DEAR MOM, I'M ALIVE
by
Randolph P. Mains

Avon Books New York

Copyright c 1992 by Randolph P. Mains

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DEAR MOM, I'M ALIVE is an original publication of Avon Books. This
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-92454

ISBN: 0-380-76568-3

First Avon Books Printing--June 1992

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"Death has but one terror: that it has no tomorrow." -Eric Hoffer,
The Passionate State of Mind

CONTENTS
Author's Note

1. October 1968 Point of No Return

2. Change of Assignment

3. November 1968 Sulak's C-Ration Grenade

4. December 1968 Merry Christmas, Ernest James

5. January 1969 Cobras in the Shit House

6. February 1969 General Patton and the Buffalo BBQ

7. March 1969 "Dear Mom: Your Son's a Star!"

8. April 1969 R&R "Back in the USSR"

9. May 1969 Assault on Hamburger Hill

10. June 1969 Tigers, Elephants, Deer, and ROKS

11. July 1969 Miniskirts, Flares, and a General Court-Martial

12. August 1969 Poetic Karma Strikes the Brass

13. September 1969 Ushering Back a Lost Tradition

14. October 1969 "One in Three, Candidate. One in Three!"

Glossary

Author's Note

The idea for this book came to me one evening when my mother and
I were drinking coffee after dinner in the living room of her
tiny California apartment. She stood up from her chair,
suddenly remembering something and, with the aid of a cane to
help steady her, following a stroke that had left one leg
partially paralyzed, she made her way to an antique desk in a
corner of the room. With trembling hands she reached into one of
the cluttered alcoves and pulled out a thick stack of letters
wrapped neatly with rubber bands.

"I thought that one day you might like to read these. They are
all the letters you sent me while you were in Vietnam," she
said, placing the packet in my lap.

I looked at the postmark of the top letter. It was dated 20
October 1968. The return. address was Cam Ranh Bay. It was
the first letter I had sent home. I unwrapped the rubber bands
and carefully thumbed through the faded envelopes. The
addresses were written in my hand, the small picture of Vietnam
occupying the left side of many of those purchased in the PX
there, and in the right-hand corner, where the stamp would
normally be, the word
"FREE." The suddenly renewed acquaintance
with these letters spirited my mind back to a time saturated
with electric emotions, the source of my most personal memories.

Mom had told me many times over the years that she still had
them. But I had never before had the interest or the
inclination to reread what I'd written during those turbulent
times. Twenty years had passed. I was now curious. I did not
read the letters that night. Instead, I saved
them for- the long airplane flight back to the
Middle East. Something unexpected happened to me when I did
finally read those letters. Their contents triggered
recollections and feelings that had been pushed back in the deep
recesses, of my mind and left dormant over the last twenty
years. The memories were always there, unexamined, I knew that.
My memory, a mirror that had been etched in the distant past
by a year of diamond-hard experiences, only needed to be dusted
off to reveal the scars the Ordeal had left. Reading those
letters was like dusting off that mirror. They brought back
almost entirely the adventures as if an instant replay of my
year over there as a twenty-two-year-old warrant officer
helicopter pilot was suddenly brought into focus.

Those letters had been something more tangible than mere words
scribbled on a page. Twenty years ago each letter arrived in
turn to 21601 Kaneohe Lane, Huntington Beach, California to give
strength to an anxiously waiting family at home. Some of the
letters described in great detail what I was doing at the time I
wrote them. Many did not. As I read each one on the plane, I
remembered the name we had for such letters in Vietnam. "I'm
Alive" letters. Everyone over there wrote them. The most
important thing about them was the date in bold letters written
on the upper right-hand corner. Each letter had one. When my
family received a letter they knew I was alive on that date.
That was the significance of each letter. That was their true
value.

When I returned to civilian life after the army, I quickly
learned what the public's sentiment was toward veterans of that
war. During my first week back at college a nineteen-year-old
girl, who could not have been more than sixteen at the time I
was serving over there, called me a "baby killer" to my face
when she found out I'd flown helicopters in Vietnam. After that
experience I decided not to tell anyone I had fought in the war.
It was better to consider the ordeal a closed chapter in my life
and begin again. It was senseless to argue. It was easier to
remain silent than to have confrontations with people who did
not understand. Now veterans are beginning to talk.

Author's Note I am frequently asked now, "What was it really
like over there?" In this book I have attempted to supply the
answer. It is the true story of one helicopter pilot's year in
Vietnam. The events happened exactly as I have detailed them
here and are chronologically correct to the best of my
recollection. The people described in this work are real
people. I have changed many of the names to preserve their
anonymity.

I dedicate this book to the one person who's always stood by me,
who has never lost faith in me. I dedicate this book to you,
Mom.

CHAPTER 1.

October 15, 1968

Point of No Return.

The inside of the stretch DC-8 looked like a sea of green. There were
288 of us flying somewhere over the Pacific, bound for the same
destination-Vietnam. Most of the men were infantrymen, "grunts." A few
of us were pilots.

Bob Lawson, my roommate through flight school, was seated next to me,
staring out the window into the blackness. Stu Lindsey, another
classmate, was sitting on my right, thumbing through a Time magazine and
chewing aggressively on a Life Saver. The tension building up among the
men was thick enough to slice with a bayonet. We were traveling more
than nine miles a minute, each minute bringing us that much closer to
war.

Up until now the war had been an intangible thing, hairy stories told by
instructor pilots who had been there and were lucky enough to return.
The war headlines in the newspapers, or moving pictures on the six
o'clock news. The war was statistics, numbers, a daily tally of the men
fighting over there. Cold numbers, not warm-blooded fighting men. The
war was body counts. Men killed on both sides. It was not yet real. But
it was about to become our reality. Soon we would become part of it,
irrevocably affected by it. In less than two hours we would become part
of the statistical machine.

I looked around at my fellow passengers, most of whom were exactly like
myself-young and inexperienced, leaving home for the first time and
heading for this totally alien assignment. I imagined that their heads
were also filled with questions right now. Questions like, what in the
holy fuck am I doing here? Would I ever see my family again? My mom, my
seventeen-year-old sister, Nancy, my five-year-old sister, Andrea, my
stepfather, Howard, or my real fathers Would I ever take carefree drives
in my sports car up Coast Highway again? Had I seen my girlfriend,
Michelle, for the,last time? What about my closest friend, college
buddy, and surfing companion, Greg Omberg? Would I ever ride a wave with
him again? But the main question gnawing at my gut was what would it be
like to fly in combat?

I'd heard the stories in flight school, plenty of them, of how
helicopters fell from the Southeast Asian sky like raindrops, brought
down by everything from rocketpropelled grenades RPGS, to spears and
arrows. Would I be brave enough to face the enemy's bullets in hot
landing zones""LZS," or would I chicken out and, finally, one day rip
the wings off my chest and, refusing to fly, throw them on my commanding
officer's desk?

The only way a man can answer those kinds of questions is trial by fire.
I would know soon enough.

The words "One in three, candidate, one in three kept ringing in my
ears. The men sitting on either side of me, Bob Lawson, and Stu Lindsey,
were buddies of mine since we took our oath to join the army at the
reception station in Los Angeles a year ago. Two months before we had
stood with twenty other warrant officer candidates braced at attention
in the polished halls of the candidate's billets at Fort Rucker,
Alabama. Wearing stiffly starched fatigues and spit-shined combat boots,
our backs and heads were pressed hard against the walls, bodies rigid,
eyes locked forward. Chief Warrant Officer Wilson, our hardass tactical
officer, walked down the hall and screamed into each of our faces, "Look
around you, candidates, and look around good, cuz one in three ain't
comin' back. That's one in three, gentlemen!" He held up a stubby finger
for effect. "That's a statistic you'd better learn to live with!

I would not now be facing the one-in-three odds of being killed if it
had not been for my love of flying, I thought. Most small boys grow up
with a fascination for airplanes and flying. That's normal. Some say
it's a disease caused by the "flying bug." Like most childhood diseases
the body's defenses take over, kill the offending organism, and you get
well. I had my fair share of childhood maladies mumps, measles, chicken
pox, flu, and colds-but I never recovered when I was attacked by the
flying bug. I was not merely bitten by the little sucker, I was devoured
by him.

By the time I was four years old I knew I was going to be a pilot, and
that was that, Period. At four years old I owned a rusty old airplane
that my dad bought me secondhand. I used to spend hours pedaling it
around the back yard. That two-tone, silver and rust airplane with the
bent wings and broken propeller used to fuel my childhood fantasies for
hours. It would fly me around the world and always deliver me back home
safely just before Mom would call me to dinner.

When I was a little older, and not building airplane models in my
bedroom, I used to sneak off to the local airport. I would sit under the
approach path and watch the F-86 Saber jets come in for landings.

One afternoon I found a hole in the airport fence. I crawled under it
and discovered I could make a game out of dodging airport security
guards on patrol. I made my way across the airport and found an area
surrounded by a chain-Iiiik fence. On the other side sat several
scrapped B-25 Mitchell bombers with gear up, lying on their bellies.
They were the type of airplane my dad used to fly during the Second
World War. Trying to contain my excitement, I quickly scaled the fence
and climbed into the cockpit of one of the planes It had that
unmistakable aircraft smell of dripping oil, leaking hydraulic fluid,
and old sweat. The odor somehow signified it was a real airplane, not
the make-believe machines I used to fabricate in my friend's attic out
of cardboard boxes and the steering wheel from an old car.

Once I'd made the discovery of the old planes, I would often sneak to
the airport to experience the thrill of sitting in the pilot's seat. I'd
flick on the overhead switches, imagining I was starting the two radial
engines and hearing them roar to life. I'd imagine taxiing for takeoff,
take the wheel in my hands, push the throttles to the fire wall, then
pull back on the control yoke and fantasize about soaring to altitude
and flying combat missions over foreign lands somewhere far, far away. I
would be fighting side by side with men like John Wayne, Van Johnson, or
Jimmy Stewart. But in the end, in my mind, it was always just me, and me
alone, locked in some deadly air battle. The battle had to be won for
God and country. The stakes were always all or nothing. I had to win it,
or freedom for all would be lost. And in my childhood daydreams, as I
had learned from the movies, because I was an American on the side of
God and righteousness, I could never lose.

My overwhelming urge to fly was never satisfied by my vivid imagination.
I tried all the usual stunts kids try to defy gravity. I tied one end of
a sheet to the belt loops of my Levis and held the free ends over my
head. I then jumped off the garage roof to the grass with my makeshift
parachute. Before that I ruined my grandfather's umbrella by jumping off
the same roof holding it over my head. It immediately inverted and
collapsed as in a Road Runner cartoon.

When I was twelve I thought I had the ultimate answer for getting
airborne. In the secrecy of my garage I constructed a crude airplane
from an equally crude soapbox racer I'd made a week earlier. With wooden
wings covered in fabric, old sheets that my mom had given me, I pulled
the contraption up Plummer Hill for a test flight.

Sitting in the cockpit at the top of the hill, with a rock wedged under
the rear wheel, I made my preparations. I cinched the seat belt tight
around my waist. It was a Cub Scout belt cut in half and nailed to each
side of where the driver (pilot) sat. I gave one last tug on the chin
strap of my Los Angeles Rams football helmet thinking that it would
protect me in the event of a crash from the great height I knew I would
attain.

I took a firm grip on the rope steering, which I held like the reins of
a horse. There was no way to guide the craft if it did get airborne, but
I hadn't thought -of that. I figured I would just lean in the direction
I wanted to fly. The object was to get airborne. Steering in flight was
a secondary consideration that I would deal with later. Once ready, I
yanked out the rock wedged under the rear wheel. The craft began to roll
down the steep hill and gained speed quickly. In no time I was rocketing
down the hill on the narrow tarmac road. The wings bowed and flapped
wildly as they tried to take the weight of the craft. The steering began
to buffet as if the front wheels were trying to lift off the ground. I
bent over in my seat and pulled the steering reins tighter to hold on
for liftoff. Halfway down the hill one wing reached its structural limit
and snapped off, causing the plane to ground loop and hurl me, and
machine, down a steep embankment and through a barbed wire fence. It was
only by the grace of God, and with a hell of a lot of luck, that the
back axle caught on a fence post to stop the remains of the contraption
from hurling itself off into the never-never over a two-hundred-foot
Cliff.

It turned out to be a good safety measure to wear the football helmet.
After the dust and debris had settled I took it off and noticed that
there was a long, deep groove carved along the,top by a rusty barb from
the fence I had just crashed through. Orville and Wilbur had nothing to
fear that day.

My first real flight in an airplane took place when I was fifteen. It
occurred a short time after my mom married an air force colonel. The
best part of the arrangement was that he owned an airplane-not just any
airplane, but a World War II trainer. It was a two-seat, open-cockpit
Waco UPF-7 biplane he had rebuilt. Its fabric covering was painted
canary yellow. She was a real beauty. He knew how much I loved airplanes
and how, some day, I wanted to be a pilot. I think that first flight was
his way of testing me.

Because it was an open-cockpit airplane I had to wear a leather helmet,
goggles, and a seat parachute, just in case. We took off from Torrance
airport and flew over Long Beach Harbor and began a slow climb over the
California coastline. Once we reached four thousand feet he yelled,
"Ready?"

"Ready!" I hollered back into the wind from the front seat and gave him
the thumbs up sign as he'd told me to do. Before I could get my hand
back into the cockpit to grab onto something, the world suddenly started
to spin.

The control stick gyrated wildly between my legs as he threw the craft
into loops, snap rolls, split-s's, stalls, and spins. My body was
squished into the seat by invisible G (gravity) forces. My eyelids felt
like they were drooping down around my lower lip, my cheeks to my chin.
Then an incredible tickling sensation in the pit of my stomach and I
thought I was going to wet my pants. The Gs suddenly changed direction
and I became weightless. The only things keeping me from floating out of
the cockpit and into eternity were the shoulder harness and seat belt.
It was wonderful!

He dove the machine to gain airspeed, then threw the aircraft into a
loop. My body compressed under the strain of the Gs. I remember seeing
the horizon disappear from under me, then blue sky, several puffy
clouds, then the sun, and finally the ocean appearing as we came out of
the loop and dove straight for a tanker anchored in the harbor. The
yellow airspeed needle rocketed through 120 knots and beyond. The
biplane's wing wires hummed as the wind resistance increased. The ship
in the harbor seemed like it was caught in a vortex when we started to
spin. I could hear the engine change pitch when he chopped the throttle
in the dive to keep the aircraft from gaining too much airspeed and
ripping the wings off. The spinning stopped and the wings leveled.
Looking at the ship below through the windmilling prop reminded me Of a
scene out of an old war movie from Saturday morning television.

