possible manner of support available, and that was air power. However, bombs or napalm were completely out of the question, as were attack helicopters, for Chuck was too many in number and just too close. The only thing considered suitable and with sufficient armament punch to quickly get us out of the sh*t was the use of a “Spooky”, AC-47 Gunship.

The called-in converted “Dac” came in as low as it dared following the dirt road, preparing to open fire. Charlie responded with massed small arms weapons fire directed at the bird, trying to force the flying fixed wing gun platform to a higher altitude and be engaged by proper 57mm and 37mm anti-aircraft weapons. But the pilot held his nerve, maintained his attack ceiling, and pumped thousands of rounds from three fuselage mounted minigun pods into Charlie’s positions. The pods spewed out 6000 rounds of ball and tracer rounds a minute, with on average each round hitting a one foot square piece of ground. Therefore, any enemy grunt unable to get clear of the birds killing area in time was well and truly fu*ked.

The intervention by the “Spooky” accomplished what we couldn’t with four fifteen second bursts of its armament. By its second burst, the gooks were already in formational disarray and everyone on our side and still capable was out of the monsoon ditch and heading for the river.

A large group of wounded had gone out first, the walking casualties helping the corpsmen carry those who couldn’t, the dead and expectants were left behind. Those casualties were a poignant reminder of just how close Charlie had come to his objective of defeating us.

It had been a desperately hard and wearying day, no doubt about that, and although it was unknown to me at that time there were many more to come. Trying to survive had proved to be a goddamn frightfully near thing, especially when Charlie managed to breach the ditch. However, I hadn’t received any wounds other than cuts, abrasions and bruises, and at least it was another day to strike off on the three hundred and sixty five day DEROS, calendar. When “E” grade guys serving as bush-beasts in South Vietnam broke their deployment year down into three hundred and sixty five days on a calendar, it made their hearts pump faster knowing that survival could only be taken as one day at a time.

Every man lost on both sides in that “ball game”, action, had been an individual, with their own thoughts and aspirations for the future. But to the war historians they would simply be part of an unconfirmed casualty number for a little foot-note action of absolutely no significance to the outcome of the politicians “grand plan”.

It was the worst of all worlds to be confronted by an enemy who seemed not in the least bit fearful of their own destruction, and driven not by conquest but in the dedicated defense of their homeland. During 1967 it ensured that somewhere within the Southland of Vietnam the sound of gunfire, explosions, and agonizing screams could be heard every minute of every day, and for those fighting there death came in many guises.

[noface0711]

Bravo! My mother and Father-in-law are great fans of your writing.

[Josh Drummond]

Straight from the shoulder, graphically brutal, vividly authentic, are just some of the comments I have been hearing from other veterans about your writing. Your short stories need to be published.

[Dogbird]

Read " The Art of the short story ". By Charles Raymond Barrett.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother. Like Josh I want you to publish but don’t change a damn thing when you do. Most of the guys in my veterans chapter will want a copy for their kids and grandkids.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Brother. Like Josh I want you to publish but don’t change a damn thing when you do. Most of the guys in my veterans chapter will want a copy for their kids and grandkids.


Hello Charlie, and Josh.

Publication is planned, and there is a title, book cover, and publisher in place.

Take care,

Bernard.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Femme de Guerre.

"Goddamn it, that round near tore my fu*king head off! Remind me to kick the crap out of that replacement, the stupid fu*ker!"

1st platoon Corporal having a reminder as to his own mortality, negligently discharged round, Ca Mau Province, South Vietnam, 1967.

Everyone started a mission with the belief that it would go well, they had to, for what else was there other than a dark brooding depression over the future, or possible lack of any. It was what the “CP”, command post, bullsh*t pep talks were all about, designed to get the grunts battle motivated, keying them up to a fever pitch against the enemy, and take their minds off the maiming and dying part of it all. Well, all that hot air may have motivated some, but most just looked at the speaker with poker-faces, their minds switched off to the verbal junk as they concentrated on the more important, which was how to stay alive during the coming action.

But fear and nervousness when in military service is a very understandable thing, especially so in time of war. However, it can help to steady that wild euphoria which comes when firing a weapon in anger at the enemy during a fire-fight, a euphoric feeling of invincibility that can make some people take crazy chances with their lives, therefore neither nervousness nor fear should be overly suppressed.

Unlike the excitement when in training for helicopter assault operations, fear and nervousness was quite common in grunts waiting to emplane as part of a chalk that was taking the fight to Charlie. They had good reason to be, for Vietnam War era helicopters were not as fast and agile as their modern day counterparts, thus making them more susceptible to downing by ground-fire.

However, they were fairly robust and tough birds, and relatively easy to maintain when in combat areas. Unfortunately, the chances of them being shot-down by Charlie was proving to be mighty high going by the growing loss numbers as the gooks quickly learned how to deal with such airborne assaults. That made helicopters an unpopular means of transport for the average bush-beast who didn't want to leave the ground for uncertainty in the air, as he much preferred the fairly guaranteed safety of his own feet to get him to where he was going.

That attitude also manifested itself on the Mike boats when they were transporting grunts and had to moor-up for the night. Those land grunts just couldn't wait to get off the boats and hooch-up in the scrub or jungle where they felt safer.

