River Rats

It was about dusk when the first mortar round hit Advance Tactical Support Base, Ben Keo. Men began to come alive as they scrambled to gather their weapons and get to their battle stations. The second round hit moments later near the tactical operations bunker, just outside the fence. Awakening the village was the sound of shuffling boots and boat engines turning over. The base siren screamed, water buffalos ran, screen doors swung open and slammed. Sailors were leaping from the barges as the ropes were being cleared away to push off and move deeper into the River of Death. The dirty brown water slapped against the hulls as the crafts got up to speed, while we donned our flak jackets and jacked rounds into our guns. By the time the first fiberglass patrol boat had reached the bend in the river, the Viet Cong had gotten off four mortar rounds, all of which had fallen short of their targets.

Guns were opening up from both sides as the river patrol boats’ twin .50 caliber machine guns started tearing into the camouflaged mound of mud and logs. All hands were on deck and firing to port as the two boats planed pass the bunker at full speed on step. The Vam Co Dong River was so narrow that the boats had to continue pass the bunker and perform high-speed turns by reversing the flow of their jet pumps and turning around in their own back wash. Sailors jumped to the opposite side of the boat, swinging their guns 180 degrees to fire to starboard. Throttling full ahead, Chief Ramsey yelled, “Let’em have it!” Small palm trees were falling as the thunder of the .50s began chopping down the jungle around the mound of clay. Still, the enemy persisted as green tracers zipped over our heads. The smoke and smell of gunpowder filled the air. Empty, hot, brass shell cases were scattered over the deck and rolling to and fro as the boat maneuvered in and out of the choppy river to turn for yet another firing run. Men were yelling and screaming obscenities as the adrenaline flow reached a feverish pitch.

Catching up was a green monster, resembling a far-gone relic of a Civil War Ironclad. A tough, seasoned crew hurriedly prepared to enter the kill zone. As she neared the tree line, rocket propelled grenades were released against her, tearing into the outer bars protecting the wheel house and creating the most awful sound of steel hitting steel. It was a classic duel between two big boys. An old-fashioned slugfest, and whoever hit the other the hardest the most, was going to win. But it was clear from the first exchange that the bunker was too heavily fortified for even the sixty-foot battle wagon. With guns answering, the heavy assault boat withdrew as the thirty-one-foot patrol boats cut back in to take up the fight and allow the heavy time to move to safety. Chief Ramsey radioed back to Lieutenant Barnhouse at the firebase.

“The mud and logs are too thick, sir.”

Appearing around the bend in the river, a second assault boat, equipped with high pressure water cannons, moved in to engage the enemy. Buried in the smoke of Chinese and Russian weapons, the Viet Cong were throwing everything they had at the water cannon boat. A rocket came burling out like a great bird seeking to disable a giant before she became to close to her nest, BOOM! Then a second and third, BOOM! BOOM! The deformed boat was covered in smoke and debris. Its crew was thrown to the deck and hastily recovered to their feet. The heavy was taking a brutal pounding, but never wavered from moving forward.

Thankfully, we had been lucky, due largely to the chief and the quickness of the lightly-fortified patrol boat, although chunks of fiberglass were now missing and holes of daylight appeared through the hull. CA-PLINK, CA-PLINK. If they hit us with a rocket, we’re dead.