I think my stepfather thought I would be begging for mercy, pleading for
him to stop within the first thirty seconds. I think he thought I'd
throw up, wet my pants, or both. But I didn't. I could not get enough.
He flung the machine through the sky in every conceivable attitude for
fifteen minutes. From that day on I knew I could hack it as a pilot.

"One in three, candidate, one in three!"

It was never any secret where I was going once I finished flight
training. Every prospective army helicopter pilot knew before joining
why he was being trained. It was part of the deal. A common saying among
the candidates in flight school if you fucked-up at anything was, "What
can they do to you, send you to Vietnam?" I guess there was no worse
punishment than to face the one-in-three odds of being killed.

After the graduation ceremony at Fort Rucker our company was assembled
for one last formation outside our billets. A full colonel, with a voice
as rough as a gravel road, stood on a box and spoke to us. He looked out
at all us 124 brand new warrant officers with our new rank gleaming on
our shoulders in the sun, a pair of shiny silver wings pinned on each
chest. It was a proud day.

"Men!" he barked. "Today you've joined the most elite aviation
fraternity in the world. You've all worked damn hard to get where you
are today, and you should be proud, damn proud, of that accomplishment.
Army aviators are the best trained pilots in the world and the cost of
your training reflects that fact. Uncle Sam has spent more than
sixty-thousand dollars on each and every one of you to make you what you
are today. That's sixty-thousand dollars! " He made it sound as if we
should all be grateful for the government's generosity in training us to
become expensive cannon fodder.

Somewhere in the back of the crowd one of the new members of the most
elite aviation fraternity in the world cupped his hands and yelled,
"Yes, sir! And you can shove that sixty-thousand dollars up your ass a
nickel at a time! " Everyone laughed. What could the colonel do to the
guy? Send him to Vietnam? I chuckled again at the memory.

The questions continued to run through my mind. What about my instrument
training? Will I need to use it? I'd been told the weather was shitty
half the year over in Vietnam. There were a million ways to die, but bad
weather and flying into clouds had killed more aviators than bullets
ever had.

I had flown fifty hours of instrument training in flight school. We all
had. The ticket we were issued was called a tactical instrument ticket.
Like bayonet training, which taught you just enough to get you killed on
the ground, the tactical instrument ticket was supposed to get you out
of a jam if you accidentally flew into the clouds. I had my doubts. It
was a standing joke that the tactical instrument ticket had a hole
punched in the upper right-hand corner.

If you contemplated going flying you took it out of your wallet, held it
toward the sky, and if you did not see blue sky you did not take off. I
hated stories like that.

Bob, Stu, and I had 210 hours total flight time. Bayonet training again.
We were like newborn birds kicked from the nest. Our experience level
was even pointed out to us in our rank. We were WO-Is out of flight
school, warrant officer ones. We were affectionately called "Wobbly
Ones." That about summed it up. At our experience level we just might be
able to fly the aircraft out of a hot LZ if the aircraft commander got
shot and get him to a hospital without damaging the aircraft-maybe.

Of the 210 hours I had only 50 hours in the Bell Huey, the aircraft I
would be flying over there. Was 50 hours enough? I thought not. The
machine could be a handful. I remember my flight instructor trying to
drill into me the importance of keeping the tail of the Huey straight
when maneuvering it in a small LZ surrounded by high trees. The tail
rotor pedals on the Huey are hydraulically assisted, and you only have
to "think" about moving them to get a response to turn the nose right or
left in a hover.

"Goddamn it, Mains," he would yell. "You let the tail go squirrelly like
that over in Nam you'll stick the tail rotor into a tree. Some of the
LZS over there are tighter than your first piece of ass, and if you let
the tail dance around like that you'll kill yourself, your crew, and
anybody else unlucky enough to be flying with you. Now watch how I do
it. I have the controls."

"You've got it, sir."

He took control of the aircraft. The machine hovered as if frozen in
time and space. "See there, nothing to it. Just 'think' about making
those movements. Now you take it and I don't want to see the ship's
heading vary by more than a couple of degrees either side of our present
heading or I'll pink you for flight safety, understand?"

"Yes, sir.

"You got it then."

"I've got it, sir."

With my right arm resting on my leg I took the cyclic stick in my right
hand. The cyclic looks like the conventional stick you would see in a
modern jet fighter. Its function is to tilt the rotor disk in the
direction the pilot moves the stick. If I move it left the rotor disk
tilts left and the aircraft flies left. Move it forward, the rotor disk
tilts forward and the aircraft moves forward and so on. In the tight
area we were now hovering in I concentrated on making minute movements
with the cyclic to keep the aircraft over one spot on the ground.

My left hand held the collective pitch lever which stuck up out of the
floor at a thirty-degree angle. Approximately the diameter of a small
baseball bat, the collective, as it's called, changes the pitch of the
blades collectively. When pulled up it causes the rotor blades to take a
bigger bite out of the air and the helicopter rises. Conversely, if
lowered, the helicopter descends. I had a relatively good control touch
on the cyclic and collective. I could hold the position over the ground
with the cyclic and the three-foot hovering altitude with the
collective. It was the damn pedals I had difficulty with.

I concentrated on just thinking about moving the pedals as the
instructor had told me. I thought about it too much. I was sweating
profusely. I pushed in right pedal. The nose swung right. It was too
much. I overcorrected, making the aircraft yaw in the opposite
direction. The high trees around us were only about a rotor's length
away. Shit, settle down. I tried to relax. Again I tried to just "think"
about moving the pedal controls. I concentrated on making the tensed
muscles in my legs relax. He grabbed the controls away from me again.
"This is hopeless," he said in disgust. "I've got it. Let's go home."

"You've got it, sir."

He told me I was going to get a pink slip for unsatisfactory pedal
control. It was the first pink slip I had received in flight school.

Walking from the parked aircraft to the briefing room he said to me,
"You know, Mains, some people are not cut out to be helicopter pilots."

Uh-oh, here it comes, I thought.

"We all have our strong points. If you don't make it through flight
school maybe your strong point rests somewhere else, Maybe you'd make a
good mechanic." He talked as if I were going to be washed out of flight
school that afternoon. I tried to sound convincing when I told him I
could do it. I just needed a little time, that was all.

We flew the next day. I was graded unsatisfactory once again and
assigned to fly with another instructor for a second opinion. I knew
what that meant. If the second instructor failed me, action would be
taken to either wash me out of flight school or recycle me to the class
two weeks behind mine for further training. What was, in my eyes, a
small problem of pedal control was growing out of all sensible
proportion. The worry caused by my weak pedal control was turning into
more of a problem than the original problem itself.

I flew with the other instructor the following day. To my great relief I
did fine. His only recommendation was a change of instructor, evaluating
the real problem to be a clash of personalities and not my actual flying
ability.

My flying skills in that area were weak, and it still concerned me.
Nearly all my classmates had the same trouble with overcontrolling the
pedals of the Huey. If I were going to be assigned to a peacetime
position somewhere stateside it would not make much difference if I
mastered the rock-steady hovering technique. But I was being trained to
go into combat. In Vietnam the consequences of poor technique would be
far worse. It could cost me my life. Shit, bayonet training again!

A stewardess walked down the aisle. She was offering dried out
sandwiches, turkey wedged between white bread. She smiled and held out
the aluminum tray. "Sandwich?"

"No thanks." I waved her off.

Stu reached across and took a handful. "I'll eat yours for you then."

Stu's appetite never waned. That's why his uniform was so snug. Even at
Fort Polk, Louisiana, during basic training" he was the only one in the
company who gained weight. He looked over at me and stuffed a quarter of
a turkey sandwich into his mouth. He smiled as he chewed trying to keep
his lips shut over the huge mouthful. My appetite had left me when we
took off from Fort Lewis, Washington, twenty hours ago. I smiled,
looking at my friend's bulging cheeks, shook my head, and thought about
Michelle.

I'd kept an 8-by-10 photo of her on my desk at Fort Wolters and Fort
Rucker. Her letters and her support had helped me make it through a lot
of the hard times. Her picture was with me now packed in my duffel bag
stuffed somewhere in the plane's belly. The picture captured Michelle as
the classic California girl she was-tanned, her broad smile exposing
perfect, white teeth, her long blonde hair being lifted by the gentle
sea breeze. She cradled my green flight helmet under her arm while
standing in front of a Bell-47 helicopter at Orange County Airport. The
picture had been taken on one of my leaves.

Two nights before I left, Michelle and I rented a room at the Sheraton
on Coast Highway overlooking the ocean in order to make love for the
last time. Something happened, or, I should say, did not happen, which
left me humiliated. I could not make love to her. My mind was racing,
full of too many questions. I felt I had ruined our last precious
evening together. Sensing my anxiety, she suggested we just talk
instead.

Our only plans for the future were to just get through the next twelve
months. October 15, 1968 to October 15, 1969-just 365 days. Her words
soothed me and eased the anxiety I tried to hide, but had done such a
lousy job of covering up. We did not talk of death that night. At our
age dying was barely conceivable. But we both knew it was a very real
possibility. Too real in my line of work.

As we sat on the bed, she made me lie on my back and place my head on
her lap. She stroked my face with her long, polished fingernails. I
closed my eyes and drank in her tenderness knowing it would be a long,
long time before I would experience this kind of love and affection
again.

Michelle had a light and breezy manner that I had come to love. She was
nineteen, three years younger than I. As we talked in soft whispers, I
opened my eyes and studied her face under the flickering glow -of
candles we'd lit for the occasion. As the evening progressed into the
early hours of the morning, she seemed to take on a maturity I had never
noticed before.

She told me that she'd miss me and would wait for me, that I could count
on receiving her letters. We passed much of the time in silence. I would
occasionally take in a deep breath to capture her lightly perfumed
scent. I wanted to remember that smell. I reached up and lightly stroked
her hair. I tried to etch the soft image of her face on my mind so I
could recall her beauty at will. It would give me strength to help me
through the long year. She would be one of the things I would be
fighting for, I told myself I closed my eyes and could see her again.

I had always thought as I grew up that I would join the air force, as my
dad did during World War II. But it was because of my stepfather that I
joined the army instead. I was attending college and working as a
baggage handler (we were called "ramp rats") for Air California at
Orange County Airport when I received a letter from my draft board
informing me that my student deferment had changed from 2-S, student
status, to I-A. It was the kind of letter students dreaded. It meant I
was next in line to go.

Several days after I received the news from my draft board, Howard, my
stepfather, an active duty colonel in the California Air National Guard,
walked through the door holding a brochure he'd picked up from an army
recruiter. He unfolded it on the living room coffee table to reveal a
shot taken from behind, showing two pilots sitting in the cockpit of a
Huey. It was impressive. "This is the way to go, Randy," he told me.
"You want to fly? This is how you can do it. They'll draft you before
you get your college degree to qualify for air force flight training, so
why not try to get into this program?"

My current situation offered me three options: I could flee to Canada
and dodge the draft, as I had heard some guys were beginning to do, but
such an idea was unthinkable. I could take my chances, get drafted, and
probably end up a foot soldier. Definitely not my style. Or I could
enlist in the warrant officer flight-training program and satisfy my
dream of one day becoming a pilot. The decision was easy.

I was already vaguely familiar with the army warrant officer program. My
cousin, Bob, had joined four months before me, and I had heard he had
experienced a string of bad luck. During the primary phase of his flight
training at Fort Wolters, Texas, the large engine cooling fan that sat
vertically behind him and his instructor on the Hiller OH-23
helicopter he was flying disintegrated in flight. Metal pieces exploded
into the cockpit like shrapnel. The engine quit and they had to
autorotate.

Autorotation is the only procedure a pilot can resort to in such
emergencies. The helicopter is flown at sixty knots, the wind flowing up
through the blades to keep them turning. It comes down quickly like an
auto gyro. The landing is accomplished by the pilot when he flares the
helicopter fifty feet above the ground. When the helicopter is ten to
twelve feet from the ground the pilot pulls in collective pitch at the
last moment using the inertia in the windmilling rotor blades to
(hopefully) touch down softly.

My cousin and his instructor autorotated to an open field. Apart from
several cuts and bruises, and a slightly bent helicopter, they managed
to come out of it all right.

In the tactics phase of his flight training at Fort Rucker, Alabama, Bob
had not been so lucky. Several weeks before he was to graduate he was
flying in the back of a Huey observing the instructor and his stick
buddy practicing forced landings. The instructor gave the student a
forced landing at low altitude. They were at 250 feet. The instructor
called for a power recovery. The student snapped on the throttle, but
nothing happened. The engine quit. They crash landed in a farmer's
field. The aircraft was destroyed. Bob was thrown clear from the
wreckage but the powerful G-forces he encountered in the crash broke his
back.

When I arrived at Fort Rucker to begin my training there I visited him
in the hospital. He had been lucky. The doctors told him he would
probably walk again. Bob told me he was going to be washed out of flight
school and would most likely be given a medical discharge out of the
army. It upset him that he would not fly again, but he was philosophical
about the turn of events. He told me that perhaps it was a sign that he
was not meant to go to Vietnam after all. Would he turn out to be the
lucky one?

Naturally, the prospect of their son going off to war has a profound
effect on parents. My mom tried to deny it until the last moments at the
airport. There she broke down. I knew at the time my mother was not an
emotionally strong person and her delicate mental state did nothing to
lighten my concerns at going off to war. I knew this year would test her
greatly. She had experienced her first nervous breakdown following the
death of her mother when I was thirteen. She had never really been the
same since then. After that, my sister and I constantly looked out for
the telltale signs that she was slipping away from reality again. My
mother suffered several more nervous breakdowns over the years, and with
each recurrence she had to be hospitalized in a mental health unit until
she became emotionally stable enough to return home. She was seeing a
psychiatrist regularly and her condition was diagnosed as manic
depressive. I knew if I got killed in Vietnam it might send her over the
edge. Her distraught reaction to my final departure did not surprise me.
I had expected such a response from her. What I did not expect was how
my departure would affect my real father.

My father, a tough, hard-working carpenter by trade, had always been a
stranger to my sister and me. He did not talk much, but when he did it
was usually to release his violent temper. We both feared him. He and
Mom went through a stormy divorce when I was five after which he was
awarded visitation rights through the court. My sister and I would be
picked up every other weekend and taken to his house,where we would then
be ignored while he watched endless football games on TV and
simultaneously worked on crossword puzzles. Even today he is somewhat of
a mystery to me. When you don't know what quiet people are thinking it
is natural to think the worst.

