“I guess you're right, Dan. I wouldn't want you to go with us. You could get hurt, and there's probably no reason for you to take the chance.” He stretched and smiled. “But I don't have much choice, even if I didn't want to go. Hell,” he grinned again, “that's why I conned myself into this cushy detailing job—so I could write my own orders! Do you know what I mean?”
The other man was suddenly more serious too. “Yeah, I suppose so. That's why the hell I want to get out after this tour. I extended to get to D.C. And I want to make sure none of this rubs off on me before I get out. You guys are so serious sometimes, I feel like I ought to see a shrink and find out why I don't care to duck bullets. Then I remember. I went to a normal college, a civilian one—not the Baltimore Boat and Barge Company.”
“Wrong town,” David said, amused. “You mean Annapolis, not Baltimore.”
“Like hell I do. I mean Baltimore. In my last wardroom we decided Baltimore was the shiftiest place any of us ever saw, and we decided anyone who went through four years of that shit you did must have thought they were in Baltimore. Hey, I shit you not. I was just over there to see a chick a couple of weeks ago, and it was so bad, I thought I'd taken a wrong turn into the Academy.” He stopped. “Hey, David, what am I into this for? You are-writing those orders, aren't you?” He looked at the papers on the desk.
“Right here.” David waved some papers at him. “But first I'm going to give myself a week back home, and then three weeks of sin in San Francisco. Followed by those six weeks with the marines, and then off to dear old Saigon in time to help them celebrate their New Year, and in sixteen months I'll be back here with a chest full of fruit salad. And by then, I will have gotten another stripe and be Lieutenant Commander Charles, and our esteemed boss, Captain Kehs, will have written me orders to go out to Monterey, and you take it from there, my friend.”
“Okay, my friend. If that's the way you want it. I will look forward to the day when we can sip martinis and celebrate your still being alive.” He paused and thought for a minute. “Did you say you're going to be there in time for their New Year—parties and all that stuff?”
“Yup. They call it Tet.”
Mundy had been right. Thank God he's not here. I can just see that “I'm always right” look of his, thought David, looking at the water and mud. It wasn't a normal rain compared to what anyone back in the States would call normal. It was a cloudburst, with the exception that it had been raining just as hard since the previous night.
And Mundy had been even more right about another thing. He had received all that marine training because that's what they were doing—acting like marines! The main effort since they'd been there was to protect their added squadrons of Swift boats and river-patrol boats by building a fortress around the base. They laid minefields around the perimeter, dug trenches, built fortifications, went on patrols to cleanse the area, and on and on and on. And when they weren't doing that, they were cleaning weapons and practicing maneuvers in the river. But they were definitely not going out on missions, at least not the type that David had dreamed they would. Their weapons were rifles, grenades, .50-caliber machine guns, mortars—just like marines.
And the worst part was that they looked like marines, right down to the fatigues, flak jackets, and helmets. The sailors in the squadron looked like marines with hair, and he suspected some of them were even beginning to act that way.
Nothing had been like he expected. Their welcome was already in progress when they managed to land at Ton Son Hut shortly after the Tet Offensive began, the New Year's party that had amused Mundy. As they came in low for their approach, he could see sections of Saigon burning. The only information they had was the pilot's comment over the speaker that there was fighting near the airport and there was a possibility they might come under fire on their final leg of the approach, but he hadn't seemed concerned. He was probably a marine, too, David thought.
The moment the door to their plane opened, he knew they had arrived at the war. There was the smell of smoke in the air, and artillery explosions in the distance. Closer to the airport, they could hear small-arms fire, occasional shots for a few seconds, followed by rapid fire from a number of weapons. Well, he said to himself, I cut my own orders, so there's no one to blame but myself.
Inside the main building in the reception area it had been business as usual. Military and civilian personnel, both American and Vietnamese, went about their business seemingly unaware of what was going on outside. His processing was similar to landing at Kennedy after a European vacation, slow, methodical, disinterested—no one cared that Lieutenant David Charles had returned once again, this time as second in command of a riverine squadron.
There was no time for sightseeing. They were expected to report immediately to the base camp on the Mekong, where their headquarters were located. As David learned later, the Navy planned reliefs very tightly, and there were two officers very much looking forward to their arrival. When one was that short in Vietnam, after twelve months of surviving, they wanted to be relieved immediately, if not sooner, and turnover of command required a day or two of familiarization.
Once the Navy agreed that they really were who they said they were, a helicopter took them to their base camp, north and west of Saigon, well up the Mekong toward Cambodia. They flew over lush, green tropical forests, perfectly laid-out rice paddies that sometimes extended for miles, and little clearings that signified villages. This was the part he had rarely seen during his last tour. Previously he had been on the ocean, always returning to the coast, but rarely inland unless they had a few days off. And, then, they usually went no farther than downtown Saigon. Now, he realized, he would see the real Vietnam.
