RivRon 13
By Larry J. Kennedy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 1
A Lesson In Physics
For the most part my life in the third
dimension is pretty normal, but occasionally, when properly stimulated, I find
myself roaring through the universe, trapped in an inescapable time warp. I am eventually deposited in an entirely different
millennium for a short, intense period of time. Some folks would call this a flashback. I call it a ride on the Wayback
machine.
I
never know when one of these crazy episodes is going to take place. If it had not happened to me personally, I
would not have believed that it was even possible. Time traveling I mean. Which only works for me in
one direction. Back
into the past.
My last trip backwards happened a few years
ago and it was a really good one. It was
memorable, because everything about that rearward episode seemed absolutely
real. Not a figment of an over active
imagination.
It
all started one spring morning when I stepped outside the Post Office, where I
worked, to check out the weather. I was
presented with an absolutely gorgeous day. I seized the golden opportunity to take a
quick break and hunkered down in a sun filled spot, between two large trucks
that were backed up to a loading dock. Soon,
I felt the last remnants of our cold
The smell of cow manure and wet earth filled
the warm atmosphere all around. The
airborne perfume drifted in from across the road. Agricultural students, working in a
The
crystal clear sky produced extra potent sunrays. They beat down on my face and made me do an
unusual thing. I removed my shirt, then lowered the front of my bib overalls, to let the hot
light shine on my pale winter chest.
“Ah
yes, that does feel good,” I thought. I fished out a cigarette to enhance my
sunbathing pleasure. As I bowed to light
the smoke, sweat ran off my forehead and dripped onto my glasses. It burned into my eyes causing me to inhale
sharply. The smell of tobacco, mixed
with the odor of poop and fresh mud, sped into my lungs just a little faster
than I expected. My eyes watered even
more. I was now fully strapped into the
"Way back" unit. Ready for warp speed.
At
that exact instant, the trucks on either side of me simultaneously fired up
their engines with a huge roar. My face was blasted with thick clouds
of black diesel exhaust. I closed my
eyes against the onslaught. The big vans
slammed into gear and raced off on a twisting route towards the exit. The time machine, with me on board, instantly
achieved full backward escape velocity.
After a few year-seconds, I opened my sooty
eyelids and blearily made out that today's date had changed drastically. As my vision slowly cleared, I saw chocolate
colored water flowing right there in front of me. I knew, immediately, that I was back in
A
dirty, green, blunt nosed boat, bristling with machine guns, motored along out
in the current. The watercraft was a
United States Navy, Attack Troop Carrier, also known as a Tango boat. It sounded exactly like the two trucks that
had been beside me moments before. Their
R.P.M. mismatched engines throbbed with the same discordant rhythm as the
riverboat, that I now saw straining against the
Out
beyond the Tango's foaming wake, I caught sight of a threatening movement in
the tangled jungle tree line. No one
aboard the stubby boat seemed to be aware of any danger. With fear clutching at my throat, I waited for
the opening salvo of the Viet Cong ambush that I saw materializing.
Suddenly,
a mighty electric current surged through my body. I was instantly on my feet, stretching
imaginary hands outward, to grasp the handles of a loaded, Colt 50 caliber
machine gun, that magically appeared. If it moved, I felt a desperate need to shoot
it. Like Now!
Yeah right. Just my rotten luck. The
weapon was jammed or something. I could
not get it to fire. I thought I heard AK-47's rattling somewhere, increasing my
alarm. I violently mashed the 50's thumb
trigger, while repeatedly pulling back on the operating handle…. nothing. “You are
one S.O.L. sailor now.”, I thought.
I saw crimson
fire streak towards me from the opposite river bank. Bullets would be here soon. I could feel their relentless search for my
tender flesh. “Man, oh man, this is really going to hurt BAD.”, I thought, and
braced myself for the impending impact and pain.
Suddenly,
everything dissolved into tiny bright sparkles out in front of me. My cosmic journey ended as quickly as it had
begun. The muddy
I
eventually noticed that if my stupid machine gun had worked properly, I would
have killed a Chevy Suburban, a John Deere loader and an empty semi trailer
parked out in the truck lot. If I had
wasted those poor innocent vehicles, the term "Going Postal" might
have taken on a new meaning. Especially given my current condition. Those "Osh Kosh Bagosh" jeans
unbuttoned earlier had somehow slid way south, exposing an absolutely immoral
amount of ugly, paisley, boxer shorts. The
breeze wafting up under the leg holes did feel rather nice though.
Oh well. Some things just never seem to change for me. At any crucial moment, whether I am surfing in
the space-time-continuum or struggling along in the real world, I might be
caught with my britches down. As I hurriedly
buckled my pants up, I felt very lucky that they were not entirely missing. I was in that drafty condition, more than once,
when I sailed on Tango boats along the mighty
Oh yeah…, and just where is the low
intellect squid that had set up my weapon anyway? He could only be the product of many incestuous
unions, somewhere within his minimally branched family tree.
I had an EXTRA large bone
to pick with that sailor!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 2
The
My very first thought, as I stood on the
tarmac next to my inbound
It was about
A few days after my arrival I flew south, on a
C-7 Caribou, to a dusty Army/Navy base, along the
Upon arriving at RivRon
13, I was assigned to an attrition division, rather than with a crew on a
particular boat. If an engine man or
gunner became missing for any reason, (R & R, WIA, Clap etc.), I, as a
member of the attrition division, would be sent to fill in until they returned,
or until a permanent replacement could be assigned. This insured that I would be highly
forgettable. Here today, gone tomorrow. Who was that greasy sailor anyway?
I was kind of hurt
that I did not have a boat to really call home, like most of the men in the
squadron. I wondered why I was selected
for this type of wandering duty. In the
intervening years, since December 1968, I think I may have figured that
particular mystery out.
While being
evaluated, with a barrage of Navy tests, before receiving final orders to the
fleet, a strange thing happened. I was
required to take a standard Navy mechanical aptitude test, in a classroom on
The next day I was
sent back, to the same room, and was told that I had to repeat the exam. No explanations were offered, so I did as
instructed and answered one hundred different questions of the same type.
I was really confused
the following day when I was sent, again, to the same classroom. I had to take the same test over yet again. I wondered if they had lost my previous
results, or if I had screwed up so royally that they could make neither heads nor
tails of my answers. Oh well. Mine was not to reason why, so I completed
another, different set, of one hundred questions. When I passed the finished paper to the
instructor, I was told to sit down and wait.
After my test was
scored, I was waved by the instructor, a Chief Petty Officer, to the front of
the room. There were two flag officers,
standing behind him, looking at me thoughtfully, as I approached his desk.
When I once again
stood in front of him, the Chief informed me that, “The Navy does not accept a
score of one hundred percent on ANY aptitude test.”
I did not understand
how this could affect me. Out of all
those questions, I was sure that I had answered some of them wrong. I blinked, and shook my head quizzically, as I
tried to make sense of the whole situation.
The instructor,
seeing that I was very confused, lowered his voice a notch and said, “Look
asshole, just miss one will you?”. The other officer types solemnly nodded in
agreement, so I erased one of my multiple choice answers, then picked another
at random.
They all smiled like I
had just given them a new puppy, and that is how I received a score of ninety
nine percent on the Navy standard mechanical aptitude test.
All this proved to me that the Navy was
stranger than science fiction. I see now
that they thought I was cheating on the exam and were watching me like hawks to
determine if this was true. After the
third test, they must have been convinced of my innocence. The only solution at hand for them was to have
me Cheat, by deliberately missing a question. Heck, I had been working on cars since I was a
kid. This stuff was easy compared to
fixing an automatic transmission. I
found out right then that the old three way thing concerning anything remotely
naval was true.
There was the right way. There was the wrong way. There was the Navy way.
The next occurrence of note took place during
river boat training at a heavy weapons range, where all future river rats were
evaluated for machine gun proficiency.
We were trucked to a shooting range, on a
hillside, overlooking a valley, that was about a
quarter mile across. On the far side of
the rift stood a dilapidated Army tank, several household appliances, and an
old car. These were our targets.
I stood
in a line of men, with a link belt of 50 caliber ammo draped over my shoulder,
waiting for my turn to test fire. As I
watched the sailors ahead of me run out their ammo, I noticed that the 50’s
created a tremendous amount of barrel jump when fired. Hardly anybody was hitting anything, as most
rounds sailed way over the intended targets. I recalled an instructor relating that you had
to start a four or five shot burst well under, say, a refrigerator, and then
depend on muzzle rise to bring the slugs to bear.
The smell of burned gunpowder intoxicated me. I was excited when the time arrived for me to
shoot. Adrenalin buzzed in my veins as I
stood behind the weapon. I flipped up
the loading door, hooked up my rounds, snapped the cover shut, pulled the
operating handle to chamber the first round, then set
my sights well below an old
I was elated to see several white flash hits
on the old armored wreck. YES! Straight out of the box, I was right on. This was easy and Great fun. I next scored hits on a car, a refrigerator, the
tank again, then felt a sense of disappointment. After about thirty seconds, I was out of ammo.
Unbelievably I had lit up everything I shot
at. The other swabs, awaiting their turn,
congratulated me. So did the instructor,
who gave me a verbal, “Outstanding sailor.” Wow, I had no idea that I could do a thing
like that. I wanted to pay somebody for
more ammo and get back in line again. What
a thrill. Yeah. Right.
The color would fade from that bloom a
little farther on down the line.
For my next powder smoke experience I lined up,
with a twenty five round belt of ammo, behind a 20 millimeter cannon. This weapon was much larger than a 50 caliber.
The 20 mm shells were about twice the
50’s size. Each projectile was filled
with explosives. When they struck an
object, they would detonate into a deadly cloud of fast moving, hot, metal
fragments. 20 mm rounds had a few tiny drawbacks
though. They were not bore safe and were
always armed. They would explode anytime
the tips were hit hard enough. We were
told that a 20 mm round would explode if it was dropped onto its projectile
point from waist high to the ground. The
clumsy sailor who did this would be an immediate candidate for a new prosthetic
leg or two. Most explosive projectiles could
not detonate until after exiting a gun barrel. Then they would then be armed by ballistic
spin.
A twenty five round belt of ammo, shot from a
gun that fires around seven hundred rounds per minute, makes for about two, one
second bursts. I still made the best of
the brief practice blasts by getting several hits on the tank. I felt exhilarated. Shooting belted ammo will do that to you.
I also test fired a 30 caliber machine gun, a
Mark-19 40 mm grenade launcher, and handed clipped together shells up to a crew
served 40 mm cannon.
I think the Navy, therefore, set me up to
replace engine men, or gunners, because I could do well in either role,
depending on where I was needed. I did
not see this as a plus until well after I made it home and was out of the Navy
altogether. I was able to ride on a lot
of different boats which produced many unusual experiences. Ok, I don’t feel so bad about having been the
odd man out anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 3
Baby Snake
My Ass !!
Home base, for the RivRon
13 attrition division, was a berthing compartment aboard one of the converted
LST barracks ships. These were anchored
in the miles wide
From Naval records. Rach Gia: On the
Here is what happened on that very first open
sea transit.
A few weeks after I arrived, the barracks
ship, along with most RivRon 13 boats, hoisted anchor
and set off down river towards the mouth of the
When our convoy reached the open ocean we were
met with Very rough water. Fifteen to
twenty foot waves battered us. The huge
slabs of ocean rolled the larger vessels right, left, up, down, or a sickening
combination of those directions.
Inside the attrition division berthing
compartment, with forty other sailors, life became worse than miserable. It became downright intolerable.
The weird motions of pitch and roll had all of
us new arrivals standing at the outskirts of "
When you are thinking about doing it, hear it
being done, then catch the unmistakable odor of it, you soon realize that your
own sympathy puke is close at hand. The
next heavy roll could be the start of something big.
I quickly headed topside, out on deck, for
some fresh air. Once there I beheld a
world of torn up monstrous brown waves, crashing and smashing everything. Still, I immediately felt a little better,
because even though the whole world was in motion the horizon was kind of
steady. I focused on it for a short time
then made my way to the leeward side of the ship, bearing in mind sailor rule
number one concerning the wind. Never
spit, urinate, or vomit into the wind. You
will not like the messy results.
I could see that the riverboats were not doing well at all. They ran up and
were lifted by swells of steeply inclined water. When they crested the huge rollers, their
propellers came free briefly then dug back into the froth, which accelerated
them downhill to SMASH into the bottom of the next wave. This heaved great fountains of ocean spray
twenty five feet or more above their top decks. Audible ‘Booms’ traveled across the
intervening water, each time a blunt ended Tango boat met an incoming solid
wall. I had no complaints about the coaster
ride I was experiencing, after seeing the conditions that those smaller vessels
had to endure. The boat crews were
filled with lots of new sailors that I had traveled to
We were out of the sight of land. We must have been about fifteen miles east of
the coast of
I stayed out on deck for a while as the sea
gradually calmed to around six foot waves. This gave the boats a much needed respite from
watery collisions, allowing their bilge pumps to lighten the badly wallowing
craft. Time, also, to swab a few puke
covered decks, no doubt, because the Tango boats were transporting a contingent
of Vietnamese Marines. I was fairly sure
that they were well into the dry heaves by then. I also figured that a lot of those Marines
thought at first that they might die in the crashing waves. After a few hours of riding tall water filled
"Whoop-De-Do's" they may have wished that somebody would shoot them,
and put them out of their misery. I felt
sorry for them.
At some point we all turned in a southerly
direction, down the coast of
Some time later, near dusk, the ship slowed to
a stop and drop anchor for the night. I
went to the port bow to watch as the big hook splashed into the sea. The huge chain links rattled out chasing the
anchor for a very long time. The
deafening racket this created was terrible, and I thought the clamor would
never end. It must have been a very long
way down to the ocean floor.
Eventually the noise subsided. The world slowly spun as the ship gracefully
swung its bow into the wind. The sea had
calmed to a mild chop and the warm air smelled freshly salted. What a difference. It was like finding yourself on the other side
of the planet compared to the savage intensity of the crazy ocean world we had
just passed through.
I heard the roar of diesel engines, off the
starboard side, and I crossed the forward deck to watch the boats motor in and
tie up to a long, ship length, pontoon dock. Despite the raging storm, the thirty foot wide
mobile pier had miraculously stayed attached to the side of the ship. I had gained a new respect for the old World
War II landing craft that our boats were created from. Especially, after seeing them
survive the pounding that an angry ocean threw at them. The waves had cleaned them nicely though. They glistened with reddish orange reflections,
from beautifully colored light, thrown off as the hot tropical sun dipped into
the sea. All were safely home alongside
the mother ship tucked in for the night. All was finally well. What a ride.
As the sound of the last engine faded, so did I. I was still a
little green around the gills, not ready for food quite yet, so I headed off to
my bunk hoping that the smell of barf had cleared out of my bedroom.
I woke up before dawn the next day, well
before the rest of the men in my compartment. I dressed then went to the mess decks for a
cup of coffee and smelled toast. My
tender tummy said, “Feed Me!”, so I gobbled a few of the half burnt slices.
At the coffee urn, cup in hand, I awaited my
turn at the tap behind another early riser named Claudie
T. Gaskins. He was from
As he drew his Java I recalled the last time
that I had hung out with him. A few days
before our trip out the mouth of the
We were occupied passing each other loads of
manure about life in general, when he suddenly stopped, mid sentence to
proclaim, “I can’t take this anymore Lare! I can’t stand it!”
I looked at him
anticipating a forthcoming reason concerning his sudden distress. Without another word he spread his feet a
little, slid an enormous Bowie Knife from a scabbard on his belt, paused a
second, bared his teeth, then Stabbed the big blade down the front of
his pants.
I was shocked. What in blazes was this man trying to do? Turn himself into a
soprano? Strangely, even though the
knife was in his drawers, everything in mine ran and hid.
Claudie worked the monster blade from one side to the
other, sawing away madly. A look of
absolute concentration was etched on his face. After finally withdrawing the ‘
Warning: Do not attempt that foolhardy act unsupervised at home
kiddies. Severe loss of bowel control or
accidental dismemberment may result. Oh yeah…, and one other thing. My best advise would
be to not ever get in a knife fight with Gaskins. The man definitely knows how to handle a
blade.
With a look of disgust that you might give a
used condom, Claude flung the offending white underwear into the river. They slowly sank from sight as they twisted
away in the current.
Then he went into, "Claudie's
Version", of the standard male adjustment process, by wagging one leg or
the other while jumping, hip shaking, and tugging at his crotch. The man made some very nice moves managing to
narrowly prevent a few head on deck collisions. Anyone can imitate the Gaskins Dance by
putting on pantyhose, while bouncing one legged on a beach ball.
A satisfied grin came over Claude's features, after
things became aligned and positioned properly. He closed his eyes, smiled in obvious ecstasy,
and said, “My Gawd Lare,
that shore feels a Hell'va lot better!”
I could not have agreed more. Haven’t you heard Mr. G? Freedom IS the word. I was already without skivvies. I had given them up days before. It sure did feel better. It was too flaming hot to wear them anyway.
In a nutshell, that was my man Gaskins. He was
a great sailor.
Back at the coffee spigot, Claude and I
decided to take our cups of stiff Navy brew out to the bow, where we planned to
watch the sun arise from the ocean. This
was an event I had never witnessed, but much anticipated.
Rosy dawn greeted us above over smooth mirror
calm seas below as we wandered forward, over to the port side, next to the
giant links of the anchor chain.
Once there Claude inserted, what had to be, a
heaping tablespoon of
I lit a Marlboro. I had tried a teeny tiny pinch from his evil
little tin one time. I wound up with the
worst case of, "I-Wanna-Die", hiccups ever
recorded. I could only imagine what a quarter
of a can would do.
With everything now properly adjusted, we
looked off the port side and were able to see down along the length of the
chain, to where the murky depths finally hid the rest. It was serenely gorgeous with the sky getting
pinker, brighter on one side, the anchor chain gently curving, down into the emerald
green water on the other. We passed some
quiet moments lost in our own thoughts, not needing to speak. Peace and beauty will hush a person right up.
I was dividing my time between the sunup show
and the majestic disappearing links, when something caught my eye way on down
the chain.
At the very end of the iron tether, hundreds
of feet under water, I detected movement. A very strange, peculiar
movement. There it was again. Something was definitely moving down there at
the edge of my vision.
"What in the world could this be?”, I thought to myself.
I brought the curiosity to Gaskins’ attention
by pointing and murmuring, “What in heck is that Claude?”.
We both leaned out over the rail intently
looking down the scope of the chain. After
awhile he
We were fascinated at this point, unable to
take our gaze from the object. It
appeared to be rising and was wound around the massive chain. Very slowly it cork screwed up from the murky depths.
For the life of me, I could not figure out
what I was seeing. As it came closer, I
did make out that it was wrapped around the chain about six or seven times. It kind of looked like a thin worm, or a baby
snake maybe.
Gradually, as the creature dizzily rose, I
could see that it did appear to be a baby snake. I could not really be certain though. It was still way below the bottom of the ship.
Soon Claude and I were both riveted to this
revolving wonder of the deep. The closer
it came to us, the farther our eyes widened, the lower our jaws dropped. Up it swam, getting larger, ever larger, while
it did relentless rising laps around the chain.
