Every Day Is Extra

by John Kerry

  Mike Medeiros, a boatswain’s mate from San Leandro, California, was a jack-of-all-trades. He and Thor would swap responsibility for the aft .50-caliber machine gun. He was shorter than the other crew members—five foot six—but he was strong, calm and extremely capable at whatever he did. He served as my radioman in some operations. You could always count on Mike to be in the right place.

  The final member of our crew was our rock-steady gunner’s mate, David Alston. David was the most exposed of all—sitting up in the gun turret above Del and me, who were in the main pilothouse. He manned the massive twin .50-caliber machine guns, which were the heavy firepower of our boats. In the ambush that incapacitated Peck, the guntub he sat in was riddled with bullets. When the boat was being repaired in the skids out of the water back in An Thoi, several of us counted the holes. There were more than 160. A majority were in the guntub. How they missed Alston was nothing short of a miracle. Earlier in January, he had been wounded and was medevacked on that occasion. He told me he was saved then by his King James Bible in his pocket. David never had any doubt that God saved him again.

  Over the next weeks we engaged in the highest operational tempo to date. We were in the rivers far more than we were out. There was an extraordinary range to the missions we undertook. On one occasion we ferried huge, heavy balloons of fuel for the Navy SEALs who were beginning to operate regularly in the area. It was called Operation U-Haul. We dragged the balloons twenty yards or so behind the boats, hoping they would not be exploded by rockets from the banks of the river. On the same mission we loaded our boats from top to bottom with lumber to deliver to the Vietnamese military base at Cai Nuoc for construction. When we arrived, kids helped us unload, and I marveled at how industrious they were as they diverted a good percentage of wood into their homes.

  There was no limit to the variety of missions we took on: we picked up platoons or companies of local Popular Reconnaissance Forces to deposit them on riverbanks for sweeps along the river; we set ambushes along well-advertised VC routes and lay in wait for multiple sampans moving supplies at night; we went on tense night missions with units of SEALs in which we would insert at one location and then lie in wait for an extraction signal or a rendezvous at predetermined coordinates; we pulled prisoners out of the water after an ambush, taking them out to the Coast Guard cutter for interrogation; and time after time, we ran through rivers with varying numbers of boats, shooting at “targets of opportunity” and more often than not being shot at; we shuttled defenseless women, children and the elderly from the danger of being caught in cross fire or being targets of opportunity themselves to the safety of the cutter for transfer to a securer location.

  Early in my days on the 94, we were assigned to run a SEAL team up to Cai Nuoc with Bob Hildreth and the 72 boat. As we approached fish stakes at the entrance of the Bay Hap River, Hildreth told me to take the left opening. I did so. We passed through holding our breath but without incident. Hildreth followed. Boom—the 72 was engulfed in water and smoke. It rocked back and forth as the riverbanks exploded with gunfire. A number of rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) were fired simultaneously. I could see one fishtail by us in front of the boat to explode harmlessly off to starboard. As we cleared the area another mine exploded off our bow, spraying us but with no other effect. When we reached Cai Nuoc and inspected our boats, the tally was sobering: our lifelines had been shot in two; there were several bullet holes through the hull, one in the flag and two more just inches above my head near the pilothouse door. Bob’s boat, the 72, had its flagstaff shot in half. There were a number of bullet holes in the hull that appeared to be heavy-caliber rounds. In addition, Bob’s engines had been unable to produce high RPMs on the way to Cai Nuoc, an obvious result of the high concussion under the boat. The episode reminded all of us how much Lady Luck played a daily role in our lives. Not wanting to press that luck too far, we spent the night at the dock in Cai Nuoc.

  On another day we carried out an extraordinary Sealords mission about fifteen miles up a river the Swifts had never ventured into, deep in Viet Cong territory. We carried psychological operation materials for distribution to the locals and goodies for the kids. While transiting up the narrow river, we played tapes—so-called psyops tapes—with a message to the citizens about the virtue of turning against the VC and loving the government of South Vietnam. We told them how they could be safe.