I knew little about my dad's military career except that he had
volunteered to be a soldier during World War II. His unit had been
overrun in Africa. He and eight others were the only survivors out of
their company. On his return to the states he went to flight school and
he became an instructor pilot in the B-25 Mitchell. My childhood memory
of him dressed in his blue air force uniform with those shiny air force
wings pinned on his chest will always stay with me. He looked handsome
and dashing, a lot like Robert Mitchum did in his younger days. I
idolized him.

I cannot recall my father telling me he loved me. He seemed too angry a man for that. About the closest he ever came to an
open display of affection was when I said good-bye to him two days
before I had to leave. It happened while we were standing in his
driveway when he was seeing me off. "You take care," the big man said,
struggling with the awkwardness he failed to hide. After a moment of
silence and of staring at one another, he stepped forward and took me in
his big arms, giving me the only hug I can ever remember him giving me.
His sudden affection came as a shock. When he released me and stepped
back his eyes were tearing. I had never seen him cry before. I could
feel a big lump forming in my throat.

Then he said, "I want you to have these." He held out his hand and
placed a pair of tarnished air force wings in my palm. They were the
same wings I had seen pinned on his chest sixteen years before. "They
got me back safe," he said. "They're good luck. You keep 'em."

I nodded. He turned and walked into the house. I watched him close the
door. To this day it remains the most tender moment I've ever shared
with the man.

"What'cha staring at?" Stu asked from my right. He was peering at me
over his magazine. "You look like a damn zombi. You've been lookin' at
the back of that seat for five minutes now."

His voice brought me back. "Nothing," I said looking over at him. "Just
thinking, that's all."

"About what?"

"A lot of things. Home. Family. What do you think the flying'll be
like?"

"Wet," Bob said without looking away from the window. "Monsoon season.
It'll be wetter than a seal's ass, that's for sure."

He looked at me and smiled weakly.

Bob and I both had orders to go to Fourth Infantry Division somewhere
near a place called Pleiku. I gained solace in knowing we would be
together. Stu, on the other hand, did not have his orders yet. He had
been told he would be assigned to a unit when he arrived in country.

Bob cracked his knuckles and tried to stretch his legs. "Sure be glad
when we get there. My legs are startin' to cramp UP.

Stu leaned over me. "If your legs are cramping up now, Lawson, wait till
you strap on a Huey for eight or ten hours. You're ass'll be so sore
it'll feel like it's going to fall off. That's what I've been told
anyway. I've heard of guys getting fourteen to sixteen hours a day. So
you'd better get used to it."

Bob looked out the window at the pitch darkness and cracked his knuckles
again. "Yeah, hard to imagine."

I tried to sleep. I could not. "One in three, candidate, look around
you, one in three! " kept replaying in my mind. Which of us would it be?

Would it be Bob, or Stu? Would it be me?

I guess I did finally doze off. I was awakened with a jolt as the plane
landed heavily on the wet runway. I rubbed my eyes. When they focused
Stu was leaning over grinning at us. "Welcome to Cam Ranh Bay." He
glanced at his Seiko watch. "The clock starts now, gentlemen. Only 365
days to go till we go home."

"That's a pleasant thought." Bob was peeping through cupped hands
pressed against the wet window trying to see outside as the plane pulled
to a stop. "Hey, I can see flares."

Stu popped another Life Saver into his mouth. "One in three. Just keep
thinkin', one in three.

"You're depressing, you know that, Lindsey?" Bob said.

Stu smiled. "Won't be us. It'll. be some other poor slob.

"Uh-huh," Bob said idly still peering out the window. "Here come the
buses to pick us up."

The inside of the plane was buzzing with conversation now while the men
stood and collected their belongings in preparation to leave. The fore
and aft doors of the plane opened and a flood of hot, moist Southeast
Asian air rushed through the cabin. I took a deep breath and could smell
jet fuel and burning shit.

Stu stood up, grabbed his AWOL bag from under his seat, and made room
for us in the crowded isle. "Come on, guys, looks like the time's come
to finally see what this war's all about."

I stepped past Stu and began walking behind the line of men now bunched
up and moving slowly in single file for the forward door of the plane.
My pulse quickened. As I approached the exit I thought that I was
finally a physical part of it. I had entered that statistical machine.

CHAPTER 2.

Change of Assignment.

I walked down the plane's steps single file behind the other
replacements. It was dark and drizzling. The air felt like a hot, wet
blanket against my skin. All of us new to a combat zone scanned the
darkness anxiously, trying to anticipate the unknown. I noticed soldiers
working near the rear of the plane. They were wearing waterproof ponchos
and unloading silver coffins from a duce-and-a-half. They were lining
them in a long row next to the plane's rear cargo hold. -The men inside
were going home.

Once we were on the bus Stu examined the windows and said, "What do you
think the screens and bars are for? "Grenades," Bob answered.
"Grenades?"

"Ya ain't back on the block now, sir." I turned around to see a black
sergeant seated behind us. He said, "Over here you don't know who's
going' to try and kill your ass, or when they're gonna do it."

Stu laughed nervously. "Yeah. I guess you're right.

"I'm more than right. I'll advise you not to trust any of those yellow
fucks, no matter how good you think you know 'em. You're better off not
trustin' nobody, and be ready for anything. Soon's you let your guard
down ... , " he paused to slit his throat with his finger, "you're
history. You keep that in mind and it'll improve your chances of gettin,
back to The World in one piece."

Tom turned in his seat to face the man. "You sound like you speak from
experience."

"Damn right I do. This is my second goddamn tour."

We were taken to a large building where the officers and enlisted men
were separated. We filled out paperwork, had a meal in a mess hall that
was as modern as any I'd seen stateside, and were shown to the BOQ,
(bachelor's officers quarters) where we would stay until we shipped out
to our units.

Stu sat on the edge of his bunk and kicked off a combat boot. "If this
is' how the war's going to be, guys, bring it on. Did you see the size
of that T-bone they brought me tonight. Damn, my mom couldn't have
cooked it any better."

Tom was lying on his back in bed under a sheet. "You got to remember,
Stu, this is an in-country R&R center. You'd expect it to be plush."

I added, "Yeah, Bob, but even at that I was amazed when that Spec-4 told
us we were free to go scuba diving, snorkeling, or water skiing on one
of four boats. Water skiing! I can't imagine. Somehow I didn't think
that was possible in a war zone, particularly in Vietnam."

Stu kicked off his fatigue pants, threw off his shirt, and slid between
clean sheets. "Well, keep the luxuries comin', boys, because if this is
war, then who I am to write home and tell them it ain't hell."

I lay in bed and listened to the rain striking the corrugated iron roof.
At times it would fall softly, its light patter nearly imperceptible. At
other times it would suddenly sound as if the hootch was under a
waterfall. When it rained hard the rush of water created a warn wind
that whistled through the screens surrounding the plywood building. I
lay awake and tried to listen for gunfire or other signs that I was
indeed in a war zone. I heard nothing and soon drifted off to sleep.

"Mr. Mains! Mr. Mains!" the voice repeated. "Sir, wake UP."

It was still dark and I rolled over on my back and checked the
luminescent dial of my watch. 0330. "Who is it?"

"Corporal Hoskins, sir. Your orders have been changed. I've come from
ops to tell you to get ready to ship out."

I tried to focus in the darkness. I could not see the person talking to
me. He flicked on a flashlight. It had a red lens. "Why do I have to get
up now?" I asked, slightly irritated.

"Orders, sir.

"Orders? What orders?"

"You have to be ready to fly outta here at first light. There's a C- 130
leaving for Bien Hoa at 0600."

I swung my feet out of bed and sat staring at the light. "And what's in
Bien Hoa? My orders are for the Fourth Infantry Division. What
happened?"

"Been changed, sir. Happens all the time. Guess they need pilots up
there. You're going to the 101st Airborne Division instead. Bien Hoa's
their division rear. You'll inprocess there. Then they'll send you to
where you'll be assigned to a company."

"AO?"

"Yeah, you know, area of operation."

"Oh. And where's that?"

The voice let out a little laugh as if harboring a personal joke. "Well,
sir, you're familiar with the DMZ?"

"Yes.

"Well, there's a map on the wall over there." The light beam suddenly
flashed on the far wall. "If you look at the DMZ and come down about a
quarter of an inch, you'll be in the ball park."

"I've had better news," I said sarcastically.

"After you have your breakfast get your gear and come to operations. Be
there by 0500." The light disappeared and I listened to the sound of
boots striking the floor and fading down the hall.

"What's happening?" Bob asked in a sleepy voice from the bed next to me.

"I'm shipping out."

"Shipping out? Where?"

I told him.

When he heard he said, "Holy shit!

Bob, Stu, and I had breakfast together. The, two men saw me off on a bus
bound for the airfield. It was raining and their green fatigues were
soaked to the skin.

,Bob yelled through the wire mesh of the bus window, "Take care of
yourself, ya hear?"

"I will.!

"And write!"

"You bet."

Stu gave me the thumb's up sign. "We'll see you at the end of your tour.
Fuck the odds. And fuck TAC officer Wilson. What's he know anyway? The
three of us'll be back in the California sunshine surfin', drinkin'
Coors, chasing women, and raisin' hell in no time. You'll see."

I held up my thumb. "Roger that, Stu." The bus began to pull out. "You
guys take care."

They both waved as the bus drove off. I watched them run toward the
billets to get out of the rain until they disappeared. I turned around
in my seat. The bus was full of men, but I suddenly felt very alone. We
stopped in front of a large terminal-type building. I grabbed my duffel
bag and stepped off. An air force sergeant ticked my name off a manifest
on his clipboard as I walked out the door. Once in the terminal I sat
down and waited. I took out my pen and paper and began to write.

Sunday 20 October 1968

Hi everyone.

I arrived in country the ]7th of October and I am now at Cam Ranh Bay
awaiting my plane to Bien Hoa. My orders have been changed. I am not
going to the 4th Infantry Division, but to the 101st Airborne Division.

My plane trip over here took twenty-two hours. It has rained continually
since I've been here. It is the monsoon season for South Vietnam. It is
fairly hot, it is seventy-five degrees and it's only 0600 A.M. Wow!

Please disregard the return address on the envelope. The only reason
it's there is because every letter must have one or they won't send it.
Please wait until I have a permanent address before you write. Gotta go.
I have to board the airplane. More later.

Love, Randy

"Your plane's in, sir." It was the air force sergeant who
had ticked my name on the manifest. "Writing an "I'm Alive' letter, are
you?"

"What?"

"I'm Alive letter. You know, to let the folks back home know you're OK."

I laughed. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Just follow those men over there, sir," he pointed. I put away my paper
and pen. "Thanks, sergeant."

There were about fifty of us. We walked out onto the wet tarmac carrying
our gear. I carried my duffel over my shoulder. The rain had stopped for
the first time since I'd been in country. The brown camouflaged C-130
stood on the ramp with the load master marshaling men inside. The sun
was just cresting the horizon under the plane's wing. I noticed
Vietnamese working around the ramp The words of the black soldier who
sat behind me on the bus the first night replayed in my mind. "I'll
advise you not to trust any of those yellow fucks, no matter how good
you think you know 'em." I wondered.

The way we were loaded in the aircraft was appalling. I was told it was
a "combat load." We sat in rows indian style on large aluminum pallets.
There were approximately ten rows of soldiers sitting cross-legged eight
abreast. Our ' seat belt" was a joke. It was a hemp rope that the load
master passed down each row and tied to either side of the aircraft. The
rope on my row hung slack in each man's lap. I figured if the aircraft
crashed that every man would be cut in half. That did not worry me as
much as the cargo. The aft end of the C-130 slopes up at about a
thirty-degree angle. Several tons of heavy equipment and luggage were
packed in it. If the ropes did not cut us in half in the crash, the tons
of cargo would hurl itself forward and crush us all.

The flight to Bien Hoa was so noisy it was impossible to carry on a
conversation with the man sitting next to me without screaming. Pilots
are always uncomfortable flying if they are not at the controls or do
not know the man who is. I was no exception. The four turboprop engines
outside the thin skin of the fuselage rumbled and whined with a sound
equivalent to four freight trains converging.

The pilot executed a combat approach into Bien Hoa. A combat approach
for a C-130 is when the aircraft is kept out of range of small arms for
as long as possible by flying at altitude until the last minute. Then
the pilot literally noses the craft over and dives the huge, four-engine
plane like a fighter aiming for the end of the runway. At the last
possible instant, just when you're certain you're going to crash, he
yanks back on the control yoke and flares the heavy plane. Its inertia
causes it to plant its wheels firmly on the runway. In my mind the
maneuver was a controlled crash.

Throughout the approach, I kept my eye on the cargo behind me. It was
not covered with nets, only a small portion of it was secured with
insignificant looking straps. Nothing else. They were an ineffectual
means of securing it. I could not help but wonder how many men had been
crushed by such inefficient loading. Though I could have done nothing
about it had it decided to come tumbling down on us, it made me feel
better to keep an eye on it anyway.

Bien Hoa was what I had envisioned a camp in Vietnam to look like. The
earth everywhere had been turned into thick mud from the rains. The area
I was sent to had rows of sixteen-by-thirty-two-foot hootches lined six
deep. Two rows of green sandbags surrounded each hootch stacked up to
the beginning of the screens that surrounded each structure. The
sandbags were to protect the occupants inside from shrapnel in the event
of a mortar or rocket attack. Each hootch had a tin roof with sandbags
tied together and draped over it every e feet or so to help secure it in
high winds. Scattered outside the rows of hootches, accessible by the
front door, were dome-shaped bunkers with every square inch covered with
green sandbags. A wall of perforated steel planking, PSP, filled with
sandbags stood several feet in front of each entrance.

A spec-4 took me to fill out in-processing forms, then he showed me to
the hootch where I would bunk while waiting to ship out with my unit. As
I approached the hootch I saw a captain standing outside. I threw him a
salute. He looked perplexed at my action. There was something peculiar
about him. His obviously new green fatigues looked disheveled.
Unmilitary.

"Morning, sir," I said holding the salute.

He finally seemed to understand what was expected of him and threw me a
sloppy salute of his own. "Morning.

"You staying here, sir?"

"Yeah, second bunk on the right. There's an empty bunk next to mine. You
can have it."

I placed my duffel inside the door on the plywood floor. "Thanks." I
extended my hand. "Randy Mains."

"John Wayne," he said shaking hands.

"John Wayne?" I smiled. "That'll be a hard name to live up to. Specially
over here."