Inside a military helicopter the noise can be quite deafening, and the one we were riding in heading away from our usual stomping ground, the D10 Special Zone, was no different. That helicopter ride in the troop transporting slick was just as bumpy, nauseating, and noisy as any old worn-out fun ride would be, as the bird did some real fancy contour flying and weaving around to avoid any possible ground fire from Chuck.

The bird pilots crazy skidding, zigzag flying was in response to the three commonest in-flight shoot-downs for helicopters during the war, which were by head-on gunfire, in the hover at an LZ, or when in straight and level flight, so as we punched deeper into Charlie’s infiltrated area the pilot was taking no chances and was walking on the pedals mighty hard.

Unlike that movie inspired bullsh*t about “inflight music” no such entertainment existed as there was only a limited amount of inflight head-coms available. Anyway, claims of door-gunners listening to the rock bands whilst blowing the crap out of a target, or bird pilots singing along to their favorite songs when going into a hot DZ is just romanticized war fiction. For the mundane truth of it all was that everything in the military operated to a disciplined pre-set drill, just as it still does today.

Only the pilot, co-pilot, door gunner/gunners, and a chalk commander if present had access to inflight coms, so if you wanted any conversation to hide your own nervousness it had to be done by shouting at the top of your voice with helmet off. Not that wearing your “steel pot” made you any safer from ground fire, for they were in no way whatsoever ballistics proof.

Out of the many thousands of grunts fighting in the boonie there was a few dudes who claimed that if they sat on their helmet when in flight it saved their balls from being blown off. Sure, possibly a few were dumb enough to believe that it would. But for all practical purposes it was a useless, even uncomfortable gesture, for if by chance a round from a gook heavy machine-gun, or large caliber anti-aircraft gun, came through the wafer thin helicopter skin directly beneath their ball-sack it would just keep on going, slicing through everything in its path. That included a perched upon makeshift helmet seat and the ball-sack on it, and even if by unbelievable chance it didn't penetrate the “seat” then the high velocity impact energy transfer would likely shatter the sitter's pelvis.

Among our chalk on the bird was a replacement fresh in from MCRD San Diego who hailed from Plano, Texas. An overly tall, raw-boned sort of kid who occasionally practiced a comical looking boot camp “war face”, and kept babbling on at the top of his voice about not going to college even though his superb school grades made it an easy admission, a bore the hell out of everyone b*tching point.

His nervousness was glaringly obvious, so there was no difference between us there. Unfortunately for me he wouldn't just shut his pie-hole and try to enjoy the uninteresting blurred scenery scooting past, and let me alone in silence to being both scared and feeling a little sick from the aroma of unwashed bodies and mildew.

A bush-beast sitting opposite the cherry had that dead fish eyed look from living under the terrors of near constant combat. Such strain on the nerves caused pressure build-up, and too many gory death duels with Chuck didn't help any to lessen that pressure. The bush-beast stared straight ahead, constantly licked his lips, and with two minute spacing shouted, “fu*k this crap man-fu*k this goddamn crap!”

He looked and sounded mighty close to having burnout and would need careful watching. The main thing with guys who were teetering right on the edge of sanity, laboring under the burden of retaining mental equilibrium, was to look at anyone other than them, and show neither emotion at nor reaction to any weird behavior. Anything, even the simplest of normal gestures, could set them off on a course that crossed the event horizon to self-destruction, for those poor souls were like a primed grenade searching for a victim.

When in Da Nang I met a guy on medical recuperation leave who said he had been the sole survivor from a slick downed by a burnout. Seems someone started giggling on the bird, at what doesn't matter, but a burnout candidate thought it was due to something about him. It just took a glance at him by another member of the chalk to make the guy suddenly spray a full clip from a Stoner 63 around inside the bird. Whether he meant to or not, the wildly fired 5.56mm rounds blew both the pilot and the co-pilots brains out through the Plexiglas windshield. The burnout then screamed in manic hysteria as the bird whistled to destruction.

So I kept it tight lipped, zipped, and looked at, and listened to, the Texas cherry’s boring repartee about life in old fun loving Plano. It was better being slowly bored to death than quickly smashed to pulp due to a guy having his clusterfu*ked-up nerves snapped.

By the time the troop transporting slick had safely reached its destination “LZ”, landing zone and our chalk had deplaned, the lip licking guy had quieted down, but still retained “the look”, also known as “the thousand yards stare”. Unfortunately for me, the Texas cherry had moved on from his home town antics to his whole up-to-date life story, of which I had the complete and detailed goddamn history, including the part where his brother had been “kool-aid”, killed in action, back in ’63, the year Kennedy sent him to Vietnam before he too was killed .

Four years on after that unfortunate family event the Texan volunteered for the Marine Corps, and already he was boasting about his intention to request a 150 day extension to his tour before even two weeks into it. Claimed he wanted to get vengeance for his dead brother, to kill a few gooks even if it meant he himself went out in a wild blaze of glory.

I had heard that type of bullsh*t a few times before from others, the keep far away from dangerous numb-nut type who could easily get you killed without even trying. They always seemed to be thick as cr*p those self-styled hard asses, the gook slayers extraordinaire, who were convinced Charlie would be a real easy revenge hit.

Those dumb-asses actually believed all that “nothing but poor farmers” crap so eagerly pumped out by the back in the world media, and the anti-war activists, who of course wouldn't be meeting any of their “ Viet Cong poor farmers” out in the boonie. Sure, nearly all the Vietnamese farmers were poor, most hardly had two piasters to rub together, but if they picked up a rifle and went to war they were no longer poor farmers but poor enemy combatants.