  The river turned and curled around itself, winding through the flat delta so intensely that at times you could see only the radar mast of a Swift ahead, which seemed to be going in the opposite direction around a turn you couldn’t see. If someone had fired a rocket between the boats, there was a chance the boats might have opened fire on each other. We were lucky on two counts that day. First, not a shot was fired. And second, we traded C-rations for a little, pesky runt of a dog slated for someone’s meal. We called him VC—for Viet Cong. He became a lucky, albeit far from housebroken, mascot on our boat.

  Days later, we were on another psyops mission, traversing beautiful countryside in a long file of Swift boats. Technically it was a declared free-fire zone, but every skipper and every boat crew on this run held their fire when they saw a woman running for cover with a child in her arms, or an old farmer looking for cover behind a tree or hootch. One of the two helicopters providing cover for us on the way in was hit by small-arms fire, so both choppers returned to base, leaving us without an important deterrent on the way out. We fired occasional recon fire, random bursts of the .50 calibers to keep ambushers at bay. As we passed through the final stretch of heavy foliage and trees just before turning back into the wider Cua Lon River, a man off to our left was seen running and ducking just as an RPG exploded off the port side. I was standing half in and half out of the port door to the pilothouse when a piece of shrapnel ripped into the back of my left leg. Almost immediately we were past the turn into the wide expanse of the Cua Lon.

  When we returned to the Coast Guard cutter, they informed me the X-ray machine wasn’t working, so after the doc probed my hamstring for a while, they sent us back to An Thoi for an X-ray. After the X-ray, which showed a small piece of metal lodged deep in my muscle, the doctor decided to leave it in. He thought it would be more trouble than it was worth to take it out. Apparently shrapnel can work its way to the surface over time—or so he said. We headed right back to the rivers.

  This journey through such an extensive free-fire zone raised lots of questions in my mind about our strategy. Who decided what was a free-fire zone? Who made the call? What were the criteria? On what basis did someone declare that anyone moving in a certain area was the enemy and could be killed? How could we trust in this when we saw women, children and the elderly all moving around in the normal course of life? No one set out any rules for discretion in a free-fire zone. I’m proud that Swift boats and Swift officers applied their own common sense, but I can’t say it was a process devoid of moral hazards. In these zones, you didn’t need to get clearance from headquarters before opening fire, but the fact is Swifts were never able to fire first at the opposition. The engines made so much noise that the boats could be heard approaching from miles away. The local citizens almost always hid before an encounter was possible. Generally, from the moment they entered the rivers, the boats were targets, forced to wait and shoot only when they’d been shot at, so they could tell where the enemy was. The casualties suffered were high. Almost no boat was left unscathed.

  February 28, 1969, was the day I decided to change the dynamic of just cruising up a river serving as a magnet for an ambush. I thought we had better strategic options.

  We were transiting up the Bay Hap River with two other Swifts skippered by my friends Bill Rood and Don Droz. The plan was to move north toward an insertion point on the Dong Cung Canal after we stopped in Cai Nuoc to pick up local troops. I was the skipper in tactical command of the other boats. I had told Bill and Don that if the circumstances were correct, I’d consider beaching our boats to go after the enemy. If we weren’t aggressi
ve, we’d be like sitting ducks in a shooting gallery. We all knew the odds. Our nerves were on edge. We shared a pretty good sense the Viet Cong were waiting to ambush us.

  Shortly after we left the dock at Cai Nuoc and turned right up the Dong Cung, we came under fire. My ear had learned to distinguish between heavy- and small-caliber weapons, between machine guns and AK-47s. I didn’t hear any heavy-caliber automatic weapons fire coming at us—at least not yet. All I heard at first was the clack, clack, clack of AK-47s and Chicom (Chinese Communist) carbines. We were perhaps fifteen to twenty yards at most from the riverbanks from which we were taking fire. I grabbed the radio and shouted the order: “Turn zero-niner-zero. All boats turn zero-niner-zero. Head into the beach. All boats turn 0.9.0.” To Bill’s and Don’s eternal credit, they didn’t hesitate. It was as if we had practiced it a hundred times. The boats turned in unison, utterly surprising the ambush. We turned the full power of three twin .50 calibers and countless M-16s on the beach as we rammed into it with our bows raising slightly upward as they pushed into the mud.