"I know. I'm used to it, though. With any luck I won't see any combat
like the real John Wayne. I just want to put in my year and get out of
here." He looked nervous "You been here long; sir?"

"Forget the sir. It makes me uncomfortable. Call me John. I've been here
a week. I'm shipping out tomorrow. "Where you going?"

"TWENTY-second surgical hospital in Quang Tri."

"You a doctor then?"

"Surgeon. Only been in the army two weeks." That explained his
unmilitary air. "Were you in ROTC?"

"Nope, just finished my internship at San Francisco General. Only
dealings I've had with the army started when they drafted me two weeks
ago." He looked at the black cloth wings sewn on my green fatigues. "You
a pilot?"

"Yep, I fly helicopters."

His eyes widened." Shit. That's gotta be hairy. You just arriving in
country too?"

"Yep."

He shook his head. "No offense, but I thought I had it bad. I've heard
some pretty depressing statistics about you guys. I I half smiled and
started for the door. "Yeah, John, me too.

I spent the day exploring the camp, forming my first impressions of an
environment that was to become as familiar in the year ahead as the one
I'd left behind in Southern California. Helicopters buzzed overhead.
Even if I could not see them it was rare when I could not hear the
continual thumping noise of their rotor blades slapping the humid air. I
would come to regard this noise as the pulse of the war-the sound of its
very heartbeat.

Soldiers, "grunts," as they were called, strolled around the company
area. They congregated in groups. I walked by one such group seated in
chairs around their hootch. A stereo played "Soul Man" at an
ear-piercing level as several of them played cards or wrote "I'm Alive"
letters. One black soldier was dancing and miming the words as if
performing on stage. Most had their shirts off. Some wore the green
floppy hats known as "boonie hats." I looked upon these men as the salt
of the war, its grit and sweat. To a man, they were sorrowful looking
creatures, tired and worn as if an element extracted from the soggy
earth itself. They appeared to be tight knit, easily ready to joke, to
play grab-ass, or to exchange banter. I imagined that the bonds would
have to be strong. The life of the one always depended on the others.
Regardless of my odds of facing extinction, I was glad I was a
helicopter pilot and not one of them.

In the mess hall that afternoon I saw my first warrant officer
helicopter pilot. My first veteran. He was eating at another wooden
table talking to an infantry first lieutenant and an infantry captain. I
wanted to walk over, sit next to him, and ask him a thousand questions.
He looked about my age, twenty-two. The rank on his faded green Nomex
flying suit was that of a CW2, chief warrant officer 2. A notebook that
was attached to a string worn around his neck stuck out of his
right-hand breast pocket. I had been told those notebooks were called
SOLS, signal operating instructions. It contained the top secret
frequencies of the units in the area where he flew.

It takes one year from graduation to make CW2. That fact told me he was
either in. the last month of his tour or he was on his second tour. What
was important to me was that he was a veteran and he knew what it was
like to fly in combat.

I'll always remember that face. It was smooth and young, but there was
something about his appearance that did not fit with his youth. It was
his eyes. They were wide, wild eyes. Anxious. They were eyes that I
could tell had seen plenty of action. They were intense, darting,
serious eyes that kept me from walking over to the man and asking him my
trivial questions.

He looked at me once and those eyes locked with mine. I wanted to look
away, but couldn't. I felt like an insignificant piece of meat sitting
there in my new fatigues, radiating inexperience. I wanted to evaporate
under his gaze. He did not smile. The eyes did not blink. They only
stared. I tried to imagine what he was thinking He had to be thinking
that I was someone's replacement for sure. Maybe even his. That I had a
lifetime of learning in the year ahead that would have to be condensed
into a few months if I were to survive. And that I had my dues to pay as
he had had to pay his. There was a sadness in his eyes, or was it pity.
Or perhaps I was just imagining it? He lifted his cup, continuing to
stare at me over the lip. He took a sip and finally looked away.
Throughout the rest of his meal I continued to watch him, but he did not
acknowledge my existence again.

That night I lay on my bunk. Several songs were drifting through the
company area, coming from loud stereos played in the hootches
surrounding mine. By the dim light of a dangling light bulb I wrote
another letter home.

Monday 21 October 1968

Dear family:

I have my permanent address, so here it is:

WO Randolph Mains W3]61785

HHC 1160th Aviation Group 101st Abn. Div.

APO S.F. 96383.

I've been told I'll be stationed somewhere up north near the ancient
capital of Hue. So far I haven't seen any action or anything. At night I
can hear cannon fire.

I've been told it's from Saigon to harass the VC. I have only heard one
roundfiredfrom small arms since I've been here, but nothing much. Our
position seems very secure here in Bien Hoa. There was a rumor that we
were supposed to have been rocketed last night but we weren't. If we are
rocketed we've been told to go to one of the bunkers that are set up
every hundred feet or so in the immediate area.

The food isn't bad and I am treated well because I'm an officer. I
haven't been in Vietnam long and I already feel sorry for the poor
ground pounders. They've got it tough, real tough, and I don't envy them
their job.

Oh well, not much happening now. I am just waiting to in-process to this
unit then ship out. Will write soon.

Love to all, Randy.

Several days later I was put on another C-130 and flown north to Phu
Bai. The C-130 pilot performed the same hairy approach to avoid being
shot down.

I was picked up by helicopter and flown five miles north to Camp Eagle,
northern headquarters of the 101st Airborne Division. It felt good to be
flying in a helicopter again. The side doors were open allowing the
eighty-knot wind to enter. A gunner and crew chief sat in the wells
behind me. Each had their tinted visor pulled down over their eyes. They
resembled humanoids out of a science fiction story. Like the pilots,
they wore green Nomex flying suits, Nomex gloves, and black boots. The
only human flesh you could see was their mouth and jaw. An M-60 machine
gun sat on a steel gun mount in front of them.

I scanned the countryside trying to take in as much scenery as I could
in the short flight. I tried to imagine what the operational flying
would be like here. Would I be able to hack it?

Camp Eagle was a sprawling place bustling with activity. Hundreds of
plywood hootches, their tin roofs gleaming in the tropical sun, were
scattered in no particular fashion. Several black plumes of smoke could
be seen rising from the shit being burned outside the latrines. I was to
learn that the water table was too near the surface to bury the shit, so
it had to be doused with jet fuel or gasoline and set afire. Green
bunkers were strewn around at random. The perimeter of the camp from the
air reminded me of pictures I had seen of prisons. Concertina wire
snarled and snaked around the huge area. Claymore mines were littered in
the barbed wire ready to blast any force of VC regulars who tried to
stonn the stronghold. The wooden guard towers housing 50-caliber machine
guns stood high around the camp. Massive bunkers every two hundred yards
added to the impression of an impenetrable fortress. Helicopters were
taking off and landing at various helipads like bees buzzing around a
mammoth hive.

The environs of the camp consisted of small Vietnamese villages,
rolliiig green hills, rice paddies stretching toward the sea, and
inland, to the west, the thick jungle and high mountains. I was
astonished to find such beauty in a country at war.

I spent another two days in-processing at Camp Eagle and was then flown
to the company I had been assigned to, Charlie Company, located seven
miles north of Camp Eagle. I sat in the back of the Huey staring down at
the citadel of Hue. I'd heard about the Tet offensive and the bloody
battle that had taken place there eight months before. Many lives had
been lost on both sides. I wondered what would happen at the same time
next year?

The helicopter descended as we began our approach. The pilot turned in
his armored seat and yelled, "There she is!" I looked down to where he
was pointing and the bewilderment must have shown on my face.

"Don't worry," he hollered. "You'll learn to love this place after a few
weeks. We're away from the division headquarters and that's good. We're
left alone and can keep away from all the bullshit."

My new home was a tiny patch of mud seven kilometers northwest of the
city of Hue. It looked like you could walk around the perimeter in less
than fifteen-minutes. Hootches, tents, and bunkers were scattered around
the place. Larger, more substantial bunkers surrounded the perimeter. In
the center of the complex was a small, narrow airstrip made out of
perforated steel planking. Several helicopters were parked to the east.
The name of the place was "LZ Sally." It was primarily a fire support
base with 105 howitzers and 8-inch guns that also happened to share the
turf with a helicopter company-my company, Charlie Company, home of the
Blackwidows.

We landed and the pilot hovered the aircraft expertly between two
six-foot-high walls. Such a structure was called a revetment. A
revetment consisted of two PSP walls filled with dirt and was designed
to protect the helicopter against shrapnel from incoming rockets and
mortars. The pilot landed and shut down the aircraft. I hopped out and
MY combat boots immediately sunk up to the ankles in mud.

"Randy! Randy!"

I looked up. Joe Sulak, a buddy of mine from flight school, was quickly
approaching. He wore a green baseball cap with black aviator wings sewn
on the front. He had a yellow scarf wrapped around his neck and wore a
.38 around his waist-. The holster slapped against his leg as he walked.

Joe had become somewhat of a celebrity during the primary phase of
flight training at Fort Wolters, Texas, when r the helicopter he was
flying experienced a tail rotor failure while lifting off from a
confined area. He was flying solo in the Bell-13 when it happened. He
had just cleared the trees on takeoff when the tail rotor stopped
turning. With the loss of anti-torque capability, the fuselage of the
machine followed Newton's third law and began to spin in the equal and
opposite direction from the main rotor. By all accounts, the aircraft
crashed in a boil of red dust, spinning like a carnival ride gone
berserk. Another solo student observed it from the air and saw Joe
emerge from the smoke and wreckage running as fast as he could. The
spinning on the way down.had toppled the gyros in Joe's head with the
result that when he tried to run in a straight line away from the
wreckage he ran in ever-decreasing circles, eventually reaching the tree
line where he finally collapsed in a heap. He came out of the ordeal
with not so much as a scratch. It was good to see him again.

I yelled, "Well I'll be damned, you sawed off little Texan, how the hell
are ya'?"

We embraced and slapped each other on the back. It must have been a
bizarre sight. I am nearly six-foot-two-inches tall, and Joe is barely
five foot seven. "It's great to see you, Randy. I arrived two days ago
myself. Heard you'd been assigned to the Blackwidows. Been waitin' for
you to arrive. Guess who else's here? Shonehour!" Another mate from
flight school.

"Hey, that's great news. I thought I'd spend the year over here without
seeing anyone from flight school."

"Shonehour and I lucked out. We had orders for the First Cav, but they
sent us here instead." He turned and began to walk toward the company
area. "Come on. Let me show you your tent."

I threw the duffel over my shoulder and followed him. "Tent?"

"Don't worry. The hootch you'll be living in is almost finished. The Sea
Bees have been working their asses off to get the company built. You'll
be staying in a tent for a few days till the last hootch is completed."

"Where you staying?"

His face lost its grin. "Shonehour and I walked into a real shitty
situation when we got here."

"How do you mean?"

"The day we arrived one of the helicopters got shot down. Pilot,
copilot, crew chief, and gunner all were killed. What a hell of a way to
arrive in a new company. One of the company pilots took me to the area
of the pilot who just got killed and said I could sleep in his bunk.
Shonehour's sleeping in the dead copilot's bunk."

"Damn, what a way to start in a new company."

"Yeah, it was real depressing around here for awhile. The gloom over the
company is just beginning to lift. No one knows my name yet. To them I'm
just the fucking new guy who's sleeping in Lithwinski's bunk. They
haven't even taken the man's personal effects away yet.

I asked him about the yellow scarf he wore around his neck like an ascot
tucked into his Nomex flying suit. All the pilots in Second Platoon wore
them, he said, and I would too as I was going to be assigned to the same
platoon.

I looked down at his .38. "You look like a goddamn cowboy with that
holster slung low on your hip. it suits you. Where do you think you're
going, the OK corral?"

He slapped the holster. "Yeah, all the pilots wear 'em. You'll get one
too. It's standard issue. This place is like a Wild West show. You may
need it.

"What do you mean by that?"

"In the two days I've been here I've learned not to piss anyone off. If
you do, you may go home in a box.

"What are you talking about?"

"A week ago the company top sergeant got his ass blown away. Apparently
he was a real asshole. The enlisted men hated his guts. So one night one
of them fragged the poor son-of-a-bitch while he was sleeping in his
hootch. They're still picking pieces of flesh out of the It screens.

I was shocked. "Did they catch the guy that did it?"

"Nope. The way people are acting around here you'd think the guy who
blew him away had performed a public service.

"How about the flying. You been up yet?"

"Shonehour and I had our orientation flight yesterday. You're scheduled
for one tomorrow. They're three pilots short so they want to get us
checked out and on line as soon as possible."

Joe showed me my tent. I threw the duffel on the green cot. Then he took
me to the officer's club. It was a shabby sixteen-by-thirty-two-foot
hootch at the end of a row of six hootches where the second platoon
pilots lived. The only difference between the club and the accommodation
hootches was that it did not have windows. Joe threw open the door and
led me in.

Inside, at the far end, there was a crude plywood bar. It had been
lightly burnt with a torch to bring out the grain, giving it a rustic
look. Behind the bar were two large refrigerators. On top was a
reel-to-reel tape recorder. Two Sansui speakers hung in the far corners.
To the right was an armor seat out of a Huey. A bright red flight helmet
with the word "HERO" sat on a cyclic stick placed in front of the seat.
There were two men seated at a small table playing cards.

"Now watch out," Joe warned. "First thing you have to do when you walk
in here is step on the eagle." He pointed to the floor. Painted near the
entrance was a facsimile of the patch everyone in the 101st wore on
their shoulder depicting the Screaming Eagle. It was framed and covered
in clear Plexiglass. He made an exaggerated stomping motion on it as he
entered. "Now you do it.

The two men playing cards paused to watch me. I noticed they each had a
yellow scarf around their neck. I raised my foot and stomped on the
eagle. "That's it," one of them said approvingly. He stood and offered
his hand. "Welcome to the Blackwidows. You must be the FNG Sulak's been
talkin' about. My name's Kelly, Ned Kelly."

I shook his hand. "Randy Mains. Glad to meet you. What's an FNG,
anyway?"

The other warrant stood and introduced himself. His name was Doug
Carson. "FNG means fucking new guy. We've all been there. Glad to have
you aboard." He sat down and the two men resumed their game.

Joe grinned. "You, Shonehour, and I are FNGS. I guess we're FNGS till we
make aircraft commander. That right?"

Kelly threw two cards on the table. "Some guys'll always be FNGS in the
eyes of the guys who got here before them. Gimmie two cards, Carson."

I turned to Joe. "Why do you have to stomp on the eagle like that when
you walk in? Isn't it usually the other way around?

Don't you normally avoid the unit crest when you walk into the club?"