As it neared the surface, a few yards below
us, my heart skipped a beat. My already
shallow breathing stopped entirely. I
tried to swallow, but could not because of my open, gaping mouth. Hot coffee poured down my arm. It ran off my elbow, onto my pants and shoes,
from the forgotten askew cup in my hand. I never felt a thing.
The beast finally screwed its way to the
surface where it arose, towering over the ocean, bathed in brilliant cascades
of sunrise colored spray, into the air above.
BABY SNAKE MY ASS!
This thing was HUGE! The massive head was bigger than the side of a
small bungalow and I don't think it would have fit into the bed of a Ford
pickup truck. I wondered if the ship's
anchor had somehow upset the monster. My
blood ran ice cold. I wondered if the
monster would slither up the chain onto the ship. My blood turned ice colder. "Oh
Man!" I thought, "What if
it's pissed off or hungry... or pissed off AND hungry?"
I nearly added to my coffee stain with giddy
relief when it swam towards the ship’s stern. It uncoiled from the chain as it went. When the tip of its tail finally unwound, between
thirty or forty feet of its glistening, greenish bronze, body was stretched out
in the water, undulating like some Loch Ness monster. It was actually hard to tell exactly how long
it really was, because some of it dipped into the water, while some of it rose
out. If straightened out completely the
enormous serpent was probably even longer. At its widest, the body section appeared to be
between three and four feet across. Much
wider than a fifty five gallon drum. I
am not completely certain, due to my visual overload at the time, but I thought
the colossal snake had a faint pattern on its skin.
‘Mekong Nessie’s
head dove under, with a splash, just beyond the fantail of the ship. The super sized snake came up swimming right
back towards us and passed its own tail, still going the other way.
The tongue shot out like a forked red carpet
runner.
Holy Shish-Kabob! The thing could taste us in the air. When the massive ocean asp did its tongue
thing again, "Creepy Crawlies" shivered up and down my spine.
Then I noticed the eyes. They looked like two of those large, shiny,
colored globes on pedestals, that people put in their
yards. Only these eye-globes were darker
and bigger.
My mind flashed, "If we can see IT - Then IT can see us", and .
. . ."
Man Oh man! … The thing was coming and looking
straight back at us!
It did not matter. I could not have moved a muscle anyway. I was part of the deck. Mesmerized, transfixed, enthralled, you name
it. The oversized snake could have eaten
me for breakfast. Its head was even
bigger when viewed from this oncoming angle. The mouth looked like it could easily swallow
a Shetland pony. Saddle,
rider, and all.
Gaskins did not even bother pulling out his
scrawny little Bowie knife. I was
relieved that he didn't, as matter of fact. The best he could have possibly done was to
stab 'Mekong Nessie' in the throat and madden it even
more, as he passed down its massive gullet, on his way for a dip in reptile
gastric juice. Of course, I would have
been gullet sliding and acid swimming right along with Claude, because I did
not think the snake would have had any problem whatsoever, swallowing two grown
human beings at once. My secret, abiding,
all time biggest fear of being eaten by a shark, made a super smooth transition
into being swallowed by a pissed off snake.
When ‘Nessie’
reached the anchor chain again, directly below us, it dove UNDER (Thank you,
Thank you), wrapped its huge body around the chain links, and cork screw swam
its way back down into the ocean depths from whence it came. Claude and I watched quietly,
reverently even, as the giant sea serpent turned back into a baby snake, then
into a tiny worm, then into nothing.
The world was deathly silent as Claude and I
slowly swiveled our own puny little human heads until our eyes absolutely
LOCKED. We just stood there, looked at
each other, and blinked. I don’t know
for how long. We just blinked.
Gaskins came to his senses first and without
looking away he said in a slow, low, odd voice, “You know Lare,
they will Never, (.…ing), Believe us.”
"This is not for real," I thought to myself,
"This entire, ridiculous, sea
serpent rising out of the ocean thing, could NOT have happened."
But I'll be dipped in baby snake sauce, it
really did.
There were three questions that Gaskins and I
discussed as we left the bow of the ship.
First: What kind of a weird ass place was this
anyway?
Second: Did we have to fight snakes like THAT
as well as the V.C.? If so, Claude would need a bigger knife.
And finally: What in all of Lucifer’s Land did
the Navy put in their coffee anyway..., L.S.D?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 4
Rach Gia
Shortly after my episode with the big snake I
was assigned a boat, Tango-131-13, to replace an engine man who had went on
R&R. It was a newer type riverboat,
with an upper helicopter landing pad, just barely big enough for a single Huey
chopper to land on.
I packed a ditty bag
with some essentials, Marlboros, ‘church key’, P-38 can opener, toilet paper,
olive drab boxer shorts, and split the attrition division compartment in a
hurry. Finally there was something for
me to do besides stand around, with a digit up my bum.
I double timed over
to Tango 13 and got an immediate adrenalin zing when I caught sight of her
dingy green hull. This was it. I could feel my head sliding into the tiger's
mouth. I even looked forward to it. That was totally backwards thinking I know,
but I could not help it. The fear of
death had already been compressed into a tiny little ball, in the back of my
mind, which I thereafter ignored. My
newly acquired machine guns would help me tame any other stray fears.
When I reported
aboard T-13 the crew did not take much notice of me. I was just another warm body to fill out the
number needed before a mission. I was
promptly ignored. The crew probably
thought that I knew what I was doing. Yeah,
right. This was all new to me.
I decided to start by firing up the diesel
engines, because they were my highest concern. They checked out good after a test warm up. The crankcase oil looked clean and the level
was fine in both power plants. The noisy
beasts maintained a decent temperature while in operation. The packing glands, around the propeller shaft,
were not leaking. The fuel tanks had no
water in them. The level of the bilges
was kind of high however, which meant that the boat was slightly down at the
stern. There was nothing I could do
about that right then, because we were moving out immediately.
After casting off our
lines from the mother ship, we motored toward a village on the southern coast
of
This was my first
encounter, close up, with the jungle. I
was like a sponge, absorbing everything, soaking it all up. I was finally seeing what the ‘
I decided to go
topside, to the helicopter landing pad, so that I could absorb even better. I soon stood on the tiny flight deck gazing
out over the lush exotic landscape.
My hunter-gather gene
kicked in and I thought, "Well,
well, will wonders never cease. Here are hundreds of bananas and coconuts,
actually growing outside, free for the picking." The only things that were growing outside
in my
With that cool happy
thought in mind, I settled atop the coxswain’s flat with a Coca Cola and a can
of fruit cocktail, hoping to create a sugar buzz that might enhance all the
absorbing that I was about to do.
Groups of barefoot children gathered along the
earthen mound fifteen yards off our bow calling, “You Numba
One G.I., You Numba One.” In Pidgin English, taught by soldiers, this
meant you were the best, top notch. However,
if a native sneered and said, “You Numba Ten.”, this
meant that you were lower than pimples on a snake's belly, spawned from Hell,
not worth dung. There was no middle
ground there at all.
A sailor on one of
the boats carried a case of C-Rations to his landing pad and started throwing the
meals, one can at a time, to the kids. This excited them greatly and the raucous
group fought over each lofted donation. A
youngster would catch a food container, midair, then immediately take flight
chased by a knot of other little vandals trying to rob him. It was kind of like the way a flock of
seagulls act when fed saltines. No
mercy.
In no time there were
quite a few men, on different boats, tossing food to now more than thirty or so
kids. Flights of outgoing cans sailed
toward the beach in a near continuous barrage. The native youngsters went bonkers. Dinner was being air dropped by the Navy. I saw one swab try to arc in an entire meal
set. The thin cardboard box blew apart
in mid air, spraying its contents over the children shotgun style. The food frenzy heightened when this happened.
I noticed that one
cute little guy was never in the right place at the right time. He ran back and forth along the dike just
missing every opportunity to claim a prize. When he did manage to get his hands on a can,
he was always stripped of his booty by the larger kids.
Sailors will always
root for the underdog. As the men became
aware of Little Guy’s situation they tried, specifically, to toss him a goodie. Survival of
the fittest doomed their every effort. Little
Guy was robbed of them all.
The men, frustrated, stopped throwing and put
their heads together. They came up with
a plan. Here’s how it went.
One sailor made eye contact and kept pointing
from a can of Ham and Lima Beans, in his hand, to our Little Guy.
Three or four other swabs filled their hands
with cans, then started firing them way to the left of
the crowd.
The 'Ham and
‘Little Guy’ stood like an outfielder. Hands outstretched. Fingers splayed. Totally intent on the
incoming chow. Open mouthed, wide
eyed, concentration etched his small round face.
Every single man watching that day cringed,
winced, and knew Exactly how Little Guy felt when he
lost the C-rats missile in the sun, then took the revolving bean can right,
smack, in the forehead. Directly between the eyes. ‘Little Guy’ went down like he had been shot. Ouch! We
had all been popped like that with a baseball when we were his age. We remembered. I wish the, 'Ham and
We all started to rush to ‘Little Guy’s aid,
but before we could do so a couple of kids ran over to him, stole his beans,
stood him up, and wobbled him off into the jungle. Man, I hoped he was ok.
The boat crews continued to toss treats, but
now they sent them in low, so the kids would have to chase them as they rolled
down the side of the dike. This gave the
children more of a work out and avoided another head-bean mishap.
Later on some teenaged kids showed up carrying
loaves of, freshly baked, French bread. Though
the smell was absolutely delicious, I cannot say why I did not buy a loaf like
some sailors did. I guess that I recalled
an instructor back in training telling us not to eat anything the natives
offered. He'd said something about
microbes that our systems were not used to. Maybe that held me back. The bread sure smelled good however, and I was
seriously tempted.
I sat there absorbing stuff until the setting sun
went nuts, silhouetting the coconut palms and banana trees with sharp yellow
rays, shot from a ruby red disk. My Dad
was right. He had advised me to take
note of the beautiful things in life, where ever I found them. A wise man my father. I missed him.
The next morning we were greeted with an incoming
flight of Medical Evacuation choppers. The
Hueys landed on various Tango flight decks and lifted
off with very sick sailors. It was the
lousy French bread, that had been probably made with dung infested
Thereafter I ate a total of, *One*, non
military provided meal in my entire tour of duty. I consumed that at the airport restaurant the
day before I left
Christmas 1968 arrived while we marked time
outside of Rach Gia along
the dike. For Christmas dinner I had
C-Rations and a Coke. I listened to Bob
Hope and Ann Margaret, on the Armed Forces radio station entertaining troops
back at Dong Tam. What a Bummer! To my everlasting regret I had missed Ann
Margaret. Not to mention Bob Hope who
had entertained
My Christmas C-Rat’s sucked too. They reminded me of glorified dog food. Except for the canned
peaches and pound cake that I ate for desert. They were a delightful taste bud oasis, in a
desert of really bad chow.
Other than that, not much worth describing
happened during the next hot week, as we awaited our time to do something,
anything.
On News Years Eve, at the far edge of dusk,
all the boats started their engines. They
formed up in a long column, then headed into the dark
mouth of a one hundred foot wide canal, that flowed from an even darker jungle.
The waterway appeared pitch black. Totally without light.
I shuddered.
I got the same feeling from the dark entrance, that
had come over me as a child lying bug eyed, atop the monster ridden area under
my bed. “Something evil lives in there,” I thought, as we approached the
spooky canal mouth.
The order came from our boat captain to,
"Lock and Load." With pleasure
I strapped on a helmet, then quickly obeyed, by
loading all six machine guns in just a few minutes. I also slid on a flak jacket for good measure.
I smelled wood smoke mixed with something
sweet, like flowers, as we entered, engines roaring, into the dark channel. Diesel exhaust soon drove that pleasant scent
away when the boats bunched up, as they were supposed to, for safety, and for a
more concentrated field of fire.
A very dim red light came from inside one of
the rear compartments behind me that provided just enough illumination to
safely move about our well deck.
I stood back in the shadows scanning side to
side, out past the machine guns, trying to find any visual input. I saw only velvety, dense blackness as Tango
13 plowed along into the night.
Every once in a while, during the next hour, the
radioman, Homer, stuck his head out into the weak red glow. He looked around for a bit, then
disappeared to monitor his softly chattering radio again. Other than that I was wide eyed and alone.
All of a sudden, there was an intense flash of
light from astern that starkly lit the tree line fifty feet away, on the port
side. A booming explosion immediately
followed.
In the next instant, amid more bright lights
and teeth rattling booms, twinkling flashes sent occasional green or red
tracers towards us. Those were AK-47’s,
I found out later.
Within seconds the riverboats opened up with
all weapons, which included 105 mm howitzers, 40 mm grenade launching machine
guns, 20 mm aircraft cannons, 50 caliber machine guns and 30 caliber machine
guns. All together dozens of jungle
shredding guns, firing an ungodly number of rounds per minute, began to
pulverize the beach along a one hundred yard swath, that
moved forward at about five miles per hour.
Wow! A
dizzying combination of strobe like muzzle flashes, tracers, and deafening
noises predominated my senses. I stood there dumbstruck, in awe, lost in the
powerful show.
Homer stuck his head out and hollered, “Shoot,
man shoot!”
Before he finished the sentence I jumped up to
the port 50, flicked off the safety, and started chewing up the tree line
through the thickening smoke from all the weapons.
You were supposed to fire short bursts, in
order to keep the gun barrel from burning up. I held the thumb trigger down causing the 50
to roar nonstop through a one hundred round belt.
I couldn’t see if I was hitting anything or
not, so it became my immediate obsession to put a bullet next to every air
molecule along the beach. I didn’t want
a human being to be able to raise a finger without having it blown off. That was also the Last time that anyone Ever had to Tell me to start shooting. I regret that I even had to be told once. I was a cherry sailor once, but not any more. My life had changed.
When the 50 ran dry, I moved to the right a
few feet and got busy sending a two hundred fifty round belt from the middle 30
caliber into the jungle. Then I heard
Homer hollering, “Cease Fire!”, somewhere behind me. I was barely conscious of him because I was
totally absorbed, focused you might say, on improving my bullet to molecule
ratio. My 30 fell silent while a few
guns along the column continued firing, baking off their remaining ammo most
likely. A very hot machine gun will do
that.
Breathing erratically, I hastily reloaded my
weapons. I recharged the 50 last with
two, one hundred round cans of ammo linked together. I had exhausted the ammo on that weapon way
too soon. I didn’t care for that. I also stood directly behind the weapon. I wanted it to be close at hand from now on. No more wasted seconds. A wasted second is plenty of time to kill you
dead. I knew that for a fact now.
We motored onward like this for about forty
five minutes when the port side again erupted in gunfire. After the first enemy muzzle flash, I rapped
out two hundred rounds almost nonstop with the 50. The barrel on the weapon began smoking and
glowed dull cherry red. I had five spare
50 barrels, five spare machine guns and could care less whether I burned this
one up or not. If the slugs started to
tumble after they emerged from the shot out rifling, so much the better. The only thing that mattered was the bullet to
molecule count.
I hastily switched to the middle 30 caliber
and was working my tracers into the tree line when, I felt the boat thump hard
on something, then hesitate. As our
forward momentum dwindled, the engine noise rose to a screaming crescendo.
Tango 13, with all hands, coasted on in to, "
I ran to the engine room and stuck my head in
the hatch. I listened as the motors wailed
at top rpm’s producing an incredible noise. The transmissions slammed from forward to
reverse a couple of times, then the tortured motors
shut down completely. The room went
silent. I turned and ran forward back
into the gunfire.
Looking out from the well deck, I saw that we
were drifting sideways across the canal, blocking it, halting the entire column.
Our boat, along with all the boats
behind us, became sitting ducks. Just
like the little ducks in a carnival shooting gallery, only we were not moving.
Incoming portside fire intensified
dramatically. I heard the, "Fwhooosh", of several enemy B-40 rocket propelled
grenades. I felt the, ‘Boom’,
that followed as they blew up against some unlucky boat. I knew that it was only a matter of time until
the enemy put something explosive into Tango 13.
Things were getting just a little too hairy
for me right now. I was at a total loss
for a solution to our nightmare. What is
an engine man supposed to do when his engines are useless? Paddle the 76 ton iron slug of a boat?
Homer appeared at my side hollering something
about our propellers being gone. "Well,
No (kidding) Sherlock!!", I hollered back. Like he was telling me something I didn't
already know. Homer then said that the
boat behind us would come along our starboard side, tie up length wise and tow
us out of there. This sounded like a
fantastic idea to me. We had all
practiced this life saving maneuver during our stateside boat training.
Just as Homer finished his shouted information,
we were rammed heavily on the starboard bow by the boat behind. Everything in our well deck became airborne at
once, including us.
Our rescue boat backed off a ways and rammed
us again. Homer grabbed on to a vertical
pipe on the other side of the well deck. I was forcefully thrown over with him as we
were hit again.
Dozens of open ammo cans, many link belts of
ammunition and piles of empty brass littered the deck in a tangled mass. The cans had smashed open upon impact, after
being knocked from the trays where they belonged. More enemy metal began to strike Tango 13. I heard it pinging and dinging in the overhead
pipes.
Our wounded craft now faced, pretty much, in
the right direction. As the boat behind
scraped its way along our side, Homer looked forward at the starboard tie up
cleat, then back at me. He said
something like, “(To heck with) You Jack! I am way to short (close to going home), and I
am NOT getting up there.”
It took me a split second to realize that if
we did not move out of there, soon, we would all die. I spun away from him and ran forward through
the trash. At the bow ramp, I climbed
from the relative safety of the well deck, up to the exposed starboard tie up
point, grabbed a two inch nylon rope, secured it to my cleat, then pulled a six foot loop of line out the bull nose (rope
passage). I passed the loop to a sailor
on the approaching boat as he slid into view, then I took up slack as the two
boats came into line. The twin Tangos
were now bound tightly together. The tow
boat engines roared after our yells of, “GO, GO, GO, HIT IT!” and we began to ghost
along, gradually gaining forward speed at last.
I had just turned to jump back down into our
well deck, when the world was rocked by a tremendous explosion from behind me. The leap down I was about to take turned into
a short flight across the deck. I landed
with my arms and legs stuck through the open metal stairway that led up to
Tango13’s flight deck. My chest was
firmly plastered to a non-skid tread, that ran
horizontally across it about half way up.
It took a dazed ear ringing moment for me to
realize that outside of some pain filled areas, like legs, knees, feet, I was
alive and able to function. I untangled
myself from the ladder then limped over to reload all the port side weapons.
I did not have to look very far for ammo,
because link belts were strewn everywhere from the freshly smashed open cans. I replenished the 50 then used it to again
methodically eat at the tree line with tracers. The starboard side was on its own. I could not shoot from there if I had wanted
to. I hoped there was somebody left
alive in the well deck of our tow boat that could handle that. I was too busy to go check.
I saw green tracers descend on us from high
up, slightly astern. I swung the machine
gun to bear on that source. The jerks
were up in trees spraying bullets down into our well decks with AK-47’s. Several sets of red tracers mingled with mine
for an instant in that area and the green tracers abruptly stopped, just as my
ammo ran out.
