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Harassment and Interdiction. One of the greatest problems the American forces have been encountering, especially in these two most southern zones, 3 and 4, has been the consistent, successful, relentless supplying of insurgent cells down deep within the territory of South Vietnam. These fighters exist unseen within the dense jungles and riverbanks of the region and seem to be equipped with an endless supply of munitions to assault our forces with. We know the general supply lines that exist from the North on down, but the system is so sophisticated and cunning that the only effective way for us to deal with it is a constant infusion of men and weapons of our own right into the very arteries of the country: the big river ways and the small ones. The foliage, the hills and mountains and swamps.
    So my home, my office, Region 4, is where we patrol, at the bottom end of South Vietnam. It contains sixteen different provinces, the whole of the mean Mekong Delta, and over fifty percent of the country’s entire population. In the midst of all this life, we sneak in, look for secret supply deposits, and sit in ambush for the guys responsible for this whole big, bloody mess.
    If a guy can’t get motivated for that last part, then he’s got no blood running through him.
    â€œI do hope you are ready for everything and anything,” Lieutenant Systrom says as our boat is lowered into the river. There are twenty-five of these fiberglass assault boats attached to the Benewah for the use of the Army exclusively.
    â€œIf we get anything less than everything and anything, lieutenant, I will be very disappointed,” I say, to his apparent pleasure.
    He shakes his head and smiles. “I see. I’ve got one of them on my hands,” he says.
    â€œYou do, indeed,” I say. “Whatever them are, I am one of them.”
    â€œThat’s great. I always say, if I had more fighters like that … I’d have less fighters like that. You boys are all great. Until you get yourselves shot to pieces.”
    â€œI won’t be getting shot, sir.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œI just know,” I say.
    Shakes his head again. Smiles again.
    â€œListen. I love the gung ho, I really do. But I need to know now if you’re a listener. A lot of guys here, they’re ready to fight but not ready to listen. Really, it works best if you’re both ready to fight and ready to listen, because I could have some things to tell you that will help you to fight longer.”
    â€œI am a military man, lieutenant. As is my father, as was his father. I was bred to listen.”
    â€œThat is what I wanted to hear,” he says, and as our boat motors away, he leads me over to the rest of our small team. We sit and get better acquainted as we ease along the brown Mekong River.
    Our gang of six includes the lieutenant; two corporals, Parrish and Lightfoot; and two more privates like me, Arguello and Kuns.
    â€œWelcome aboard the Ship o’ Fools ,” Lt. Systrom says, and the guys all laugh. “By the way, that title is ironic. My guys are famously smart, cool under pressure, brave but not stupid. Does that describe you, Private Bucyk?”
    â€œIt does,” I answer.
    â€œDoes that describe you, Private Kuns?”
    â€œIt does,” says Kuns.
    â€œGood, glad to hear it. Now that we have established that the two new guys are not idiots, let’s get down to it.”
    Lt. Systrom shoves an M-79 grenade launcher in my direction. I did receive some instruction with the M-79 but not a great deal. I am in fact a little surprised it’s still in use, as I had heard it was phasing out. At any rate, this is not the weapon of a sharpshooter.
    â€œOh, lieutenant,” I say helpfully, “I should tell you, I am a graduate of the Army Marksman Unit.”
    The Ship o’ Fools erupts with laughter, and it is clear who the fool is.
    â€œAnd I should tell you, Private Bucyk,