Coastal Group 25

It is November 30, 1969, my second year of war. I am Lieutenant (junior grade) Don Smith, 23, radio call sign “stonebreaker,” a soldier in the U.S. Naval Advisory Group, Vietnam. My unit is Duyen Đoan hai mươi lăm (Coastal Group 25) of the Vietnamese Navy.

Coastal Group 25 is based at Hon Khoi, a small hamlet in the salt fields north of the city of Nha Trang (“White House”) in Khánh Hòa (“Peaceful Harmony”) Province on the central coast of Vietnam.

Coastal Group 25 is part of the Lực Lượng Hải Thuyền (Vietnamese Navy Coastal Force). Originally, the Coastal Force, known as the “Junk Force,” was a paramilitary organization formed in 1960, composed of civilians trained by the Vietnamese Navy to work with the Republic of Vietnam National Police.

The idea of a coastal force as a paramilitary unit fit well with U.S. President John F. Kennedy’s belief that home self-defense units were among the best means of fighting the Việt Cộng (Vietnamese Communist) insurgency in Vietnam. 

A year later, in 1961, President Kennedy activated U.S. Army Special Forces to organize and train Vietnamese “montagnard” (mountaineer) ethnic minority indigenous peoples of the Central Highlands of Vietnam as paramilitary soldiers to fight the Communist insurgency in Vietnam.

Coastal Group 25 operates about 10 Yabuta junks built at the Saigon Naval Shipyard. These are small wooden boats painted gray, with red bows and black and white eyes painted on the bows, so they can find their way in the waters of the South China Sea. The roof of the deck shelter on each Yabuta junk is painted with a large yellow square and a big red “X” to identify it to friendly aircraft.

Our Yabuta junks are named after a Japanese engineer who worked at the Saigon Naval Shipyard and designed the original 57 foot long junks in 1961. When I was at Coastal Group 25, our junks were built with wooden hulls. Later in the war, the junks were built with fiberglass hulls, which eliminated the need to treat the hulls for wood-boring Teredo worms.

The Yabuta junks of Coastal Group 25 are powered by Gray Marine 6-71 diesel engines, exactly the same Gray Marine diesel engines that powered American Navy LCVP amphibious landing craft during the Second World War.

These tough little 110-horsepower engines, capable of generating ten knots of speed, carried U.S. soldiers to the beaches of Anzio in Italy and Normandy in France in 1944, and U.S. marines to their landing beaches on Iwo Jima and Okinawa during the Pacific War in 1945.

The main armament of our Yabuta junks is one single M2HB Browning .50 caliber machine gun mounted on a shielded stanchion bolted to the forward deck. The Vietnamese Navy crew is lightly armed with ordinary small arms, M16 rifles, M79 grenade launchers, and M1911A1 Colt pistols.

Operationally, the work of the “Junk Force” is exhausting and dangerous. We stop and search thousands of junks on the Biển Đông (Eastern Sea, South China Sea) and many thousands of sampans on the inland rivers and canals along the Vietnamese coast to interdict the flow of Communist supplies.

We transport ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) soldiers in encirclement operations against Việt Cộng and NVA (North Vietnamese Army) formations on canals and rivers. We set ambush positions at night to intercept enemy forces.

We provide blocking support to friendly forces engaged in fighting with enemy forces on inland waterways near the coast and on large rivers. We evacuate civilians from dangerous situations during battles against Việt Cộng and NVA forces.

We conduct Medical Civic Action Patrols (MedCaps) that carry doctors and nurses and sometimes dentists who provide medical care to civilians in small isolated villages on the coast and on islands of the South China Sea.

Every night is filled with the steady thud of artillery fire and the constant rattle of machine gun fire.

Parachute flares light up the night. In the darkness, groups of local Vietnamese “Ruff Puff” (Regional Force / Popular Force) soldiers make their way down the peninsula road to our base, carrying their wounded on stretchers lifted up on their shoulders.

Arriving at Coastal Group 25, they request medical evacuation for their wounded men. These muddy, blood-splattered, wounded soldiers are the friends, neighbors, and family members of people who live in our local area.

I get on the radio and call “Blue Star Ops” at the provincial district headquarters military base in Ninh Hòa for the “dustoff” (helicopter medical evacuation) of the wounded Vietnamese Regional Force soldiers.