Kelly looked up from his hand and answered. "Let me educate the FNG. You
see, Mains, the Blackwidows used to be with the 188 Assault Helicopter
Company as part of the First Aviation Brigade. When the 101st went
airmobile we were infused with them. There are still a lot of pilots in
the company who don't like the 101 st. They think they're a load of
gung-ho airborne ranger assholes who don't know the first fucking thing
about using helicopters. So their loyalty is still with the 188th. In
their eyes the 188th was a true aviation outfit. So, for those reasons,
if you walk in here and don't stomp on the screamin' buzzard, you buy
the drinks. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Good." He looked away from me to the man seated across from him. "Your
bet, Carson."

Joe shrugged and walked to the bar. "Come on, FNG, he kidded, "let me
buy you a coke."

"What about the armored chair. Looks like it's out of a Huey. What's it
for?"

Joe smiled. "You'll find out soon enough."

Later, he took me to the supply tent where I was issued two green Nomex
flying suits, Nomex gloves, a steel pot, a flack jacket, and all-leather
boots. He advised me, ."You don't want to wear those jungle boots with
the green acrylic up the sides. Get rid of 'em. If you crash and there's
a fire they'll burn and melt into your feet."

He took me by the armory where I was issued an M-16, ammunition, belt
and holster, and a Smith and Wesson 38. At last I looked -like I was
ready for war.

That night I found out what the armored chair in the club was used for.
After eating boiled beef and overdone potatoes in the mess tent, I
walked to my tent to clean my M- 16. I had it in pieces on my cot when
Joe poked his head in through the flap. "Choir practice at 1930 in the
club by order of the old man."

"Choir practice?"

"You'll see. I'll see you there," he said and was gone.

I had heard the guys talking in the mess tent about a combat assault the
First Platoon pilots had been involved in up north. By the sound of it
it had been pretty hairy.

Even before I entered the club I could hear the stereo blasting out the
song "Folsom Prison Blues," by Johnny Cash. I took off my green baseball
cap and stuffed it into MY pocket before entering the smoke-filled
hootch. Feeling conspicuous as the new guy, I made sure I stomped on the
eagle after I passed through the door. I saw Joe standing at the end of
the bar. He motioned me over and ordered me a Budweiser.

I could hear one of the pilots telling another about the assault that
day His ship had been shot up pretty bad. He began talking with his
hands, showing the listener how he had maneuvered his aircraft, a sure
sign of a war story in progress. The bartender, a black enlisted clerk
named Flowers, rang the bell several times in quick succession and
turned down the volume on the stereo. The officers club fell silent. A
Captain Thomas leapt up on top of the bar. "We got a hero story in the
offing, gentlemen. I'm sure Lieutenant Fergison would be delighted to
share it with us tonight. Right, Fergie?"

An embarrassed Fergison shook his head. He knew he'd been caught.
Several other officers carried the reluctant lieutenant to the armored
chair. They sat him in it, fastened the seat belt and shoulder harness,
and placed the red helmet on his head, the boom microphone touching his
bushy mustache.

"we're all ready," said Captain Thomas. "Let's hear the war story."

The lieutenant knew there was no getting out of it. So he began, "OK,
OK, I'll begin by telling you that I got the fucking shit shot out of me
today." Cheers and whistles came from the men. The bartender clanged the
bell rapidly.

The lieutenant grabbed hold of the cyclic with his right hand. With his
left he reached to the side and pulled up the collective pitch lever. He
bent forward and continued. -,Well ya see we came over the last ridge
line before descending into the LZ- I was flying Chock Three in the
formation. The first two ships must of woke Charlie up, cuz by the time
me and Fletcher overflew the position, before dropping into the LZ, I
saw muzzle flashes from the jungle. I had to break her off."

He threw the stick to the left and pulled the red trigger on the hand
grip as if to transmit on the radio. "Receiving fire, receiving fire, I
yelled. Then a couple AK-47 rounds came up between me and Fletcher and
hit the overhead circuit breaker panel." He looked over toward the bar.
Fletcher, the man standing next to me, raised his glass of beer in a
mock toast. The lieutenant hammed it up. "But we were lucky, gentlemen.
We only took two other hits in the tail boom. Charlie missed his chance.
Blackwidows Four and Eight will live to fly another day, another
mission." He performed a salute. Someone handed him a beer. He raised it
high and said, "To God and Country!"

Everyone raised their glasses and repeated the toast, "To God and
Country!"

Someone yelled, "And here's to round-eye'd pussy.

"To round-eye'd pussy!" Every man repeated as one and we all drank to
the toast.

The lieutenant took off the red helmet and unstrapped himself from the
seat. He walked over to Fletcher, the man standing next to me. He threw
his arm around his buddy and they clinked beer cans. In a few minutes
the lieutenant was talking with his hands again, but he was not put in
the chair for a second time. He was left to talk. Shortly afterwards
someone bellowed, "Nineteen-thirty. Time for choir practice." Everyone
knew the song by heart, that is, everyone except for me, Joe, and Tom
Shonehour. But we soon learned it.

Oh Sally Oh Sally;s a hell of a place, The organization's a fucking
disgrace With captains and majors and light colonels too Who sit on
their asses with nothing to do!

They stand on the runway they scream and they shout, About many things
they know nothing about For all of their bitching they might as well be
A shaveling shit in the South China Sea!

The impromptu party broke up around midnight. I made my way through the
mud back to my tent and collapsed drunk into my bunk. At two-thirty in
the morning, KAAWHAM! The most almighty, bone-shaking explosion caused
me to spring up straight out of my cot. My heart was about to explode in
my chest. It sounded as if a mortar round had landed inside my tent. I
half expected to see one side shredded and smoldering. In the dark, half
asleep and in my green boxer shorts, I threw on my steel pot, flack
jacket, and unlaced combat boots, grabbed my M- 16 and a bandoleer of
ammunition, and bolted from the tent, running full speed for the nearest
bunker. KAAWHAM! Another explosion strong enough for me to feel the
shock wave hit my chest. I screamed out in a panic, "Incoming! Incoming!

Incoming!" and dove into the opening of a bunker.

I waited, my chest heaving, my eyes wide, sweat pouring down my brow.
Shit, where is everyone? I thought. KAAWHAM! KAAWHAM!

KAAWHAM! three in a row. Shit, goddamn, is this how I'm going to die?

Before I've even flown my first combat mission? Where is everyone? I
clutched my M-16 to my chest, my eyes searching the darkness, waiting
for Charlie's inevitable assault. I chambered a round and waited for the
Vietcong to start coming through the wire. Shit! Shit! -Sheeeitt!

  "Hey! FNG! " a voice yelled.

At last someone's coming? They'll know what to do, I thought. I crouched
down and scooted to the opening of the bunker cautiously and yelled with
all my being, "Incoming! Incoming!"

"Hey, you! FNG! Shut the fuck up, will ya?"

A beam of light was approaching. I stepped further back into the bunker.
The beam suddenly shone in my face. "What the fuck you doing?" a voice
asked sarcastically.

I clutched the weapon tighter to my chest. "Incoming?" I said weakly.

"There's no fuckin' incoming," the voice said sternly. "You gotta
remember You are livin' on a fire support base. You're hearing the eight
inchers firing, that's all. Probably a grunt unit in trouble called in
artillery. The guns always sound loudest when they shoot over our heads.
Now come on, get back to bed and quit hollerin'. You're waking everybody
up-"

"Who the hell can sleep through this?" I asked.  "Everybody!

You'll get used to it. Now get your ass back to your tent and go to
bed." sheepishly, I exited the bunker and walked past the faceless man
toward my tent. I felt like an idiot. I unchambered the round from my
weapon and took the steel pot off my head. As I was about to duck under
the flap I heard someone say, "Goddamn, fuckin' new guys-Mother of Mary
pleeeeezzee save us all.

The following day I was given an orientation flight by the company
instructor pilot, IP. We practiced approaches to a grassy area outside
the perimeter of LZ Sally, and he let me get the feel of a Huey again.
It was great to be back in the saddle.

I was impressed with how lush and green the landscape appeared from the
air. From five hundred feet you would not know there was a war going on.
Vietnamese farmers outside the perimeter ignored our presence and tended
their rice paddies using water buffalo to pull their plows. On Highway-1
se civilians scurried along like bees in a hive, attending to
their daily business. Some rode Mopeds, Vespas, or bicycles, and others
were on foot, I had two training flights. One in the morning for general
handling, and one in the afternoon to go over emergency procedures.

I entered the officer's club after evening chow, stomped on the likeness
of the Screamin' Eagle painted on the floor like Joe had told me to do,
and Spec-4 Flowers rang the bell behind the bar several times. He turned
off Johnny Cash on the reel-to-reel. The noise of twenty officers
talking ceased abruptly when they heard the bell. Captain Thomas stood
on a chair and announced, "Gentlemen, I would like to introduce a very
unique warning system freshly imported to I Corps from The World. Our
company has obviously been chosen as the testing ground for this new
secret weapon."

I began to feel uncomfortable. I had a feeling I knew what was coming
next. Captain Thomas continued, "This new weapon has been constructed to
alert troops in the field in the event of impending rocket or mortar
attack. Gentlemen, I present to you the new secret weapon. His name is
Warrant Officer Mains."

Most of the men cheered. Others boo'd.

"In consideration of the fact that I think we've been sent a defective
model, that is, he alerts us even when he hears friendly fire-last night
is a case in point-I'm sure Mr. Mains would like to make full
restitution to all the officers he woke up when he malfunctioned. So
would you please step up to the bar, Mr. Mains, put your money down, and
buy everyone a drink for waking them up last night.

The officers cheered and Spec-4 Flowers rang the bell. now extremely red
faced, I stepped up to the bar and plunked down my money. Captain Thomas
began to sing and swung his free hand, the one not holding his beer, as
if he were conducting a church choir. Everyone joined in.

Ohhhhhh We like it here, We like it here, You fuckin'a we like it here.
And though we have malaria We still maintain our area We like it here We
like it here You.fuckin'a we like it here.

"OK, men that was good. Now to show our heart's in the right place,
let's give Mr. Mains a HIM." Everyone joined in and chanted in unison
while rocking their glasses:

Himmmmm, Himmmmmm ... Fuck, Himmmmm!

I was beginning to feel like one of the guys already.

The next morning I was given a check ride by the company instructor
pilot. I passed. After lunch I was assigned to fly copilot on my first
mission with a CW2 named Crawford. I reported to the aircraft at 1300 as
I'd been told to do by operations. I had her pre-flighted and was seated
eagerly in the copilot's seat when Crawford arrived.

He was a tall, thin, morose individual. I found out later he had a right
to be morose. He was a short timer.

He did his own preflight, then climbed in without saying a word to me.
He checked that the gunner and crew chief were ready then strapped in
and started the turbine engine. He twisted on the throttle and gave the
radio call.

,,Sally tower, this is Blackwidow One-One, Widow Web for departure.
"Roger, Blackwidow One-One. Wind one-three-zero at ten knots, altimeter
three-zero-one-zero cleared for take off.

"Blackwidow One-One, roger. On the go."

Crawford scanned the instruments, and with his left hand lifted the
collective lever. The aircraft rose to a three-foot hover. He eased the
ship forward out of the revetment and, satisfied the aircraft
temperature and pressures were within the normal ranges, nosed her over
and we took off to the south. He began a right-hand turn and climbed
quickly to fifteen hundred feet now heading north.

Crawford did not as much as glance at me. Nor did he talk to me. He
treated me like I was not there. I waited several minutes to see if he
would brief me on the mission, or even speak to me, but he did not.
Finally I pressed the floor mike button and said over the intercom,
"What do you want me to do?"

There was a pause. For a moment I didn't think he was going to answer.
Then he looked over at me. He had the same look in his eyes I-had seen
in the eyes of the CW2S in the mess hall at Bien Hoa. He pressed the
trigger on the cyclic and spoke on the intercom, "Just sit there and
monitor your bootlaces, that's all. And, if I'm unlucky enough to get my
ass shot today, you do what you've been trained to do up to this point
in your aviation career. You take the controls and get me the fuck to
the hospital in Phu Bai."

We flew four hours that day. We delivered supplies and men from Camp
Eagle to LZS Whip, Sledge, and Tennessee. Then we landed in several
remote LZS scattered in the mountains. Some of the landing sites were
more difficult than any I had ever seen. Crawford took the aircraft into
hover holes so closely surrounded by hundred-foot trees that if you even
sneezed it would have meant disaster. I had seen nothing like it
demonstrated in flight school, and I wondered if I would ever be able to
do the same. Nagging thoughts about my pedal control played on my mind.
There were LZS we landed in that day that I could not have begun to
negotiate. I simply did not have the skill and I knew it. At the end of
the mission I hadn't touched the controls once. Crawford even shot the
last approach to the Widow Web at Sally.

After we'd shut down, I told him how impressed I'd been with his flying.
I told him I hoped I'd be able to fly like that one day. He ran his hand
through his hair and told me I probably would learn, one day. I knew it
would not be with him.

As we walked back together through the mud from the Widow Web to the
company area I said to him, "I know I couldn't have landed in a lot of
the places we went to today. But why didn't you let me fly at all?"

He looked at me with those piercing eyes, then his expression softened.
"Nothing personal, Mains. It's just that I've got two weeks left before
I stop flying. I've flown nearly one thousand combat hours over here so
far. I've trained my share of pilots and I figure I've paid my dues. Ops
isn't makin' me fly the hairy stuff anymore. Just ash and trash, men
and equipment. I made it this far. There were a lot of times this last
year I thought I wouldn't. Nothing against you, Mains. Don't get me
wrong. It's just I don't want any fuck-ups. I got a wife and kid waitin'
for me back home. Being killed by an FNG peter pilot with two weeks left
to go would just piss me off no fucking end.

That night I lay asleep in my cot when KAABOOM! KAABOOM!

KAABOOM! the thunderous noise caused me to spring up out of bed. Not
wanting to cause another incident, I began to lay back down again when
suddenly an urgent clanging could be heard. Then someone yelled,
"Incoming! Incoming!" This time we were really under attack.

I grabbed my steel pot, flack jacket, M-16, and ammunition and ran in my
underwear and unlaced boots to the bunker. It was already crowded with
men huddled together.

WHOOMPH! WHOOMPH! WHOOMPH! WHOOMPH! the explosions seemed to be getting
closer to our company area. Someone whispered, "Sounds like they're
hittin' the arty side of the camp."