I moved over to the center gun and emptied it.
Then I moved to the forward gun, which I
kept emptying and reloading until I felt something pound me, HARD, on the back
of my flak jacket. It was Homer getting
my attention. I thought I was hit and that
scared the snot out of me. When I
dropped the 30's pistol grip to spin around, the remaining ammo in the hot gun
baked off spraying tracers crazily up into the night sky.
Homer was there screaming, “Cease fire!”, because
apparently the shooting had finally stopped. I hadn’t noticed. My ears were ringing so loud that I could
barley make out what he said.
It was eerily serene on our dead boat without
the usual engine noise and vibration. That
was the semi stable condition of the outside world. I personally vibrated like mad inside. I was breathing very fast and my throat was
strangely raw. Then I remembered that I had
been wild eyed, screaming curses at the top of my lungs as I emptied my machine
guns into the jungle. I had made the
transition from normal human being to crazy man. I was nuts and mad as a hornet. Lucky for me this was exactly the attitude
needed to survive this surprise attack game.
During the next hour we were ambushed again. It lasted around two or three minutes. Once more the enemy incoming fire had hit us
on our port side. Shortly after this
fight Homer appeared to advise me to watch the port side for purple smoke with
a flashlight waving inside. This was the
signal that would tell us we had arrived at the correct spot to take aboard
friendly troops. I guess this pickup was
our reason for being in the middle of V.C. country at night in the first place.
Thirty minutes later we again took incoming
fire from the same side. Our weapons
again chewed the tree line, shredding leaves, cutting limbs, mangling
vegetation.
I was halfway through a link belt of 50 caliber when I saw the purple smoke. It came from the MIDDLE of where our tracers
were impacting. What the heck? How could this be? Anyone in That area was in serious trouble. I let up on the trigger and my gun fell
silent. "Oh my God, Oh my God.", I murmured, as I realized that we were shooting into
the good guys. As
awareness of this dawned absolute horror filled my soul. I heard the radio and many human voices SCREAMING,
“Cease Fire! Cease Fire! Cease Fire!” Some inhuman sounding voices just screamed.
Our boats immediately turned toward the
blasted smoke filled beach. I raced forward
to undo turnbuckle clamps in order to lower the bow door. Just as our tied together Tangos contacted the
canal bank, I eased my ramp down. Then
the rescue boat alongside lowered theirs. For a few seconds nothing moved.
Slowly human forms appeared from out of the smoky
haze. A soldier here,
another there. Some had weapons,
most did not. They walked into our well
deck like zombies, or were carried, or were dragged. They were Vietnamese Marines with American
Marine advisors. We had hurt them very
badly. Our guns had killed or wounded
more than a few. I could feel it in my
heart.
An American Marine lieutenant with no helmet,
no weapons or gear, just the clothes on his back, worked on bandaging what was
left of his shot up squad. I raised and
secured the bow door.
When the lieutenant had finished, we sat
together against the bulkhead at the rear of the well deck smoking hand cupped
cigarettes. I did not know what to say.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kill your men.”, just
would not cut it. I was at a complete
loss for words.
Eventually he started to talk. There were no accusatory tones in his
voice. Just a matter
of fact sadness. His opinion was
that one or two enemy soldiers had started the shooting close to his position,
hoping that our boats would fire into his friendly troopers, just like we did.
I told him about our trip through the canals
to extract his people, relating the different fights that all came from the
port side.., his side. I mentioned how
jumpy we were after all the shooting. He
said that the whole thing looked like a well planned setup, and that maybe the
enemy had suckered us in all the way. Realizing
the truth of what he said, I felt like crying.
The lieutenant also mentioned that nobody, the
enemy or us, were supposed to be moving during the holiday cease fire that was
in effect.
We traveled on for some distance until the
boats stopped and lined up along a six foot high dike where we tied up for the
night. After the troops departed, I saw
slight flashes of dim red light in the dry rice paddy out front as the Marines
settled in. Everything was pitch black otherwise.
I went to Tango 13’s small berthing
compartment and collapsed on a bunk, because I was exhausted in almost every respect.
Physically and mentally for sure, but
not emotionally, because I had plenty of wild emotions running loose to last a
while. I tried to sleep but could not as
scenes of the battle, and the resulting terror played like a movie in my brain.
I was transformed from a boy of twenty
years, into an old man of at least ninety in those few moments. I could actually feel my youth drain away to
be replaced by anger, rage, and sadness. The urge to KILL was also upon me. Someone needed to pay, in blood, for the
tragedy that had just happened. Talk
about a tortured individual. I was a
mess.
I had somehow forgotten that it was New Years
Eve 1968. The magical
In the middle of the radioed festivities a
very serious voice broke in advising that this was a military combat frequency,
and all unauthorized traffic must cease immediately or court-martials would
result. The buzz of well wishing ceased
abruptly. After a few seconds the
serious voice came back over the radio cackling with glee at having fooled
everybody and made reference to the gullible, low intellect of all the rectums
that were listening. The chatter then
resumed and increased in volume, carrying on for five or ten more minutes.
As the last responders dwindled away and the
transmissions faded to silence, the radio came alive one more time with:
"Batman, Batman, this is Robin, how do you copy (how do I
sound)? over"
"Robin this is Batman, read you Lima Charlie (loud and
clear)."
"Batman, this is Robin, interrogative (my question is) the
location of the Batmobile?"
"Robin, Batman, ah, the ah, Batmobile is not at its usual co-ordinates at this
time."
"Batman, this is Robin, I say again, Interrogative the
location of the Batmobile?"
“Robin, this is Batman, ah, ah, Catwoman
has the Batmobile on route to the Safeway to secure a
supply of white mice and manhole covers.”
“Batman, Robin, say again your last.”
“Robin, ah, white mice and manhole covers, over.”
Then after ten seconds of silence…
“Batman, this is Robin, Please note that I will NOT be at my
present location until further notice, Robin out.”
“Robin, Batman, ah, Roger that, Batman out.”
The radio traffic ended and although I didn’t
quite understand the gist of the conversation, it had served to divert my
maddened thoughts, enabling me to drift off to sleep as visions of albino
rodents, flanked by heavy cast iron lids danced in my head.
The next morning a U.D.T. swimmer went over
our stern to inspect the screws and survey the damage to Tango 13’s underside. The frogman surfaced after a few minutes
shaking his head side to side. He said
that all our propeller blades were totally missing, also that both propeller
shafts were bent. We were not going
anywhere under our own power anytime soon.
This turned out to have a huge affect on my
immediate future, because nearly every boat that was seaworthy started their
engines, formed up into a column and headed back into the jungle canals to
retrieve V.N. Marines that we had scattered the night before. Tango 13 remained tied to a coconut tree along
with some other stricken boats.
About this time my feet started to bother me. They felt sticky and unreasonably hot, so I sat
down to removed my boots. To my surprise
I found that my feet were coated with blood. I knew that I had been banged up by the ladder,
but had no idea that I had been perforated. Small pieces of shrapnel had gone through my
boots and were lodged in the tops of my feet. I decided that fragments, from the enemy
strike behind me during the previous night’s action, had somehow bounced from
the overhead to account for the curious wounds.
The boat captain told me to report to a
hospital corpsman over in the dry rice paddy. He did not want me getting infected, and was
quite insistent despite my assurances that I was fine. I really did not want to obey this order, but
I did as I was told anyway.
Homer, who had also encouraged me to seek
medical aid, now walked with me along the dike to where an aid station was set
up. I looked out over the football field
sized paddy and saw a sight that will never leave my memory. Wounded men on stretchers, mixed with the
black bagged bodies of the dead, littered the dusty area. It looked like a slaughter house. Med Evac choppers
came and went on the far side of the field carrying wounded off to other
places. I have never felt such deep,
profound, remorse and shame. I wanted to
turn, run from the sight. I continued on
instead.
We came upon a corpsman smoking a cigarette by
the dike in the paddy below. This man
was totally covered in blood. He
appeared to be exhausted and must have been working the entire night trying to
save these men. He looked up at me
standing above him on the dike for a few seconds then asked what I wanted. As I told him of my injuries, a disgusted look
came over his face.
I do not know why I got so angry so fast,
(Because I’m Irish?), but I did. Sure, I
totally agreed with him that one wounded as slightly as I, should not even be
standing in front of him in the first place, but the only thing a peon like
myself could do, while in the Navy, was what I was told to do next. I said something to that effect and set off to
find my boat captain. I wanted to tell
him what I thought of his lousy idea that had placed me in such an embarrassing
situation.
The corpsman loudly ordered me to return to
his presence by saying something like, “Get your ass back over here sailor.” This fell well within my God-Peon theory so I
returned to stand with him looking up at me once again. His face softened as he
wrote down my name, rank, and serial number. After viewing my chewed up shins from about
fifteen feet away he gave me his expert medical opinion. “
After several hours
of broiling in the harsh sun, I heard the far off drone of diesel engines. I went up on the flight deck to look with
several other men. We saw the column of
boats returning with their loads of lost soldiers. They were about three hundred yards down the
jungle lined, high banked, water way, making a huge roaring noise, blowing
clouds of black exhaust out to their sides.
Suddenly the
returning boats came under very heavy enemy fire from both sides of the canal. Instantly all the guns, on the all boats,
opened up in a ferocious volley of return fire. Despite the outgoing defensive rounds, I saw
scores of enemy tracers and smoky rocket trails intersect the boat column
within seconds. Our guys were getting
creamed, caught in a terrible cross fire. I stood rooted to the deck, horrified,
stunned, watching the slow moving boats plow through the intense gun and rocket
fire.
It was an agonizing,
gut wrenching thing to see. I finally
could not stand helplessly any longer. I
grabbed a 12 gauge
We had only ran about
fifty yards when a first class Petty Officer, clad in greens, with a 45
automatic pistol in his hand, climbed to the dike mound ahead and called us all
to an angry, red faced, well versed, cursing halt. I stood there kind of shocked. I had assumed, as I watched him and the 45
Auto climb the dike ahead, that he was going to help us with the killing. I was so wrong. I was just about as scared of this pissed off
E-6 with a gun, as I was of the enemy. He
yelled, “Get the (FOULWORD) back to your boats, and prepare to defend them!” He was absolutely right, because if the
ambushers were to follow the boats headed in our direction, Charlie would be in
our faces momentarily. I believe he also
knew that, had we continued running upright along the bank, we would have been
mowed down when we approached the enemy position. We were not trained in any sort of land
warfare. We knew nothing about attacking
an enemy on the ground. The mad first
class had saved our lives.
Encouraged thusly, I flew back to Tango 13 and
took a defensive position, up along side a 40 mm grenade launcher mounted high
on the stern, and continued watching the fight. The entire scene was obscured by smoke. A terrific fireball followed a loud, ‘Boom-Blam’, every once in a while, as a 105 mm cannon, on one of
the heavy boats, sent acres of jungle real estate spraying into the sky. Enemy tracers relentlessly raked both sides of
the turtle paced column of boats.
I stood with the shotgun in hand as the firing
gradually stopped. The devastated boats
came on to motor past in front of me one by one. I looked down into each of them and saw
machine guns blown from their mounts, hanging at weird angles, shot up soldiers
crumpled in the well decks, hurt sailors slumped on huge piles of empty brass
casings, 50 caliber gun barrels, still cherry red, bent, twisted from the heat
of countless rounds. I saw the men still
alive looking up at me through the lingering smoke, slack jawed, vacant eyed,
exhausted. I saw what men look like when
they return from the brink of extinction. I wished in that instant that I had been born
blind rather than gaze at the horror that painted their smudged and bloody
faces. I shook like a leaf with a
consuming rage and was sorely tempted, despite orders, to race back along the
dike with the 12 gauge, so that I could blow away the filthy, rotten, low lifes, that
had done this. (Forty years later, I Still, forever wish that
I had.)
Incoming Med Evac
choppers started landing again, amid billowing clouds of dust, on the other
side of the dry rice field. The newly
wounded were flown quickly away. The
rows of black body bags grew even longer. The sun got even hotter. Now I knew for certain that I was truly in
Hell and felt that I would never get home alive.
A day or so later the boats cast off, formed
up and headed for the far off Dong Tam Navy base. Cross country. Up the bottom of
If the crazy ocean did not drown you,
Giant snakes might eat your ass.
If the lousy microbes or crummy C-Rations did
not tear up your guts,
The inferno of a sun might cook your brains.
If your own men did not shoot you during a
cease fire,
And if you manage to live through your first
encounter with native hospitality,
You could continue having this kind of fun
filled adventure, for eleven more wonderful months.
Whoop De Do… Happy (FoulWord)
New Year!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors Note:
That
The boats that went out on the troop
retrieval mission were undermanned, because of the rotten microbes in the
French bread. The gunners were all low
on ammunition, because of the violent ambushes during the night before. Some boats were completely out of 20mm and
40mm ammo, before they left on the mission. They were attacked within sight of home base,
when one tends to let ones guard down, and I still hate those NVA assholes for
what they did.
Losing our propellers on river trash, which
nearly killed me, wound up possibly saving my life. Tango
131-13 and I would have been somewhere in that column of boats, that was shot
up so badly, had she been able to move.
About fifteen years after Rach Gia, back home in the
This made my brain
itch as the old radio transmission came to mind. I must have had a very weird, quizzical look
on my face, because then the owner said, “You know, white mice and manhole
covers,… Tampons and Kotex.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 5
A Man Called
‘Boats’
A sailor we all called 'Boats' and I went
through River Warfare training together at
I did not see him again, after training, until
we were both ordered aboard Tango-131-11 around mid January 1969. He was an E-6, first class boatswain's mate
which made him God, the boat captain. I was his greasy E-3 peon.
We were truly from different worlds, Navy
wise, because he was a topside, deck force, sailor that dealt with ropes,
anchors, chains, lifting booms and such. I was a slimy creature from below decks where
the machinery lived. There I toiled in
grime to care for and feed the oily, rotating, beasts.
Our occupational paths, which seldom crossed,
got mixed up once causing a serious rift in our budding master-slave
relationship. My opinion of the Navy and
its command structure had changed greatly during my first few months in
One afternoon as Tango 11 was tooling along at
top speed on the way to somewhere, 'Boats' decided to put into practice some
advice, concerning the engine cooling systems, that he had overheard while
aboard ship spreading manure with his fellow boat captains in their air
conditioned berthing compartment.
I
drifted towards the engine room on this ride, because I liked to listen to my
diesels run periodically. I could
instantly hear when something was not right once I became attuned to the
different rhythms of each machine.
As I approached and looked through the low,
head smashing, engine room hatch, I was dumbfounded to see 'Boats' unscrewing
the valve cap on the starboard, four inch, cooling water, induction pipe.
Was he NUTS? There was a seventy six TON weight pressing
that pipe five foot under the water line. The pressure inside it had to be enormous…. It
WAS enormous because as he cleared the last bit of threads, the cap assembly
was blown out of his hands by a column of solid water that was as hard as a
steel bar. Tango 11 began to sink
immediately.
I Flipped and Freaked. If the rising water reached, and was drawn
into the howling superchargers that fed the engines, they would explode like
shrapnel bombs. 'Boats' and I would be
killed just a little before Tango 11 went to the bottom of the
I charged in, tossed him out toward the hatch,
then frantically looked for the valve and cap, but it was nowhere in sight. This meant that it had to be down in the
rapidly filling bilges, which were currently being whipped into a foaming,
stinking, froth, that was just starting to lap over
the deck plates. I took a mighty breath
and dove into the greasy crap, Buddy Holly glasses and all.
I blindly pawed around in the slippery,
convoluted, maze, finally located the crummy cap under the port engine,
surfaced, and quickly staggered toward the powerful incoming geyser.
I somehow wedged my feet under a pipe below
the water and made a C-clamp out of myself, with as much of my weight over the
cap as I could manage. I did not know if
this would work or not. This maneuver
was the only thing I could think of. It
HAD to work.
Slowly, under my full concentration and
strength, the cap was forced sideways gradually slowing, cutting off the
stream.
Now here was a tricky spot in which to be. Directly over a cannon that has already been
fired (four inch pipe), holding back the projectile (valve and cap), that would
take my head off if I lost it. When my
arms began to shake, I figured I had about a meatball's chance in a hungry
lion's cage at reattaching the thing. My
muscles were about shot getting me this far and my foot tops were rapidly assuming
the shape of the plumbing below.
I gave it everything I had left. I rotated my entire body along with the cap,
got lucky, caught the threads quickly, then me and the Big Man, (God), made a
turn on that cap… then another… then another… then we spun it home.
I hung like a wet dishrag staring straight
down at the valve, smeared with sludge, dripping foul water, body wasted,
twitching, nearly blind, and savored the immense joy of breathing. The sight of the bilge water pumping down
below the air intakes wasn’t bad either.
I needed to somehow impress upon 'Boats',
standing forward by the brain scrambling hatch, that
he should discuss his maintenance urges before messing around in, MY, engine
room. Coincidentally, quite by accident,
as I was tightening the valve cap with my hatchet, the hand axe slipped from my
fingers and flew in his direction, clanging on the metal wall near his head. This probably happened due to my 'wet noodle'
arms and 'baby grip' hands. Oops, sorry
'Boats'. I planned to steal a big pipe
wrench as soon as I possibly could.
The deeper portent of the incident, no doubt,
was lost on 'Boats'. I’m just a more
sensitive guy I guess. I would have been
Dead, but still Terribly embarrassed if we two F.N.G’s
(new guys), had managed to kill the other good crewmen on Tango 11 along with
ourselves, especially since they had made it this far and the enemy had not
managed it yet.
'Boats' and I arrived at a kind of truce after
that. I played the entire thing down and
never said much about how close we had come to sucking bottom. 'Boats' never mentioned the hatchet, because,
I think, he did not want anyone else to know how close he came to taking us
there.
'Boats' was, obviously, very afraid of burning
up a motor for some unknown reason. Maybe
he had an old, oil mix, two stroke, lawnmower engine seize on him somewhere
back in his youth. Do you think maybe he
used straight gasoline? Yeah, that
sounds about right. That scenario
explains why he felt the need to clear the Tango's fresh water intakes when the
motors were running as cool as a pair of diesel cucumbers. I always watched my engine temperatures
like a hawk.
Thereafter, for a while, the Tango 11 Boat
Captain and I managed to stay out of each others way, but eventually,
inevitably really, we ran afoul of each other again. The next encounter, however, turned out
different. That particular occasion
contained a little thing called 'Peon Payback'.
Out of the clear blue sky one day 'Boats'
decided that I needed to paint my engine room. I tried to explain to him what a giant waste
of time his idea was, that within one week the smoky motors would have the
compartment looking the same dingy color as now. He was insistent however so I decided to
oblige.
I made a trip to Navy
stores where two five gallon buckets of white, oil based paint were obtained
from the millions of gallons kept in there. These were then lugged to just outside the
low, head crushing, engine room hatch.
'Boats' stood by, to
offer sage Boson’s Mate painting tips no doubt, but I ignored him. I knew exactly how this room should be
painted.