Well I thought; just wait till our war faced Texan came up against his first VC or NVA rock-hard “poor farmer”. Now there would be a guy half his size and weight, who most likely had never gone to grade school, or any other school for that matter other than life’s school, combat skilled and vicious, and someone who would be more than willing to send him off to glory with a quick succession of orangey-red muzzle flashes.

The Texans life story was not that much different from thousands of others. The guy had barely turned eighteen, and until boarding a crazy painted pink civilian airliner, and headed for what the grunts called "the a*shole of the Orient", the Southland of Vietnam, hadn't traveled any great distance from home before boot camp. In addition, as with the majority of the American people before the war started, he had no goddamn idea where Vietnam was let alone even existed.

Had I not been concentrating on trying to keep my cold-can C ration breakfast down, “beans and dicks”, beans and wieners in a grease spangled so claimed tomato sauce, it would have been more constructive to have said that he should forget what his life had been before. Told him to stow it away in the back of the mind, for it took place back in a world he was no longer part of.

When out in the sh*t, back in the world memories became a distraction, a possible life threatening hindrance when trying to stay alive, and that it was much better to concentrate on the reality of the moment and screw the past. Anyway, no one can change any of that worn out old baggage so why go humping it around everywhere in war, constantly grunting under its load as if it were a goddamn overloaded ruck.

I also neither needed nor wanted any new buddies, and it had been said at Parris that a Marine when out doing his duty has no buddies, only has fellow Marines, and it was a case of Semper–Fi and fu*k everyone else. Even having one buddy was perhaps one too many if it didn't pay to have any, but what did pay was learning to be selfish when it came to surviving during a fire-fight, as taught at boot camp by our training gunny, who said that having buddies put a fighting Marine at great risk.

Our gunny hadn't meant that you became a “Cheap Charlie”, a guy who was mean with his money, or would not share what he had with the other guys. No, absolutely not, what the gunny meant was, that if you saw a buddy go down then your natural reaction would be to run and help, and many a dead Marine got that way by not keeping his head, staying where he was and giving covering fire to the guys who were far better trained to help any wounded, those being the corpsmen.

The reality message he was conveying was that duty required a snuffy to fight hard beside his fellow Marines, and if one needed help at his side then so be it, for a Marine never deserts a brother Marine in peril. But never to run any distance when under fire to help out, for two, or even more, wounded or dead Marines could only assist the enemy. Anyway, just like Charlie, a Marine snuffys primary responsibility was always towards his squad or platoon as a whole, and not any particular individual within it, other than perhaps the radio guy, for he was the guy everyone relied on for any lifesaving when in-contact transmissions.

On top of all that, in truth no one in the chalk gave a fu*k about the Texans before Corps life, or that his brother had been killed, hell, in war like everywhere else people get goddamned killed near constantly, so the more important for the chalk was that they wouldn't be. In fact, I suppose it would have been more helpful if they had warned him that being so tall he was at an immediate disadvantage, for Charlie loved nothing more than killing the overly tall guys first.

Allegedly it was something about it forming part of their military psychology, like ugly people hating the beautiful because they were not, but at the same time secretly admiring that beauty. So he had better learn to go everywhere using the infantry crouch mighty rapid when in the boonie, or Charlie would be taking his little frustrations out on him.

Stand tall, shoulders back, chest out, go marching around in the boonie like a poster Marine on a billboard, and chance receiving a swift round to the skull, or sucker shot in the guts to lure some snuffy out to help and receive the same. The lower he could get to mother earth when fighting in jungle the longer he would possibly live. Oversized guys trying to move quietly in jungle was like having a goddamn giraffe come elephant in the ranks, and that put everyone in their squad or platoon at risk.

However, those who were long and tall had one great advantage over shorter guys when it came to moving through elephant grass or reed beds simply because they could see above them, so they came in mighty handy as point-man in that type of terrain. Needless to say, that normally meant they became first target for Charlie, so tended not to last any great length of time unless they were quick, for who could possibly resist firing at a helmeted head bobbing about above a sea of elephant grass or reeds. The Texan was already marked down for that job, even if he didn't know it at the time, for if he had glanced at the platoon leader, our chalk commander, it could be read as so in his eyes.

When taking the Riverine course in Florida, our SEAL trainer had said that no amount of time spent out on a firing range, or sitting on your a*s in a course lecture room, can properly teach combat survival, all that he could be expected to teach was the theory. For to properly learn such an important military art can only be done by going out into the sh*t, and set about getting your own practical experience.

Veteran bush-beasts having such experience knew that no matter how hard they tried to pass on the way of it to a cherry, only a fraction of the information would manage to get glued to the cherries brain, the rest just passed them on by. For just as it was with the Texan their heads were still full of back in the world crap, and that irritated the hell out of the bush-beasts.

So, the Texan needed some rapid self-taught “stay alive” lessons when rounds started to fly. Included among those would have been how to duck and weave like a goddamn featherweight boxer at the zing of that first round, and just like Charlie, to sit or squat to reduce his profile when in concealment.