Not a word was spoken after that. We just huddled together and listened
in the darkness of the bunker. Several minutes passed. The mortars
stopped falling. Flares popped and hissed into the air from the
perimeter and drifted lazily downward casting an eerie light over our
company area. I heard someone say, "I don't fucking believe it. You
gotta be shittin' me, sir?"

This was followed by muffled laughter traveling in a wave and finally
engulfed everyone in the bunker. Another flare hissed and popped
illuminating the bunker's interior. I turned and saw why everyone was
laughing. Several flashlights were now spotlighting our CO, Major Posey.
He wore the regulation steel pot and unlaced combat boots and carried an
M-16, but his principle dress was a baggy pair of Hop Along Cassidy
pajamas!

The man's image, that of a seasoned, hardened combat veteran, was
immediately and irrevocably destroyed, and he stood there mortified. I
knew there and then that this was going to be more than just a crazy
war. I knew something else-I knew who would be buying the drinks in the
officer's club the following night!

CHAPTER 3.

November 1968

Sulak's C-Ration Grenade.

The Sea Bees finished construction of the last hootch. It was a day to
celebrate. As I carried my belongings from the tent to the hootch, I
noticed that the narrow space between the new hootch and the one next to
it already looked like a chinese laundry. I counted eight sets of
household brown electrical wire running into my new home, tapping into
my neighbor's electric supply to run small refrigerators, tape
recorders, electric shavers, and lights. The few feet separating each
hootch in the company looked like that, with wires stealing electricity
from the next. The camp wiring was an electrician's nightmare. That is
why power failures from the overtaxed, twenty-five kilowatt generator
were frequent.

I carefully set up my area and hung the green mosquito netting over the
bed-a real bed! It was nothing fancy, standard army issue, but it was
not a cot, and that made all the difference. I stood back to admire my
handiwork. A crude, plastic woven rug mat that I purchased from the
ville outside the perimeter of Sally lay next to my bed my effort to
give the dusty place a feeling of home. The 8-by-10 picture of Michelle
hung on the wall over my bed There was only one other thing left to do
to make my area home. I hung my shaving mirror on the wall at eye level,
making sure it hung straight, then took a long look at myself I studied
the thin blond strands beginning to sprout from my smooth upper lip.
Nearly all the pilots of Charlie Company sported mustaches. It seemed to
be part of the image of a helicopter pilot over here. I ran my fingers
over the stubble looking forward to the day I could cultivate this
scraggly embarrassment into a real mustache. I stared into the mirror.
Clear blue eyes stared back. Untroubled eyes. Soft, questioning eyes.
Eyes that had not yet seen combat. I wondered if, over the year, they
would develop the nervous look I had seen in the eyes of the CW2 in Bien
Hoa, or in Crawford's eyes now. Short timer's eyes. Darting, expectant,
cautious veteran's eyes. I wondered. I adjusted the yellow scarf around
my neck, brushed a lock of short, light-brown hair back into place, then
stood back from the mirror to admire once again my new area. It was
small, about twelve feet square, but it was tidy and neat. I was
pleased.

KABOOM! KABOOM! the eight-inch guns fired. I could feel the shock waves
slam into my body as the two volleys of fifty-six pounds of explosives
went off. My mirror crashed in pieces on the floor along with the
shaving gear that I had arranged so carefully on a wooden shelf. I was
glad to see that at least Michelle's picture had remained in place.

I shared the new hootch with a pilot named Les Ramson. He was a gun
freak. I was convinced he owned every conceivable make of weapon that
had ever been brought into Vietnam. He even had a gangster-style
Thompson submachine gun with a fifty-round barrel clip. He kept his
entire weapon collection piled one on top of the other under his bunk.
He delighted in showing it to me whenever I had the misfortune to be
cornered by him. He had been in country for six months. He was a heavy,
bearded man with suspicious eyes and a body as solid as a fireplug.

Ramson was one of the maintenance officers. He never flew operational
missions, never got shot at, and only flew aircraft fresh out of
maintenance. He shared the duties with two other maintenance officers,
Captain Paulson and Junior. The men had nicknamed the young captain
Junior because having lied about his age when he joined the service he
became, at the time, the youngest captain in the U.S. Army. Junior hated
this nickname but, because he never flew combat missions, unlike the
rest of the company pilots, he knew he was considered to be a bit of a
wimp and felt he had shaky grounds for insisting that we call him
captain. He was occasionally addressed as "Captain Junior" which made
him even more angry. Somehow being called Junior was less offensive to
him, but he let only the pilots who flew combat call him that. Junior
tried to order Ramson to call him sir because Rainson was a warrant
officer, never flew combat missions, and was only a maintenance officer
like himself, and therefore had no reason not to call him sir. But when
Junior approached him on the subject and ordered him to call him sir,
Ramson reminded Junior that he had an arsenal stashed under his bunk and
hinted that one of his many weapons could just "accidentally" go off in
the direction of Junior's hootch one night. The threat so alarmed Junior
that he had to be content with just the enlisted men saluting him and
calling him sir. I always felt that they did this out of compassion
rather than respect for the man.

On their maintenance test flights Ramson, Paulson, and Junior made it a
habit to fly the newly serviced aircraft directly above Sally. That
served two purposes: One, they could be relatively sure they would never
be shot at and two, if anything went wrong mechanically they would not
risk going down in hostile territory. By the very nature of their cushy
job one would have expected them to have no worries. Not so. All three
men were extremely paranoid individuals. Les Ramson was the worst.

On one occasion, after flying five hours as copilot on an ass-and-trash
mission out of Camp Eagle, I was walking to the shower wearing nothing
but a pair of thongs and holding my towel in one hand and a bar of soap
in the other. I noticed Ramson digging frantically with an entrenching
tool in the mud outside our new hootch. "What'cha doing?"

He didn't stop digging but answered, "Taking out insurance."

"Insurance?

"Don't you read the newspapers?"

"Of course. Whenever I can get my hands on one, that is. They're pretty
rare to come by over here. But what does that have to do with you
digging a hole next to our hootch?

He threw a pile of dirt and mud over his shoulder. "You know who Jean
Dixon is?"

"Yeah sure, she's the lady who claims she can see into the future. She
makes predictions. II "That's right. And do You know what she is
predicting now?"

"Nope.

He stopped digging long enough to look up at me. "She says that Charlie
Company of the 101 st Airborne Division, that's us by the way, is going
to be overrun by sappers and wiped out within the next month. This here
soon-to-be underground bunker is my insurance. When it happens I'll
crawl through a trap door that I'll have under the mat next to my bunk.
I'll have a tunnel leading to this underground bunker, and I'll live
through it wiped out," while the rest of you get "That's real
considerate of you, Ramson." I looked at the one-foot-deep hole he'd
already dug. "How big you going to make it, anyway?"

"About four feet square and four feet deep. Then I'll cover it with PSP
and dirt. I'll have several cases of C-rations and a case of beer to
sustain me till I can make my escape."

"Good luck." I turned and resumed my walk to the showers.

He yelled, "If you help me you can share it when the time comes.

"No thanks, i'll take my chances."

Around 2200 that night Joe Sulak, Tom Shonehour, and I watched, from
atop a bunker in our company area, green tracers firing into our
perimeter on the northern side of the compound. They appeared to float
in the sable night as they penetrated Sally's northern perimeter. We
could barely hear the popping from the enemy weapons that fired them.
Red tracer rounds, ours, fired back. A Cobra gunship flew overhead and
fired a red stream of tracers that flowed like a red ribbon making its
way from the ship's miniguns to the berm, We could hear the whirr of the
electric motor of the gatling gun firing bullets at three thousand
rounds per minute. Was this the night it would happen? We half expected
to see sappers running through our area throwing satchel charges into
each hootch and blowing them all up. Maybe Jean Dixon had something. The
next day there were five pilots helping Les Ramson dig his bunker.

I wrote another letter home.

6 November 1968

Dear Mom:

Got your letters today. They arrived in country the 30th and I got them
the 6th. I was sure glad to receive them. I also received a letter from
Greg and Michelle. Greg said a big north swell hit the coast and there
were waves as high as twelve feet at the pier. Michelle sounds fine.
She's busy in college. I don't have much to say except I expected more
to be going on over here.

"Flying is almost like flying in the States except we fly higher and
faster. There is some pretty country over here. Green, lush mountains
lie to the west. Along the coast, in the flat lands, rice paddies dot
the land like patchwork. I find it enjoyable flying, believe it or not.
I'll save the war stories for when I get home. I have flown twenty hours
so far. All I do is fly. When I am not flying I am either in the
officer's club or working on my living quarters.

We are living out in the boondocks. -There are semipermanent buildings
here we call hootches, but nothing fancy. No running water.
Fifty-five-gallon drums over the showers are filled with water trucked
in from a nearby river. I haven't taken a hot shower since I have been
here. You know me, that's hard to take. But the temperature is so hot
here anyway you have to take one or two showers a day to feel good.

Boy, I tell you, being a pilot is the only way to live over here and we
are well-respected by the ground troops and with due cause.

All aviators must wear a .38 caliber revolver. It is really neat. You
can always tell an army helicopter pilot over here by his holster on his
hip like a cowboy. I'll send you a picture of me soon.

"When I fly I wear a ballistic flight helmet and a chest protector that
fits over me like a life preserver: a bulletproof vest. Also the pilot
seats are bulletproof, so I am pretty well-protected.

I'm glad Andrea is improving in first grade and that Nancy's enjoying
her secretarial job at Road and Track magazine. Tell them both "hi "for
me. I miss them.

Mom, for Christmas I'll have to send you some money to buy presents
because I don't have access to gifts except for mail order and they
wouldn't get there on time, so around the middle of December be
expecting. some money from me and a list of names to buy presents for.

Not much to say except when I get home a Thrifty drug store will look
like a huge shopping mall to me at the end of my tour.

Please write to -me when you can. Your letters mean a lot.

Randy

Lieutenant Dick Childs was a pilot who occupied the small living
area across from mine. He had been assigned to the company a month
before me. His secondary duty role was that of supply officer. In his
scrounging patrols he was coming up with some pretty bizarre equipment.
One day he crashed through the screen door of our hootch carrying two
scuba tanks, and wearing a full parachute. "What do you think?" he asked
me.

"What do you plan to do with scuba tanks in a combat zone? And we
certainly don't need parachutes. We don't use them.

"I'll trade the scuba tanks to the Sea Bees living at the beach for
jungle boots. I can swap this parachute to the air force in Da Nang for
several cases of frozen steaks. Tomorrow I'm going to work on a deal to
obtain a new Huey from the navy."

"A Huey! Are you out of your mind? The CO will go nuts if you show up
with a Huey. How could he justify it on the books?"

"He doesn't have to. Through my supply network I've found out that the
navy has one extra Huey lying around. The naval supply officer doesn't
even know where it came from. The unit's coming up for an IG inspection
and they have to get rid of it, pronto, or do some pretty fancy
explaining. It's already boxed up and ready to go. I can trade it to a
First Cav friend of mine in II Corps who just wrote off one of theirs
because they dropped it off a truck. Heads'll roll if he can't come up
with a Huey to replace it. He's willing to trade anything for it."

Dick Childs had early on earned the name "Douche Bag" Dick Childs
amongst the other pilots because of his lousy flying ability. There was
not an aircraft commander in our platoon who did not wonder how Childs
had been allowed to graduate from flight school.

On one sortie his instructions were to make a landing to the airstrip at
firebase Birmingham. The only obstacle for miles was a single helicopter
parked to one side of the long strip. There were acres of clear space
where Childs could have landed; nevertheless, he nearly managed to crash
into the parked aircraft. The AC had to grab the controls to avoid a
collision. Similar reports came back after each mission flown with him.
The conclusion was quickly reached that he was a disaster and would
surely kill someone if allowed to continue. He was not long for the
Blackwidows.

The ability of the pilots to accomplish the missions under the most
adverse conditions impressed me. If I were to survive I could see I
would have to learn skills that involved a whole new dimension in flying
that they never taught in flight school. The line between accomplishing
the mission and disaster was a thin one indeed. As a new pilot to the
Blackwidows, I had serious doubts that I would ever be as proficient as
any of the ACS in my company. "I guess that was normal. I was in awe of
the precision they demonstrated when they flew in close formation and
then landed perhaps up to ten ships in tight landing zones. Each AC had
learned his personal limits and knew when to push them and how far to
push them and still avert disaster.

One early morning mission, however, pushed the pilots past the limits of
tolerance they were able to adhere to. The incident was caused by the
one weak link flying in a Second Platoon aircraft, Douche Bag Dick
Childs. His error in judgment nearly cost us our lives.

Division Headquarters at Camp Eagle assigned Charlie Company the task of
supplying a platoon of pilots and aircraft for ten days at a time to be
stationed temporarily at Camp Evans in support of the Third Brigade's
502nd Infantry Battalion. Second Platoon drew the short straw. We were
to pull the first ten days up at Evans.

We were a flight of seven Hueys flying up to Camp Evans to begin the
mission. We had taken off at first light from LZ Sally. I knew the other
pilots had to feel as rough as I did after a late night in the officer's
club. I had managed to get only three hours sleep.

"Tighten up the formation," Chock One ordered over the UHF radio.
"Weather's gettin' really shitty up ahead."

The lead aircraft flew a zig-zag flight path skirting low clouds. We
followed him flying between clouds as we weaved our way northward. The
AC was letting me fly. I glanced over at him. His head was nodding. He
was falling asleep. I added a little power and tightened it up on the
fourth aircraft, trying to hold a forty-five-degree angle off my left
and keeping his rotor disk on the horizon. Highway-1 was five hundred
feet directly below us. I could see it through the chin bubble beneath
my pedals. Suddenly everything went white. I looked up and the fourth
aircraft in front of me had disappeared. Vanished. The lead aircraft had
flown into the clouds. The radio suddenly exploded. "One, this is TWO,
we lost you, breaking right!

"Three, breaking left."

I lost visual on Chock Four. I maintained heading and lowered collective
to descend. The aircraft commander woke up at this stage. "What the fu
...  ? I got it," he snatched the controls from me.

"You got it. They flew into the clouds." I told him.

"Jesus fuck." Then he broadcast, "This is Chock Five. I've lost
everyone.

"Chock Six doin' a one-eighty. "Chock Seven breaking left. Descending."

"Seven, this is Six. Got you. Following you out. I "Roger."

"TWO this is Three lost you. Can't see. Leveling out. Leveling out."

"Roger."

"This is Chock One. We broke out. Base of the clouds is at three hundred
feet."

"This is Two, looking. Still in the shit.

"Four where are you?"