I opened both cans and stirred them with a
look from my eyes. Rags and torn up old
jungle greens were placed on all surfaces not intended to be white. I thoroughly cleaned the areas to be painted,
with another short look from my eyes. Then I picked up my paint applicator, which
happened to be a tin mess cup, (Imagine Jimmi
Hendrix’s Purple Haze kicking in right here). It was time to rock, paint and
roll. RivRon hot and nasty coming right
up.
The pigmented medium was applied, by the
cupful, starting at the rear of the compartment. Carefully flung fans of white rapidly worked a
luminous wonder on the place. Soon the
entire space was transformed into a glistening, running, sagging, toxic, WHITE,
palace of a room. 'Boats' was right. This did look better. The man was almost as bright as the dripping
engine room. He certainly had the more
talented eye in this particular area of artistic expertise, I had to admit.
I continued painting until all ten gallons
were consumed and marveled at the inches thick layer of white that now floated
atop the dirty bilge water. Picasso
would have approved, I'm sure.
I disposed of the
rags and depleted containers in accordance with Navy approved practices (over
the side), fired up the engines to dry and cure (congeal?) the new coating,
then I sought solace in the one place a river sailor can escape most criticism.
That location was on ‘The Bucket’, back
on the stern.
The bilge pumps ran for quite a while creating
twin streams of white, which formed interesting squiggly, marshmallow on cocoa
shapes, as the paint slick chased the rags and containers down the current. I lowered my newspaper to study the overall
effect then added a touch of ocher and burnt umber from the bucket.
Ahhhhh… Perfecto! It was a masterpiece flowing off into the
purple jungle sunset.
Over night another
wondrous happening took place. There
appeared hundreds of three to six inch paint-cicles
flapping and shimmering from the over head of the engine room. I had the kind of feeling you would get if you
found out that the girl you were dating owned a Corvette with duo-quad
carburetors and a four speed. That
little added something. There was also
lots of sensuous movement when we were under way too, which was very cool.
One other curious thing about the new paint
slowly became apparent. After a week, as
the white surfaces got filthier, strange twisted patterns emerged from the
grime highlighted wrinkles and sags. I
gradually added finger painted eyes, noses and mouths to the more interesting
formations, creating a gallery of weird faces on the surrounding bulkheads. Again, I bowed to the superior artistic taste
buds of my captain. ‘Boats’ did not seem
to share my enthusiasm. It must have
been a satisfactory job though, because he never asked me to paint again.
Speaking of ‘The Bucket’,
let me back up a bit and explain.
Relieving oneself in
In full view of the whole world you had to
drop your drawers, assume the position, then sit there chatting with someone on
their bunk while you did your thing, trying all the while to remain cool. Then,
when the daily deed was finished, you could pump that lousy handle till the
cows came home, but not a turd would ever stir.
Impossible! It was a BAD scene all around, hence 'The
Bucket', out on deck. A vast improvement
in privacy let alone fresh air.
The first time I used, ‘The Bucket’, I added
some anti-stick priming water, then eased my fanny to the rim. When I sat all the way down my skinny buns
slid in way too deep. I had to go
urgently, and did so. When I stood the
bucket came up with me until my straightening motion popped it off my butt,
whereupon the thing clattered, on its side, to the deck, spewing its contents
on me and the mine sweeping gear.
Looking down I said what I saw.
I used the bucket to clean up and as I worked
I reflected, in sailor’s lingo, on the Navy’s inability to provide even the
simplest, most basic, human needs. This
situation was not civilized. Something
had to be done.
Later on, after we tied up to the barracks
ship, I marched (squished?), up the boarding ladder with Anger in my heart,
Resolve in my mind, and a borrowed Hacksaw in my hand. I was an odorous man on a very serious
mission.
I went to the nearest head (bathroom) and
walked up to an unoccupied stool. I
flipped up the toilet seat and violently sawed the retaining bolts in half. A couple of sailors paused in their own
endeavors to check my work. I hung my
prize around my neck, glared at them, and marched defiantly back to Tango 11
where 'The Bucket' patiently waited for a new ass to grab.
I snatched up my hatchet, one of three tools,
hatchet, crescent wrench, screw driver, that the
previous engine man had somehow forgotten to steal. Two short nails later, we had a nice press fit
onto the bucket’s rim.
Voila! Perfection!
A thing of pure beauty! Now there was a Comfortable place to sit
reading the Stars and Stripes newspaper, while watching a Vietnamese village go
by. I remember natives forming curious
facial contortions as they observed 'The Bucket' and I crawl along at nine
miles per hour, past the front door to their homes. I always shot them a proud American look that
said, "What? You never saw a man in
a boat, sitting on a bucket, taking a dump, reading a paper before? Get a life." I know it was kind of like pooping in their
living room, but hey, sometimes you just had to go and besides, the next boat
in line might have a soapy, naked, sailor on display for the viewing pleasure
of the entire riverbank population.
Oh yeah, in case you have not figured it out
yet, that was the same bucket we all used to take a shower with. After, of course, it was dragged, tied to a
line, in the sandy
“Gee!”, you might ask
yourself, “Why do bucket stories always seem to come in pairs?” I don't know the answer to that either but
here is my other one.
One evening Tango 11 and about eight other
riverboats nosed into a canal bank and tied up to coconut palms for the night. After awhile, when things looked quiet, the
urge to refresh myself came calling. The
bucket and seat were available, so I retired with them in hand to my favorite
location on the stern, next to the mine sweeping gear.
The sweep gear location made sense. If a P.B.R. (fast boat) or A.S.P.B. (powerful
boat) went past throwing a heavy wake, there was something to grab before bucket
and sitter (sp?) were pitched over the side. You can never be too careful. A sailor always has to think ahead, prepare
for the unexpected. Yeah, right.
About three paragraphs into a front page
article, I heard a heavy explosion that came from the beach in front of Tango
11. Trees and debris flew skyward. I finished my job RIGHT then.
Two quick explosions later, I realized that we
were under mortar attack. Men on all the
boats were running to battle stations, slapping on helmets and flak gear, creating
a scene of general fear driven chaos.
I stood and turned, forgot about the underwear
around my ankles, kicked over the bucket, tried to take a step, then fell,
spread eagle onto the deck. An aircraft
carrier is NOT the only place in the Navy that you can find a fouled deck,
believe me.
I jerked up my shorts as I stood again, then ran along the starboard side to drop into the well
deck. A group of American 9th Infantry
Army men were hunkered down in there, moon eyed, locked, loaded, and ready for
war. I cruised right on past them to the
engine room, in case we needed to fire up the engines. My General Quarters station was manned and
ready.
The incoming mortars stopped as suddenly as
they had started with all rounds having landed on the beach. Bow ramp paint was our worst casualty.
I left the engine room and stood among the
Army soldiers looking out at the jungle, taking in the splintered trees, all
the smoke and destruction. Gradually, as
they became aware of my Powerful presence, all eyes shifted to me. The troopers had painful, squinted expressions
on their wrinkle nosed faces. The kind
of look you might give a dead skunk on the highway. I think I started turning red at about my
belly button. I desperately tried to
find words to convey that, no, it was not fear that
made me smell like this. I had merely
tripped and fallen in my own ‘do do’.
This was a very bad day for the Navy’s pride. It was a rotten deal any way you looked at it
and the incident also summed up my young sailor life. This was definitely another ‘Lose – Lose’
situation.
I remained silent, trying my best to look
warrior like as stinky fumes wafted about. Knowing smirks and smiles slowly crept over
the soldier’s faces. MAN that sucked!
'The Bucket' cleaned things up once again. I slept out on deck in the rain that night,
wounded to the core, smelling to the heavens, while the sounds of laughing
grunts echoed in my head.
Events such as my bucket encounters seemed to
occur with a strange regularity. I soon
began to realize that I did not have a clue as to what the Navy's overall game
plan might be. I was peacefully stupid
mostly, blissfully stupid even. Usually
the first thing I knew about an upcoming operation was when some member of the
crew prodded me awake in the wee hours with, "Up and at ‘em, Sailor… Drop your Cokes and grab your Colas... We need
to split in thirty minutes."
Snipes, (engine men), like me, had to fire up
twin, six cylinder, G.M.C-671, supercharged diesel engines that were housed in
a steel engine room measuring about ten feet by ten feet square and six feet
high. The overworked machines smoked a
lot and the big superchargers were very noisy. The racket when underway at WFO, (wide open),
promoted lip reading as a way to communicate. That and sign language were the only way.
I was awakened, in this usual manner early
Blearily I dropped to the well deck from my overhead rack and
cursed, (Ouch! Watch the feet stupid!), then
went aft past snoring sailors, (Enjoy it
while you can suckers.), and ducked through the low engine room hatch.
The first order of business was to locate my custom made
thermal transfer device. This was a
cleaned out, ‘Long Range Patrol Ration-Spaghetti Dinner’ pouch, (tin foil with
a heavy, brown plastic outer covering), formed into a long tube. I removed the expansion tank (radiator) cap
from the starboard engine, inserted the device and filled it with fresh
(yellow?) water. After a quick stop in the coxswains flat to start the engines,
I was off to the stern to check the bilge pump output plus add another thin yellow
stream for a short, satisfying while.
The fuel tanks had
been topped off and the condensation drained from them the previous evening. Humid tropic air sometimes added up to a quart
of water a day to the tanks. Tango 11
was now ready to get under way. Well,
semi ready anyway.
As the engines warmed, I prepared breakfast
for the crew by sticking the slotted flash suppressor of an M-16 rifle over the
wires that bound a new case of C-Rations, twisting until they popped. I selected some items that might taste a
little less like dog food and three packets of instant coffee. These goodies were taken atop the coxswains
flat where the powdered coffee, along with a few pieces of sugar coated chewing
gum, was placed in the bottom of a tin mess cup. Time was marked until the engine temperature
gauges reached one hundred seventy five degrees. When that magic number arrived, a trip to the
starboard engine was made. There the
steaming thermal transfer device was emptied into the mess cup creating this
river sailor’s morning liqueur, ‘Mekong Coffee Au'Chiclet’.
Back over the coxswains flat, the mess decks
were now open for morning chow featuring today, beans and wienies, peanut
butter crackers and peppermint coffee, overlaid with diesel exhaust to
compliment the raw, slightly rotten, muddy, smell of the river. No wonder my weight had dropped to one hundred
twenty pounds from my normal one seventy five. I had not weighed
The rest of the crew, aroused by now, made their way about the
boat sleepily scratching their nuts and butts. Some went to the opened C’s, some to add to
the bilge pump output.
'Boats’ came aboard from his berth in the first class quarters
aboard the mother ship. He declined to
sleep on the boat with the crew. I do
not think he liked the atmosphere. He
was a cherry interim replacement put in with an already combat hardened crew,
as was my own case. We were the ‘Square
Peg - Round Hole’ theory, in spades.
I fared better at
getting along with Tango 11’s salty crew because John, a Gunners Mate from
There was some kind
of commotion going on, this particular morning, around a boat tied up in one of
the rows behind us. Soon a shouted
command to cast off was passed from boat to boat and we obeyed. As the radio came alive, we were informed that
a boat was sinking. Scuttlebutt said
that a rubber propeller shaft packing had failed, possibly due to concussion
grenades, thus letting the
I hated anything that
smacked of bad luck at the start of a patrol. You can sense my paranoia after watching a
Tango slide under the dirty brown water, can't you? I immediately put on a full set of flak gear
including the stupid looking pants.
Flak gear was a two
piece, fiberglass layered, supposedly bullet proof, body armor ensemble in dull
forest green, created by those swank military fashion designers back home.
The jacket weighed a
ton. It made sore spots then calluses on
my shoulders. This was a small price to
pay for protecting my heart and lungs. Helicopter
pilots sat on their flak jackets to ward off a dose of hot metal in the buns
and ultra sensitive surrounding area. In
its other important role, when used as a pillow, flak jackets have cradled many
a Vietnam G.I.’s sleepy head.
The flak pants looked like thick, green,
diapers, on steroids. They were Very
un-manly, Very un-warrior like in appearance, and yes, they protected another
one of my very highly thought of delicate regions. I wore them when ever I felt particularly
vulnerable. The fiberglass briefs were
also pretty heavy, made calluses on my hips and tended to slide south. Their sink rate was determined by the amount
of constant sweaty lubricant that poured from beneath the airless, clinging,
jacket above. When all the gooey liquid
collected in the sweltering atmosphere of the pants an evil fermenting process
usually took place. This produced a kind
of putrid grease which, incredibly, kept roving mosquitoes at bay. I suppose the bloodsuckers thought that there
could be no nutritional value in something that smelled as longtime dead as
that.
It was very hot, this day, and I must have
been edgy because of the sunken Tango. I
had my flak jacket secured using every available snap and strap. The pants were cinched up so tight that only
about a half inch of white butt crack showed in the rear.
Periodically they still had to be tugged
upwards and had a medium rate of decent, I’d guess. I soon had a rhythm going with my camera. I would…, click a picture pull up my diapers
and wait…, click a picture pull up my diapers and wait…, and so on. Not a mosquito in sight either.
Our engines droned tediously on through an
unending convolution of rivers and canals. Mile after mile of jungle slid serenely past,
broken by the occasional grass hooch, grazing water buffalo, red flowering vines,
a passing sampan or two, drooping banana trees, muddy riverbank and yet more
muddy riverbank.
‘Boats’ came below to watch the panorama from
the well deck with me. Shortly after his
arrival, he drew a Buck hunting knife from its sheath, removed a whetstone from
one of his many jungle green pockets, snorted up a huge gob, spat it on the
hone and commenced to waste away the dragging hours performing his favorite
pastime, which was sharpening an already sharp knife. He was so consumed with this endeavor that I
bet he wore out a good Buck knife every month or two.
I knew the blade was, ‘Like a Razor’, because
he loved to test its edge by dry shaving a patch of hair off his arms or hands
every once in a while. After studying the
bare spot and as tufts of fur floated to the deck, he would say, in his
I preferred to pass my countless hours of idle
time by taking pictures of, well… anything. Such as snakes, birds, flowers, trees,
monkeys, natives, just anything. I
should have owned stock in the Kodak and
Eventually the engines slowed then idled, signaling
our arrival at wherever we were. The
jungle had opened up into a large body of water that was fed by five different
canal mouths. The small lake was alive
with native watercraft moving about.
A surrounding native village bustled with
pedestrian activity. The collection of
claptrap multilevel houses were mostly combinations of palm fronds, wood, and
corrugated metal, with a few better looking stone buildings mixed throughout.
Sampan docks, on rickety askew pilings, stuck
out like undulating, gnarled, fingers from the soft clay river bank. Half naked and totally naked round faced kids
milled in groups, on the warped boards, trying to get a better view of the
noisy green monsters that had just invaded their front yard.
Our boats all halted near the middle of the
waterway allowing the strange mix of water flows to turn them about. It was very difficult to maintain position and
boat operators gunned their engines as they fought the weird cross currents. Tango 11 spun slowly in a circle.
I noticed that our boat was being approached,
portside, by a small sampan, paddled by an ancient looking woman in back, carrying a baby in front. Just as the old lady started to pass across
the bow, our engines slammed into forward then roared full blast for about five
seconds. Grandma, who was looking
elsewhere, paddled right into our port side which capsized her sampan and
dumped her, along with the baby, into the swirling murky water. The elderly lady clutched the overturned
sampan as it spun away in the current. The
little baby sank like a stone.
‘Boats’ and I stood frozen, horrified, as the
child disappeared. He looked at me, with
panicked, beseeching, eyes and shouted, “Git the
baby!”
I started tearing at my flak jacket. I knew that if I jumped in wearing flak gear I
could never make it back to the surface, with or without the baby. We would both die. Precious seconds ticked away as I continued my
frantic attempts to remove the heavy body armor. I saw that 'Boats' did not have on any flak
gear and in fact he never wore the encumbering protection. I looked at him with my own 'Nutso' eyes and screamed, “YOU gotta’
go man, YOU gotta’ go NOW!” We were out of time. The baby had been under for about thirty
seconds already.
He must have agreed because as I finally
cleared my chest protector, ‘Boats’ kicked off his jungle boots, climbed up
next to a 50 caliber machine gun and plunged in, feet first.
I clambered up next to the weapon myself and looked
over the side. I saw nothing but brown,
dirty water and I felt totally, utterly helpless. My heart started to fill with dread and a
terrible despair welled up from within me. I could hardly breathe. Seconds became agonizing hours. I still had the lousy flak pants on.
But Wait… There… Just below the surface… I saw
a light colored blob that slowly turned into a child's squinted face as it
steadily rose towards me. Gripping a wad
of clothing at the young ones back, was a clean shaven
Another hairless hand appeared clawing its way
up Tango 11’s bar armor. ‘Boat’s head
broke to the surface and I hung by my toenails, from the guard rail, to grab
the baby’s arms.
This could not be believed. Oh thank you merciful God. The man had done it!
Another crew member arrived on the scene so I
handed off the drenched child, then reached down, latched on to ‘Boat’s jungle
tunic and with all the strength both of us could muster, heaved his half
drowned river rat ass back on board the boat. We tumbled together into the well deck, where
he went to his knees gushing brown water from nose and mouth. He shook furiously as if chilled to the bone
in the well over one hundred degree heat. He was Alive, however, and there was another
urgent matter now at hand.
The old mama-san had righted her fragile craft
and was along side madly chattering, non stop, sing song, curses. I assumed she was cursing because her demeanor
gave the impression that she was mightily pissed. Someone handed her the baby. She placed it in the bottom of the sampan,
graced us with a last, hateful, withering glare, then
paddled away. If she had known how, I am
sure she would have flipped us a departing
My attention returned to Boats who had, by
now, regained his sea legs. He stood
trembling as his many pockets streamed rancid river water onto the deck. He kept repeating something. I could not make out what it was through his
He was right, I realized, amazed. The youngster had not made a peep throughout
the entire ordeal. I suppose it had been
raised, since birth, next to the steamy river. It had probably learned to hold its breath as
its mother took it to bathe and play in the chocolate colored water. “Sun a Ma Bee,” indeed ‘Boats’.
I shook out and lit a pair of Marlboro’s for
us. Someone else ‘church keyed’ a cold
can and handed it to him. He gave a
priestly, ‘Thank You My Son’, look to that sailor. He puffed and chugged for a few seconds then
looked at me reproachfully with a slight scowl, spoke in his low, slow, down
home, drawl and said,
“She-Yit ... Doan Yall Know Ahh Cain’t
Swee-Yumm?”
My eyeballs enlarged slightly and my already
shocked countenance took on a profound, "DUH !",
look as I absorbed the full impact of his quiet southern words. I failed to comprehend how a man that did not
swim could ever save himself, AND a baby, from the wicked river currents that
swirled beneath our boat. The Big Man
above had surely intervened somehow. I
slowly shook my head at the wonder of it all. Then I started to glow with immense relief at
the way it had turned out. How
terrifying yet wonderful the hellish, nightmare war could become at times. Suddenly you found yourself in need of a
sailor with guts and like magic one appeared.