Within a few minutes, a Bell UH-1B Iroquois helicopter (“Huey”) from the U.S. Army 48th Assault Helicopter Company arrives overhead. The chopper pilot calls me to verify that his helicopter will not receive ground fire from the area around the “dustoff” site (the helicopter landing zone – “LZ”) within our Coastal Group 25 base perimeter.

In a cloud of dust, the “Huey” settles down on the helo pad. Soon, the chopper is loaded with wounded Vietnamese soldiers, and rises up through the rushing whirlwind of dust, heading east to the U.S. Army field hospital at Ninh Hòa. A litter of bloody bandages, shredded combat boots, and torn military clothing lies scattered on the helo pad as the dust drifts downwind, lost in the night.

At Coastal Group 25, my Yabuta junk is fired upon by artillery. My jeep is hit by rifle fire. The unrelenting war is brutally killing and wounding people all around us. All of this is just part of an ordinary day.

Actually, I am “okay” with the reality of my situation. After all, this is normal for war, and I volunteered to be here for the freedom of the people of Vietnam. Really.

One afternoon, the senior American advisor at Coastal Group 25 accidentally shoots a light switch off the wall of our “hooch” (living quarters) with his M1911A1 Colt .45 caliber pistol while I am standing next to the light switch. Another day, a Vietnamese Navy Lieutenant nearly shoots off his private parts while jumping onto his motorcycle.

One night I sit with a man said to be a Việt Cộng prisoner. Perhaps, but he seems to be a military deserter instead. Either way, he is awaiting transport to district headquarters at Ninh Hòa the next day. We eat ice cream and popcorn, and drink Coke while watching a John Wayne movie.

Some nights, I accompany my Vietnamese counterpart, the XO (Executive Officer, second in command) of Coastal Group 25, as he makes his rounds, checking base security. We check on the night watch base perimeter defense positions to verify that the sailor on watch is awake and alert.

Sometimes, I climb a watch tower, and find the Vietnamese sailor asleep at his post. I take the rifle from the sleeping man, and carry it back down the watch tower to the ground. My counterpart wakes the sleeping man, who climbs down to retrieve his weapon, and resume his watch. Too often, discipline is so lax here. The base is vulnerable in this exposed neighborhood. Not good.

At Coastal Group 25, I am living with a dangerous bunch of desperadoes, a little bit of MASH here, a little bit of McHale’s Navy there. I know it’s time for a change. This is not where I am meant to be. I really do want to be around more competent people. None of this should be part of an ordinary day.

Finally, the last straw . . . the senior American advisor at Coastal Group 25, a U.S. Navy Lieutenant, has a Vietnamese girlfriend in the hamlet outside the base gate. He and a different Vietnamese family in the hamlet outside the base gate decide that I too should have a Vietnamese girlfriend.

I say, “No. That is not going to happen.” The last thing I need in this war is the distraction and responsibility of a Vietnamese girlfriend and her family. I know it is time for me to leave this place. My Lord knows that such stupidité would be a big mistake. He knows it, exactly. So do I. I’m out of here.

In late July 1970, with eight months down and four months to go before my service in Vietnam will end on November 30th, I arrange for a chopper flight down to Saigon, and I get myself transferred out of Coastal Group 25 to “any heavy unit anywhere in the Delta.” 

In a very large, very safe, very comfortable, air conditioned office with 150 or more cubicles at the command headquarters of U.S. Naval Forces, Vietnam in Saigon, I sign the transfer papers.

As I walk across the large room, eyes follow me. Heads shake slowly in disbelief. The chairborne warriors at COMNAVFORV (Commander Naval Forces, Vietnam) think I’m jumping from a relatively safe, relatively cool frying pan into a very hot fire. They may be right.

Smiling quietly, I close the door, gently, behind me. Well, all right then, my new unit is Giang Đoan Ngan Chan bốn mươi mốt (River Interdiction Division 41) of the Vietnamese Navy river forces. I will be serving as an advisor with the men of RID 41. My last day with Coastal Group 25 is August 14. 1970.

RID 41 sails bar armored river boats on the winding rivers, narrow canals, and tangled mangrove swamps of the Mekong River Delta, the Đong bang Sông Cuu Long (“River of Nine Dragons”), as part of Operation Sea Lords.

When I catch up with my unit, I know for sure, I am exactly where I am meant to be. I love my job, and I love my guys. Though I am the least of Your creation, Lord, yet You are generous with me. I am profoundly grateful to You. Thank you, Lord.