"Still in the clouds descending," Suddenly out of the gray I saw an
aircraft red anticollision light streak from the upper right hand of our
windshield and dive in front of us at a forty-five-degree angle. it
startled me and I pulled my head back. The machine filled the window. I
knew we were going to collide in midair. The aircraft commander hauled
back on the cyclic, the aircrafts nose pitched up, but too late. The
diving helicopter was gone as quickly as it had appeared. If we were
going to hit it there was nothing he could do about it. But by an
amazing piece of luck we missed it by what must have been a few feet.

Moments later reports came in that everyone was out of the clouds and
each ship radioed that they were -flying separately to Camp Evans.

When everyone had landed and shut down Crawford jumped out of his
aircraft and stomped over to the Chock One aircraft and opened the ACS
door. He threw back the sliding armored plating and pulled him out with
both hands by his collar.

"What the holy fuck do you think you were doin' back there? You almost
fucking got us all killed."

"Sorry, goddamn, let go you crazy fuck. I wasn't flyin', my peter pilot
was." When Crawford looked over at the copilot a weakly smiling Douche
Bag Dick, Childs was staring back at him.

"Fucking you!" He screamed, and pulled the AC out further by the collar
till he had him leaning out of the aircraft nearly horizontal, nose to
nose. "If I ever fly in your formation again I don't want this
fucking disaster of a pilot to touch the goddamn controls. You got that?
I'm too fucking short for this kind of shit. Understood?"

"Yeah, yeah, I understand. Let go. I already chewed his ass out. He
won't do it again, not as long as I'm the AC.

"Well, see that he doesn't." He threw the man back in his armored seat,
spun on his heels, and stormed off towards our living area.

It made no difference that our AO was covered with menacing low clouds,
drizzle, and at times heavy rain. The war ground on. There were still
soldiers in the jungle to support, men to shuttle around to the
fire-support bases, and supplies, ammunition, food, and mail to deliver.
There were combat assaults to perform and wounded soldiers to fly back
from the field.

One morning Second Platoon was given a mission to airlift a company of
troops into an area near LZ Barbara eighteen miles northwest of Sally.
We were to pick up the troops attached to the Third Brigade in an open
staging area near Camp Evans. We flew in drizzling rain, in a staggered
left formation, at fifteen hundred feet, out of the range of small arms
fire, until the command, "Take up trail formation, " came over the UHF
radio from Ned Kelly who was flying Chock One. I was flying copilot in
Chock, Two and moved the controls to slip in behind Ned Kelly.

"Not too close to Kelly's tail rotor," the AC cautioned. I pulled back.
"Good, now keep his main rotor on the horizon. That way you'll be sure
to avoid his turbulence."

Kelly began the approach. I could see lines of soldiers waiting for our
arrival in the large staging area south of Camp Evans. Purple smoke rose
in the downpour. There were ten lines of soldiers, one for each ship in
our formation. I aimed for the second line of men. I kept the main rotor
of Kelly's ship on the horizon all the way to the ground and planted the
skids in the mud. Six heavily laden, combat-ready troops carrying M-16s,
with steel pots on their heads and bulky rucksacks on their backs,
scurried aboard.

"We're loaded, sir," the crew chief said.

The tail aircraft radioed, "You're up, Lead."

Kelly transmitted, "Yellow Lead's lifting."

I mirrored Kelly's takeoff and followed him into the high mountains. I
tried to make my control movements smooth knowing eight other aircraft
were following behind. The area where we were to drop the troops was a
ridge line south of LZ Barbara.

"Yellow Flight, this is Yellow Lead. String it out. This'll be a
single-ship LZ."

All the ships acknowledged.

I had a lot of respect for Ned Kelly. In the few weeks I had known him
he seemed to be a born leader. I had flown with him two days before and
he had let me do a lot of the flying-more than any of my previous ACS
had allowed. After takeoff from a fire-support base where we had dropped
off one thousand pounds of C-rations I laid the aircraft over into a
fifty-degree bank and turned back to Camp Eagle. After the turn I looked
at Kelly with a silly grin on my face. He was not amused. "You probably
didn't notice you pulled fifty pounds of torque in the turn. He grabbed
the controls from my hands. "I got it. If you want to try another one of
those fucking hero turns again, try it in someone else's aircraft. Don't
tear the ass out of mine, understand?"

I could feel the crew chief's eyes drilling through the back of my
helmet from his place in the gun well. In my enthusiasm in the turn I
knew I had bruised his baby. "Yes, I understand. I'm sorry."

"Forget it. Just don't do it again." Kelly told me.

I felt lousy. -I had blown the trust I had worked so hard to earn that
day in one single unprofessional maneuver. Typical of an FNG, I thought.

I watched Kelly maneuver his ship up a deep jungle valley, setting up
for his final approach to the LZ under radio guidance from the FAC,
forward air controller, circling above at four thousand feet in a
single-engine Bird Dog fixed-wing. About a mile from the LZ I could see
the white phosphorous smoke rising up out of the trees from the
artillery prep. Then two fast movers, F-4 Phantom jets, swept down and
dropped a sortie of napalm on either side of the zone. White smoke and
flames tumbled over and through the jungle. When we were on quarter-mile
final two Cobra gunships fired pairs of 2.75-inch rockets into the
jungle on either side of Kelly's ship. Then something happened. On short
final, Kelly's chopper seemed to stop flying and fell out of the air. It
looked as if he was going to go into the trees at first, but he flared
violently before he semi-crash landed, planting his skids heavily on the
edge of the ridge line with the nose pointing 45 degrees in the air. The
machine appeared to be frozen in this position for a moment, as if stuck
there, then the tail spun around wildly 180 degrees. Now the nose of the
helicopter Was pointed straight down the mountain and the chopper fell
away from the cliff and toward the trees. He dragged the machine's skids
through the treetops as the helicopter accelerated down the mountain. I
was convinced he was going in. He banked sharply towards a gully, dove
down it, disappearing for a moment in the trees, regained his flying
speed, and started a climb. The aircrafts skids were bent in the middle
at an odd angle. Other than that, the machine looked OK.

"Had a bit of a problem," he transmitted. "I'll be taking the ship back
to Sally. Watch the approach. There's a hell of a downdraft on that
ridge line."

"Bit of a problem! " my AC repeated. "He almost fucking bought the farm!

Kelly always was the master of understatement.

The aircraft commander took the controls from me and shot a
steeper-than-normal approach into the LZ in anticipation of the
turbulence Kelly had warned us about. We encountered no turbulence. He
took it in on the second sortie, just in case. Smooth as glass. He let
me take it in on the third, fourth, and fifth sorties. None of the ships
had felt the reported turbulence.

Ned Kelly bought the rounds in the club that night, but no one made him
sit in the hero's chair to tell his war story. It was obvious he was
pretty shaken up. No one said anything to him. Most of us believed he
had just plain fucked-up the approach. He had blown it and he knew it.
The worst thing that can happen to a pilot's ego is to have his
confidence shaken. Ned Kelly was real quiet that night and proceeded to
get very, very drunk.

Around 2300 the drizzle turned into a steady rain. At times it rained so
hard that the sound of rushing water and the monsoon wind almost drowned
out the drunken singing emanating from the officer's club. It rained all
night. It rained so hard I could barely hear the 105 howitzers firing
through the night from the artillery side of the camp.

The following morning Les Ramson was distraught because his
four-foot-square-by-one-foot-deep unfinished bunker was now an
overflowing quagmire of muddy water. I sat down after breakfast and
wrote a letter home.

9 November 1968

Dear Mom:

I received your letter inviting me to Andrea's sixth birthday party.
Thanks, but I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check. Give her a big
birthday hug and kiss for me.

The monsoons started here today. They are actually late for this time
of year. They usually end around March. The old timers say I won't fly
as much in the next six months as I will probably fly when the monsoon
season is over.

Not much happening. We were going to fly on a big CA, combat assault,
but it got rained out. There were going to be thirty-two B-52s dropping
bombs on the area, then Air Force jets were going to drop napalm, then
helicopter gunships were going to prep the LZ with rockets. Finally we
were to fly in the troops and their supplies but it got called off
because of the weather.

The other pilots in the company are great. I tell you, flying over here
is the only way to fight a war. We receive a lot of respect from the
ground troops because they rely so heavily on us for transportation and
for all their resupply.

I am taking some pictures and will send you some when I have taken a
whole roll and get them developed which takes quite some time because we
have to send our film to Hawaii for processing.

I'd really hate to be a ground pounder over here. It's raining buckets
now. I can't imagine what it's like for them in the jungle right now.
They have it tougher than anyone.

More later.

Randy

A week of waiting and watching and listening to the rain falling
from the dirty Southeast Asian sky became monotonous and boring in the
extreme. At times it rained so hard that you were unable to see fifty
feet across the company area. Everything outside the company hootches
was a quagmire-deep swimming pools of muddy water. All my clothes and
flight suits, after being washed by my hootch maid, came back damp and
smelling of a campfire. The only means of drying laundry in the monsoon
season was over an open fire in the ville.

The Blackwidows flew little that week. I flew twice as copilot up to
Camp Eagle. The pilots were getting itchy. The afternoon of the eighth
day the rain subsided into a fine drizzle. Our black ops NCO, Sergeant
Peoples, banged on the door of my hootch.

"Come in."

He entered breathing hard. He'd obviously been running. His poncho
dripped onto my plywood floor. "Mr. Mains, you'll be flying with Bob
Coulshaw in fifteen minutes. -The weather's clearing in the mountains
and Brigade wants you to try to get mail to the guys up at LZ Veghel."

I looked out the screen to check the weather outside. Billowing, black
cumulous clouds were rolling in from the mountains. "You sure, Peoples?

Looks pretty nasty out there to me."

"I'm just passin' orders, sir. If it looks bad you can always turn
round. Brigade requested you just give it a try, that's all."

Mail was a great morale booster. Next best thing to R&R or leaving
Vietnam for good. I put on my green baseball cap, my holster and .38,
and grabbed my flack jacket. I tucked the yellow scarf into the collar
of my Nomex flight suit. I suddenly had this overwhelming feeling I was
acting a part in a Hollywood movie, similar to those of my daydreams
when I "flew" the old B-25 at Van Nuys airport ten years before. "Why
not," I said. "Sounds like a good cause. Beats hell out of sittin'
around here."

"That it does, sir. Mr. Coulshaw's on his way to the chopper now. You'll
be takin' ship 786. Said he'd meet you out there.

The weather was miserable. We had to scud run at near treetop level to
avoid the low, menacing overcast. Coulshaw guided the craft up valleys,
across saddles, up more valleys, around mountains. Because we were so
low I could not accurately pinpoint our position on the map. I hoped
Coulshaw knew where we were. Luckily, he did.

"There she is up there," he said with a thick southern drawl, pointing.
We circled in a jungle valley of drizzling rain. Below, triple-canopy
jungle. Above, a solid, black cloud layer that I watched move back and
forth over the LZ we were going to try to land on. According to the map
we were surrounded by mountains several thousand feet higher than where
we were at the moment. When I looked outside, I could not see them
because they were shrouded in black clouds.

The FM radio came to life. "We have you Blackwidow One-Four.
Pad's clear. You can come on in.

"Roger, Kentucky Jumper. We'll give it a try.' Coulshaw began his
approach. On short final the clouds rolled over the pad obscuring it. He
had to bank away sharply, descend, and circle again. We circled and
waited until the cloud rolled off the pad. Coulshaw tried it again. This
time we made it. The grunts, most of them shirtless and muddy, ran up to
us and pulled off the two sacks of mail. They were beaming and gave us
the thumbs up. One of them came up to my window, stood on the skid, gave
me the thumbs up sign and mouthed, "Thanks!"

The clouds were rolling down on us and threatened to cover the pad
again. We had to get out quick. Coulshaw picked the craft up to a hover,
kicked left pedal, and dove down the mountain the way we had come in. He
headed toward the saddle in the mountain. It was just open, the cloud
covering on either side making our escape route look like a narrow
tunnel. If we hurried it looked as if we would barely squeeze through.
The FM radio came to life again.

"Blackwidow One-Four, we forgot to throw our outgoing mail on board.
Could you come back and pick it up?

Coulshaw did not answer. He threw the machine into a steep right bank
and headed back to the pad. I thought that if he had been flying with
Ned Kelly he would have been chastised for making a hero turn. But in
this case it was called for. We were racing against time.

The pad was obscured by cloud. Coulshaw transmitted, "Kentucky Jumper,
we'll circle for a few minutes. If your pad doesn't clear, we'll have to
throw it away and return to base. Weather's rat shit, copy? II "We copy,
Blackwidow One-Four. Thanks."

We circled. The clouds tumbled lower. We circled some more. The clouds
began to force us lower still. I noticed our escape hole in the mountain
saddle was covered in cloud. We were boxed in. Trapped. Surrounded by
clouds that were descending upon us rapidly. The rain began to increase.
That's when I saw the muzzle flashes. I shouted on the intercom to
Coulshaw, "We're taking fire. Two o'clock low!"

"Shit!" Coulshaw banked hard away from the ridge line. The horizon went
vertical.

I heard something hit the ship. Coulshaw pulled in collective and
everything outside went white, then dark gray. I got on the gauges. The
attitude indicator showed a fifty degree turn to the right. Our angle of
bank was increasing.

"Attitude!" I yelled. Coulshaw corrected.

Where are those damn mountains, I thought.

The airspeed began to drop from eighty knots to forty. Couishaw was
pulling back on the cyclic stick. "Check airspeed," I said, trying to
hide the fear in my voice. The angle of bank began to increase again.
Fuck. Can't see the goddamn mountains. "Check your turn!"

The wings on the instrument fell back slowly to a thirtydegree bank. We
both knew we had to keep turning in a tight circle to avoid the
mountains and climb up out of the valley. I looked outside. It looked
like someone had painted all the windows dirty gray. I expected to see
the jungle suddenly come rushing at us before the crash. It was raining
hard. Somewhere out there were mountains. Coulshaw was fighting just to
keep the craft from going inverted-a fatal maneuver in a Huey. I thought
about my tactical instrument ticket and the joke about the hole punched
in the right-hand corner. Fuck, bayonet training. Some joke. Goddamn,
this is fucking serious! Calm down. Calm down. I repeated to myself.

"Airspeed," I said over the intercom. It was down to twenty knots. The
altimeter read thirty-one hundred feet. "Forward cyclic. Check
airspeed!"

"Gotta keep turning right," Coulshaw said. "Check the gauges and keep me
straight."

"Roger. You're doin' OK. You're doin' OK." He was fighting for control.

"Take a breath. Power. Pull in fifty pounds of torque."

