Along the Quay

By Robert Reynolds

Along the Quay presents five different stories that take place in Vietnam during the war era.  An Incident At the OK Hotel; The China Beach Surfer; A Matter of Finances; Showers In the Rain and A Peaceful Sleep make up this collection of fascinating stories from a different time, in a dangerous different place... A bargain read at this price!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Reynolds
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781365018862

Robert Reynolds

Based in Calgary, Robert is an emerging author who spends his days working in the oil and gas industry but has been a big fan of the spy thriller genre ever since his childhood when he read one of his grandfather's original James Bond paperbacks from the late 50's. He is married with a young daughter and when he's not day dreaming about dangerous adventures in exotic locales he enjoys running and other outdoor pursuits.

Book preview

An Incident At the OK Hotel

THE NAVAL SUPPORT ACTIVITY guards arriving for the afternoon watch stepped off the bus in front of the White Elephant just before noon.  The young warriors slapped magazines into their weapons, ready to assume their roles as guardians of the headquarters compound.  It was a masculine sound, the metal on metal clicking as the magazines snapped into place.  Some of the men, only minutes removed from hooting childishly at young ladies who plied their trade in ramshackle skivvy houses near the Bridge Ramp, took on serious, authoritative expressions.  A handful of the men immediately began their watch, switching off with their counterparts at the White Elephant.  Those within walking distance of their posts headed out on foot and the others piled into the patrol jeep.  They crowded in behind Petty Officer Parker and off he went taking them to their posts.  Cooke set out on foot for his post on Yen Bay, a couple blocks away.  Most of the navy security guards coming off duty from the White Elephant took seats on the bus and settled in, awaiting the rest of their group and their return to Camp Carter.  A few milled about near the bus then wandered off. 

Adams entered the large white compound that anchored the city’s waterfront and strode across the asphalt courtyard to the security office.  He would check on any special orders for the day and pass them along to his patrol partner, Parker.  He disappeared inside the office and awaited Parker’s return.

Irving, a three-legged mongrel that had adopted the security guards, stood beside the gate taking stock of who he would be working with that afternoon.  It was important to know who would be sharing his meal with the hapless canine.  The dog relied more on the men than they relied on it.  A middle-aged Vietnamese woman passed too closely for Irving’s comfort, so off he went yapping his warning and hobbling after her on his three good legs. Thus began another routine navy security watch in the city of Da Nang.

AFTER THE PREVIOUS section was relieved of duty and on its way back to Camp Carter, Adams climbed into the jeep beside Parker and they headed out to make their first check of the guards.  By then, Irving had satisfactorily cleared the area of potential enemy and was curled napping in the shade beside one of the guard shacks. 

For the most part, Parker enjoyed driving while on patrol.  Many of the other high-ranking petty officers did not care to drive in the city and left that task to their lower-ranked partner.  The traffic, a disorderly assortment of bicycles, scooters, motor-bikes, pedicabs, Lambretta three-wheel conveyances used as mini buses, and an array of cargo and military vehicles moved helter-skelter with little regard for safety; theirs or others.  City driving could be nerve-wracking, but Parker liked being in charge. 

He rounded a bend where the street came alongside the wide, slow river. A soft breeze drifted off the water and cooled them. The smell of creosote and river vegetation instantly lay upon the afternoon air. Across the way a fishing village rested.  Sunlight shimmered off the river’s surface and dappled down between tree limbs to fleck the timeworn pavement. 

Bach Dang was a lovely old street lined with spacious villas and majestic, full-canopied acacias.  It was the most charming street in the city.  This was where the local aristocracy lived. High-walled gardened villas in pastel shades, like bouquets lined the river.  It was what Da Nang had once been, when it had been at peace.

Parker cruised slowly along Bach Dang watching the junks sailing with the afternoon sun sparkling off the river.  With billowing sails and fierce dragons sculpted onto their bows, the small craft presented vivid splashes of color against the cadmium sky and sapphire sea. The boats bobbed along on the choppy little waves that formed where the waters of the river and bay converged. 

I would like to sail on one of those, Parker mused, watching a junk glide gracefully into the bay.  Take it on the sea all the way back to the West Coast.  Visit the PI, Palau, Guam, Wake, Honolulu and sail on to San Diego and Frisco.  That would be something.

You’d be the Thor Heyerdahl of the Pacific Fleet, Adams said.  He wasn’t as fond of the sea, but he had recently read Kon-Tiki and the thought of crossing the ocean on a small craft intrigued him. Do you think those old boats are seaworthy?