He also needed to learn how to fire his weapon from either shoulder as if it were the most natural thing for him to do, reduce his reaction time by only looking over the weapons foresight during arc sweeping for the enemy, repeatedly change his magazine for a full one even if it wasn't quite empty, and fill spare magazines at every given chance, but with one round less than full capacity to avoid a spring compression blockage.

There were quite easily a thousand or more staying alive things a cherry needed to learn, but above everything else was the code of the grunt, the unwritten combat rules the snuffys lived, and died by. For even the dying had to follow the code, and had a chapter all to themselves. The main rule for them was to die quickly and quietly so as not to put the living at risk.

On a twin squad four day fighting patrol, a night of drizzly rain turned into a morning of drizzly rain, then as midday came along the sun found us wading ankle deep in sticky muddy slime. Then the sun started to bake us, for the heavy jungle canopy trapped the suns heat, broiling brains as if we were being roasted in a Vietnamese version of a Dutch oven, and by the late afternoon everyone was suffering from thirst and the onset of leach bite sores and sweat induced body rot. Our patrol was quickly running out of water, and some were also showing the early signs of dehydration. Had the corpsman not treated them quickly it would have soon turned into dizziness, uncontrollable vomiting, and disorientation.

The experienced bush-beasts were more greasy sweat soaked and physically fu*ked than the cherry replacements, and it sure wasn't due to them being less fit. They were so because their rucks carried far more gear, more of everything, including ammo, water, and rations. For those who were battle hardened knew that a cherry tended to have little sense when it came to water discipline, and would also bailout the contents of his ruck when the going got steadily tougher. He would also bail any spare belted or boxed ammo, claymore mines, or M79 ”blooper” rounds, as they were all heavy mothers to go humping around.

However, any cherry doing so risked the wrath of his squad or platoon, who would kick the crap out of them for bailing out spare ammo, for doing so meant they would be literally playing around with lives. No one particularly cared if a cherry suffered from starvation or thirst, but ditching ammo was a whole different ball of wax as it violated the code of the grunt.
By the time we had reached our given patrol area it was getting dark, and darkness was the supreme danger time when out in jungle terrain on a fighting patrol. The shadows fluctuated and moved with moonlight and cloud, and if a wind was blowing it was easy to get spooked by any wind produced night noises. Back in ’67 there was none of the night vision gear that modern-day grunts rely on, other than “starlight” sniper scopes, so a “point man” sensitive to subtle changes in the atmosphere of the jungle and good night vision skills was always required.

At around midnight, in thinning cover and bright moonlight, exhausted, hungry, and horribly thirsty, we stumbled upon a “red ball”, one of Charlie’s fast supply trails that ran alongside a little jungle brook, and suddenly a faint rustling and low whisper was heard which meant we had made first contact with Charlie, most likely trail watchers. A few M16 rifle rounds snapped as a recce by fire, and in return a flurry of fire-fly like flashes, and the zap and zing of returning fire, then we fanned out and formed a defensive line. A small, black clad figure caught me by surprise as it suddenly broke cover and ran, at the same time firing a tinny-sounding shot at me before disappearing into dense bamboo.

A grunt situated in brush on my right fired a late burst of M16 rifle fire at the point where the running figure had entered the stand of bamboo, half a rifle magazine later and I heard a high-pitched scream. His firing triggered a mad moment of rattling gunfire from the other guys, burning up precious ammo at nothing for any result as gook fire didn't come back at them.

The gunfire had lasted less than six seconds but at least didn't do anything to complete the compromising of the patrol, for the trail watchers would be high-tailing it back to report our existence. So we had to move out almost immediately for Charlie had an innovative tactic that we wished to avoid, it was the rolling ambush. It was a tactic where the gooks would ambush “light”, hitting a patrol or column with only one unit then quickly withdraw, and then a much larger group of several units would move into position elsewhere and ambush “heavy”, catching not only those originally ambushed again but any supporting forces dispatched to help them.

All the patrols canteens were being hurriedly filled at the brook, the fusty, buggy water would get double dosed with purification tablets, but it would still have a disgusting taste as if it had come straight out of a helicopter pilot’s piss-tube. Weapons, mags and their ammo were all quickly but carefully cleaned as everyone dreaded having any type of weapon blockage during a fire-fight. All the spare mags were emptied, cleaned, refilled, and then stuffed into boot socks to cut down on movement noise.

The guy who fired that late burst and I went looking for the source of the heard scream; it was an easy find, for we just followed a heavy blood trail. Blood looks black in moonlight, and that trail seemed as if it had been painted on the ground by a broad brush, and fifty meters into the bamboo there was a corpse curled up in a fetal position in a mass of semi-congealed blood. It looked as if the abdomen, the kidneys, and the liver had been badly torn up by the rounds, so death would have been relatively quick, although probably mighty painful.

The figure was tiny, much smaller than I thought it would be, even though the dead always look smaller than when in life. A chi com SKS carbine lying beside it actually looked enormous compared to the corpse, and at first the little figure seemed to be a child until a closer inspection showed it to be a woman. Now that did shock me and I suffered a pang of compassion, for lying there was the first woman VC fighter I had come across, until then I had only heard they existed. But what surprised me was the reaction to the corpse by the grunt with me in what for him should have been a moment of mixed emotions towards the dead woman.

As he picked up the SKS carbine my thought was that he would just draw the bolt and throw the now rendered useless weapon away. But no, after removing the bolt he pulled a bayonet from its scabbard on the corpse and fixed it to the weapon before suddenly plunging it bayonet down into the ground. He then hung the dead woman’s conical hat upon the butt of the carbine, and walked away without a word spoken.