‘Boats’, the unsung
hero who had preformed the most selfless act I was EVER to witness, peeled off
his soggy uniform and clad only in dripping skivvies, wandered off to scrounge
up some dry clothes. A simple
I honor him by humbly
saying, “Who’d a thunk it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 6
The Crossroads
I remember one notoriously bad location, not
far from our home base at Dong Tam, that we all called the
"Crossroads". The Navy powers
that be sent us there often. Someone
would get hurt, or worse, most every time.
On the way to the Crossroads, I would automatically open extra
cans of ammunition. I always threw the
covers of the ammo containers over the side because I was not going to need
them any longer. More than likely the
link belts would be expended and I would have to open even more. If not, I would always deep six any unused
ammo over the side after the inevitable fire fight that the Crossroads seldom
failed to produce. This might seem
wasteful, but I absolutely refused to load anything but freshly opened
ammunition into my guns. If left exposed
to the humid air, the brass casings would quickly turn green with corrosion. If you used this tarnished ammo sooner or
later a shell casing neck would snap off in a chamber, because of the built up
green grunge, disabling your weapon. You
would be somewhere up an old smelly creek without a paddle if this occurred. I had that happen to me, one time, during a
test fire. Lesson learned. New ammo belts, every time, Period.
On the way to the Crossroads the riverboats
would pass a village in the jungle. We
sailors always tossed candy to the children that lined the bank of the narrow
canal. We called them, 'Charlie’s Kids',
referring to their daddy's other part time job, besides rice or banana farming,
which was shooting at us on the way in, you could hear us coming for miles, or
on the way out, more time to set up a really good ambush. I'll bet 'Victor Charles' even ripped off the
kids' goodies to munch on as he patiently waited to take us under fire. Talk about a low life.
If there were no children in sight as we
motored past, we knew that, with out a doubt, RPG rocket and AK rifle fire, or
worse, awaited us somewhere CLOSE. Flak
gear and a focused mind were put in place, >Fast<, if the youngsters did
not show up at all for our handout.
The actual intersection of canals that made up
the Crossroads was just past the village. Any direction from there was a V.C. favorite,
because all boats had to eventually do a one hundred and eighty degree about
face, after a few miles, when the canal became too shallow for maneuvering. In other words we all came to a standstill. The delay involved in coming about, then
regaining forward momentum provided a wonderful opportunity for the enemy to
strike us. This was like pausing then
hollering, “OK… Shoot Meeeeeee..... NOW!”
Motoring straight through the crossing was the
worst, I thought. The same scenario
existed up there but the shallow water was farther into the jungle and it took
much longer to make the round trip.
A newbie Navy Captain paced the pontoon dock
one day, proudly displaying his brand new, loop intact (signifies no combat
experience), camouflage beret. His
mirrored sunglasses reflected twin slightly twisted images of the US Army 9th
Infantry streaming down the gangway of our barracks ship. This was his big show. He anxiously strode the deck amongst the
milling soldiers while his, ‘Command for a Day’, found their assigned boats. When everyone was aboard and accounted for, we
could all finally set off on a little ride to the "Crossroads", with
him, literally, calling all the shots.
Around eight grunts, with assorted weaponry,
soon took over the well deck of Tango-11. The soldiers sprawled about, amid their gear, where
several appeared to go instantly asleep. Those were casualties of last night’s Conex box party or victims of an extra long running poker
game, most likely. Our crew, affectionately,
called them all “Doggies” (dog faces). They
in turn called us “Swabbies” (deck wipers), a name I
always figured I had proudly earned by having done so very much of it.
The 9th, I felt, were MY Doggies. I greatly respected them and their fighting
abilities. There was not much that I would
not do for those guys. They were the
point of our military spear and hounded the enemy through the muddy jungle
which was a dark, dank place that I greatly feared. These men slept in and slogged through
literally hundreds of miles of the tangled, green, nightmare. It was also not good for anyone's health to be
in front of these soldiers if we had to beach them during an ambush. They attacked like Tigers and charged from our
boats with pure, unadulterated, 'John Wayne', style guts. It gives me shivers to think about it.
I tossed this group of Doggies a few new cases
of C-Rations, which they promptly opened and rooted through. All the Toilet paper disappeared in a flash, the smell of Alpo soon filled the air.
I told them to grab as much 7.62 / M-60 ammo
as they wanted from the cans stacked under my weapons and a few two hundred
fifty round cans quickly disappeared. I
asked if anyone needed M-16 ammo, M-79 grenades, fragmentation grenades, C-4
plastic explosive, 45 automatic or 12 gauge 00 buckshot rounds. We always carried some of each. I offered water and they just snickered. Nobody drank our diarrhea inducing water. I had a short chat with the M-60 gunner and
asked about the condition of his gun barrel. I offered a new replacement piece if he so
desired. I passed out a few packs of
Marlboros and fetched a few cold sodas. What
the Army lacked the Navy would supply. I
tried to make sure of it. I was your
basic friendly ‘Tango Airlines’ stewardess, although with an uglier
bespectacled face and smaller frontal appendages, I will admit.
I asked if there was anything else they
needed. To a man they instantly
answered, as they always did, “Round Eyed P(sex)y.” I laughed and told them they had to handle
THAT situation themselves. Then we all
laughed. These were VERY good men.
After getting under way, our boats assumed
predetermined, (by somebody), positions in a long line heading down river. Black diesel smoke billowed into dense,
temporary smog as we powered along at about 12 miles an hour. We always gained a little speed if we went
with the current as the tide was going out.
When the column approached then swung towards
the entrance to the Crossroads, one of the soldiers hollered, “Lock and Load.” A chorus of snicks,
clicks and snaps followed as the men prepared their weapons for business. I had set up my weapons with a two hundred
fifty round ammo belt for each of my four 30 caliber guns and a 200 round belt
for each of my two 50 caliber guns. When
I saw that we were making a ‘Bad News’ turn to starboard, headed for the
Crossroads, and heard the Army’s, “Lock and Load”, I uncapped an additional
five hundred rounds of 30 caliber slugs plus two hundred rounds 50 caliber. This represented well founded paranoia. I hated going in there. My eyes narrowed to intently study the passing
tree line for movement. We all watched
and waited.
Soon the village came into view. ‘Charlie’s Kids’ were nowhere in sight, in
fact the entire place appeared to be deserted. Anxiety heightened and butt cheeks tightened,
as we roared straight through the Crossroads intersection.
We soon arrived a place where the canal
widened out considerably, creating a bubble of water about two hundred yards
across. A flat grassy plain with bushes
here and there fronted the tree line for approximately one hundred yards off
our port side. The tide was near half
finished running out exposing six foot of muddy riverbank. This gave the upper gun mounts a clear line
of sight across the grass plain to the tree line. We, in the well decks, were just under the
edge of the canal bank. We could see
none of the plateau or the trees.
The radio on Tango 11 came alive as an excited
voice reported movement to port. The
boat column tensed for an ‘Open Fire’ command that should have immediately been
given. The F.N.G Captain, however,
required more details. He was informed
that several bushes were moving around on the flat savanna to port. He then threw away a golden opportunity to
fire the first shot and completely doomed that chance by commanding all boats
to, “Hold your fire.”
What an asinine thing to do. This was contrary to our usual, self
preserving, habit of shooting at all suspicious movement in a free fire zone
such as we were now in. You can not
imagine how badly we wanted to get the first shot off just ONE lousy time. It was with much trepidation that all gunners
heeded this stupid order. Those who
still had a clear view watched as the running ‘bushes’ disappeared into the
jungle.
While the boats cruised onward I knew that we
had blown it. We were set up for a later
hell because there was only one way out of the ‘Crossroads’. Back past the galloping vegetation, the way we
had come in. It was just a matter of
time and now the enemy got to choose that upcoming moment.
The boats were able to travel up the canal for
about another forty five minutes before the water depth necessitated the
required complete one eighty. By this
time the outgoing tide had eroded what was left of our remaining elevation. On our return trip we faced about fourteen
feet of near vertical riverbank plus super shallow water in which to navigate.
The Viet Cong happily accepted our gift of
high ground and added time, using both to prepare an exceptional lead filled
party for our run past their now commanding position. Enemy battle plan wishes must have been
perfectly implemented. Just after our
boats entered the wide area, on the return trip, they were greeted with a
stupendous barrage of enemy rocket and machine gun fire. The hellacious volume of incoming ordinance
slammed into our boats like a hurricane wind, shredding all in its path.
I immediately sent a two hundred fifty round
belt of ammo towards the beach. I saw my
tracers either impact the tall slope, or sail harmlessly upwards past its upper
edge. The attackers were able to shoot
directly down onto us, peppering our boats at will from their lofty positions. What a Giant cluster thing this situation had
evolved into.
Enemy bullets whizzed, zinged and pinged all
along our starboard side. Rockets ‘Whooshed’
towards us leaving smoky, snake like trails, as they flashed and ‘Boomed’ into
the bar armor of hapless unlucky boats.
I emptied the three starboard machine guns
then reloaded the 50 to pump round after round, ineffectually, toward the enemy
positions.
One adrenaline crazed infantryman clipped new
one hundred round link belts on to my depleting one, enabling me to continue
returning fire nonstop. Good man.
Another soldier reloaded one of the 30
calibers and started blasting away at the beach. All for nothing. He was only able to fire uselessly into the
mud wall a few hundred feet away.
The radio issued a ‘Cease Fire’ so I let up on
the trigger of my weapon.
The boats maneuvered to open a lane so that a
Command Control Boat, with a 40 mm ‘Pom Pom’ gun up front, could pound the area with about one
explosive round per second. Several
minutes passed as the exploding shells blew mud and debris high into the air. The 40 mm was a fantastic weapon to have along
in a firefight, let me tell you. Too bad
about the elevation thing this time though. The furious big, hot, rounds accomplished
‘Zip’. Low tide and all that you know.
Air support must have been called in because
as the Command Control Boat finally fell silent, two BEAUTIFUL Cobra helicopter
gun ships swooped down raining murderous Mark-19 grenade, rocket, and mini gun
fire onto the enemy positions from above.
As the choppers continued a coordinated, one
after the other, attack into the VC resistance, I heard the order to “Insert
Troops,” over my sound powered headphones. I relayed this unwelcome news to the Doggies
then set about unfastening the turnbuckles that secured the bow ramp. Once the enormous steel door was lowered our
well deck would become the small end of a giant funnel into which hostile
gunfire could enter at will. We were
about to jump, literally, from the frying pan into the fire. I did not like this particular part of my
sailor duties. I was scared spit less.
Tango 11 lined up pointed at the shore and eased
toward the slippery mud bank. I applied
a hand brake against the ramps tremendous weight, to keep the operating cable
from snarling into a tangled, winch jamming, back
lash. This would prevent closing the
massive thing when the time came to pull out. A very bad scene would result should this
happen.
The boat operator kept our forward (baby
walker) speed down to prevent the heavy boat’s lowered door from stabbing too
far into the sheer mud wall and maybe trapping us…, with the door down…, amid
angry little piss ants…, who shot from above. This was another Very bad scene that had to be
prevented.
Our progress was about right. The Cox’n’s approach
was cool. I told him so over the phones.
The soldiers hastily rechecked their equipment
as I set the bow door at about a forty degree up angle. This would give the infantry men an eight
foot, slightly uphill, running start, in their difficult task of scaling the
slippery face of the mud cliff ahead.
The Army troopers were keyed up well into the,
‘Wild Horse Sees a Snake’, range. I
tried to hold them in check with shouted calls of, “WAIT! WAIT!”, as I held up
a restraining hand. Timing, at this
point, was important. I focused on the
slowly narrowing strip of water ahead of us.
While I was occupied with all of this, the
M-60 machine gunner of the squad danced from one foot to the other, hyped to
the max with anticipation of the assault. He had to go first, without covering support,
in order to rake the immediate area with suppressing machine gun fire, that would allow his comrades to deploy somewhat
safely. This dangerous job required
enormous testicular fortitude. I do not
know how men like him were ever able to sit down comfortably without crushing
their Giant, Brass, B(underpinnings).
We still had about ten foot of distance to
close with the beach. As I continued to
holler, “Wait!”, this superb United States Army
warrior, My Doggy, decided that, NOW, was his best time to fly. I guess he wanted to be five steps in front of
everybody else. Like I
said, HUGE.
The impatient trooper charged, alone, up the
slanted ramp carrying his M-60 pointed forward, ready to rock. He took a great flying leap off the six inch,
round, steel pipe, at the very end of the bow door, and sailed toward the muddy
beach.
The gunner never made it. He fell well short and landed, instead, smack
dab in the middle of '
I began shouting, “Man Overboard! Man Overboard! Back Down! Back Down!”, into the
intercom microphone, but momentum, even at this slow speed, held us, despite
roaring, reversed engines, in non-stoppable forward motion.
The soldiers all began to yell and scream with
me as the ramp end pipe pressed in gently on the gunner’s neck, pining him by the throat, mashing him back into the mud.
He disappeared from our view, as the ramp slid
over top of him, with his face set in a mask of total horror. Mine was too. Talk about agony. It makes me want to cry to remember it. He was a dead man. I could feel it in my soul.
As we all surged up ramp, the Tango’s churning
propellers finally took effect, just as the lowered door kissed the beach. The boat very slowly inched to the rear.
The doomed mans mud covered face slowly came
back into view. We looked at his face
and saw that his eyes were…., WIDE open, Staring Intently, ALIVE
!
The gunner *SCREAMED* two VERY bad words,
concerning mother son procreation, as we pounced on him. Ten hands, at least, reached out to grab a
handful of his uniform. I heard a ‘Wet
Fart’ liquid sound as he broke free of the gooey suction. He was lifted, bodily, by us onto the ramp and
stood on his feet. He shakily wobbled
back down into the well deck, under his own power, repeating those very bad
words over and over.
His buddies hearing, then seeing, that he was
hale and hardy, immediately scrambled up the steep slope and were gone, over
the bank edge, in very short order. I
could hear their M-16's rapping as they bored in to kill our ambushers.
I looked ahead at the mud wall,
saw a perfect human imprint in the clay bank then noticed two inches of the
gunner's M-60 poking out of the slime. I
latched on to the weapon as the boat backed away. The machine gun slid horizontally out of its
sticky encasement with another fart like sound, which was appropriate, because
it looked more like a three foot brown turd, than it
did a weapon. This gun was wasted,
barrel packed full, totally useless.
I carried the unrecognizable object to the
gunner who was just finishing blowing snotty mud plugs from his nose. I uttered a very bad word or two myself while pronouncing the M-60, with out a doubt, absolutely
dead.
I then suggested that he call it a day,
explaining that he could ride with us back to the ship and get checked out by a
medic. I frankly failed to understand
how he could be standing here in front of me, one hundred percent encrusted in
mud, one hundred percent alive. I mean,
I had just watched him die, in slow motion, moments before.
He told me that he, most emphatically, HAD to
catch up with his squad. I quickly went
into action, ever the accommodating Navy hostess.
I removed and handed him my helmet then opened
two cans of M-60 ammo. After he put on
the head gear, he broke up and secured the brass belts across his chest,
‘Poncho Villa’, style. I went into our
small armory and selected a brand new, well oiled, Navy M-60 for him. I laid the glistening gun at his feet, opened
the loading door, popped in a one hundred round belt, made the 60 ready and
safe, then stood to hand it to him.
As he took the pristine weapon from me I said,
“Good luck my man.”
His eyes quickly locked with mine. He nodded slowly…, one time…, then turned, ran
up the ramp and disappeared over the muddy bank edge. No problem, this time.
As I raised then secured the bow door, I gave
the Cox’n a few words over the sound powered phones. We reversed out, formed up with the other
boats and headed for home.
I have absolutely no memory of the trip back. I just stared vacantly into the middle
distance and blinked. I watched the
whole thing play in my brain. Over and Over and Over.
Then the, ‘What ifs’, set in.
What if a rock had been behind him?
What if a tree branch had been buried in the
mud?
What if the Cox’n
had been a tad slower or a tad faster?
What if........ ???
The 'What Ifs' lasted all the way back to Dong
Tam and they have continued all the way forward to now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 7
Donut Dollies
Along
about mid afternoon, one
On the other side of Tango 11, John, a gunner,
assumed the same posture as I. He was
intently scanning a many months old Playboy. His choice of reading material was terribly
ragged and looked as if it had been used as bedding in a dog kennel. It was dirty, used, much abused.
I recognized his sad looking magazine. I had already read it many times myself. I even read it upside down one time because I
got bored reading it right side up. Most
of the good parts were either ruined or had been torn out to be used as
wallpaper.
I was into the comic ‘Spy Vs Spy’ when my
cartoon espionage enlightenment was interrupted by James, the radioman. He’d scrambled down the ladder from the
coxswain’s flat to the tiny berthing compartment beneath and was shaking my
sandal clad foot with great excitement. He
had an intent look on his face and kept repeating, “Quick! Fire up the engines!
We have to get under way!”, as he wrangled my foot side to side.
John sat up, instantly alert and said, “James,
my man, what’s happening?”
The agitated radioman related that a message
had just come in ordering our boat to proceed to a particular
river location post haste. We also had
to be prepared to land an incoming Huey, on the helicopter deck, when we got
there.
James giggled with delight as he told us that
the Huey was carrying “Donut Dollies”. These
were young American girls that went out to entertain and uplift the moral of
frontline troops. Tango 11 was to hook
them up with a squad of U.S. Army 9th infantry soldiers somewhere
out in the bush.
James went on to say that the aircraft
concerned could not find a good place to offload their female cargo anywhere on
land, because heavy monsoon rains had turned the entire countryside into a knee
deep sea of mud.
At the end of this rundown James’ face took on
a hopeful vacant expression. He
swallowed hard twice then frivolously wasted our ‘Father in Heaven’s’ time by
solemnly intoning, “God! I hope they have dresses on.”
I caught his meaning immediately and we raced
to get underway. James and I cast off
the mooring lines just as John started the motors with a teeth rattling roar
which ejected a huge billowing cloud of blue black smoke in the process.
Having absolutely no mercy for a cold engine, John
slammed the transmissions into forward then twisted the throttles wide open. I would have been whole lot quicker at it
myself. This was already Much better
than reading torn up magazines for the millionth time. Pedal to the metal my man, and do not spare
the JP (diesel fuel).
James and I then went topside to bend back the
radio antennas which we secured out of the way of any spinning helicopter
blades. Our blunt nosed boat rocketed
over the brown water at the breakneck speed of about nine miles per hour, as
fast as she would go. What the heck, the
diesel injectors probably needed cleaning off anyway.
We roared along for forty five minutes or so
then reduced speed and started to circle at the intersection of two canals banked
by rice paddy dikes.
Soon a six man squad of muddy 9th
infantry Doggies appeared along one section of dike where they set about
dropping their heavy equipment.
You can usually hear a chopper well before you
can see one. I heard then saw one
approaching Tango 11 from high over the starboard side.
The furious bird “Wop! Wop! Wop!’ed”
its way down to us as James and I took up positions on the flight deck access
ladder with our heads poking up just above the landing pad.
The coxswain was a master at the boat controls.
He held the Tango steady against the
current as the Huey’s skids settled onto it, driving the bow down into the
water several feet. We took on a sizable
list to one side where the tail of the aircraft protruded. The front of the chopper jutted out over the
portside. The back end hung way out past the starboard. Imagine balancing a running, upright, 750
Honda motorcycle across a canoe. It was
scary and dangerous to say the least.
