First came the mortars. Those were always the first warning of an attack. There was no noise until the first shell landed within the compound. Then all hell broke loose. Mortars from half a dozen different sites came roaring in, followed by the flares to illuminate the compound. Then, accompanied by the chatter of small-arms fire, the VC came running up the free paths between the mines they had previously charted. And the thing that saved the compound from much damage that night was that Mezey had made sure the first change was the location of the mines. Half a dozen mines were tripped, cutting through the attackers and stopping the second wave in mid-charge. Mezey, unfortunately, had been in the latrine at the time of the attack, and one of the early mortar rounds had landed nearby, close enough to jam the door. He began to rock the wooden structure to attract attention to his plight. Finally, it tipped over on top of its door. He later pointed out, to David's amusement, that the mortar shell had cleaned him out for at least a week, but it was a hard way to solve a problem. The attack was over as fast as it had begun. There were few casualties to the defenders and part of their luck, as Mezey had commented, was that they acted just like marines.
Each day they made a point of changing the defenses. It was just enough so the VC knew there were safer places to attack, and within a couple of weeks they decided they had a secure base. In the meantime, while the weather still held, they spent hour after hour learning their boats and running through exercises, until they finally passed the boring stage and became automatic.
Now he was staring out through the screening around their tent, watching the cloudburst that wouldn't stop. The monsoons had begun, and the dust turned to mud in no time. The only saving grace here was that even though they acted like marines, they really weren't. And he wouldn't change places with those poor bastards sitting in muddy trenches or slogging through inches of mud on another of their incessant patrols.
The rains continued, and with them the tedium. VC movements were limited, and the Americans were just as happy to spend more of their time patrolling the river and searching native craft for weapons, or anything else that might be smuggled.
Their PER riverboats added little to personal comfort, since they were essentially open to the rain. They were developed for high-speed combat in shallow waters. They had fiberglass-reinforced plastic hulls and ceramic armor, and carried a 60-mm.
mortar, a grenade launcher, and three .50-caliber machine guns. When they were traveling in excess of twenty-five knots, they were impressive to any VC they happened to be chasing, but they provided little protection from the elements, not to mention enemy fire. If David managed to board a boat dry, he found himself wet before they were away from dockside.
He and Mezey generally rode one of these open PBR's. On occasion they went in one of the Swift boats, which were even faster and had enclosed cabins. But more of the latter were being turned over to the South Vietnamese Navy, and the Americans took what they were allowed. So far, it was not the type of tour he thought he had written orders for.
"I think maybe we've got what we've been looking for, David." It was Phil Mezey's voice calling over the water, just returning from a conference downriver.
"Anything could be better than what we've been doing so far,". David answered. He had been supervising ammunition storage, and had found himself wondering why the hell the Navy was bothering to send them ammunition. David stepped in front of the sailor waiting for the line from Mezey's boat. He caught it easily as it snaked through the air, and looped it around the forward cleat. As the boat swung its stern in David took that line also.
"Right here. I think the answer's right here." Mezey swung off the ugly little PER onto the dock, waving a sheaf of papers. "There's some heavy troop concentrations up toward the border, and the Big Z thinks maybe they're building up for an offensive north of Saigon. Believe it or not, he thinks the best way to search for them is from the river. He's warned the generals that if they start sending reconnaissance aircraft and ground patrols in, all they're going to do is convince the VC to stay low until they're good and ready. And Washington can't stand any more surprises."
"And he picked us?"
"Well, not really. I kind of volunteered our services. I explained that we hadn't lost any boats. Our squadron was full and in excellent condition, and we knew that territory near the border like the back of our hand."
"Shit," David laughed, "we're in such damn good shape because we haven't seen any action. We haven't even scraped any paint. And, Christ, Phil, we haven't been within twenty miles of the border. That's a maze up there."
"You're right each time, David, my boy, but there has to be a first time for everything. We saddle up at first light tomorrow." He slapped David on the rump. "Come on, we have a bit of organizing to do," he said gleefully. "And by the way, they're even loaning us a little fire support, our very own ASPB, the battleship of the Mekong," he laughed, "to do whatever we want with it, as long as we return it in the same shape as we get it." They were slower, heavily armed boats used for fire support for other small craft, such as the PBR's, and they wallowed along looking very much like the Civil War Monitor. A very hot sun hung high in the afternoon sky. There was almost no breeze in the stifling air, and the helmets and flak jackets were increasingly uncomfortable. The group moved at the speed of the slowest craft, the heavily armed ASPB. Two Swift boats patrolled ahead. They were looking for any sign of the ambushes that the VC favored when they knew the river-boats were on the prowl.
The thick green jungle was set off by the brown water of the river, which moved ever so slowly toward the rich delta, far to the southeast of their little group. The river was a bit narrower upstream, through it would sometimes just as surprisingly open up as they came around a bend. Smaller rivers entered the main stream from under the dense vegetation. But, as some of them had learned in the past, these little rivers were sometimes just estuaries that went back a short distance and ended abruptly with a wire stretched, across to stop unwary boats.
They were now in unfamiliar territory, and David spent much of his time memorizing passing landmarks. This would help a good deal if they found themselves going the other way at high speed. If trouble occurred ahead, they would just have to take their chances.
David had just lifted his binoculars to his eyes to scan the jungle forward and to his left when the river erupted. The sound of the actual explosion came after the mine had detonated. A nearby PER was lifting into the air. Water was hurled up around the craft, but he could still see the bow separate as it began it? descent, almost in slow motion. The .50-caliber in the bow and the sailor manning it went in another direction. The other members of the crew were not to be seen as the remains of the boat settled back to the brown water.
It must have been shallow there to cause so much upward force, he thought. The boat he was riding immediately cut out of the formation to close the wreckage. "Scatter," came the order from Mezey over the' radio, almost at the same time that the boats were independently changing their courses and speeds to confuse enemy gunners. The most important thing was to be one step ahead of the VC, who were likely ready to set off the next mine.
"We have two of the crew, Phil," David called over the radio.
"Don't hang around. There's more than one of those mines in the water if the VC have been doing their homework." And at his last word, another was set off just ahead of one of the forward PBR's, not quite close enough to damage the craft severely. Water cascaded down on the little craft as the wheel was thrown over by a frightened sailor. "Look out for each other," called Mezey instantly on the radio as a boat almost collided with the one that had just missed being sunk.