Certainly, Parker answered.  Most everything is seaworthy if you keep the holes plugged and you follow the rules of the sea.  My only concern would be the loneliness of being at sea that long.  I enjoy being with my friends. 

Sailing was in Parker’s soul.  He loved the oceans and seas, boats and ships of all sizes, shapes, and design.  They were his escape.  He watched the breeze billow the sails as the boats skimmed along.  The junks were at the mouth of the big river where it opened into the bay.  Farther out an array of American ships moored waiting their turn to be offloaded at the Navy’s Deepwater Pier at the edge of Monkey Mountain. 

Parker slowed the jeep so he could enjoy the smell of the river; the mud along its banks, the kelp and creosote.  It was like a lure, tugging at him.  He would have been content to pull over and watch the afternoon drift by, if there had been a place to do so and if he would not be shirking his duties.  He understood how someone could be enticed by something they desired.  But the boats were there and he was here.  He had responsibilities and there were rules.  As much as he would have liked, he would not succumb to temptation.

They came past the Grand Hotel with its quaint veranda overlooking the street, where graceful, dark-haired young women would be on display in the evenings, like exotic floral arrangements; orchids, hibiscus, lotus.  But it was too early for them to blossom.  They were night bloomers. 

Further on, a Canh Sat officer was shaking down a local for some minor infraction; failure to present an ID card, jaywalking... The detained man was searching his pockets for a few piasters to pay off his fine.

It’s a shame how they treat their people, Adams said. 

Everyone pays a price for committing violations, Parker said, siding with the police officer.  Rules are rules.

A short distance down, the jeep passed the floating café.  It didn’t really float.  It rested on pilings over the river.  But it appeared to float and was very tranquil—although Parker had never been in there.  He would have liked to, but restrictions being as they were, he would not risk it.  Da Nang was off limits to all but a few.  There were many places he would like to go in that city and things he’d like to do, but he knew the rules.  This was not Subic Bay where a lonely sailor could enjoy liberty in town, visit the shabby bars, and for a few pesos temporarily overcome his loneliness.  It could easily compare with the delights of Subic and Olongapo given the chance, but the rules would not allow it.  He envied the westerners sitting inside the restaurant on the river in their civilian clothes.  It did not seem fair. 

Still, for shore duty, Da Nang wasn’t a bad assignment.  He enjoyed patrolling the city in the jeep and spending his free time in the club with his friends and confidants.  There could be worse assignments.  He relaxed in the driver’s seat and enjoyed the drive.

Parker turned at the White Elephant and cruised up Thong Nhat, away from the river.  He waited at the intersection while an ornate red and gold funeral wagon passed.  It was a small procession, but the mourners made up for its size with ample wailing and beating of drums and cymbals.  Members of the procession moved in concert like anguished Asian dancers, choreographed to dodge the irreverent zigzagging of motorbikes and pedicabs, too impatient to allow the dead to pass.  The grieving contingent swept along on strings of mandolins and lutes, exhaust fumes and car horns.

Adams noticed the pretty French girl who lived above the banque.  She was passing along Doc Lap, on her way home.  He used to often see her when he guarded that street corner, but had not seen her now for months.  She was tall and lithe, a certain air and breeziness about her. Oh, he admired the Vietnamese girls, too, but they had a fragile, almost doll-like aura.  But this one, this French girl, was a rare emerald among the other gems.  She always smiled and spoke in her lovely accent and he had wondered about her, about her history.  What brought her family here in a time of conflict, to this city and to this part of the world?  She was the only woman to ever call him monsieur and he instantly became infatuated.  Other guards spoke of her with obvious lust.  Adams, on the other hand, held her in high regard.  He was a gentleman. 

From an English to French phrase book, he had memorized ‘Good afternoon, miss.  It’s a lovely day.’  He practiced the phrase repeatedly until he knew it by heart, as he awaited their next encounter.

Bonjour, le coup manqué. C'est un jour charmant, he would smile and say in his most dashing manner.  He had not planned what he would say next, and he was not certain his phrasing was correct, but he hoped it would charm her enough so she would reply in English.  But, alas, he never stood watch on that street corner again and the phrase had gone unspoken.

She crossed the intersection and disappeared inside the banque. 

After the procession passed, Parker crossed Doc Lap, went up a block and hung a left.  A short ways down, they pulled up in front of the yellow-walled Navy Public Works villa at 17 Yen Bay.