The noise that accompanied the howling wind
was unbelievable. We turned our backs while the air blast from the thundering
rotor scoured the undersized helicopter flight deck free of sand. James had on his usual sunglasses. I wore my standard black framed Buddy Hollys. When we
turned back toward the oncoming cyclone, thus protected, we had a magnificent
view from below, up into the side door of the helicopter.
James must have been in real tight with the
Big Man, because as we looked on, two gorgeous American girls emerged from the
chopper. They were dressed in light blue skirts, which were immediately blown
straight toward heaven, then held there by a continuous up-rushing jet of air.
James and I stood stock still and watched a
true miracle unfold as the females above us tried vainly to hold down their
clothing. They came towards us escorted
by a crouching door gunner carrying their equipment. The girls were bent over at the waist giving
us a spectacular, bra filled, panorama. My
respect for James’ religious clout climbed several more notches.
When the Dollies reached the top of the
stairway they, amazingly, turned around to back down the steps directly in
front of us. They stopped with their
rears just a few inches in front of our gaping, imbecilic, faces. James and I had suddenly become two smiling
fruit of the loom inspectors.
We immediately took our jobs very seriously
and did our utmost to detect any flaws in the material displayed, but I must
say, everything appeared to be completely faultless to me. Just to be sure, however, I, being the
diligent sailor that I was, quickly double checked my work a few times, and
Yes! Everything that I saw was
absolutely perfect.
The chopper changed pitch and the noisy green
beast “Wap! Wap! Wap!‘ed” up and away into the sky.
I did not actually see the chopper lift off. My attention was firmly locked on the firm
round sight firmly ensconced in the very firm front of me. My mind was also firmly in shock. To addled to even form lewd thoughts, a thing
that had never happened to me before.
James snapped out of his fantasy first. He awkwardly climbed outside the ladder rails
up onto the landing pad and offered his hand to each lady in turn, assisting
them back up to the top deck.
I followed, visually chained to the bouncing,
white cotton, vista ahead, until I regretfully rose to the level of the deck
myself. Regretfully, that is, until I
finally looked at the faces connected to those magnificent posteriors. “Wow!”, I thought, “Round eyed girls are not extinct after all.”
James, ever the handsome gentleman, led the
lovely duo forward to the bow door at the very front of the boat, chatting up a
storm as if he had known them for years. I struggled along behind doing a very
realistic imitation of
The coxswain throttled up slightly easing us
toward the waiting Army troopers standing along the beach atop a semi dry patch
of dike. Six of us waited at the Tango’s
bow facing the approaching men. Two
flushed faced Donut Dollies, two combat sailors wearing flip flops and two
other dudes both named Woody.
The boat slid gently up to the beach which
provided an easy step to shore for our female guests. A grinning pair of Army soldiers assisted them
as our engines shut down. I helped set
two anchors in the mud, securing the boat, then joined
the crowd atop the earthen mound.
The ladies got right down to business. They introduced themselves while the soldiers
and sailors all lowered their vantage points by sitting. The men also immediately shifted their brains
to a more favorable alternate location somewhat lower on their bodies, which
quickly took over all male thought control.
The entertaining girls produced poster display
cards depicting cartoon characters and a large box of cookies. One of the Dollies passed out the confections
with a brilliant smile. When all had
been served the other Dolly told a poster board story to a totally enthralled
audience of American sugar lipped warriors. The goddesses had our undivided attention. Nothing short of a thousand pound bomb could
have made an impression on our intently focused minds.
Every once in a while Dolly number one made us
eat another cookie which we chewed mechanically like robots. We were eating the cookie but our thoughts
were somewhere else altogether.
The ladies wound up their little show after
twenty minutes or so. By that time most
of us men were shifting from one bun to the other, in a vain attempt to find a
compromise sitting position that was comfortable without stating the obvious. A few squirming souls had given up completely.
They now stood hopping from one foot to
the other in acute distress.
The treats probably tasted good just as the
story was probably cute, but I really could not say for sure. Those particular memories are lost in a
testosterone induced haze. The shapely
donut chicks could have been speaking Chinese while handing out chunks of cow
pie for all we knew or cared.
When the show was over we gave the girls a
very hearty round of well deserved applause. Everybody smiled. The American lovelies had managed to uplift
everything in sight, including our moral. They were masters of their craft, true
naturals in every respect.
The sound of an inbound chopper intruded above
so the ladies packed their gear and stepped back aboard our boat. Tango 11 again took up station away from the
bank to land the approaching bird.
The Donut Dollies departed in the same exotic
manner that they had arrived. Skirts
held aloft by the benevolent wind from rapidly whirling blades. We waved as they flew off into the wild blue
yonder in search of yet another group of grimy soldiers to dazzle with their
show. Nice piece of work ladies, very
nice indeed, job well done. All in all
it was a pleasant experience for every man involved.
I think that Congress should bestow a special
medal unto the truly heroic women who put on those kinds of selfless,
courageous shows.
Perhaps the award should be in the form of two
intertwined golden glazed donuts with crossed, uh, pink helicopter blades
behind, all hung from a light blue ribbon. Yeah, that would be a nice way to say thanks
to All those pretty girls that actually came out into
the bush and visited with us muddy grunts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 8
On The Beach at Dong Tam
After being on the river many months I decided
I needed a little break, so I requested to overnight at Dong Tam for a little
impromptu R & R. Dong Tam was home
to a Navy river boat base, the US Army 9th Infantry, many Army
Aviation personnel and lots of various support groups. There were a few of us sailors as opposed to many
hundreds of those soldiers and airmen.
Everything was cool and with permission
granted, due to no upcoming river operations, I hopped aboard an A.S.P.B.
(Assault Support Patrol Boat) for the half mile ride to the beach. The morning sun was beautiful and I sat back
on the stern of the boat enjoying the short trip.
Navy side consisted of a harbor area with
pontoon docks, a boat repair facility, mess area, personnel living quarters
(plywood hooch’s), plus an Enlisted Men’s Club. Close by was an Army artillery unit containing
a few 155 mm cannons. Further away toward the river was supposed to
be an ammo dump.
Upon entering the
harbor I noticed that the rumors I had heard about Dong Tam’s ammo dump getting
hit were true, and How. There was a
large hole in the ground where the ammo used to be until the V.C. got lucky
with a mortar or rocket round that blew it up.
Navy side was badly torn apart, due to its
close proximity to the blast, which must have made one HUGE boom. Warehouses were ballooned outwards with large
sections of corrugated metal loosely flapping or missing entirely. There were also brand new hooch’s where older
sun faded ones had once stood.
After tie up, I took a look at a Tango boat
that had sunk at her moorings one morning as I was leaving on patrol. She sat next to the pier, up on large blocks
with her bow ramp gaping open. Her crew
was busy cleaning out stinky river bottom goop scraped up during her recovery. Scuttlebutt said that the men had to
recondition the boat then turn it over to the South Vietnamese Navy. What a nasty job.
I decided to take a walk around the general
blast site to inspect the current conditions. Soon I came upon an area that was covered in
mounds of unexploded munitions. Large
projectiles canted at odd angles from the dirt along with various other jumbles
of unexploded ordnance. The place gave
me the willies so I left to take a look at the 155 mm artillery pieces that the
Army operated next to Navy side. I had
not checked these weapons out on any previous visit ashore. They were an impressive sight with crews of
men moving about servicing the big guns.
Something caught my attention on the ground
behind the 155's so I walked on over for a better look. To my delight, there before me, were two dogs
in the midst of propagating their species. They were going at it for all they were worth, totally unaware of everything around them as they
single mindedly satisfied a few primal urges. This was definitely not something you see
everyday out on the river. I was
starting to enjoy my vacation already.
Beyond the lusty pups I noticed the howitzers
being loaded by the bustling Army men. The
huge guns were apparently going to be lit off. I put fingers in ears, anticipating the
impending thunderclap, and watched the dogs for their reaction to the upcoming
blast.
Soon one of the guns emitted a hellacious
‘BOOM’. The female dog took off running
frantically in circles while the now hung up male dog hopped on his back legs
just as frantically trying to keep up with her. Whining and barking the pair painfully dashed
about. I started to laugh at the comical
sight, doubling over with mirth.
Right about that time another cannon ‘BOOM’ed loudly. The
girl dog went absolutely Nuts, breaking into terror filled yips, running in
figure eights. The boy dog fell
screaming on his side to be towed horizontally behind her by his firmly
ensnared fifth appendage.
I cringed while I laughed myself nearly sick
as the female pup made a beeline out of the area dragging the unfortunate
yelping male, bouncing him over rocks, tree branches and other debris. I could not catch my breath until after the
crazed canines disappeared in a squealing cloud of dust. I laughed so hard I got light headed and saw
stars in front of my eyes.
After calming down slightly, I felt somewhat
guilty at having laughed so hard because, Wow, that REALLY must have hurt the
male dog. I did have a fair amount of
sympathy for him, because as his unit was being unmercifully stretched, mine
had been shrinking in abject horror. It
is a guy thing, I guess. Like cold
swimming pool water, only in this case much, much worse. I wondered how much time it would take for the
poor boy dog’s pecker to return to its normal size. I thought it would be appropriate if he was
somehow rewarded with a few additional permanent inches after his terrible
ordeal. That wish for the abused pup is
another one of those guy things, I believe.
Next I ambled over to the mess hall and topped
off with better than normal chow, then into a new
hooch where I stashed my gear. I was
home and had my choice of two story bunks because it appeared that no one else
lived in there. It was completely
vacant. Cool! I owned my own little wooden house for the
next few days. I was finally on top of
the old "Be there or Be square" thing.
I popped a Joan Baez tape into my neat-o
portable eight track player and sang along to ‘Cum by Ya’
as I stripped, donned a bath towel, then flip flopped my way over to over a
much anticipated, CLEAN, warm water shower. It proved to be as pleasant as I had dreamed
it would be. Way better than bathing in
filthy river water that stank. Ahhhhhhh… Heaven!
After a song and soap filled half hour I went
back to my bunk. Seeing as how I was the
only one in the place, and that it was easily over one hundred flaming degrees,
I sprawled naked on top of an upper bunk on my back, crotch covered by only a
corner of the damp towel.
Having achieved maximum air flow and feeling
contentedly clean, I drifted off on a nap like trip to a distant country called
"La La Land", one of my all time favorite
travel destinations.
I was out for awhile when suddenly my
peaceful, sleepy, kingdom erupted with a series of Earth shattering “KABOOOOOOMMMM's!", which
wrapped me in a massive bear hug with each blast.
All the bunks, including mine, danced as if
alive on the jumping floorboards. I had to hold on for dear life just to keep
from being physically thrown off the bucking bed. I had traveled from pastoral faraway "La La Land" clear to "
“MORTAR ATTACK!”, my
mind screamed and I hit the bucking deck running. I lost the towel with my first stride but did
not even care. My mind was focused *Only* on saving what it had been covering. I flew like the wind to the exit of that
plywood death trap.
I smashed the screen door open to stand, hand
to brow, Greek God like, on the top step of a short porch. I desperately sought an object that would save
my miserable life from the deadly metal that had to be whizzing about.
There it was, I saw, at the end of a lane
between the buildings. A Beautiful
underground bomb shelter about forty yards away. Hot Diggity Dog!
I lit out like a bare ass Olympic sprinter,
full tilt, for the sandbag covered pit. Slim
Jim and the two prunes flip flapped thigh to thigh like the ball in a hot
Chinese ping pong match. My pumping arms
punched rapid holes through the humid air. I was one highly motivated individual right
then.
I vaguely remember passing men that stared
quizzically, as they watched my progress, with slowly rotating heads, like fans
at a slow motion tennis match. I thought
to myself, “They had better get their
butts moving or they are ALL going to die!”
As I approached the bunker, I must have
concentrated on timing, because about eight foot out from the low entrance I
executed a perfect, headlong, arms extended dive and sailed through the opening
with room to spare on all sides.
I landed in a ball of dust at the back of the
space then spun around to watch the entrance. I expected to see the guys that I had ran past
come to their senses, like me. I knew at
some point they had to seek cover from the shrapnel filled atmosphere outside.
After a few pensive moments the explosions
stopped. Soon four or five smiling faces slowly swam into my vision quizzically
peering at naked me crouched down in the dark hole. As the grins turned to full fledged guffaws, I
sensed that something was Very wrong here. Why weren’t those idiots dead anyway? I had a Bad, Bad feeling about this.
As I cautiously emerged from my gloomy cavern
and as my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I saw the reason for the now riotous
laughter. I also understood why I was
able to have that particular hooch all to myself. The darn 155 mm cannons were all now trained
Over the roof of my hooch making the place unlivable during a fire mission in
that direction. I got my incomings mixed
up with my outgoings at the worst possible moment.
Nuts! And
bare ones at that because worst of all, I now faced a fate much more terrible
than getting wounded by enemy mortars, (I wished I would have been hit with
shrapnel, at least the blood would have offered Some
covering effect.)
Yeah, Yeah…, I had to walk buck naked, dirt
encrusted, Back to my bunk through a gauntlet of jeering, belly laughing
sailors whose mothers had obviously never taught them how terribly cruel it was
to make fun of the mentally handicapped. I saw men snorting, gasping for breath,
hee-hawing so hard that they had to lean up against building walls for support.
Didn’t they have anything better to do? A few disgusting jerks even insulted my
manhood implying that it was somehow inferior, smaller than the norm. At that particular moment they may have been
correct in their assessment on account of the cold pool water, boy dog-guy
thing, that I had witnessed earlier. And
yes, I even thought that I did hear barking dogs mixed with the men's laughter.
Where were those two misfit mutts
anyway? They could not have planned a
better payback. Talk about embarrassed.
After re-showering and moving my stuff to a
calmer location, I headed over to Army side mainly to escape the still
snickering, finger pointing sailors. I
figured it would take awhile before the "Naked Running Man" story
made it through to the many souls that lived over on Army side. I pulled my boonie
hat low over my face anyway, just in case.
Dirt is what impressed me when I entered Army
side. Everything, buildings, vehicles,
and people were covered in dry layers of fine, powdery dust. Inbound and outbound choppers blew massive
amounts into the air at the helicopter landing pads. Jeeps running around the streets raised
blinding clouds in their wake. Hundreds
of tramping feet added a thick lower layer. The dirt got on and in everything.
The odor of the large encampment was another
captivating thing. The dust smelled,
well, dusty but blended with this was the sharp tang of burning poop cans. Military latrines in Dong Tam, and
I eventually made my way into the bustling
Army PX store to pick up a few necessities like soap, razor blades, comic
books, stationary, camera film, batteries etc.
When I left the military emporium I walked by
a life sized, cardboard, figure of a woman, standing outside the entrance,
advertising some kind of camera. As I
gazed at her well printed breasts I noticed that she had creases at various
strategic folding locations. She could
be reduced quickly into a small unobtrusive package.
“Well isn’t that neat.” I thought.
The devil made me do it. I quickly folded her up, tucked her under my
arm then went on my way back to the hooch where I dropped off my purchases.
I displayed my cardboard woman to some sailor
buddies at the pier which kicked off a round of picture taking. After that I folded her up and she accompanied
me on a tour of the sprawling Army base.
I wandered, with my new girl, all over Army
side. I strolled past long lines at the
At one major road intersection, I saw a jeep
zoom past without a driver or passengers. Everyone around stopped to do a double take as
the empty vehicle continued on for a ways before nosing over into a ditch. The consensus of the men thereabouts was that
the jeep had been stolen. The thief must
have bailed out upon sighting MPs along the way. Joy riding, what a concept.
I thought this a unique way to break the
boredom of dirty living in a dirty place. I personally had not driven a car for over a
year. I wondered if I even remembered
how. Fleetingly I entertained the notion
of nabbing a jeep for a spin myself, but the thought of spending time in a
military stockade propelled me instead into a nearby Army Enlisted Men’s club
for an ice cold dust cutter.
Upon entering the dimly lit place, I nodded to
the few men that were there that early in the day and took refuge at an empty
plywood table. I unfolded my date, bent
her at the appropriate places, sat her in a chair then went to the bar to buy
us both a drink.
She looked radiant sitting there in a black
teddy that exposed gorgeous long legs. Dark
eyes, long brunette hair and a lovely smile rounded out her other features.
Speaking of rounded things, depending on ones
angle of view, she had either enormous knockers or none at all. It was just a matter of perspective. She did look fabulous, however, for a girl
with a quarter inch wide body.
She was a great conversationalist also. She didn’t prattle on or say stupid things
like, “If you really, really loved me…”. She was refreshing to say the least. Being married, I kept my end of the banter
kind of light with stuff like, “Groovy, what’s your sign?”
We were soon joined
by a few horny Army types who pooled their money and offered me ten dollars for
her. A paltry sum for a woman of her
high lithographic quality, I thought. I
informed them that she was not ‘That' kind of a girl, but if they bought her a
cold one, she would allow them to dance with her and then they could fondle her
paper attributes at will.
Chilled beverages appeared like magic. Rock and roll tunes filled the air. The groping commenced. I smiled at the free offerings in front of me
and set off down that dusty road to serious R & R.
The cardboard chick
didn’t even miss me. She loved every
minute of the Army’s attention. It
seemed as if her smile got even wider as the men whispered their grinning,
crotch felt, desires in her ear. Her
eyes brightened when they pawed her unmercifully. She wore the dusty hand prints,
that soon covered her flimsy body, like medals won in hard battle.
She had her limits though and allowed no
artistic pencil-pen enhancements, puncture wounds, genital contact, or mucus of
any kind. Dry, ‘No Tongue’, kissing was
not, however, a problem with her. She
was a smart lady. The randy GI’s would
have licked her down to her corrugated innards in no time.
As word spread through the camp that there was
a ‘Round Eye’, a real American woman, at the EM club, soldier after soldier
Burst through the entrance door, madly seeking the reported babe, then smiling
broadly as my date caught their eye. They
all knew her well. In fact, everyone in
the entire camp had all ogled her boobs at one time or another, while
entertaining a short fantasy about the box bodied lady outside the PX. Many new partiers then hollered back out the
door “Round Eye! Round Eye!”
Watching a major grunt party explode in your
face is a wondrous experience. The sheer
speed with which it comes about is staggering, making it one of the most
efficient happenings in the entire
Soldiers started Pouring through the door, the
music volume instantly cranked up to wide ‘foxtrot’ open, the club became filled
to the brim, packed, in the blink of an eye, with wildly dancing love struck G.I.'s. Raunchy sex
talk flowed like the
My cardboard date showed unbelievable stamina
and was definitely up to military orgy standards. In fact she had obviously been to flight
school. When the party went “Boom”, the
girl became airborne and could be seen, at times, whizzing through the smoke
filled atmosphere, above the writhing mass of dancing men, until she was Snatched out of the air by a gyrating new partner. I was so proud of her.
While she danced her inky ass off, I enjoyed
the fruits of her labor. I guzzled and hooted
so hard for so long at the lusty antics, that I thought I’d die of mirth
poisoning. Other types of poisoning were
another definite possibility.
