The salty sea air carried the scent of oil and sweat as the landing craft rocked in the choppy waters just off the Vietnamese coast. Sergeant Jack Callahan wiped the grime from his forehead and squinted toward the shoreline. Red Beach. A thin strip of land, golden in the afternoon sun, marked by scattered palm trees and the occasional dark shape of a bunker half-buried in the sand.
Behind him, the rumbling of engines and the clanking of metal filled the humid air as rows of jeeps, their olive-drab exteriors covered in salt spray, stood ready to roll onto the beach. The USS Durham had brought them across the Pacific, and now, on April 10, 1965, they were about to touch Vietnamese soil.
Corporal Jimmy Ruiz leaned against the side of one of the jeeps, flicking the last bit of his cigarette into the water. “Feels real now, don’t it, Sarge?” he muttered, eyes scanning the jungle beyond the sand.
Jack sighed. “Yeah. Real as hell.”
The ramp of the landing craft slammed down onto the shore with a metallic thud. At once, the drivers revved their engines, and one by one, the jeeps began rolling forward, tires splashing through the shallow surf before gripping the dry sand. Jack swung up into the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, gripping the side rail as the jeep bounced onto solid ground.
“Welcome to Vietnam,” their captain, a grizzled officer named Hendricks, called out from another jeep. “Stay sharp, and don’t get comfortable. We’re moving out soon.”
Jack exchanged a glance with Ruiz. There was no mistaking the tension in the air. They had come prepared for the worst, but no one really knew what lay ahead. Just the distant rattle of gunfire, the thick heat pressing down on them, and the uneasy knowledge that the jungle was watching.
As the last jeep rolled off the landing craft, Jack looked back at the sea, the retreating ship, and the dwindling sense of safety it represented. Then, turning toward the road leading into Da Nang, he braced himself for whatever came next.