And there was the truth of it; the Texans great plan for taking bloody revenge on the gooks was just so much bullsh*t, a cherry’s nervous attempt at bravado and nothing more. The cherry from Plano, Texas had completed the evolution from recruit maggot to Marine snuffy by killing a woman combatant, and in turn earned at least some credit by saluting that combatant with a soldiers universal gesture of respect towards a fallen enemy.

[Dan Fitzgerald]

Hello Charlie, and Josh.

Publication is planned, and there is a title, book cover, and publisher in place.

Take care,

Bernard.

Please PM when your book has been published.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Brother. Femme de Guerre brings back the memories. At Hue there was a full company of NVA women warriors helping to defend the citadel and every one of them was a bitter mama-san.

[Mike Tevion]

Bernard.

As expected your description of a helicopter operation is accurate.

Mike.

[DATo]

I just thought this might mean something to you guys.
I can think of no tribute more honest than the innocent truth displayed by children or animals.

Scroll down to video.

http://www.wimp.com/kids-on-a-playground-stop-to-honor-military/

[Josh Drummond]

I just thought this might mean something to you guys.
I can think of no tribute more honest than the innocent truth displayed by children or animals.

Scroll down to video.

http://www.wimp.com/kids-on-a-playground-stop-to-honor-military/

Refreshing that a new generation has more respect for our Military than some has had in the past.

[MANICHAEAN]

Yes its strange Josh.
I come across the odd Vietnam vet out here, invariably settled with a local wife.
Many tell the same story i.e. that they are treated here in Vietnam with more respect that they ever were back in the US.
Some even claim that coming back, gets out of their system the trauma they once experienced.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Papier Bataille.

“The jungle is neutral as it treats everyone who enters with equal hostility, you, Charlie, every fu*ker, for all humanity is its enemy.

Finding a route through jungle at times will prove near impossible, humping your gear through it will be agonizing, its myriad of bugs will ensure sleep is torturous and make eating your rations laborious, and body cleanliness will become unrealistic. The poisonous snakes, leeches, biting and stinging insects will make taking a piss or dump uncomfortably dangerous. Other than that I guess it’s as good a place as any to spend your time in.”

Jungle warfare hazards lecture 12, SEAL training staff member, Port Everglades, Florida, 1966.


By mid ‘67 what seemed like war by reality TV was becoming a surreal “must watch” entertainment back in the world, faceless grunts having their life ended in front of millions comfortably sitting on their asses on couches in suburbia USA. On home TV screens green clad men were struggling to stay alive, killing the other guy before he killed them, and to the average bush-beast that meant the military Joe had become the twentieth century’s version of Rome’s gladiators entertaining the masses.

Besides reports of that reality TV “war sport” percolating down to the snuffys in letters from home, was the news that anti-war voices were growing ever louder back in the world. Stories of old high school buddies, many they once lauded and admired as heroes of the football field, running and hiding, crapping their pants at the possibility of being sent off to the “Nam”.

So all that fu*king around back in the world by the reluctant generated a cynical catchphrase doing the rounds out in the boonie, which was “fu*k it!”, and no matter what was asked of a bush-beast in the bars and clubs of Saigon and Da-Nang, all that came back from him first off was “fu*k it!”. It represented a code of the grunt inspired philosophy, a mind-set if you will, of fu*k everyone and everything everywhere, for the bush-beasts were beginning to have had enough of fighting and dying in Vietnams Southland for what seemed to them as no good reason.

I was still too far away from where I really wanted to be, and it sure as fu*k was not back in that crazy world where those claiming to be anti-war pacifists used violence on those who disagreed with them, and Americans were going around shooting at and killing other Americans over a foreign war. I wanted to be back in my own world, the one of Mike boats, plying the waterways and ocean, for it was a world where I had at least some control over my destiny. Unfortunately for me I was stuck where I did not wannabe, in a swiftly constructed and makeshift FOB, forward operating base, still helping out the South Vietnamese Marines as they started to take on more and more of the fighting load.

No moon and cloud dampened stars left the jungle fading from color into grayness, then into a blackness, and as the night became ever darker the jungle dissolved into a nothingness. On such a night there was a period where the jungle seemed to just shut down and no natural sounds of any kind was heard, it was an unseen boundary between the day sounds ceasing and the night sounds starting. An almost thoughtful reflective silence, it was also a silence to the bush-beasts that gave over a feeling of menace and great danger.

Darkness was the point where strict noise and light disciplines were enacted, therefore no cigarettes for the smokers, and that withdrawal of nicotine made them irritable, argumentative, and edgy. But I guess those disciplines made everyone a little on the edgy side. For Charlie was out there somewhere, creeping along in the dark like a thief in the night and trying to avoid detection, squatting and observing; just waiting for the slightest chance to get in through the forward defenses of the FOB and create goddamn havoc.

When being constantly on the alert and listening to crickets chirping their asses off in the pitch blackness, it tended to strain the nerves and fu*kup the senses, so those doing sentry just opened fire on anything that moved, shot the cr*p right out of it, and checked out whatever it was after. If someone had bothered to make a casualty list of the Vietnamese fauna slain by spooked sentries, that list would have been counted in the billions. It may have been classed by some as nervous firing, but it was judged better that than the possibility of a gook sapper crawling through the defensive line of the FOB and blowing the hell out of them or something.

