Combat Swimmer by Robert A. Gormly Page A

complete darkness, and there was nothing darker than the Bassac just before the rise of a full moon. The moon would be up at 2200 that night. It was now 2030.
    â€œI can’t hear anything.”
    â€œNeither can I, Charlie. Keep looking through the scope.” I turned to the coxswain. “Bring her to just above idle and head toward the beach.”
    Now I could see the riverbank. The tide was ebbing. It would be low in about one hour, leaving a bank about three feet high.
    The boat grounded slowly in the river mud, the bank about five meters away. This was the hairy part of the mission. If there were bad guys in the foliage in front of us, they’d have a field day. Even knowing that our operational security was the best didn’t keep the big butterflies out of our guts. We were hanging out.
    Charlie went over the bow of the STAB, then me. We struggled through the mud to the riverbank. Behind me was Fred McCarty with our radio, followed by Pierre Birtz. Jess Tolison came last, just behind Petty Officer Doyle from SEAL Team One’s detachment at Nha Be. He was there to see how we did our thing. By then we’d had quite a bit of success working in the delta, and those guys wanted to have a look.
    Near the top of the riverbank, I motioned for the men to form a semicircle perimeter. Behind us, the STAB was backing slowly away. The silenced outboards made no sound. From where I crouched, I could hear only the lapping of water against the hull as the STAB returned to the LCPL.
    We sat and listened intently, growing attuned to the night sounds—insects chirping, frogs croaking. A light breeze whispered through the dense nipa palm. No man-made sounds.
    I squeezed Bump’s shoulder. I didn’t have to say anything; he knew what to do. Easing his lanky frame up over the bank, he started slowly toward the canal mouth. I slid silently right behind him. The rest of the men followed, keeping about five meters apart. Rather than trying to walk through the nipa palm, we kept just in front of the riverbank. It would have been stupid to thrash our way through—nobody could move through that stuff without making noise—and from the bank we could easily hear anyone coming our way.
    Our feet made a sucking sound as we waded through the mud. I wasn’t concerned. The withdrawing tide uncovered holes in the earth, and the noise they made sounded just like someone walking, pulling his feet out of the sticky delta mud. I’d been fooled by it in one of our first ambushes, thinking we were about to be overrun by a large force.
    As we neared the canal mouth, Bump held up his hand to stop the patrol. This was another danger area. If the VC were taking any action with a large group tonight, they would probably have a sentry somewhere near the mouth of the canal.
    I eased myself up to Bump. “Move back up on the bank and take a look around,” I whispered. Meanwhile, I slowly crab-walked toward the mouth of the canal. I wanted to peek around the corner and be in a position to cover Charlie. The rest of the patrol hunkered down and waited.
    I reached a spot from where I could see about fifty feet of the bank on the other side of the canal. I couldn’t see farther because it was so dark, but I didn’t see the telltale shape of a sampan that would have contained the sentry. I looked up to my left, where Bump had crawled along the top of the bank. Lying on his stomach, he peered left, up the canal. After a few seconds he held up his right arm and motioned back and forth. “All clear.”
    I turned around and gave Fred the same signal; he repeated it. The rest of the guys slowly approached my position. Charlie stayed where he was as we moved up the canal just under him. As we came abreast, Jess climbed up the bank, and Bump slid down just in front of me. Jess covered us as we started up the canal, then he fell in behind.
    We slogged through the mud about fifty meters before Bump stopped and