We'd been ordered to The Rung Sat Special Zone for an operation, the conclusion of which proved to be special indeed. I had just turned 21 and was assigned as a gunner aboard a 50-foot river assault/patrol boat in Viet Nam . . . essentially, a motor yacht with guns.
After four days of assaults, ambushes, firefights, and re-supply escort runs we were granted 24-hours of down-time in the city of Vung Tau before heading back to our base near Saigon. Vung Tau was, at the time, a designated "in-country" R&R destination. Officers and enlisted men from all over III and IV Corps, the southern areas of Viet Nam, were granted up to a week of rest and relaxation among the beaches and parks, restaurants and bars, opium dens and brothels of this "resort" town on the South China Sea.
There was also a large U.S. military hospital in Vung Tau, which meant, of course, women; more specifically, American women, Army and Navy nurses, Red Cross volunteers, and female journalists. All of these lovely ladies were, by law, off limits to the likes of enlisted pukes such as me.
However, when you're young, combat-tested, and have your own armed-to-the-teeth-motor yacht; when you are allowed, indeed often ordered to carry side arms and combat knives about town; when you are also allowed to keep your hair at an almost fashionable length, grow a mustache . . . a full beard being just a tad beyond your years . . . and have a deep, rich tan gained from almost four months of fighting, fornicating and finagling in the relentless tropical sun, you think yourself one bad-ass-son-of-a-bitch.
I found myself, along with Marty, the boat's other gunner, midmorning of our post-operation R&R, on watch aboard our newly provisioned, re-armed, and swabbed-down vessel, which we'd christened "Stoned Pony" a few weeks back during an evening of beer drinking and weed with the only diversion nearby being a bucket of white paint and a stencil kit.
We were docked hard by the north entrance to "Beach Alpha" as this stretch of the waterfront area was called, and the three other guys of the boat's five-man crew were ashore, doubtless pursuing the mundane, not to mention landlocked sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll to which we were ordinarily accustomed.
Marty and I were lounging, shirtless, in cut-off camo's and flip-flops, with beer and cigarettes close by, at the stern of the boat between the .50-caliber machine guns mounted at each stern quarter. I was trying to read an old edition of Stars And Stripes and becoming dizzy from ogling the inconceivable number of round-eye women, all shapes and sizes, styles and colors, each alluring and enticing, that paraded, as if for our personal perusal, up and down the boardwalk fronting the beach.
Marty, ordinarily taciturn, couldn't help himself and kept up a running commentary on the myriad attractions of the ladies, many of whom were clad in fetching, usually skimpy beachwear, with a number of the girls accompanied by older officers doubtless harboring lecherous intentions.
In a moment of distraction, while Marty leaned over the cooler to grab another beer and I became semi-engrossed in yet another week-old box-score from a world that I was no longer part of, we were disconcerted by a loud female voice calling out, "Hey, guys? What kind of boat is that?"
Marty and I both turned to see two gorgeous creatures, a raven-haired beauty and a stunning redhead, each in their mid-twenties, leaning on the walkway railing some thirty yards off our stern and looking over toward . . . us. Both wore a pair of ass-fitting cut-off jeans, with the dark-haired girl in a paisley halter top and the redhead in a tight, white, V-neck tee shirt. The raven haired doll, very fit and sun-browned, carried a towel and a small beach bag slung over her shoulder. It appeared to be she who'd hailed us as she smiled and gave a small, shy wave.
Ordinarily, I'm not the most forward nor the wittiest of guys. Inspiration and opportunity are, however, not totally alien to me. "Madam," I called out with a jaunty salute, "this is the official Vung Tau Harbor tour boat. Tours given every day at . . ." I consulted my pocket watch ". . . eleven twenty-three hours. Y'all have about a minute and a half before the next one departs."
Both women laughed, but I could hear Marty behind me muttering. "Jesus Christ! Don't screw this up."
The dark woman replied "Doesn't look like you have many customers," and Marty groaned.
"Got one young, brave, sorta handsome, and definitely unbalanced American Naval-type here," I said throwing an arm around the deeply scowling Marty. "But he paid for the dee-luxe tour," I went on. "That's the one where you get to shoot the guns and yap on the radio and steer the boat and toot the whistle. It also comes with all the beer you can drink." I paused, looked to the muttering Marty and shouted, "This brave, young, sorta handsome American Naval-type gentleman has just informed me that he'd be honored to pay for two additional dee-luxe cruises if you fine ladies are interested."
Marty angrily shrugged off my arm to the cheerful laughter of the girls. "Why, thank you, sir," the redhead replied glancing toward her companion, then at an abruptly sweating Marty. "We'd be dee-lighted to accept your offer."
To the frowns and clearly audible imprecations of a trio of khaki-clad officers nearby, amid the enthusiastic backslapping and "Right on, bro" from Marty, and in time with my breathless chant of: "Thank you God, thank you God, thank you God", the women, curvaceous, young, enticing, alluring, and just plain hot, sauntered over to the gangway, down to the dock, and stood before the short plank between the pier and the boat. Marty and I were tripping over each other to reach the plank, to escort these visions of loveliness aboard the Stoned Pony.
I gratefully helped the raven-tressed goddess step onto the boat. "I'm Jimmy," I said to her. "Welcome aboard. I'll be your guide on this dee-luxe tour."