The solo first-coat-green face cam without a tiger-stripe overlay of lamp-black as favored by the Army Special Forces, and the two types of body camouflage gear available to the SEAL grunts, one for the wet season and one for the dry, which was an idea taken from their cousins-in-arms the British Special Boat Service out of Borneo and Malaya, was the Navy SEAL form of “beer can insignia”. It was an "insignia" that gook commanders knew well and feared greatly. For it was quite common that the last thing an NVA or VC commander ever saw in this life was the shocking, and unexpected appearance of a SEAL grunts green painted face looming over him.

Unfortunately, with face painted green and dressed up to look like a tree or bush and therefore perfectly blending into the jungle could at times have some serious drawbacks, especially when approaching a friendly FOB unannounced, and keeping radio net silent.

A hour after the night disciplines were enacted there was an exchange of gunfire, and much shouting. A sentry had spotted movement, did not challenge, but immediately opened fire and received some back, wounding him. But it was not Chuck that had done the damage to the sentry but a SEAL hatchet force who’s “wheel” was the most pissed-off dude imaginable, so incandescent with rage I thought he may suddenly take a seizure and drop dead due to one of his “Yards”, an interpreter, having been killed by the sentry’s wild firing, but even worse it was his very own interpreter and a close ally.

Once calmed to just a simple fuming the “wheel” stormed off to the CP, and reported the find of a previously unknown and strong NVA bunkered position with a large command and control structure. Saigon was immediately notified, and it did not take long before an order to attack, secure, and destroy was received. The main criteria of the “ball game” was intelligence gathering, for the intel guys hooched-up in Saigon’s Thong Nhut street wanted to know what General Giap had planned for the NVA and VC in that particular “AO”, area of operation.

A dirty gray dawn found us as usual taking breakfast in a funeral like silence, drinking the night’s cold black C-rat coffee which had a bitter taste similar to that of battery acid, but coffee was coffee and it was all that we had. Some of the guys looked feverish, which was probably the onset of malaria, others had skin spotted with mosquito bites that were already starting to fester, and a few with hollow cheeks looked genuinely ill, most likely from the sh*ts, dysentery. But ill or not, everyone had to take part in the planned “ball game”, action, for we were few when arriving, few when there, and would be even fewer when we left.

Whereas all our guys were going by default due to having a peculiar title of “assisting force”, the Viet Marines were hand-picked by the SEAL “wheel”, and who would have command of the assault, but overall command was retained by the CIA in Saigon as it was to be an intelligence led operation.

Rather than using what was considered by the snuffys to be a suicidal tactic, the frontal assault, which was unfortunately preferred by the more enthusiastic, perhaps even reckless, of those commanding, the “wheel” decided upon another less sacrificial, and more by guile way to clear the jungle fortified position. It was to break his assault force down into smaller groups of four man teams, which were more workable than larger numbers, with each team assigned to a particular log and soil constructed bunker.

Tactical protocol requires that any military actions, other than raids and any designated as spontaneous, have to be carefully planned, modeled, and then every planned phase of the operation has to be checked and rechecked, before the initializing “O” group, orders group, briefs the field subalterns and non-coms. They quickly scribble down the timings and detailed orders in their notebooks, and then they in turn do the talk-through and walk-through with the grunts who will actually execute the action. Nothing ever seems to be left to chance but perhaps chance itself, the unexpected; it is the one thing that no one can ever plan for.

Hunched up and squatting to keep their profiles low, the four-man assault groups of Viet Marines were taciturn as they fingered their rifles. Some had the light of battle in their eyes, keen to get at Charlie, others however had their stomach muscles going into spasm, starting to knot-up from pre-combat apprehension as they imagined Charlie’s gunners peering at them through bunker slits.

Then rippling pockets of muzzle flashes as the bunkers marked themselves with bursts of ball and tracer rounds coming out of their machine-gun slits. At first the gunfire was intermittent as one fired, and then another, and another came into play, until an almost continuous volume of gunfire made the air itself seem to vibrate with the noise.

Experienced grunts knew that with every new action the odds were stacking up against them, so no one ever wanted to be the first but someone always had to be, and if the first grunt got shot to sh*t no one else would want to follow, understandable.

As the gook fire slackened just a little the first of the four-man assault groups were ordered forward, one pair moving to the left of the gooks located in their assigned bunker, and the other pair to the right. We watched as they dodged from one small clump of bushes to another, scampering over the uneven ground, and all the time trying to avoid any direct contact with the bunkered up gooks spraying the area with their machine-gun.

Not realizing the deadly predicament he was suddenly in by getting into the machine-guns “dangerous space”, the point between the first graze, bullets strike the ground, and the first catch, where the bullets strike the top of the target,a Viet Marine grunt screamed shrilly as he was stitched from chest to groin. The ground leapt and spurted around him from impacting rounds, and his buddy trotting beside him lost his face, it had been completely torn away to leave a steaming blood spurting hole where just a second before his mouth had been. The sight of such a horror made you want to heave, and inspired within those looking on both feelings of pity and disgust.

