Free Men in Green Faces by Gene Wentz, B. Abell Jurus Page A

another large river. It was on this river that large numbers of NVA had been reported. Here they slowed even more to quiet the throb of the Mo’s powerful diesel engines.
    Just inside the river’s mouth, Gene stood up to study the villagers from Old Nam Cam Annex. Living seven or eight miles from Seafloat, the villagers were busy doing their thing—fishing, moving supplies to smaller villages by sampan. They paid little attention to the lethal black boat in their midst. But Gene paid close attention to them. Many of the South Vietnamese in the village were potential VCs, and were known to be North Vietnamese sympathizers.
    At eight hundred meters past the village all the men were standing, made uneasy by the sight of large poles protruding from the river’s surface. Six wires stretched from pole to pole. Gene’s grip tightened on the 60 when a small sampan, powered by an equally small outboard motor, cruised directly toward them. As it neared, he lifted the 60 and aimed at the ragged, hatless old man in the sampan with the long pole sticking out the back. The villagers used poles to propel their boats in water too shallow for motors. The elderly man sailed alone.
    Dev called him over.
“Li dai!”
    The old man stared up at them.
    “Li dai!”
Dev repeated.
    Gene, the 60 ready, felt the tension. They were all prepared to blow the sampan to shit if it became a threat to their operation or their safety. Every SEAL knew that the raggedy old man could be a sapper, a suicide, his sampan filled with explosives.
    It came as a surprise when the old man warned them, in broken English, “Don’ go no more. Boo-koo VC. They wait. Wires say, ‘Stay out.’ You stop, don’ go no more.”
    Dev had him repeat his warning, making sure he’d understood, then motioned the old man on his way. The elderly man bobbed his head, then putted on toward Old Nam Cam Annex.
    “Make sure you’re locked and loaded, off safe,” Dev ordered. “We’re going through.” He ordered the wires cut.
    In silence, except for the soft, throaty sound of the diesels, the Mo moved between the poles and continued. All SEALs turned and stood on the metal benches where they’d sat, weapons ready, aimed at the banks on their respective sides.
    Gene, poised to trigger the 60 at the slightest sound, watched the riverbanks for the least sign of the enemy. The jungle grew thick and dense right up to the water’s edge. With the Mo’s ten men and with fourteen SEALs, all with automatic weapons, anyone would be boo-koo
dinky dau
, crazy, to fire on her. They were about as safe as anybody could be on these rivers.
    Eyeing the tree line along the bank, he heard the PL taking care of last-minute preparations. The final radio contact with TOC, Tactical Operations Command, prior to their insertion about a mile farther down the river, was made.
    He couldn’t see more than six inches into the jungle even now with the river narrowed to about thirty feet. There was silence around him on the Mo. Everyone’s attention was trained on the bank’s heavy foliage. Back-to-back, the two squads waited and watched.
    The air shattered.
    Gene slammed into the flak-blanketed steel bulkhead, then fell sideways on the metal bench. Its edge bit into his thigh like a sharp-edged baseball bat swung full force, as his shoulder hit the deck. A terrific explosion had hit the Mo on Delta’s side. He rolled, stood, and jumping over a fallen crewman, came on line with Delta’s squad, the 60 firing even before he was fully erect. The crewman behind him had been hit, and hit pretty bad. Doc quit firing and ran to him.
    For a full minute, the SEALs, standing side by side, all guns opened up, poured out a steady, deafening stream of bullets. When no fire was returned, Gene realized they were outside the enemy’s kill zone. Must have almost cleared it before the claymore hit.
    The crew turned the Mo’s bow into the right bank five hundred to seven hundred meters south of the ambush site. Gene