  The minute we were lodged against the bank, I ordered all the troops on board to charge ashore and overrun the ambush. They poured over the bow. Within minutes it was over. Those enemy who weren’t killed fled into the jungle. Six Viet Cong were lying dead where they had fired on us. We collected their weapons and searched for any documents.

  While the troops were mopping up after the attack, guarding the perimeter, I heard more shots coming from upstream. I instructed Don Droz to remain at the location of the initial ambush to provide fire support to the troops now ashore, while Bill Rood joined me going upstream to investigate. We maneuvered around a right-hand turn, perhaps several hundred yards farther upstream. Suddenly, a B-40 rocket exploded off the port side of the boat, blowing out the windows. I immediately ordered Sandusky to head straight into the riverbank where there was a slight opening—our best estimate of where the shot had come from. We needed to move fast before the shooter had a chance to reload.

  With his normal, immediate and unquestioning response, Del beached the boat on the right spot. A Viet Cong fighter, ten yards or so in front of us, leaped out of a spider hole and pointed a grenade launcher right at us. When he saw a Swift boat just yards away, staring him down, he froze. Then, just as suddenly, to our astonishment, he turned and ran toward the path and toward a hut off to the left. I knew we couldn’t let him get behind the hut where he could hide, turn and take out the boat, so I immediately raced across the bow, jumping over Tommy Belodeau, who was firing the M-60 machine gun from the forward tank.

  Tommy covered me, clipping the Viet Cong in his leg. He fell but got up immediately and started to run again. I then took him out with my M-16 from my vantage point on the path. The man fell just to the right of the hootch. The B-40 rocket fell by his side. After we had secured the area, I picked up his B-40 launcher, confident it was obviously not booby-trapped since he had just been using it against us.

  No one prepares you for what it’s like to take a life. But in that instant, I didn’t have a scintilla of doubt in my mind. This man was armed. He had just tried to kill us and by the grace of God had missed. He was ready and willing to fire at us again. As a soldier, I had been trained to take action, and even more important, I had been trained to take whatever action necessary to eliminate the enemy. I knew I’d made the right call that day and I had the right crew backing me up when it mattered. Del Sandusky proved again that he had nerves of steel and could react without hesitation.

  After the operation, it’s fair to say that all of us were more than a little jacked up. We debriefed Will Imbrie, who was our overall supervisor on the Coast Guard cutter. We killed ten Viet Cong (confirmed) in that operation and uncovered a network of underground tunnels that was used to store supplies, including ammunition, Viet Cong flags and Ho Chi Minh posters.

  Our commanding officer at the time, Lieutenant George Elliott, recommended everyone for decorations. Up and down the chain of command, all three boat skippers and their crews were congratulated on a superb operation. Admiral Elmo Zumwalt made a point of intercepting the recommendation for my award and decided to make an immediate “impact” presentation of the highest award he was allowed to designate—a Silver Star. He flew down to An Thoi with Captain Hoffmann to personally pin medals on each uniform of the eighteen men who fought together that day.

  Any pride we felt was tempered by the realization of how close we all came to meeting our maker that day, but the fact that we hadn’t steeled us for the weeks to come.

  • • •

  ON SUBSEQUENT MISSIONS we worked with Nung troops, an ethnic minority from the north and the highlands. On one of those missions we shared a moment of chaos and a moment of improbable comedy. The chaos came when four Swift boats were operating in the vicinity of a very narrow canal that connected the Cua Lon and Bay Hap Rivers. We had inserted Nung troops to conduct a sweep and were waiting to pick them up. Larry Thurlow, the extremely able skipper of the 53 boat, had just experienced a near miss when a mine went off close to the bow of his boat. Bill Rood in the 23 boat was nearby. Don Droz in the 43 was at the mouth of the canal where the Nung had been inserted.