Having narrowly missed suffering the same fate as the pair killed, the remaining duo were surprisingly steady as they waited until their grenade arming handles released before posting the grenades through a side firing slit of the bunker, like mailmen delivering letters, a couple of exploding letters that said “ Hey Chuck, have a real fu*king bad day!”, had been delivered. A two second delay before loud sharp bangs, and a flash of bright, bluish flame shot out of the bunker slits as the fragmentation grenades detonated, and the bunkers machine-gun stopped chattering, and the gooks holed up in it stopped living.

Their success started the commencement of the full assault, and more explosions were heard as clearance teams began working their way up the shallow rough slope, flushing out each bunker in turn by leapfrogging forward. As one team completed their grisly task they gave covering fire as the next moved forward to complete theirs.

Some of the teams were taking much too long by working at their own pace and in their own way, and seemed to be taking their own damn good time over the task of clearing out Chuck, but other teams were showing more boldness and audacity, and sometimes it was hard to judge whether a guy was acting bravely or was just insane. However, the order was that it all had to be done and dusted before night arrived, and that made the messages coming in on the Prick 25 field radios from the “wheel” become more and more angrily demanding.

That dude was obviously no sentimental jingoist, he was more a walking contradiction to the notion that hearts and minds can win wars, and like many farther up the command crap-pile believed that every Marine was no more than a uniformed hard-on sent forth to skull-fu*k the enemy. Exactly how a Marine went about achieving it was his own damn business so long as he got it done, and swiftly.

But the Viet Marines were not having it all their own way by any means, for Charlie’s grunts on either flank of the bunkers were in single-man fighting holes, with the digging spoil from each hole spade-packed in front about one-foot-high to form a rifle rest. And it sure didn't take very long before the NVA gooks in the holes began to engage the clearance teams with extremely accurate gunfire and within minutes there were dead and wounded Viet Marines lying around in the bunkers killing area.

About a dozen of the opposition’s grunts, who had been laying down fire from fighting holes on our right flank broke cover further up the slope, and ran a short distance before ducking into an already cleared large command and control bunker. The two pairs of Viet Marines who had cleared that bunker ran back and threw fragmentation and phosphorous grenades into it, and as soon as they detonated poured automatic gunfire through its observation slits, and suddenly the whole place stank of charring humans from the phosphorous grenade bursts. Shrill cries and a sour cloying smell mingled with a greasy thick vapor started to pour out of the bunkers slits as the log structure, and those within it, caught alight.

And much to the annoyance of the “wheel”, the main intel target, the command and control bunker was soon well ablaze and the air filled with the sound of crackling timber, flying sparks, and the nauseating smell of burning flesh. Breathing in that grossly unsavory odor which clung to gear and clothes made some feel tainted by it, as if it would remain with them for the rest of their life, and for many it has.

Showers of whimpering rounds of varying calibers mixed with the sound of grenades exploding, both the sharp crack of our lemons and the duller thump of Chuck’s chi-com type, all which were a shock to the ears. But luckily there were no proper snipers as the Viet Marines carefully worked their way from bunker to bunker, and each bunker seemed larger and even more threatening than the one before.

As a bunker was cleared they shot up Charlie’s corpses with a single tap to each, and always to the head. The Riverine SEAL trainers, who were very practicable people, had said that firing shots into corpses may seem a little on the crazy-assed side, but it made sense to avoid the chance of an apparently dead gook suddenly springing to life and opening fire on you. Therefore, so long as it was not done with any enthusiasm it was a generally accepted practice for self-preservation.

Most of the teams were already passed the point of no more corpses when it turned out they had inadvertently missed a playing dead gook, for there came the familiar rattling sound of a AK47 rifle firing. Its rounds impacted on the back of a Viet Marine lieutenant making him stagger and fall. A couple of corpsmen rushed over and knelt beside the Lieutenant, who was badly wounded and could hardly speak. Nervous but vigilant, the Lieutenants squad of Viet Marine grunts stood by ready to fend off any sneak attack by Charlie as the corpsmen set about doing their work.

But they all died within sight of the rally point and the safety of it before they even knew what was happening to them, for instead of gook grunts it was B40 rockets which unexpectedly appeared, snaking through the burning bunkers greasy smoke like serpents and exploded in their midst. It was a hard blow to lose so many in one move during the final stages of the assault, but at least they had died quickly. For had they been captured it was a fair certainty that the NVA would have had them butchered after some painful tormenting, for Charlie tortured South Vietnamese Forces with a passion usually reserved for our Special Forces.

However, our side was not exactly saintly when it came to intelligence gathering and prisoners. The use of “dry drowning”, now termed water boarding to make it sound more acceptable, red-hot K-Bar knifes held to the testicles, and “free fall”, the practice of throwing one from a group of prisoners out of a hovering helicopter, was but some of many methods used. Such actions may sound somehow inhuman, but if it meant saving our own guys no one gave a fu*k how it seemed to others back in the world not taking any of the risks.

Little groups of tangled corpses with gray, waxy looking faces and fixed death grins, both friend and foe alike, lay around the killing areas in front of the bunkers, littering the ground like islets in an ocean. They had to varying degrees a mixed covering of red dust, sticky drying blood, and the usual multitude of busying flies. In addition, all the cadavers had a couple of things in common, purification had already begun, and their bladders and bowels had emptied of their contents, so the collective smell made you unsteady, made your head swim with such a horrible stink.

