The ghosts of Vietnam drift through Iraq. Denied and dispelled by advocates of the war, they slink back in the “mission creep”, “quagmire” and “bodybag” accusations of the conflict’s critics.

On the north bank of the Euphrates on Sunday they gathered again, chattering through the rotorblade throb of two overhead Hueys; whispering through the tall rush beds dividing the paddy fields and irrigation ditches; lurking beneath the palm trees and shadows thrown by a fat orange sun; echoing the words of the young American soldier driving Bravo Company’s commander to the start line of the day’s sweep-and-search mission.

“My father was in the special forces in Vietnam,” Private Scott Carlisle, 25, said. “He did four tours there between 1969 and 1973. He was shot in the Mekong Delta, but survived, hiding beneath the body of one of his buddies after his platoon took 90 per cent casualties and the VC went through them, finishing off the survivors.

“He was a great soldier,” he added, “but a lousy husband and an even worse father. He died when he was 48. He lived life hard.”

It was early morning. Private Carlisle and more than 100 other Bravo Company troops of the 44th Engineer Battalion, 2nd Infantry Division — backed by Abrams tanks, Bradley fighting vehicles and Humvees — were deploying on Operation Bear, a lengthy mission to search for the weapons caches of an otherwise invisible enemy. Across the oily brown, slow-moving expanse of the Euphrates sat the city of Ramadi, obscured by a line of palms and thick vegetation.

A hotbed of insurgent activity, the area has taken the lives of 41 soldiers and wounded 300 more of the 5,500 men in Private Carlisle’s brigade since they deployed to Ramadi in September.

Dismounting from their vehicles, the American sappers moved forward in lines across the paddy fields, some bearing mine detectors, all laden with up to 60lb of equipment, including their M16s, grenades, 9mm pistols and ammunition. The sun climbed and the heat bore down.

Of combat-age Iraqi men, there was no sign. Instead, as the American search lines converged on the few dismal farmsteads, they found only goats, chickens, women and children.

“Seen any suspicious activity in the area?” Captain Duncan Smith, a civil affairs officer whose father served twice in Vietnam, asked the women through an interpreter. The answers were identical: “No, nothing.”

“Where are your menfolk?”

“Away at work.”

“It’s always the same,” Captain Smith said. “Ninety-nine per cent of the time they tell you nothing, and the men have all skidaddled at the first sign of the military.”

A child offered him an orange. He accepted it, smiled and turned away. “Better not suck it in case it explodes,” he quipped.

Four Small Unit Reconnaissance Craft, crewed by Marines and engineers, joined the operation. Bristling with mounted machineguns, the small boats careered across the river from bank to bank, their heavy wash slapping at the reed beds.

“Just like Apocalypse Now, except without the grass and acid,” a US Marine sergeant murmered as he watched the boats’ progress.

Soon one of the craft discovered a large weapons cache of mortar rounds and 130mm shells concealed on the bankside. They blew it up.

The blast reverberated up the river. A short discussion ensued between the craft’s crew and the sappers’ commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Tommy Mize.

“We usually sink all the Iraqi boats along the banks when we find a cache,” a Marine said.

“Well you’re not sinking all the boats today,” Colonel Mize replied.

By late afternoon a brooding tiredness had settled on the soldiers. No longer were the search lines straight and true. They began to break, waver and lag. Up the dykes and across the ditches they continued, though, under the palms, through the overgrown orchards, past the abandoned farms and the women without men, their energy waning as the shadows lengthened.

Then contact. A sudden burst of gunfire, joined by another, then another, and the nought-to-ninety-in-a-second rip and roar of the adrenalin rush that momentarily leaves the mind cartwheeling in its wake.

Fire in front, then gunshots across one flank, joined momentarily by another; soldiers piling into ditches, a Huey overhead, its machinegun blazing away.

Concealed insurgents, lying on both banks, had ambushed one of the craft and turned their fire on to Bravo Company. In the boat, a sapper was hit in the neck and killed, another wounded.

The craft fired back and in the turrets of two Bravo Company Humvees machine-gunners joined the fray. Beside his commander’s vehicle, Private Carlisle dropped to the ground and raised his M16. He saw two men in the undergrowth ahead of him and opened fire.

An hour later, long after the gunfire had finished, confusion reigned still. As news of the casualties spread, the men’s mood sank palpably, except for Private Carlisle.

“I got one,” he exclaimed.

Beside him an Iraqi interpreter muttered: “Cool it, cool it.”

“I didn’t even have to think about it,” the private continued. “We took fire, I dropped down, took aim, saw two guys running, opened up and one fell. I don’t just think I got him — I know it. Man, was that exciting.”

Of the insurgents there was no sign. And the murmur of the Mekong whispered again.

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