Cooke came over and leaned on the jeep.  Yen Bay was a good guard post; on the edge of the commercial district where many young ladies passed on their way to somewhere.  Cooke enjoyed watching them and striking up an occasional conversation.

Now as he spoke to Parker, a pair of pretty girls passed gracefully on Mopeds.  The young ladies looked regal with their coal black hair and the tails of their colorful ao dais fluttering like butterflies in the breeze.  The men watched until the girls had disappeared down the street. 

Mendiola, A Filipino draftsman who worked in the building called out hello as he returned from lunch.  He waved and went inside.

You should check that Viet’s identification, Parker admonished. 

He’s not Viet, Cooke said.  He’s Filipino.

You should check him anyway.  We don’t want the enemy to get inside.

Cooke scowled. 

Things aren’t always what they seem. It’s best not to jump to conclusions.

I’m just saying you should be more careful about letting them go unchecked.  There are rules, you know.

In some cases, some rules should be overlooked. There’s no point in me wasting my time or his.

What do you think, Adams?  Parker asked.  He believed petty officers should stick together on such important issues.  It was up to them to set the example for impertinent young sailors. His partner seemed preoccupied, so he nudged him.  Adams?

As much as I hate to, I agree with Cooke, Adams said.  He was watching a heavily made up young lady barter for a bowl of fried rice from a vendor, in front of the OK Hotel.  She seemed attractive from this distance, but he couldn’t be sure under all of her make up.  She paid the mama-san for the bowl of rice and went back inside the hotel.  Adams really didn’t care which way the discussion went and who won.  If you want my opinion, I think most rules are simply meant to be a guide.

Parker shook his head and sighed.

There was no rush to go on about the day so they sat there killing time. The afternoon was young and there was no need to do their rounds again until later.

A small waif in grimy clothing came by selling sodas so Adams and Cooke each bought a locally bottled Coca-cola.  Parker declined, having heard oft-repeated tales of the Viet Cong putting ground glass in Coke bottles to incapacitate unsuspecting Americans.

You’re risking your safety, Parker cautioned.

Do you personally know anyone who swallowed broken glass? Adams said.

I’ve heard...

Do you know of anyone?

Parker had come to Vietnam as a 2nd class petty officer and had never stood these lonesome, solitary watches.  He had never stood watches in pouring monsoon downpours nor in blistering days with the sun beating unmercifully.  Drunken conversations in the club spread rumors of broken glass in sodas and popsicles, but finding anyone who had experienced such devilry was as elusive as seeing the Loch Ness Monster. 

After some deliberation, Parker gave in and said, Give me a Coke, too.

Adams let the two of them banter the urban legends about, as the image of the pretty French girl kept passing through his thoughts. 

He had stood the Yen Bay watch a few times before he made rate.  He enjoyed the activity that seemed to prevail along this street, especially the activity a few doors down at the OK Hotel. Watching people come and go, slipping in and out of the hotel, made the time pass quickly. Admittedly this was a good location, but Adams was glad he’d made rate and no longer stood watch at these posts.

Banh mi!  Banh mi! A bread vendor sang out as she passed.  Cooke beckoned, paid five piasters and took one of the baguettes of fresh French bread from the canvas sling she carried over her shoulder. 

Adams sat quietly, looking straight ahead.  Something had caught his attention in front of the OK Hotel, the nondescript concrete building about forty yards away. 

Of the half dozen or so hotels in Da Nang, it was one of the largest, but also one of the least inviting.  Its reputation leaned more toward recreation than to rest.  Few westerners stayed there, except for very brief and passionate visits.  For now, Adams’ attention was focused on two scantily dressed young ladies who had stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

A couple pedicabs with their hoods drawn up had pulled over to the curb nearest the hotel, partially blocking the view down the street. 

Adams was always leery over here.  A while back a woman had detonated a satchel charge in the Navy Foreign Claims Office, next door to the hotel.  It had blown out part of the front wall.  No one ever determined if she was VC or merely a disgruntled person who had a beef over a claim against the U.S. Government.  He peered beyond the pedicabs to see if anything was amiss at Foreign Claims. 

From inside the hotel lobby, the young women looked first one way, looked the other and then motioned toward the pedicabs. Adams’ attention diverted, all he saw was a quick flash of olive green as two or three figures darted into the hotel with the young women right behind.  It was obvious these weren’t sappers.  He instantly realized what was going on, but opted to keep his mouth shut to his partner.

Nevertheless it was too late.  Parker looked up just in time to see the same thing.

Did you see that?  Some GIs went in the hotel!

I didn’t see a thing, Adams said. 

"How could you