CAN THO FERRY

By Randy Randall

We were stopped in a line of trucks waiting for the ferry to Can Tho. Even though the military had priority, a line of vehicles three or four klicks long would form up waiting for a turn to rumble aboard the huge car ferries that crossed the Mekong River. I was riding shotgun along with three other guards on our deuce and a half truck. We were on our weekly supply run to the navy depot in Can Tho, and we were armed with M-16s and sidearms so that we could defend the cases of beer and soda we’d be hauling back to our little riverine navy base.

The Vietnamese truckers and farmers would sometimes have to wait for days before they got their chance on the ferry. We’d see the men congregated in little groups all squatting on the road beside their idle trucks, sipping tea and smoking cigarettes.

The ferry landing was jammed with people. The myriad of colors and raucous sounds and sweet smells were overwhelming, just like any third-world marketplace. A small impromptu village had grown up at the ferry landing with entire families living beneath blue tarps, army ponchos, and sheet metal roofing. Kids, dogs, chickens, and pigs roamed everywhere among the waiting vehicles. Street vendors lined the gravel roadside, peddling everything from cleverly disguised marijuana cigarettes to fruit and fish and beer. Prostitutes strolled from truck to truck, working their way down the line, and, squatting near their little hibachi stoves, old mama-sans fanned the charcoal with their conical hats, bringing the noodles they had for sale to a roiling boil. We passed our time visiting the shopkeepers’ stalls, searching for black-market truck parts to replace the ones that we had requisitioned from supply weeks ago but that had never made it to our little Navy detachment.

Can Tho is the major city in the heart of the Mekong Delta, and the two ferries which plied the river were huge boats. Like most modes of transportation in third-world nations, these boats were always crammed to the limit with humanity and overflowed with produce, farm goods, pigs, chickens, children, motorcycles, cyclos, and hundreds of bicycles. The ferry landing was a sorry affair made out of steel and concrete. Bomb damage had been poorly repaired, and the whole structure was hung together with native ingenuity and hay wire. The landing was a concrete float barely large enough to hold a few cars and bicycles. All around us the road teemed with activity as people shouted and bargained, and toothless old women boldly approached our truck, hawking fresh lemonade and coconut juice.

Amid all this chaos and turmoil a WW II military Jeep came scooting up along the road, driving past all the parked trucks and pushing people out of the way. The driver laid on the horn and waived people aside with his hands. We watched fascinated. It was a Vietnamese general. The Jeep had been polished so it gleamed, and we saw the two stars painted on the fenders. Obviously the general was on a mission vital to the war and was exercising his rank and privilege to go to the head of the line. They even went past the head of the line, driving the Jeep down the loading ramp and parking directly on the landing platform so that they could be the very first ones on the ferry. And there they waited. For the moment life returned to normal while everyone waited and watched the huge car ferry growing larger and larger in the distance as it plowed its way across the mighty Mekong.

In time the double-decker ferry slowly approached the landing platform, the loading ramp was lowered, and a flood of Vietnamese society streamed off the ship and up onto the road. People toting bundles, farmers pushing carts loaded with produce, mothers carrying little children on their hips, little girls carrying even smaller children on their hips, hundreds of people pushing bicycles, young men driving their Honda motorcycles, and sitting sidesaddle on the back, young Vietnamese women in their beautiful white flowing ao dai, demurely holding their conical hats on their heads. All the while the powerful ferry kept its engines turning slowly, holding the bow of the ship firmly against the dock.

Behind the mêlée of people, we heard vehicle engines being started on the ferry. Likewise, the trucks and jeeps waiting in line started up in preparation for driving onto the boat. That’s when we became aware of the two U.S. army semi-trailer trucks parked on the lower deck. We watched as the driver fired up his diesel and began to maneuver the massive rig off the ferry and up on to the road. Slowly he began to inch the truck forward to make the turn onto the dock. But there was no room to swing. He couldn’t get off the boat. The general’s jeep was blocking the way.

Again the driver spun the wheel and backed and pulled ahead and swung again, but still the trailer wouldn’t clear. We could hear the engine idle and race as the driver stomped on the accelerator venting his frustration. You might think that the general would have taken the hint and politely pulled away, but nothing doing. The general stood his ground. We all thought his driver was looking a little anxious.

Presently the truck driver shut down the engine and climbed up onto the fender of his truck. The driver was a black army private. You could see the pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his green army tee shirt. Around his wrist he wore a “brothers” band woven from combat boot shoelaces. Suddenly the background clamor of the ferry landing quieted. The GI stood on the hood of his truck and lectured the general.

“You move that friggin’ jeep off’n this dock right now sucker, or I’m a going to shove you right into the friggin’ river. You hearing me? Get that friggin’ jeep outta here. When I come up this ramp next time I ain’t stoppin’. You better get your friggn’ Vietnamese ass outta there if you don’t want to get wet.”

It was a great speech. Worthy of Muhammad Ali—short, emphatic, and to the point. And it ended with a definite call to action. The private was an expert. You may imagine all the cussing and profanity and color he brought to bear in his language. He used many phrases that began with the words “mother” and “son.” He was one angry soldier in the middle of a war. He had a problem to solve, and it didn’t matter a wit to him that his audience probably didn’t understand a word of English.

With that the brother jumped down, climbed into the cab, and fired up his engine. Black diesel smoke belched from the exhaust. He crammed the gears searching for low-low. Then he began to pull ahead.

For a few silent seconds the world seemed to stand still. Nothing moved except the mighty Mekong flowing forever to the South China Sea. Then the general’s driver slammed the jeep into reverse and wisely beat a hasty retreat up the loading ramp.

“Yeah, man! Way to go!” we shouted. We knew the brother had been speaking for all of us.

The massive truck with engine roaring and gears clashing came crawling up over the loading ramp and moved slowly down the roadway alongside all the parked trucks and vehicles. You could hear the GIs cheer and shout as the army driver eased on by.

And that was it. One image from a war captured in memory and recalled even with a slight smile. In one brief moment we’d witnessed a clash of culture, a conflict between classes, and the low life had won out. The Vietnamese general was no match for a streetwise kid from Philadelphia with a pack of Winstons rolled up in his shirt sleeve, a five-hundred-horsepower engine in his hands, and an attitude.

We smiled easily at each other, feeling good about ourselves as we rode the ferry across the Mekong.

“You know,” one of the guys said. “Someone should give that brother a medal.”   

 

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