Many hours later, about dusk, my date and I
caused a near riot when we got up to leave. I wanted to be able to find my way home to
Navy side, without encountering any razor wire or setting off any Claymore
mines. I needed what was left of the sun
to guide me, due to my worsening direction finding capabilities.
However, I truly did sympathized
with the love starved soldiers. I
thought about it again and finally decided that since she had started out as an
Army chick, maybe that’s where she should stay. I already had my picture taken with her. I was not likely to ever forget her, or the fantastic
party she had spawned, so I entertained purchase offers once again. A hat was passed and returned accruing about
thirty dollars along the way. This
equaled ten cartons of cigarettes, which I thought rewarded me nicely for
having the orbs to steal the pasteboard princess in the first place.
She was also showing signs of serious wear. The sides of her head were crumpled from being
used as love handles. In a blatant
breach of the ‘No Saliva’ regulation, she had soggy, runny, worn ink in the
breast sections and was showing a waffled, cardboard colored nap, at the licked
through nipple spots.
The abused lady had suffered some serious loss
of dye, with heavy bruising, in both upper and lower lip areas. Each of those erogenous zones had assumed a
dimpled, wet, concave shape. Pelvic
thrust effect combined with drool had been the culprit at these sites, I
suspected. I guess there was not a rule
against humping. Maybe that was her
’Thing’. Only my date knew and she was
not talking. Actually she could not talk
because her mouth had disappeared into a sodden mess that threatened to break
through to the back of her head.
Speaking of her poor noggin, she also had
trouble holding her head erect. It
either flopped back ninety degrees or forward at the same angle. Her neck had been broken in a few overly
passionate oral incidents, no doubt.
Her derriere was ripped from having her brown,
cardboard buns clutched so tightly while dancing, nonstop, for so many hours. She’d had more partners than a Kentucky Derby
winner on a stud farm, poor gallant lady. She was Very shop worn to say the least.
You know what happens when a guy figures this
out about his cardboard chick. Yeah, I
left her there, took the thirty bucks, grabbed a dripping travel can and split
for home. Typical male
behavior, Right? I was smiling
like a paper pimp who has just sold his first piece of pulp.
Contrary to popular geometric belief, the
shortest distance between two points is sometimes a zigzag line. I proved this modified mathematical theorem on
my walk back to Navy side.
My wandering course took me past the Navy
Enlisted Men’s club where the familiar, music laced, din sucked me in like a
vacuum cleaner swallowing a dust bunny.
The interior of the Navy bar looked much like
the place that I had just left over in Army side, lacking of course a well
printed ‘Round Eye’. I missed her
suddenly. I suffered at least three
seconds of remorse at not sharing her with more of my sailor buddies. Three seconds is how long it took me to
remember the thirty dollars. I forgot
her as I became engrossed with the party in the Navy club. An elbow bending fog of war settled about me
as I swapped lies with that great bunch of swabs.
“Last Call Assholes!”,
the bartender eventually shouted above the din.
I recognized my name and proceeded to the line
where a final dose of suds could be purchased. I think only one was allowed, but nobody kept
track of how many times a man went through the line, so you could actually buy
as many ‘Last’ cans as you wanted. Another
rule of the establishment required that each can be opened before it went out
the door. The cardboard lady was buying
so I obtained a pack of Marlboros and a church keyed can for every pocket of my
jungle greens. This along with a
container in either hand allowed me to leave the place a sloshing, wobbling, twelve pack.
As I stood outside under the stars, I worked
at draining the containers in hand. I
had to stand because sitting was impossible. When I walked, even with baby steps, the cans
in my back pockets slopped beer down my butt crack. (Maybe this was why the bartender had wanted
only ‘assholes’ for last call.) The ice
cold rectum rinse brought me to my tip toes a few times. It was very refreshing but seemed a terrible
waste so I tried to stand quietly. Still,
I kept losing liquid due to the slow, insistent, swaying
of the entire Southeast Asian continent. It felt that way to me anyway.
Two Army men suddenly ran up, saw the closed
doors of the club and started to curse. They
were obvious victims of the always rotten ‘Be there-Be square’ thing.
I truly sympathized. I made fast friends of the pair by sticking my
buns out towards them saying, “Help your selves.” A sober sailor would NEVER do a Crazy thing
like that.
Large smiles beamed from their faces as they
relieved me of my rump cans. I think
they counted wet spots on me as we sipped, because between slurps and burps
they revealed that they were dump truck drivers pouring gravel around the Dong
Tam airstrip. They invited me to ride
along with them as ‘Shotgun-Cooler’. I
eagerly accepted the honored position. Everything
sounded like fun to me right then.
The Army guys thirstily drained their cold
beverages in a few short minutes then flipped their empty cans under a hooch. As any good
cooler should, I re-supplied them from my thigh pockets. Now I was able to follow them to where their
loaded, ten ton, gravel trucks idled.
The two grunts hopped up to the drivers seats
of the rumbling behemoths. I passed them
each a back up can which they tucked between their legs for future reference. This emptied the last of my pants pockets
enabling me to now sit. I assumed the esteemed
shotgun position in one of the cabs. Man,
this was cool. I had never been in one
of these huge machines before. It was
awesome.
We took off with a roar and wound our way
around a few dusty streets on our way out to the airstrip. I did not really know what to expect, but I was
starting to get keyed up with anticipation anyway.
The trucks finally stopped at one end of the
landing strip, lined up side by side. The
drivers stood hard on their brakes while flooring the accelerators causing the
automatic transmissions to shake the daylights out of us. The exhaust turbochargers wound to a
screaming, whistling, crescendo. Alright,
this was getting GOOD.
With a simultaneous nod of their heads the
Army madmen started their dump hydraulics as they released the brakes. We all bellowed off on a turtle speed, dump
truck, drag race, each driver hunched over their steering wheels, accelerating
faster and faster as the spewing gravel lightened the loaded trucks. The rush was Tremendous as was the noise.
YEEE HAAA !!… Ride ‘em Cowboy !!
At about fifty miles per hour, when the dump
boxes were empty, the drivers lowered the truck beds and let up on their
throttles to begin compression braking, with a long ‘Braaaaaaaappppp’
sound, winding down to a lower speed.
My truck took the point position and led us to
a big yellow front end loader that soon filled us both with another pile of
gravel. That was ten tons of fun too. When the big loader bucket emptied into us, we
bounced all over the place. I would not
have minded riding with the loader operator either. I wondered if he needed a drink. Even though
we were running low, I could always wring him half a can out of my socks.
I can not remember how many dump runs we made
or who won any of the drags. I guess it
really didn't matter. The enjoyment was
in the racing. It was Great fun to abuse
the crap out of someone else’s government equipment, I must say. After all, the drivers did not own the trucks
or buy the fuel. What a satisfying job
they had. I envied them. Of course I got to dent up and smash large
boats sometimes, which was always a source of enjoyment to me.
After a few hours, when the golden liquid had
dwindled to the last flat dregs, my cooler duties came to an end. As with the cardboard chick my usefulness was
over. So was my stamina. It had drained along with the beer supply.
I vaguely remember my driver returning me to a Navy hooch. He
walked me inside and tucked me into a corner, on the deck, for the night. Good man. He saved me the trouble of falling there.
I never heard him leave. I went to sleep as soon as my eyes closed, out
like a light, making some serious Z’s.
A basketball sized bladder woke me at about
I made my way back to the hooch where my gear
was stored and had a breakfast of six aspirin, taken with lots of water. Then I packed my stuff for the trip back out
to the squadron. My mission here was
accomplished. R. & R. had been fully
achieved. I fervently hoped that no one
would fire any guns around me for a little while. Another 155 blast would have been Bad, Bad,
news for the old head. I bet those
humping dogs would have really gotten a hoot out of that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 9
Heavy Metal
I
was sent, onetime, to a Navy base near
The overnight time
frame was because we were hauling a PsyOps,
(Psychological Operations), team. Somewhere, among the Tango’s in our formation,
we carried a huge amplifier and large multi directional speaker horns. Two or three medical personnel with their equipment
made the trip too.
A Navy Lieutenant, serving as the PsyOps officer, rode along on my boat. He was dressed in a crisp, new, tiger stripe,
camouflage uniform. Camo’s were very cool. Lots of sailors bought them, but at the rate
that the sun and I destroyed clothes, I couldn’t have afforded to wear them. Most of the time I changed
clothes about once a week when they rotted out from under me.
During the long boat
ride, I took pictures of the villages that we passed through. When the urge to burn film faded away, I
sacked out with an iced pop, a few ragged comic books and a can of beans and
wienies. After dealing with those items,
I drifted away on an empty bunk for a peaceful nap.
After snoring blissfully
for a period of time, I was rudely awakened by the sound of an incoming B-40
rocket. At least that’s what my sleepy befuddled
mind said it was. After a terrorized
moment or two scrambling around for a helmet and something to shoot, I saw that
nobody on the boat was at General Quarters, I didn’t hear any gunfire. Then I noticed the Lieutenant standing up
next to the bow ramp. He had a smoking
night illumination flare tube in one hand and a short piece of wood in the
other. He flashed me a broad, dung
infested grin, that seemed to say, “Gotcha Asshole.”
I ambled over his way to try and figure out
why we needed night illumination during the daytime. He flipped the used flare tube overboard,
picked up a fresh round, pointed it over the side and smacked the butt end with
the chunk of wood.
Wow, those darn things did sound just like an
enemy rocket!
However, this flare did not spit out a
brightly burning chunk of magnesium at the far end of its whooshing, upward trajectory.
Instead, it ejected a blizzard of small
paper sheets, which spread out over a wide area and floated down into the
jungle.
The papers turned out to be “Chu Hoi” leaflets. These
were flyers, printed in Vietnamese and French, that
begged an enemy reader to come over to our side. I think the leaflets also guaranteed protection
if the bearer chose to take advantage of the ploy. I’m not to sure how well that would have
worked though. The small chits didn’t
look like they would stop a bullet, and napalm was sure to make them worse than
useless. At any rate, the cammo clad officer blew his psychological confetti into the
air for quite some time. I flopped back
down on the bunk and tried to ignore the sound of rockets.
Eventually, we beached the boats somewhere
along a small canal for the night. Because
I had taken a pleasant afternoon nap and was not sleepy, I decided to stand the
eight to midnight watch with the Tango’s radioman. We were engrossed cordially swapping lies and
sharing a case of C-Rations, when around
I guess that all the previous leaflet spraying
and ‘Chu Hoi’ racket must not have worked, because out
over the darkened jungle canopy helicopters opened up with machine guns. We could see their red tracers spiraling
downward into the blackness. The
choppers expended their ammo and left the area. All was quiet for a while. Then the real show began.
From up high, a solid red bar of light shot at
an angle to the earth like a giant death ray. It appeared kind of liquid, like it had been
squirted from a hose. I had heard about
this weapon, but hadn’t actually observed it in action until now. This could only be what we grunts, observing
the hot lead flow from below, had dubbed, “Puff the Magic Dragon”.
The stream of red light was tracers from three,
six barreled, Gatling type guns, brought to bear on
the target by an Air Force AC-47 gunship banking overhead to circle that area. The solid red tracer light, streaking to the
ground, represented only one fifth of the bullets being sprayed by the
airplane. Normally, only every fifth round was a tracer. The rate of fire that this weapon system
produced was an incredible 18,000 rounds per minute. Rumor had it that a one second burst would
pulverize an area the size of a football field. The aircraft, (I think its call sign was
“Spooky”), spewed red devastation several times before leaving the area. I thought that this was more than enough
incentive for any rational human being to “Chu Hoi”.
We all got under way the next day and
continued on our journey. Sometime around
mid-morning our boats beached at a village that featured a large, domed, brick
kiln, located next to the river. A team
of Navy corpsmen set up an aid station there. Vietnamese people lined up to be treated by
the medics for a variety of maladies, like worms, skin diseases, etc. Bars of soap, toothbrush-toothpaste sets,
along with other sundry items, were passed out to the villagers also. This was a sort of goodwill stop to help the
country folks, as well as enhance the local population’s image of the U.S. Navy.
At the brick factory, doctor's office, we were
told a story about an old lady who was carried to one of these impromptu aid
stations a few days earlier. She suffered
from serious wounds incurred when she defied a Viet Cong order to give up her
family’s rice for their cause. The V.C.
scum had gut shot her with an AK-47 rifle, broke both her knees with butt
strokes from the same, and left her for dead. She had fooled them though by remaining alive.
Her story, along with many similar ones, came
to be the embodiment of my personal involvement in the war. I hated the inhuman slime balls that would do
such a thing to an old grand mother like her. The tough lady probably beat the V.C. by
living on to curse them to the end of her days.
After the crowd at the kiln
were attended too, we pulled out to resume our travels. In due course I was dropped off at a pier at
the Nha Be naval base. It was my job to setup two new 20 mm cannons,
in their respective periscope mounts, aboard a brand new 105 howitzer Mike boat
tied up to the wharf.
The 20's came from the factory coated in Cosmoline, which is a stinking kind of greasy glue that
protects the metal from corrosion. The machine
guns needed to be completely disassembled, soaked in diesel fuel, wiped clean,
re-oiled, and put back together before they were attached to their mounting
assemblies.
There were hundreds of parts comprising each
six foot long 20 mm, which made the task quite
complicated. I had the rest of the day
to complete the assignment, but I figured to have it done in four or five hours
leaving the rest of the time to explore the Navy base.
I got right with the program and soon had the
two cannons bedded in their mounts, ready for General Quarters. My only concern
was that the weapons needed to be test fired. I knew that the assigned crew would do this
immediately, but I wanted to test the guns myself. Call it professional pride.
I reeked with the smell of diesel fuel and Cosmoline after I had finished the greasy job, but I had
not brought any clean jungle greens along.
They had to be worn while on the base. I went to the E.M. club anyway smelling like
the stinking engine man that I was.
Outside the establishment I sipped a cold soda
while taking in the bustle around me. It
was quite a place. It was not much like
Dong Tam at all in that it lacked about a thousand rowdy Army men.
At my next stop, the base PX, I bought a five
dollar Zippo lighter, along with a new, twenty dollar, razor sharp, twin blade,
folding, Case knife.
I had lost my original knife and cigarette
lighter over the side of a Tango boat, while chasing a snake that had come
aboard for a brief visit one night awhile back. That snake cost me twenty five dollars and I
never got to lay a glove on him either. He
was too fast for me. Snakes hated me. I hated them too, mainly because they were way
too quiet. You never knew the poisonous
beasts were around until they just appeared from out of nowhere and scared the
horse hockey out of you. I pocketed my
new knife hoping that the next time one popped up I could kill the devious
sneak. Then I would maybe fire up a big
ball of C-4 with my new Zippo, cook him and eat him. “Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape”
training had taught me about eating snakes.
My inspection of Nha
Be finally ended sometime around sundown when my eyes started to slam shut. It was time to hit the rack for the night, and
now I had a decision to make. Should I
sleep in a sweltering hooch with a bunch of farting,
sweaty sailors, or crash alone, on the steel deck of the new boat. I headed for the boat.
After making my way through a hatch to an
interior bulkhead, I settled down against it and fell asleep. What woke me up, hours later,
was my falling over sideways on a deck that now tilted at about forty five
degrees. If I would have slept outside,
I’d now be in the river. Talk about a
rude awakening.
I crawled my way out on the severely tilted deck
and used the bar armor to scramble over the top of the boat to the pier. The outgoing tide had lowered the water level
by at least seven or eight feet. The
heavy boat hung, at a precarious angle, by its two nylon mooring lines lashed
fore and aft. It also looked like the
outboard guard rail was underwater. The
whole setup creaked and moaned, as the water receded still more, causing the
lines to hum like giant rubber bands. There had to be around thirty or forty tons
pull on them at that moment.
I ran to the forward tie up point and put my
hand on one of the lines that stretched about two yards to the forward deck of
the boat. It felt hot. Then I noticed that the rope turns around the
mooring cleat were melting together from the incredible strain.
There was about forty feet of unused line
piled at the base of the cleat. I
quickly secured a twenty foot double run from boat to pier. Lots of slack was called for here. I whipped out my new Case knife and started to
saw on the short melting hawsers. They
parted with a loud twang. The boat
splashed loudly as it leveled and swung outward to be snubbed by the new line.
At the stern mooring point, I repeated my
successful process getting the same favorable results. I breathed a long sigh of relief. It might have looked bad on my, so far,
sterling Navy record, to have allowed a boat to sink out from under me while I
slept.
The sun covered me in its yellow morning light
while I used the new knife to hack the old welded ropes from the cleats. By the way, where was the swab that had set
these mooring lines anyway? He had done
an extremely poor job and exhibited very un-sailor like behavior. He had also screwed up my last few hours of rest,
which was the most unforgivable aspect of this episode. I loudly described his entire inbred family as
I worked.
Later on, during June 1969, I served aboard
those Monitor (Mike) boats that had a 105 mm cannon for its main gun. The turret appeared to have been lifted from a
tank then welded to the bow of the boat. It was a good setup. 105 mm is a nice sized hole to have in the end
of your pea shooter. It makes for a very
serious weapon.
I crewed in the 105 gun mount as second
loader. I handed up the huge rounds to another
sailor that slid them into the cannons breech. Two Gunners Mates, one on either side of the
barrel, aimed and fired the monster gun.
My job was to lounge in a corner, below the
rotating gun deck, until the 105 spoke.
This signaled that I had coasted, yet again, past the city limits into
that old familiar, fragrant town. You know
the place I'm talking about. Entering
that malodorous metropolis with a loaded, ready to rock, 105 Howitzer, however,
just tickled my gunpowder heart. I had
surpassed the puny weapons of my childhood and was now part of "The
Gun".
The contestants for, 'Best' of the projectile
types available, for use in the 105 were:
“HE-High Explosive” - is pretty much self
explanatory. A fond memory is all that remains if you happen to be within sixty
yards when one of them detonates.
“HEP-High Explosive Plastic” - gave even more
'Ka-boom' for the 'Ka-buck' and was a most popular choice.
“WP-White Phosphorus” (Willy Peter) - burned
relentlessly and was extremely fearsome.
“Beehive” - the bad nastiest of the whole
collection, in my humble opinion.
The Beehive round contained thousands of small
steel darts that sounded like a swarm of angry bees. They shredded everything. When one of these things was fired into a
solid wall of jungle, it created a hole big enough to drive a semi through,
after it turned everything in its path to confetti. It was the biggest shotgun shell that I had
ever seen. A Beehive was usually kept in
the 105 tube when we passed through certain villages where our boats had been
shot at previously. Any snipers and
whatever shielded them just plain disappeared after a Beehive was sent their
way.
Mike boats usually occupied the lead position,
in a column of riverboats, which gave the main gun about a two hundred seventy degree
field of fire out front. Because of this
advantage the Mike boats did a lot of recon (reconnoitering) fire while
underway in bad locations. Recon fire
consisted of launching HE rounds at anything considered suspicious, and if a
secondary explosion resulted another usually followed immediately.
