A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy by Thomas J. Cutler Page B

gauntlet practically unscathed. The boats were pockmarked and holed, but miraculously no men were injured, all weapons were still working, and the engines were intact. Williams called on the radio for assistance from Navy Seawolf helicopters. Among the myriad troop-carrying sampans behind him, he had spotted several good-sized junks he suspected were carrying ammunition and supplies. Those and the troops remaining would make good hunting for the helicopter gunships.
    Clear of the havoc, Williams slowed the patrol, intending to move on down the canal a safe distance and wait for the Seawolves before taking on that armada again. The PBRs cruised on for about 150 yards. The men on the boats were just beginning to relax when, after a right turn, they found themselves confronted by yet another imposing concentration of junks, sampans, and troops, even larger than the first. Prudence might have dictated that the PBRs should back off and wait for the Seawolves, but Williams never hesitated. He jammed on full power and headed in for an encore.
    With the roar of the engines resonating off the banks of the canal, guns hammering relentlessly, and wakes boiling up behind them, the PBRs charged into battle. As in their previous encounter, they caught the NVA unprepared. The canal erupted in shooting, shouting, and explosions. Bulletsslapped the water on both sides of the 105, and fragments of fiberglass flew in every direction. Death was poised everywhere. But the Americans roared on through, their weapons chewing up sampans and felling enemy soldiers.
    PBRs 105 and 99 emerged from the battle area, once again essentially intact, leaving a swath of destruction in their wake. But the battle had not yet ended. The radio came alive, announcing the arrival of the Seawolves. The pilots had made a pass over the two enemy staging areas that Williams’s PBRs had passed through, and the lead pilot told Williams that the NVA was still there and that there were plenty of them left.
    Williams replied, “I want y’all to go in there and hold a field day on them guys.”
    â€œWilco,” agreed the helicopter commander, adding, “What are your intentions?”
    Williams hollered, “Well, I damn sure ain’t goin’ to stay here! I’m goin’ back through.” And once again the 105 and 99 tore through the North Vietnamese regiments, this time with Seawolf support.
    The helicopters swooped over the area again and again, 7.62-mm ammunition cascading from their M-60s. Rockets leaped from their side-mounted pods into the troop-infested jungle. Williams took full advantage of the PBRs’ extraordinary maneuverability as he ran his craft among the enemy like a skier on an Olympic slalom. He had guessed right about the junks: the secondary explosions that erupted from the four that the PBRs and the helicopters nailed sent debris rocketing one thousand feet into the air. Williams pressed the attack relentlessly, undeterred by the maze of bullets and rockets and mortar rounds. As darkness came, the battle raged on, and Williams ordered the PBRs’ searchlights turned on. When the water was finally devoid of targets, Williams drove in close to the shore seeking the enemy.
    The whole battle had lasted more than three hours. The final assessment revealed that the NVA had lost hundreds of men. Sixty-five enemy vessels had been destroyed, and many prisoners were taken. Williams discovered a small piece of shrapnel in his side after the battle was over. Binder had taken a bullet through the wrist, which passed cleanly through the flesh and had not broken any bones. These were the only American casualties.
    On 13 May 1968, in ceremonies held at the Pentagon, President Lyndon Johnson was having difficulty fastening the snaps at the back of the cravat of the Medal of Honor as he attempted to place it around the neck of James Elliott Williams. The struggling president said into Williams’s ear, “Damn, Williams,