But up until now, he'd seen very little of the country. He had spent his time assisting Lieutenant Commander Mezey in setting up the camp as he wanted it run, which was one eighty out from the way the previous officer had set it up. The new CO figured that the Vietcong would know almost immediately that new management had come in and they would try a few night attacks to see how they were doing. Mezey simply didn't want his defenses set up the same way, since he assumed the Communists had probably memorized them. The second night after they relieved, the attack came. He had been right.
First came the mortars. Those were always the first warning of an attack. There was no noise until the first shell landed within the compound. Then all hell broke loose. Mortars from half a dozen different sites came roaring in, followed by the flares to illuminate the compound. Then, accompanied by the chatter of small-arms fire, the VC came running up the free paths between the mines they had previously charted. And the thing that saved the compound from much damage that night was that Mezey had made sure the first change was the location of the mines. Half a dozen mines were tripped, cutting through the attackers and stopping the second wave in mid-charge. Mezey, unfortunately, had been in the latrine at the time of the attack, and one of the early mortar rounds had landed nearby, close enough to jam the door. He began to rock the wooden structure to attract attention to his plight. Finally, it tipped over on top of its door. He later pointed out, to David's amusement, that the mortar shell had cleaned him out for at least a week, but it was a hard way to solve a problem. The attack was over as fast as it had begun. There were few casualties to the defenders and part of their luck, as Mezey had commented, was that they acted just like marines.
Each day they made a point of changing the defenses. It was just enough so the VC knew there were safer places to attack, and within a couple of weeks they decided they had a secure base. In the meantime, while the weather still held, they spent hour after hour learning their boats and running through exercises, until they finally passed the boring stage and became automatic.
Now he was staring out through the screening around their tent, watching the cloudburst that wouldn't stop. The monsoons had begun, and the dust turned to mud in no time. The only saving grace here was that even though they acted like marines, they really weren't. And he wouldn't
change places with those poor bastards sitting in muddy trenches or slogging through inches of mud on another of their incessant patrols.
The rains continued, and with them the tedium. VC movements were limited, and the Americans were just as happy to spend more of their time patrolling the river and searching native craft for weapons, or anything else that might be smuggled.
Their PER riverboats added little to personal comfort, since they were essentially open to the rain. They were developed for high-speed combat in shallow waters. They had fiberglass-reinforced plastic hulls and ceramic armor, and carried a 60-mm.
mortar, a grenade launcher, and three .50-caliber machine guns. When they were traveling in excess of twenty-five knots, they were impressive to any VC they happened to be chasing, but they provided little protection from the elements, not to mention enemy fire. If David managed to board a boat dry, he found himself wet before they were away from dockside.
He and Mezey generally rode one of these open PBR's. On occasion they went in one of the Swift boats, which were even faster and had enclosed cabins. But more of the latter were being turned over to the South Vietnamese Navy, and the Americans took what they were allowed. So far, it was not the type of tour he thought he had written orders for.
“I think maybe we've got what we've been looking for, David.” It was Phil Mezey's voice calling over the water, just returning from a conference downriver.
“Anything could be better than what we've been doing so far,” . David answered. He had been supervising ammunition storage, and had found himself wondering why the hell the Navy was bothering to send them ammunition. David stepped in front of the sailor waiting for the line from Mezey's boat. He caught it easily as it snaked through the air, and looped it around the forward cleat. As the boat swung its stern in David took that line also.
“Right here. I think the answer's right here.” Mezey swung off the ugly little PER onto the dock, waving a sheaf of papers. “There's some heavy troop concentrations up toward the border, and the Big Z thinks maybe they're building up for an offensive north of Saigon. Believe it or not, he thinks the best way to search for them is from the river. He's warned the generals that if they start sending reconnaissance aircraft and ground patrols in, all they're going to do is convince the VC to stay low until they're good and ready. And Washington can't stand any more surprises.”
“And he picked us?”
“Well, not really. I kind of volunteered our services. I explained that we hadn't lost any boats. Our squadron was full and in excellent condition, and we knew that territory near the border like the back of our hand.”
“Shit,” David laughed, “we're in such damn good shape because we haven't seen any action. We haven't even scraped any paint. And, Christ, Phil, we haven't been within twenty miles of the border. That's a maze up there.”
“You're right each time, David, my boy, but there has to be a first time for everything. We saddle up at first light tomorrow.” He slapped David on the rump. “Come on, we have a bit of organizing to do,” he said gleefully. “And by the way, they're even loaning us a little fire support, our very own ASPB, the battleship of the Mekong,” he laughed, "to do whatever we want with it, as long as we return it in the same shape as we get it." They were slower, heavily armed boats used for fire support for other small craft, such as the PBR's, and they wallowed along looking very much like the Civil War Monitor. A very hot sun hung high in the afternoon sky. There was almost no breeze in the stifling air, and the helmets and flak jackets were increasingly uncomfortable. The group moved at the speed of the slowest craft, the heavily armed ASPB. Two Swift boats patrolled ahead. They were looking for any sign of the ambushes that the VC favored when they knew the river-boats were on the prowl.
