The Vietcong knew that the ships in the river were sitting ducks, and one night, they went hunting. They rocketed the SS Limon, with Johnny Jackson and the other seamen on it; and they hit another ship, the SS US Tourist, downriver. The Tourist had supposedly anchored in a safer place: a tributary of the Saigon River down south near Cat Lai. All the VC needed was a Russian shoulder-fired RPG-7 rocket launcher to strike it from the riverbank. Or they could have snuck past the South Vietnamese cops in a truck with a Russian A-19 field cannon inside, which could shoot howitzer shells five inches wide up to six miles away.
Whichever they used, nine shells hit the Tourist, and though seamen suffered minor injuries, all nine missed the big target: the ship’s cargo was ammunition, and had it ignited, it would have been Long Binh all over again.
When the Limon was hit, some of the seamen were wounded. I was so thankful that Johnny was okay and that nobody had been killed. The captain was heard yelling, “That’s it! We’re getting the hell out of here!” Merchant ship captains were contracted to the US military, but they had (arguably) more autonomy aboard their ships than even navy admirals had. Admirals are part of a larger system, but merchant captains hold the title master of the vessel. At sea, the captain of a commercial ship has absolute power, and John and the other seamen sure appreciated that at the moment.
The Limon’s captain called the US Coast Guard—probably the commander who’d tried to help me—and reportedly told him that he didn’t care if he used scab longshoremen, the US Army, or his grandmother. “If this ship isn’t unloaded in the next three days,” he said, “I’m bringing all this food to Manila.” There were still plenty of comestibles left, even after Johnny’s and his shipmates’ generous donations to Saigon.
The next morning, a chain of about a hundred longshoremen decided it might be a good idea to end their strike or lose their jobs. They were unloading the ship under heavy US MP guard. They were the skinniest longshoremen I’d ever seen. I hoped some of the food would “fall off the truck” in their direction.
The captain got word on the morning they were to set sail that they were an oiler short. One of the crew members injured in the attack was still in the hospital and couldn’t be moved. I was sorry for the guy, hurt and stuck, but by the grace of God, I took it as a sign. I rushed over to the Limon. I was an oiler, and I was a union rep, so I knew the union rules: if a qualified union crew member in the port was looking for work, the ship could not sail “short.” John took me to the captain, and I asked for the oiler job. The captain turned me down and said he was going to have the guys double up and take on overtime shifts, but John showed him the union rule book. He looked it over with furrowed brow as I bit my lip, and finally, he said, “What the hell, be back on board by 0800 hours.
“The SS Limon waits for no man now,” he added, kind of profoundly.
It was 1900 now—thirteen hours away.
“Don’t be late,” warned John.
I was about to hurry off the ship, but on deck I stopped and thought about it: I didn’t have any possessions to pack. I was paid up at the hotel. There were guys in Saigon I wanted to say good-bye to: Ben Hur, the Aussies, the journos, and the others at the Caravelle; Nuong, the young cop; and Mr. Minh, the shipping clerk. I would even go back and thank Heller at the embassy if I had time. They had all sustained me in different ways.
I couldn’t say good-bye to Dao—Peach Blossom. I had said to her that when things settled down, we could sail over to Phu Quoc Island, where Captain Kidd’s treasure is supposedly buried. I said I’d buy her a puppy: one of those rare blue-tongued Vietnamese ridgebacks with webbed feet that can hunt and swim and climb trees and catch a scent a mile away.
Most of all, I wished I could check back with Tommy Collins and Rick Duggan and Kevin McLoone and Bobby Pappas and all their pals and fellow soldiers. I wished I could have found more guys on my list. I worried about them all. But I couldn’t chance even going into town in case the captain decided to leave immediately. Or if somebody decided to pick me off or detain me for fun. I was onboard now, and I wasn’t about to disembark before we got to the States. I found a quiet place on deck and wished them all well and prayed that they would be all right.
At 0800 hours, we set sail. I watched Saigon fade into the distance, and then I set to work on the engine. Before long, we were traversing the South China Sea, on the way home to the good old USA.