An intense firefight developed once while I
was at my G.Q. station, between some ammo racks below decks. The 105 went ‘BOOM’ and scared the snot out of
me. I danced around in flying, hot,
spent casings, like a madman, trying to have a waist high shell readily
available when the loader dropped his hands for it. The contact lasted about a ten round minute
which was way more than long enough for me. Chasing the moving gun breach, while humping
forty pound bullets in the stifling ammo locker, was not my idea of fun.
On one mission aboard the Monitor, we
journeyed, accompanied by a few other RivRon boats,
through miles of muddy waterways to somewhere along the Cambodian border. We were on route, to our assigned location, to
provide blocking artillery support for American Marines. Their job was to drive the enemy into our
field of fire. Our job was to make like a
Bravo Foxtrot Hotel. A
105 mm, Big (Frightful) Hammer.
It was flat as a pancake wherever we were, not
a tree in sight. Dung piles reached
above grass hut rooftops to claim highest vantage point honors. The Vietnamese wasted nothing, especially
valuable manure. The size of a crap heap
was an indication of a rice farmer’s future success.
Along the way, we stopped to re-supply a tiny
Army artillery unit. The place looked
like any two story, rural American farm house, with a screened in porch. The lofty residence was also the only thing
taller than a blade of grass within a fifteen mile radius. It was a light house standing in an ocean of weeds.
The little firebase was manned by one U.S.
Army Special Forces noncom, and armed with a single 105 mm field piece. The special warrior greeted us from his
veranda clad only in olive drab boxer shorts, flapping jungle boots, and a
green beret. The soldier displayed a wide
smile and a good sized pot belly as we walked up onto his porch. He was obviously glad to see us.
We provisioned him with about one hundred
cannon shells, fifty cases of C-Rations and twenty cases of beer. We also rolled over two fifty five gallon
drums of gasoline. He used the go juice to
fuel a generator, which provided electricity, for the his
lights and radios. His dynamo also
powered an ancient refrigerator that clattered away in a corner. The noisy fridge was completely filled with cold
beer.
The friendly Green Beret chatted with everyone
for a while, obviously enjoying our company. The feelings were mutual. When it came time for us to shove off, he
treated us all to an icy, sweat beaded travel can. A new "Ballad of the Green Berets"
should have been written with him in mind. Not in a derogatory sense though, because I
thought the man had enormous cajones for single
handedly holding down that lonesome fort. He earned the ice box full of beer every day,
in my estimation.
Oddly, a U.S. Marine Corps officer rode along
with us to
After we arrived at our destination, his
misguided efforts, with protractor and compass, made it take twice as long as
normal to base align the 105. I imagine
the two Gunners Mates assigned to crew the weapon wanted to stick a primer in
his buns, chamber him, and fire His ass as far away as possible.
In fairness, I must
say that he did have a very difficult job to do. The consequences for any screw ups might be accidentally
shelling other Marines. A practice that
would be universally frowned upon by his fellow Marine grunts stuck out in the
mud, I’m sure.
But, Grrrrrrrrrrrr…… We were all SICK of this man.
We received our first fire mission and were
required to put some Willy Peter into a line of grass huts about two klicks (2000 meters) out. I was standing on the starboard side, just back
of the 105 mount, on the Mike boat’s main deck. I could hear the crew inside prepare the
cannon by sliding a round into the weapon, and securing the breech. Normally, I would have retreated to the stern
of the boat, to put as much distance and metal, between the gun and myself as
possible. I should have done so on this
occasion, but I just had to see how the Captain's first shot went after so much
hassle. I covered my ears, opened my
mouth, and lowered my profile.
I looked on as he climbed up, on top of the
105 mount. The muzzle of the howitzer
was ten feet in front of him, level with his stomach. He assumed a, feet spread, hands on hips,
pose, raised a finger, pointed along the 105 tube and hollered,
"FIRE", as loud as he could. I
could visualize the sailors in the turret grinning gleefully as they followed
his direct order.
The 105 "Boom"ed and belched a six foot flame from its stubby
barrel. What a tremendous blast. I can not adequately describe how loud and
powerful it was. It rocked my World. Holy Moley…, what a noise. It felt like the ‘Jolly Green Giant’ had
crushed me in a momentary embrace.
I squatted entranced as the back blast and
concussion flung the Captain from his feet. He tumbled backwards off the turret, into the
bar armor below the coxswains flat. He impacted
the horizontal, round rods, well before his hat and sunglasses landed, oh, some
where on past the stern of the boat out in the water. He kind of dribbled to the deck in slow
motion, like molasses flowing down a cold bulkhead. He had been knocked out, cold as a mackerel
and I was slightly concussed myself. My
eyes momentarily had trouble regaining their complete focus.
After a few seconds, I went over to The
Captain to find that he was bleeding from his ears and nose. His half open eyes were slightly crossed. His tongue hung partially out of his slack
mouth. I checked and found that he was
breathing alright and had a pretty good pulse.
After a minute or so the rest of the boat crew
gathered around his supine form, shaking heads, smiling ear to ear. I made a grinning vocal reference to his low
intelligence level, combined with his maternal incest tendencies, as I related
the Captain’s flight path to the rest of the crew. They congratulated his performance, with more
sailor lingo, in a way that only Him being Unconscious allowed them to do. Semper Fi Bro! It was
perfect.
The radioman called for a 'Dust-Off' (medical
helicopter evacuation) which arrived shortly over on the beach. The Captain was unceremoniously grabbed by his
camouflage greens and tossed on board the Med Evac
chopper. We 'Squids' all gave a hearty,
"Bye Bye Birdie", salute to the leatherneck
as he was spirited away, still out like a light.
I often wonder what kind of story the Captain
made up for his Marine buddies. I
certainly would not have told the truth. The entire incident proved to be retribution
at it's finest. Swift,
sweet, and initiated by his very own hand, no less. My goodness, I never saw a 'Squid' do anything
quite so stupid. Well, let me think
about that for a minute.
The Mike boat continued to receive and execute
fire requests from grunts in the bush for several weeks after that. During the long boring days that we stayed
there, a fellow river sailor and I developed a unique mixture of compounds that
enhanced the human skin's ability to tan quickly.
A fresh quart of crankcase oil, combined with
a small vial of red tinted Merthiolate, magnified the
sun's already powerful rays, plus laid down a nice cherry colored stain to
start with.
The concoction smelled a little funny and at
first we looked like turkeys that had been basted with red dye, but after a few
days of soaking up sunshine the overall effect became quite pleasing to the
eye. For a better scent, we had
considered replacing the refined crude with peanut oil, drained from C-Rations
peanut butter, but eventually went with the more abundant
The Merthiolate-motor
oil blend also greatly enhanced my American Indian heritage, which I had always
been proud of anyway. Distant
grandfather, half Indian, Sam Norris would have instantly recognized me as a
member of his tribe.
A very disturbing incident occurred, while we
were stationed out along the Cambodian border, that I
am at a complete loss to explain. Mainly because I did not
understand more than a few words of the Vietnamese language.
There was a native teenager that came to visit
nearly every day. He arrived by swimming
over from the opposite bank of the canal. We sailors called him Frog, because he looked
like one as he swam up to the stern of our boat for a hand out. We would invite him on board where soon he
would be pulling on a bummed cigarette and sipping from a cold can. He may have been Viet Cong, we didn't know,
but he was always unarmed, acted like one of us and we liked him.
One day, as Frog was engaged in a puffing,
slurping, Pidgin English conversation with us, a frocked man of the cloth and a
rifle toting Vietnamese Army soldier strolled by on the canal bank out front. When the padre caught sight of Frog he went
ballistic and started screaming at him. Frog
dropped his brew, dove over the side into the water and swam, like his name
implied, toward the other shore.
The angry friar ripped the M-16 from the V.N.
soldier's grasp and started blazing away at Frog, splashing bullets all around
his churning body. The gunfire evoked a
frenzied rush to battle stations from us sailors, and in a heartbeat we had
machine guns, rifles, and grenade launchers pointed in his direction.
The priest saved his own life, right then,
when he quickly handed the empty, smoking weapon back to the stunned soldier. The VN trooper turned to face us with one arm
held high in the air, as his other arm gently lowered the M-16 to the ground.
The native reverend paid no attention to us at
all. He ran along the canal bank
jabbering and throwing large chunks of clay at Frog, who was rapidly vacating
the area. The furious father pursued
Frog like that until they both disappeared from sight.
After a confused moment or two we hollered,
"Dee Dee Mau" (go away now), to the
terrified soldier who stood like a statue, hands held high, in front of us. He slowly retrieved his weapon then walked
away from Frog, the priest and us, in the opposite direction.
We discussed the matter between ourselves
later, deciding that the Holy Father may have taken acceptation to Frog's underage
use of stimulants. A most terrible sin
apparently. We, in turn, took
acceptation to the heavy handed penance, meted out by the lunatic monk, for such
a minor religious infraction and felt that a few 'Hail Mary's would have been
more appropriate.
The pissed off priest and the 'Big Man' above
prevailed, however, because we never saw Frog again. We knew he liked his suds, but agreed that the
nasty tasting, preservative loaded, liquid that we drank was definitely not
worth taking a bullet for.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 10
Viet Nam Sucked
Here is a written flow chart of things that REALLY SUCKED about
Vietnam.
This Sucked…
BAD CHOW C-rations were glorified dog food. They lacked variety, created gas and were
Dangerous when eaten in certain combinations. After a while anyone that subsisted on them
could recite, verbatim, the entire contents of a case of C’s. Every man had his likes and dislikes. The following opinions are my own based on my
experiences. Most times I would open a
fresh carton and remove from the individual meals, all of the:
Toilet Paper… Always in short supply. A
newspaper or comic book page would do in a pinch, however this tended to
transfer short articles and an occasional cartoon characters’ face to odd
places on the buns. (See humidity
below.)
Cigarettes… Slim, boxed, 5 packs of weird, unheard of brands. (Wings?) I saw C-Ration manufacture dates as old as 1945 and
as new as 1958. I made a joke once about
river rats eating their way from WW 2 clear into the Korean conflict.
Chiclets… Candy coated chewing gum squares. Three or four in hot coffee is a good pick me
up. Don’t consume too many in a day
however. (See Cheese Spread below.)
Peanut Butter… Almost all tins of peanut butter were separated into oil on top
and peanut sludge underneath. Mix for
thirty minutes and eat the product. Can’t
see because it is too dark? No problem. Open a short slit in the tin then pry open a
small orifice. Roll a short piece of
paper or cloth into a thin tube then insert it to the bottom of the little can.
After the peanut oil soaks the makeshift
wick, apply flame to create a candle that will burn for many hours. If you poured the peanut oil off the small
tins, the wafer of peanut butter remaining could be eaten like fudge. The exception was Cinderella brand peanut
butter, which stayed wonderfully emulsified. Cinderella was the back home ‘Skippy’ of
C-Rats peanut butter. Save the peanut
butter oil though, it works great as a sunburn reliever. Much better than motor oil and smells a lot
better too. I think it attracted
mosquitoes though.
Crackers… These swelled from a quarter inch to sometimes two inches when
they came in contact with ANY liquid. God
help you if you ate them without eating fruit, especially if you were a little
constipated already. (See wounded snake below)
Cheese Spread…. This offering was kind of a rarity. It tasted ok but the tin should have had a
skull and crossbones, 'Poison', label on it somewhere, stating that if combined
with the crackers above, in the absence of fruit, in a human intestinal tract,
Death could occur. I know this for a
Fact. After making this dietary error,
ONE time, I vowed to Never again attempt ingesting this combo without a loaded,
‘ready to rock’, 45 auto in my hand so I would be able to blow my own brains
out when the gut wrenching, pent up, gas pains reached a certain unbearable
pressure. This was a VERY BAD scene. A Fart caught crosswise. A big bubble of trapped gas will make you
slither on the deck like a wounded snake. Relief comes with Finally
attaining a pain ending, long awaited, Epic level, Foghorn blast.
Lemonade Mix… '
Instant Coffee… Took at least 3 packs per mess cup to overcome the chlorine
taste of the water and make a semi decent cup. Fruit syrup or Chiclets may be added for a
little caffeine-glucose zip. It also did
other things and could be used or ingested directly from the packet. Mixed to a paste with water this powder was
also great at cleaning metal gun bores. It
too burned like battery acid when sprinkled on the tongue, which helped keep
you awake during the extra sleepy
Chicken Noodle Dinner... My
favorite. Pretty close to
Beans and Weenies… Not bad overall but needed ketchup plus more
mushy weenies. Made Long
brassy gas explosions with medium hang time. A good choice if you wanted
to show off or were in a contest.
Ham and Lima Beans… This offering was kind of pasty and also
needed ketchup, plus at least ONE piece of ham in order to live up to its name.
The surefire gas was Voluminous, BAD
smelling, nose wrinkling, and an eye burner. The noxious cloud usually had great hang time
too. However, if you Ever
get Ham and Limas crossed up in a Cracker, Cheese Spread, No Fruit encounter
and Have the 45 auto in your hand, point it at your head. At the first sign of pain pull the trigger. Why wait? If you do miraculously live through such a
brush with death and somehow manage to achieve ultimate release, Without using the pistol on yourself, be merciful. Shoot all your buddies in sight. You’ll be doing them a BIG favor.
Fruit Cocktail… I had a problem with the name here. An absolute must in a C-Rats diet, however.
(See references to constipation above.)
Peaches and Pound Cake… These were actually two separate cans. Not many to a case either. Each alone could have easily won the 'Blue Ribbon Best of Box’ award, but when eaten together they gave
immediate confirmation that this is what food is supposed to taste like. The combination made you think of mom and
home. My favorite recipe was pouring
Peaches over shredded Pound Cake in a mess cup.
It was delicious, easily on a par with sex. I would have kicked Superman’s butt for
touching My cans of Peaches and Pound Cake… Or
Cinderella peanut butter. I did, in
fact, see a fist fight break out over the theft of Peaches and Pound Cake. A low life crook like that deserved to have
both of his arms broken. I’ll hold him
down; you can kick the disgusting puke. I
hate a cake thief.
The thoroughly scrounged C-Ration remains
would then be routinely tossed over the side. Of the jettisoned items that floated down stream,
some ‘Worst of Box’, rejected items were:
Beef and Spice Sauce…. One of The most hated meals. A half inch of semi congealed grease floated
atop the crap, with many rancid globules hidden below for a future gagging
surprise. It had a taste in the U’s. Somewhere between Unsavory and Upchuck,
because, I believe, the 'Spice' part of the dinner was actually armpit scrapings.
It did make great fish bait though when
sprinkled onto a section of submerged hooch screen. Lacking bait some un-sportsman like sailors
fished with explosives. It was easy to
catch your limit that way. Fishing was
usually catch and release, except for the concussed ones. They had a problem achieving forward momentum
after floating belly up for awhile. I
would have paid cash money for a Zebco ‘Snoopy’, rod
and bobber set, baited with Beef and Spiced Sauce. Now that’s the way to fish. I’d also have been the envy of all my fellow
river rats.
Scrambled Eggs… Anything that had the Evil word ‘Eggs’ in the ingredients needed
to be pitched over the side, Pronto. They
tasted like rubber bands dry roasted over a railroad flare. C-Rats eggs were wildly unpredictable when
mixed with other stuff. You were in for
a BAD trip if you did manage to get them down and keep them there. Remember the ‘Ready to Rock’ 45 auto? Trade that for a one pound block of C-4 plastic
explosive and a grenade fuse, because No One…, Including you, is going to want
to live, if you make it to final noxious release, through a No Fruit, Cracker,
Cheese Spread, Ham and Lima, Scrambled Egg ‘Fart Caught Crosswise’ episode. Throw the Eggs away NOW. They are dangerous.
Tropical Chocolate Bars… I do not know what Tropics the inventor of
these disgusting morsels was talking about, but in the Tropical paradise I
inhabited they tasted pretty barfing Bad. BLAH! The
consistency sucked most of all. I
thought it akin to eating moldy, flattened birthday candles. An Army acquaintance of mine thought it was
like biting off a hunk of gypsum wall board. At any rate there was NO real flavor there
that could satisfy even a miniscule chocolate craving. The bars were actually re-formed escapees from
display bowls of fake, wax fruit. The
Vietnamese would not touch them with a ten foot pole and some of the things
that they ate would gag a maggot. Unlike
Real chocolate these would Never melt in your mouth,
or your stomach or anywhere else for that matter. If you ever get caught with a whole mouthful
of Tropical Chocolate Bar, Remember … DO NOT try to
breath. DO NOT try to swallow. Here again, Death could result. Think SPIT!
I probably left out a lot of other items in a
case of C-rations. I remember only the high and low points. It may have been what we drank to wash down
most meals that caused the various reactions. Substituting our yellow drinking water would
have only made matters much worse.
Another thing that Sucked…
SCORCHING SUN Old Sol was a sometimes gorgeous, sometimes devastating weapon in
itself. Fantastic, soul stirring,
sunrises and sunsets were a daily event. However, the ability to burn exposed skin into
a purple mass of puss running blisters was a minor detail on the Sun’s list of
not so wonderful effects.
I was once lazing in the shade on a pontoon
pier, somewhere, with a couple of other river sailors. We were shoveling manure between ourselves in
the one hundred fifteen degree heat. Salt
crusted sweat stains covered our jungle green uniforms. Within our range of casual observation was a another sailor standing in the sunshine, winding the
handle of a rotary hand pump, transferring oil from one container to another. He appeared to be making no great effort.
Without warning he suddenly crumpled to the
deck and lay motionless. This was a bad
sign. We rushed to him with yells for a
Corpsman, but when we got to him we found that he had no pulse. He was dead. We had all been through CPR training and we
tried to revive him, but it was hopeless. Heat stroke was the culprit, sure as the Sun
that killed him. We silently and sadly
watched as his limp, still body was borne away on a stretcher. What a lousy way to loose a sailor. There were So many things that could kill you.
So many.
This also Sucked…
HUMIDITY 99.999% at least. Sticky does not begin to
describe it. I equate the effect of
Another main thing that Sucked was…
MUD Grind several trillion tons of rock from the Himalayan mountain
range into very fine powder. Mix it with
several million trillion gallons of warm monsoon rain water. Add in a dash of goo,
a pinch of rotten vegetation stink and a touch of sewage. Place these thoroughly blended ingredients in
a red hot environment near the equator, then steam the mix for approximately a
billion million millennium or until sticky. What pops out of that steamer is Mekong Delta,
Mud Pie Supreme.
We lived in the mud,
we ate in the mud and sometimes died in it. Mud was everywhere, like the air. Mud covered us, sucked at us, and sometimes
swallowed us. There were many things
made of it and many things buried in it. We were ‘One’ with the mud.
There was:
Soupy mud where a squad of men would slowly sink clear out of sight.
Super Sticky mud would remove a man’s boots and pants as he struggled to
escape.
Chunky mud made weird bruise patterns on a man’s body.
Putrid mud held a wicked olfactory surprise beneath its surface. Do not try to find the source of that smell;
you do Not want to know.
Kleptomaniac mud stripped a man of his belongings,
wristwatch, wallet, cigarettes, or shoe strings.
Mystery mud would appear on a man that had not been near any mud.
Living