All the surviving NVA had scooted into the jungle, and not in some sort of rag-tag disorder but by proper military withdrawal. That meant all the gook dead and their gear needed to be searched for anything of interest to the intelligence guys in Saigon, and who would be especially interested in any radio net flimsies, letter coms and war diaries. Dead NVA officers were prime targets when it came to sourcing good intelligence paperwork, but the finding of those officers was always difficult as they ditched their rank insignia before crossing into the Southland from the North, replacing same with biro pens in the top pocket of their uniforms, the more pens found on them the higher the dudes rank.

So a couple of our “assisting force” was assigned the task of untangling the groups of cadavers, searching the bunkers, and separating out any of our guys from Charlie. Their faces turned a sickly green color at the news and a breeze inspired sniff of the stink. Then with churning stomachs, and sweating and gasping from the effort, they began pulling the stiffening groups apart.

Although the most likely place for finding paper intelligence had been destroyed, the command and control bunker, one of our guys returned waiving a fistful of extremely interesting documentation and over two kilos of smack wrapped up in banana leaves under his arm that had been found in a bunker used as a makeshift hospital. The coke was not an unusual find, for being always short on medical supplies Charlie used it in the way our corpsmen used morphine. An unfortunate side-effect of its use meant there was many a drugs-reliant gook out and about in the fighting areas.

Our snuffy wanted to know if he could keep the cocaine as a war souvenir, which immediately drew loud crackles of laughter from the SEAL guys. The “wheel” handed the coke over to the Viet Marines corpsmen for its security, but my fairly judged guess was that most of it would find its way onto the streets of Saigon and Da Nang within days, and I still wonder if perhaps the “wheel” had a sneaky feeling that it would, and it was in a way his thanking the Viet-Marines for such a great sacrifice.

When the news of the intel documentation find reached Saigon an unexpected order for our immediate withdrawal was issued, and within a short period of us hurriedly pulling back range and bearings were given. Then the sound of heavy artillery rounds traveling at great velocity shrieked shrilly overhead, and the bunkers and Chuck’s corpses flew into the air as if in defiance of gravity as the high explosive rounds detonated. Within minutes the whole damn place was laid bare, hours of agonized effort blown away to nothing. It became obvious to all there, that day in that place with its air poisoned by the foulness of death a lot of men had been killed for a fistful of paper.

War can be a confusing business filled with anxiety and danger, and we all understood and accepted that one cannot be won without good and accurate intelligence. But when ordered to attack an in-depth position and succeed, only to then withdraw and watch as the lot is blasted to smithereens with artillery did not exactly instill confidence in the decisions made by some within the Higher-Higher. But our serviceman’s cynicism of the decisions made by others, and any lack of confidence in some of the orders given were dismissed as just concomitants of serving in the military.

[Gimpy_Fac]

Yes its strange Josh.
I come across the odd Vietnam vet out here, invariably settled with a local wife.
Many tell the same story i.e. that they are treated here in Vietnam with more respect that they ever were back in the US.
Some even claim that coming back, gets out of their system the trauma they once experienced.

Hello M.

We are all old men now, in my case 69, and many will say that’s not old in today’s world, but I speak of people who were old before their time when in their youth, and for whom true and fulfilled peace of mind is without reach. If some can achieve it by going on vacation or through marriage they are the few, and I bode them well.

Although I also know veterans who have returned to South Vietnam, some with the wherewithal did so using their own funds, others by veterans group subsidised tours, but the vast majority who served there never get, nor have ever got, the chance to do so.

However, returned or not they tend to have the same answer to the question “did it happen, is it true”. That answer is, “come into my nightmares and see for yourself”.

Take care.

Bernard.

[LongCharlieSlim]

Hello M.

We are all old men now, in my case 69, and many will say that’s not old in today’s world, but I speak of people who were old before their time when in their youth, and for whom true and fulfilled peace of mind is without reach. If some can achieve it by going on vacation or through marriage they are the few, and I bode them well.

Although I also know veterans who have returned to South Vietnam, some with the wherewithal did so using their own funds, others by veterans group subsidised tours, but the vast majority who served there never get, nor have ever got, the chance to do so.

However, returned or not they tend to have the same answer to the question “did it happen, is it true”. That answer is, “come into my nightmares and see for yourself”.

Take care.

Bernard.

Well said brother.

[Mike Tevion]

The misconception non-military people have regarding combat related PTSD is that the symptoms of it relate to what the sufferer did to the enemy, when in fact they relate to what the enemy did to the sufferer, and their buddies.

Mike.

[Mike Tevion]

Bumping this up, and giving the forum some update info.

Sergeant Walker has finished the first part of his autobiography, titled Southlands Snuffys, and has attributed his resolve in finishing it to the great encouragement shown by members of this forum, anyone interested can find Southlands Snuffys online.

Take care.
Mike.

[Calidore]

Thanks for the update, Mike! Hope he and you are doing well.

[Danik 2016]

Here is a link for those who know the author and want to have a look:

https://www.booksie.com/posting/sergeant-walker/southlands-snuffys-399409

[Mike Tevion]

Here is a link for those who know the author and want to have a look:

https://www.booksie.com/posting/sergeant-walker/southlands-snuffys-399409

The first book only covers the period from his enlistment to six months into his tour. The second book covers the rest of the tour and is in progress.

The link to the second book, https://www.booksie.com/posting/sergeant-walker/southlands-snuffys-ii-398773

Mike.