The thick green jungle was set off by the brown water of the river, which moved ever so slowly toward the rich delta, far to the southeast of their little group. The river was a bit narrower upstream, through it would sometimes just as surprisingly open up as they came around a bend. Smaller rivers entered the main stream from under the dense vegetation. But, as some of them had learned in the past, these little rivers were sometimes just estuaries that went back a short distance and ended abruptly with a wire stretched, across to stop unwary boats.
They were now in unfamiliar territory, and David spent much of his time memorizing passing landmarks. This would help a good deal if they found themselves going the other way at high speed. If trouble occurred ahead, they would just have to take their chances.
David had just lifted his binoculars to his eyes to scan the jungle forward and to his left when the river erupted. The sound of the actual explosion came after the mine had detonated. A nearby PER was lifting into the air. Water was hurled up around the craft, but he could still see the bow separate as it began it? descent, almost in slow motion. The .50-caliber in the bow and the sailor manning it went in another direction. The other members of the crew were not to be seen as the remains of the boat settled back to the brown water.
It must have been shallow there to cause so much upward force, he thought. The boat he was riding immediately cut out of the formation to close the wreckage. “Scatter,” came the order from Mezey over the' radio, almost at the same time that the boats were independently changing their courses and speeds to confuse enemy gunners. The most important thing was to be one step ahead of the VC, who were likely ready to set off the next mine.
“We have two of the crew, Phil,” David called over the radio.
“Don't hang around. There's more than one of those mines in the water if the VC have been doing their homework.” And at his last word, another was set off just ahead of one of the forward PBR's, not quite close enough to damage the craft severely. Water cascaded down on the little craft as the wheel was thrown over by a frightened sailor. “Look out for each other,” called Mezey instantly on the radio as a boat almost collided with the one that had just missed being sunk.
Another mine exploded, this time twenty yards behind David's boat. Mezey called for speed and the small craft lifted their bows perceptibly as the General Motors geared diesel engines forced the waterjet-powered boats through the water. Another explosion, no mine this time, went off near his boat. David was at the radio instantly, “Mortars,” he shouted, “from the starboard bank, I think.”
The water came alive with exploding mortar rounds. The air was also filled with machine-gun and rifle fire, all of it from starboard. The boats now were on their own. As they came under fire, each helmsman followed his own nose, paying attention only to where the other boats were. The gunners poured their fire in the direction of the enemy, at the same time trying to avoid hitting each other.
“I'm heading five hundred yards upriver with half the squadron,” Mezey called. “You take the others down, and we'll try to get them in a pincer. Get that battleship here as fast as you can. They've got some heavy stuff in there. We're catching bazooka fire.” And he began ticking off the numbers of the boats that would stay with him. David didn't need to say anything to his own group. They all heard the order and their numbers at the same time, and they would pick their own way back around the bend.
As they rounded the corner below the ambush area, the ASPB was moving toward them as fast as it could. David gave the hand signal that would turn his boats back. They roared back upriver again at full speed, resuming fire as they came into range of the jungle hideout. Mezey was doing the same from the opposite direction.
They sped into even heavier fire this time, obviously from a large group on shore. They had not seen a human being yet, and had no idea whether or not their return fire was effective. Now that both groups of the squadron had taken the time to settle down, their guns were concentrated into one narrow section of the jungle. The battleship now began to fire its 20-mm. shells into the undergrowth at a rapid rate, cutting out trees where the .50-calibers on the small boats had only been chopping down limbs.
And as suddenly as it started, the water around them was free f
rom explosions and bullets. How long they had been firing with no return they didn't know. “Cease fire, cease fire,” came Mezey's voice over the radio. He called out the numbers of two of the boats. “David, you and the rest cover us while we go in to check them out. That seemed to be a company-sized attack with all those weapons. They can't get away that fast.”
David watched the shoreline until half a dozen men from the three craft had disappeared into the undergrowth. When he surveyed the group of boats, only one other was inoperable. It had taken a mortar round that had slowed it long enough for a second one to finish it off. The PER was floating on the other side of the river, smoking, the holes in it gradually filling with water. Many of the other boats, including his own, showed the effects of multiple small-arms fire, but they were all effective. Casualties, with the exceptions of the two sunken craft, were relatively light.
It wasn't long before Mezey returned to his boat, moving it out in the water next to David's. “You wouldn't believe it if you saw it. Christ, we chopped up everything in an area the size of a football field and there's not a body in there. We found some blood, so there must have been some hits, but there wasn't a soul there—just vanished.” He shook his head, “Everything we've heard about them is true. Hit and run. Hit and run. The little buggers sure know how to scare the hell out of a man, though.” He paused for a moment, a finger to his lips. “What's that?” He cupped his ear and turned his head slightly.
David shook his head. He didn't know what to listen for.
“Listen.” There were some muted sounds, engines. It was coming from upriver. “That sounds like diesels.” He listened again. The sounds were no louder, but it seemed there were more engines. “Son of a bitch! I'll bet they've got boats up there. They were just sent down to see how many we were and scare us away at the same time.” He nodded at David. "Let's go. They must have something bigger to hide if they wanted to chase us away that bad."
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