Review of Deadly Waters: The Vietnam Naval War And Its Aftermath
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Rudiah Mbera
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Review of Deadly Waters: The Vietnam Naval War And Its Aftermath
[Following is a volunteer review of "Deadly Waters: The Vietnam Naval War And Its Aftermath" by Randy Miller.]
Something that struck me early while reading Deadly Waters was how the ship’s structure mirrored the emotional currents of the story—layers of hierarchy, moments of breakdown, and a tight sense of isolation. The book doesn’t try to clean up the messy parts of military life. If anything, it leans into them. What stood out wasn’t just the action or setting, but how much of the tension came from within—between ranks, between personal belief and orders, between comrades, and even between enemies who never spoke face to face. I think what hooked me more than I expected was how clearly the story lets that internal friction rub against the outer one—especially through scenes like the near-miss during replenishment or the haunting calm of a silent enemy watching from a sampan.
The incident between Palmer and Moretti is a good example. When Palmer reacts quickly to a dangerous shift during fueling and probably saves the Hawke from a serious hit, you expect some recognition. Instead, he gets chewed out for not waiting for orders. And the strange thing is, the lieutenant doesn't remove him—he stays at the helm. That contradiction says a lot. It’s about control, optics, protocol—and none of that feels safe in moments where milliseconds matter. I kept thinking how often military fiction misses that kind of realism. Here, though, it feels honest. Everyone’s following the same manual, but not all of them are reading the same war.
Something else I wasn’t expecting, but appreciated more with each chapter, was the way Miller gives space to Lieutenant Diep and the men on the other side of the water. There’s a sequence where Diep, exhausted and fed up with his own team’s fragility, tries to sneak a heavily loaded sampan past patrol. He’s calculating, spiritual, and ruthless—but not in a villainous way. His thoughts have weight. He wonders why the spirits haven’t protected him. He knows attacking the Hawke would be suicide. He thinks about death without chasing it. I didn’t feel like I was reading a profile of the enemy—I felt like I was reading about another person trapped in the same storm, steering a different kind of sinking ship. That addition gives the whole narrative a deeper moral landscape. It also makes it harder to pick sides. Which I think is the point.
On a personal level, the friendship between Zack, Bill, and Gerd really stayed with me. Maybe it’s because of how steadily it grows, not through grand gestures, but through weather-beaten routines, bad food, shared silences, and later, the way they hold each other up when Zack starts to slip. Gerd's reaction to Zack’s illness was one of the most moving parts for me. It didn’t feel written for drama—it felt like something a real person would carry, quietly, for the rest of their life. That kind of brotherhood doesn’t come across as romanticized here. It’s exhausted, angry, loyal, and real.
If I had to nudge one thing, it would be how underwritten the female characters are—Tally especially. She shows up in key emotional moments, but I wanted more of her voice. She’s not a shallow character, but we only see glimpses—mostly when things are already unraveling. I’m not saying the book needed a balance of perspectives for balance’s sake, but Zack’s world outside the Navy feels like it revolves around her, and yet we never really get to know how she saw him, or what the weight of everything meant to her personally. It could’ve added another kind of intimacy to the story.
Still, I’m giving it a full 5 out of 5 stars. That missing layer didn’t dull the emotional power of what’s here. This book says a lot about systems—about how they bend, break, and how the people inside them survive anyway. But it also does something that stuck with me: it humanizes both the sailor afraid to pull the trigger and the enemy hoping he won’t have to. In my opinion, that’s a rare thing for a war book to pull off without tipping into sentiment or blame. It left me thinking, which might be the highest compliment I can give it.
******
Deadly Waters: The Vietnam Naval War And Its Aftermath
View: on Bookshelves | on Amazon
Something that struck me early while reading Deadly Waters was how the ship’s structure mirrored the emotional currents of the story—layers of hierarchy, moments of breakdown, and a tight sense of isolation. The book doesn’t try to clean up the messy parts of military life. If anything, it leans into them. What stood out wasn’t just the action or setting, but how much of the tension came from within—between ranks, between personal belief and orders, between comrades, and even between enemies who never spoke face to face. I think what hooked me more than I expected was how clearly the story lets that internal friction rub against the outer one—especially through scenes like the near-miss during replenishment or the haunting calm of a silent enemy watching from a sampan.
The incident between Palmer and Moretti is a good example. When Palmer reacts quickly to a dangerous shift during fueling and probably saves the Hawke from a serious hit, you expect some recognition. Instead, he gets chewed out for not waiting for orders. And the strange thing is, the lieutenant doesn't remove him—he stays at the helm. That contradiction says a lot. It’s about control, optics, protocol—and none of that feels safe in moments where milliseconds matter. I kept thinking how often military fiction misses that kind of realism. Here, though, it feels honest. Everyone’s following the same manual, but not all of them are reading the same war.
Something else I wasn’t expecting, but appreciated more with each chapter, was the way Miller gives space to Lieutenant Diep and the men on the other side of the water. There’s a sequence where Diep, exhausted and fed up with his own team’s fragility, tries to sneak a heavily loaded sampan past patrol. He’s calculating, spiritual, and ruthless—but not in a villainous way. His thoughts have weight. He wonders why the spirits haven’t protected him. He knows attacking the Hawke would be suicide. He thinks about death without chasing it. I didn’t feel like I was reading a profile of the enemy—I felt like I was reading about another person trapped in the same storm, steering a different kind of sinking ship. That addition gives the whole narrative a deeper moral landscape. It also makes it harder to pick sides. Which I think is the point.
On a personal level, the friendship between Zack, Bill, and Gerd really stayed with me. Maybe it’s because of how steadily it grows, not through grand gestures, but through weather-beaten routines, bad food, shared silences, and later, the way they hold each other up when Zack starts to slip. Gerd's reaction to Zack’s illness was one of the most moving parts for me. It didn’t feel written for drama—it felt like something a real person would carry, quietly, for the rest of their life. That kind of brotherhood doesn’t come across as romanticized here. It’s exhausted, angry, loyal, and real.
If I had to nudge one thing, it would be how underwritten the female characters are—Tally especially. She shows up in key emotional moments, but I wanted more of her voice. She’s not a shallow character, but we only see glimpses—mostly when things are already unraveling. I’m not saying the book needed a balance of perspectives for balance’s sake, but Zack’s world outside the Navy feels like it revolves around her, and yet we never really get to know how she saw him, or what the weight of everything meant to her personally. It could’ve added another kind of intimacy to the story.
Still, I’m giving it a full 5 out of 5 stars. That missing layer didn’t dull the emotional power of what’s here. This book says a lot about systems—about how they bend, break, and how the people inside them survive anyway. But it also does something that stuck with me: it humanizes both the sailor afraid to pull the trigger and the enemy hoping he won’t have to. In my opinion, that’s a rare thing for a war book to pull off without tipping into sentiment or blame. It left me thinking, which might be the highest compliment I can give it.
******
Deadly Waters: The Vietnam Naval War And Its Aftermath
View: on Bookshelves | on Amazon