  As we pulled alongside the 53 boat, a huge explosion rocked us. Larry and the 53 boat were engulfed in smoke and mud. The 94 similarly was jolted by the blast. The 53 rocked over so hard, it smashed against us. We could hear the familiar clack of AK-47s as we were taken under fire. Our gunners opened up in two directions to suppress the fire. The Viet Cong had obviously done a hell of a job of planting remote-triggered mines in the canal and planning an ambush. Then, through all the gunfire and smoke, came this horrifying shout over the radio: “This is 23—I’ve lost my eye—I can’t see.” It was Bill Rood. I could see Bill’s boat yards away from us in the canal. We moved quickly alongside, where I saw Bill bandaged with a large battle dressing over his head and eye. His pilothouse windshield had been shattered in the ambush. Shards of glass had gotten into his eye. I radioed Don Droz to join us from the point at the entrance of the canal where he was waiting for the Nung to exit.

  The ambush ended almost as quickly as it began. We moved out of the canal to the wider river, where we could regroup and get Bill medical attention. It was then that we noticed VC, our newly minted mascot, was nowhere to be found. We presumed we had lost him in the ambush. Then, from one of the other boats, we heard this yapping—there was VC on another boat, barking at us. During the blast under our boat, both engine covers had been blown open by the explosion. Obviously, VC had been standing on one and was catapulted over to the next boat. There he was like nothing had happened, yapping away. What were the chances of that? We knew now he really was good luck: Bill Rood had not lost his eye and, after healing, would be able to see again.

  February and the first two weeks of March were defined by almost daily forays into the rivers. We lived Sealords. The day after Bill Rood was injured, March 13, we took the Nung up another narrow canal and inserted them for a sweep. It was a five-boat operation.

  Rich McCann’s boat had some engine problems, so we loaded his troops on the 94. With the extra soldiers on board, we churned through a tiny river with multiple wakes careening off the riverbanks to create a bathtub effect, the boats sloshing around, difficult to control. Finally, we arrived at the location of a prior ambush, where we wanted to start the sweep.

  Not long after the Nung were unloaded, we heard an explosion in the direction they had taken. The radio crackled with the message: “Can you send someone in to pick up a body. One of my guys got killed by a booby trap.” Mike Medeiros and I went ashore with several guys from other boats—I believe Larry Thurlow was among them. We quickly came upon the crumpled body of Bac She De, the Nung who met his fate when he foolishly reached for a booby-trapped trophy of war. It was hard to relate the remains we found to the live person we had known; Bac She De had been a practical joker among the Nung, always the ringleader for their antics. His stomach was completely hollowed out, his body a
lmost in two separate parts, held together by spine and some sinew. A huge hole went through his mouth and nose out the other side of his head. Mangled flesh and bone—a nonperson. Two of our men scooped him into a couple of ponchos. As we carried him out we were fired on again. We ducked down in some already existing ditches until the fire had been suppressed. We called headquarters, asking for helicopters to join the fight, but none was available. I then called Sandusky and asked him to reposition the 94 boat slightly closer to where we were.

  Eventually we got Bac She De back on board. We tried to excite the Regional Forces and Popular Forces (RFPF)—nicknamed Ruff Puffs—to go after the Viet Cong. They wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Mike Miggins, the local Army advisor, told me that he thought the RFPFs didn’t want to fight alongside the Nung, ethnic mercenaries. We were treated to a great education that morning. We stood by while the Vietnamese army guys engaged in a debate. Eventually, the mercenaries decided to fake a firefight, thinking that might stir the RFPFs into action. No dice. At one point, the Vietnamese, tired of just milling about and having decided they weren’t going to fight, just went back to the boat and sat down. It was a terrible moment for the whole theory of Vietnamization of the war. I know Miggins, a dedicated and courageous Army advisor, felt awful.

  Eventually we needed to leave. We wanted to deposit our nonfighting RFPF forces back in their village and head out to the LST. The trip back down the Dong Cung was tense but uneventful. We thought for sure the narrowness begged another ambush but it didn’t come. We arrived in the much wider Bay Hap without further incident, disembarked our Ruff Puffs—who today had earned their nickname—and then took the Bay Hap to return to the LST and Coast Guard cutter. I did observe something strange. Normally when we arrived in Cai Nuoc, even after the ambush of February 28, which had occurred close to the village, the dock was filled with kids and townspeople. This day, there were none. I should have processed that—but it probably wouldn’t have changed our options. We still had to transit the river, as we did every day, in order to get home.