He did.

We climbed in the soup at twelve hundred feet-per-minute in a right-hand
turn. "Airspeed looks good. Relax. Keep it comin' right. Keep it comin'
right. That's it. That's it. Lookin, good. Angle of bank looks good.
We're winnin', buddy, we're winnin'. Four thousand feet. Lookin' good.
At six thousand feet you can head zero-four-five degrees to the coast.
I'll call for a radar approach. Looks good, sixty knots. Should be clear
of the peaks now. You can level the wings. That's it, good."

Minutes later we broke out of the clouds at nine thousand feet heading
045 degrees. Coulshaw was wet with sweat. So was I. The sun shone
brightly now that we were above the goo. "Now we got to get back down
through that shit. Fuck me!" Coulshaw said.

"You want me to fly the approach?" I asked.

"No, just monitor my flying. You did good. And work the radios."

"Roger."

I dialed in the frequency. "Phu Bai approach, this is Blackwidow
One-Four. We're VFR on top at nine thousand feet heading zero-four-five
degrees. Request radar handling for a GCA."

"Roger, Blackwidow One-Four, are you transponder equipped?

We had the control head, but not the guts. The transponder, an
electronic aid to identify our blip on the controller's radar screen,
had been removed to save on weight. "We have negative transponder." I
told him.

"Roger, for radar identification, turn right to zero-nine-zero degrees."

"Roger, right zero-nine-zero degrees." Coulshaw flew the new heading.

"I have you ten miles northwest of Phu Bai, Blackwidow One-Four. On
present heading you may descend to three thousand feet." I repeated the
instructions then said to Coulshaw, "Well, here we go. Here's your last
chance to take out your tactical ticket and see blue sky."

He smiled at the joke and seemed to relax. "Nah, we can get down without
it." He lowered the collective and began a descent.

Neither of us brought it up at the time, but we both knew that a week
ago a Phu Bai GCA controller had radar-vectored a twin-engine,
fixed-wing aircraft into a mountain. Eight people had been killed. We
descended into wet goo again putting all our trust in the controller,
hoping he would not make the same fatal mistake. Coulshaw had settled
down and we descended straight ahead to three thousand feet without a
hitch.

"Blackwidow One-Four level at three thousand." I radioed.

"Roger, turn left now to three-three-zero degrees and descend to fifteen
hundred feet."

"Roger, copy."

Couishaw turned and leveled out on the new heading. It began to rain
heavily now, getting very dark. Even if we did break out of the clouds
we probably would not be able to see the runway.

"Phu Bai, we're level at fifteen hundred."

"Roger, turn left to one-five-zero degrees and descend to one thousand
feet."

I read back the clearance. Soon we were on the new course. "Blackwidow
One-Four turn left to intercept inbound course for the runway. No need
to acknowledge further transmissions. You are approaching glide path,
turn left five degrees to intercept runway center line. That's it you're
on course. Begin descent now to intercept glide path  ..."

The controller talked us down the approach path giving us instructions
to make small heading and altitude corrections. It was like being talked
down blind. We broke out of the clouds at two hundred feet in a
torrential rain shower. We flew the approach to the runway like an
airplane. When we turned off the runway for the taxi way I radioed,
"Thanks, Phu Bai. We owe you one. What's your name?"

"Spec-5 Needham, sir."

"Well Spec-5 Needham, we'd like to buy you a drink.

"Thank you, sir. I'd like that."

We spent the night in Phu Bai. We tried to track down Spec-5 Needham
without success. We went to the officer's club at Delta Company, our
sister company, the gun platoon, and bought the men there drinks
instead. -That night I offered a silent toast to my instrument
instructors who had taught me more than I had realized. Their training
had saved my life today. This was one time when bayonet training had
paid off. I also drank to another event. I was not a "cherry" any more.
I had taken my first round. The crew chief had found two bullet holes,
one in the fin near the tail rotor and one in the tailboom. We had been
lucky today. I prayed my luck would continue.

The next day Coulshaw and I flew back to Sally following Highway-1 at
one hundred feet in the rain. We landed in the mud at the Widow Web and,
because of bad weather, I did not fly for another two days.

"Pilots grounded for any reason are a king-size painin-the-ass,"
Sergeant Peoples lamented one drizzly day in the operations tent. "If
they ain't flyin' all they do is think up ways to get in trouble. Shit,
I wish this fuckin' rain'd stop. Then you guys would quit playin'
grab-ass and get out of my fuckin' hair."

He did have a point. Douglas Julian Carson III was a pilot in my
platoon. I had met him the first day I arrived at Sally. He had been
playing cards with Ned Kelly in the O-club. Carson was respected as a
pilot. He had a good control touch and he always accomplished the
mission and flew the machine back in one piece. As an individual however
he was just slightly less than a pompous asshole. He had a college
degree from Northwestern University and, although he never claimed to be
better than the rest of us, he carried an air of superiority that grated
heavily on everyone's nerves.

On this particular day his new tape player, an Akai 1800 SD reel-to-reel
with an 8-track cartridge in the side, had arrived. He was listening to
Bach through the new headphones. It was midafternoon and six of us were
in his hootch playing cards. It was raining outside. Ned Kelly suddenly
came up with a scheme for a little fun.

"None of you look up from your cards," he told us.

"Hub? " We all looked up from our cards.

"Assholes, I said don't look up. Keep looking at your cards and listen."

We all looked back at our cards. Kelly continued. "We're gonna get
Carson."

"How?" Five men leaned forward.

"Sit back and try to act natural. Shit don't let him know we're schemin'
on him."

All of us sat upright and looked at our cards again. "That's better."

Kelly checked his watch. "About now's the time we usually get mortared
or rocketed if it's going to happen, right?" We nodded. Kelly looked
over at Carson. Carson smiled, happy with his music. Kelly turned back
toward us. "He can't hear us with the headphones on, so when I count to
three, we all look up toward the roof, like we her incoming. Wait a
second, then make for the door as if you're makin' for the bunker."

"I get it," Joe said smiling broadly. "Then we stand outside and watch
the fun."

"You caught my drift. OK, you guys ready?" We answered with our eyes.
"OK, one ... two ... now!

We all looked to the heavens. Genuine Oscar-winning horror turned our
faces into hideous masks. We dropped our cards and scrambled for the
door, nearly falling over one another to exit the doomed hootch. The
card table got knocked over in the rush, cards fluttered to the floor.

The last guy flew outside. The screen door slammed and we stood to one
side of the entrance in the rain and waited. A second, maybe two, went
by. Douglas Julian Carson III exploded through the door of the hootch
with a stride that would have made Jesse Owens envious. Behind him
trailed his brand new Akai 1800 SD reel-to-reel bouncing along the
plywood floor, still attached to the headphones on Carson's head. The
door slammed behind him, trapping the cord before the tape deck could be
dragged outside into the rain. The sudden jolt nearly pulled the man's
ears off and it yanked his head backward; the Coss headphones recoiled
like a slingshot and slammed against the screen door of the hootch.

Carson's face went crimson. "Fucking assholes!" he hollered. "Uncouth,
uncultured, bastards, each and every one of you!" But his accusing words
were drowned out by the deluge of water falling from the sky and the
hysterical laughter from the six of us doubled over, stomping our boots
in the mud.

My platoon was again sent up to support the Third Brigade at Camp Evans
which was to begin another tenday detachment. On the seventh day of our
ten-day stint, our CO sent a message that we were to fly back to Sally
to attend a "hail and farewell" party to be held that evening. Major
Posey told us we were to fly back up to Camp Evans following the
festivities the same night. When I arrived at Sally there was a letter
from home waiting for me. I answered it the following day.

24 November 1968

Dear Mom:

I received your letter with the pictures of Andrea's birthday party.
They sure turned out good. I showed them around to the other pilots and
they got a kick out of them.

Dad wrote me a letter. He didn't say much, just told me to take care and
that he was thinking about me. It's starting to rain every day now. I
guess the rainy season is here to stay. It makes flying tough and a real
challenge to accomplish the day's mission. If it rains "too bloody hard"
we don't even go on missions.

The Joey Bishop USO show came to LZ Sally but I missed it because our
platoon has been on detachment, stationed up at Camp Evans eight miles
north. I heard it was a good show.

We had a hail and farewell party last night to welcome officers coming
into the company, me and two other flight school buddies of mine, and
for officers who are leaving. Boy, did everyone get smashed. It was hard
to find two sober enough pilots to fly us back to Camp Evans where we
are staying for ten days. It was a riot. We were all singing and
carrying on, tripping, etc., on our way out to the helicopter after the
party. Boy, did our company have hangovers the next day. I had to fly at
0630 the following morning so I was in a real hurt.

Not much else. -Thanks for the pictures and keep writing.

Randy.

I pulled the pictures out of the envelope and looked at them for the
hundredth time. The top picture was of Mom and my stepdad in the
backyard, preparing to barbecue steaks on a hibachi he had recently
flown back from Japan. There was another picture of my
seventeen-year-old sister, Nancy, clowning, around in one of my army
uniforms. In front of her stood little Andrea waving an American flag on
a stick. My favorite was one of Andrea with her hair in blonde pigtails
tied with red ribbons to match her red birthday dress. She was beaming
from behind a white birthday cake with six pink, candles on top,
surrounded by a crowd of other kids her age. Behind her a small boy was
pulling the hair of one of Andrea's friends. The little girl was
grimacing and appeared to be trying to fight back. The picture had been
taken in our dining room. The surroundings looked so clean. Sterile.
Civilized. I had only been in country six weeks and already it was
getting harder to visualize life in the real world. It was so foreign to
what I saw around me here.

When I went into the village outside Sally I would see kids two years
younger than my little sister smoking homemade cigarettes and hustling
Coca Cola or, even worse, trying to sell me the favors of their older
sisters. Throughout their short lifetime all they had known was war.
Their day-to-day objective was aimed at one goal: to survive to see the
next. I could not imagine my little sister in similar circumstances. It
was quite unthinkable. I liked to think that was why I was over here-to
prevent her from one day having to know the ravages of war on home soil.
Or was it? I could already foresee it would be difficult to explain what
I had experienced here when, and if, I returned home. But I had no idea
at the time how difficult. That my modest part in this fight for freedom
would be in vain did not enter my imagination. At the time it was
equally unimaginable that my countrymen would not want to know, or care,
about the sacrifices I was making in the war-sacrifices similar to those
my father and stepfather had made during World War II, or both my
grandfathers had made in the First World War.

Dismissing the feelings of homesickness and isolation brought on by the
pictures, I put them back in the envelope, stuffed it in the top pocket
of my Nomex flight suit, threw on my green baseball cap, and walked
through the mud to the mess tent for morning chow.

I flew eight-and-a-half hours that day as Ned Kelly's peter pilot. We
flew ass-and-trash to several fire-support bases ten clicks east of the
A-Shau Valley. He let me do a lot of the flying. I finally felt I was
starting to get the hang of landing in some medium-tight landing zones
without overcontrolling the aircraft. My pedal control was settling down
and I was not fishtailing the Huey's tail all over the place. I felt
pleased with my performance.

Walking back from the Camp Evans revetment area to our hootches Kelly
remarked, "You're improving, new guy,"

"Thanks." His remark meant a lot. I valued the man's assessment of my
flying ability.

"In over eight hours of flying you didn't pull one of your hero turns.
My crew chief was waiting for it. He told me he'd kill you if you tried
it again. But you didn't. You showed restraint. He said he may even let
you fly his aircraft again if you keep it up."

"Thanks a lot, Kelly. I'll try to keep that in mind."

The other pilots from our platoon returned from their missions, had
chow, and settled into an evening of playing cards or writing letters.
Those not on flare pilot standby were able to drink a few beers.

At 2230 Joe Sulak, Tom Shonehour, Stony Rutherford and I decided to turn
in for the night. We shared an underground bunker that Stony had
discovered when we first came to Camp Evans. It was twenty meters from
the hootch where the others from our platoon slept.

Stony Rutherford was one of the married pilots in the Blackwidows. I had
noticed a certain air of conservatism about many of the married men in
our company. I guess it was to be expected. They carried the added
burden that if they got killed or wounded it would destroy a future that
they had mapped out with their wives. Fair enough. No one could blame
them. There were exceptions of course, but generally one could tell the
married from the single pilots by this attitude to the job. Single
pilots possessed a spirit both in and out of the cockpit that bordered
on juvenile or even reckless. We were unencumbered by the added
responsibilities of wife and children that weighed heavily on the
shoulders of the married pilots. The single pilots lived from one day to
the next, just getting the job done. The married pilots lived for the
date of their DEROS. Although we all aimed to get through the war alive
and back to The World, it seemed the single guys were more willing to
take chances along the way. But taking risks was just not part of Stony
Rutherford's life style. Stony made no bones about letting everyone know
this war business was not for him. He carried the added cross of having
a round, innocent-looking baby face, rather like a cherub out of a
Rubens painting.

Stony had flown more than five hundred hours and had not yet made
aircraft commander. A pilot with normal aspirations makes AC after
flying dime hundred combat hours. Stony had been in country for more
than six months and was still a peter pilot. He made it clear he had no
inclination to make AC. Besides, none of the ACS had recommended him for
co of his own ship anyway that suited him. He was content to be a
professional copilot throughout his tour and have someone else make all
the decisions for him.

Because of Stonys nervousness and lack of ambition, he became an easy
target for pranks and practical jokes. This particular night was no
exception.

The four of us were in the underground bunker preparing for
bed when the idea came to Joe, Tom, Stony had remarked, "This
underground bunker is a hell of a lot safer than that open hootch the
other guys are staying in. Hell, sappers could just come marching
through and blow their sliit away in a heartbeat-" wearing only green
boxer shorts and shower shoes, I was tossing a bayonet at an
eighteen-inch support Post that stood in the middle of the small bunker.
"But Stony, there's only one way in and out of here. Up those wooden
steps," I pointed in the dim light with the bayonet. "Probably the last
thing we'd hear before we got our shit blown to kingdom come is the
grenade, or satchel charge, or whatever bouncing down those steps."

Stony immediately got that familiar worried look on his round face. He
looked at the steps leading into the underground bunker. "Yeah, but
they're really hard to see from ground level. Especially at night.
During a sapper attack .the dinks usually run like hell to get in and
out as fast as they can. They're looking for easy targets, places like
the hootch up there where the rest of the guys are staying naw, I think
this is the safest place at Camp Evans."

I tossed the bayonet. It tumbled through the air and its point stuck
deep into the splintered wood. I walked over pulled it out. "A
grenade goes off in here, Stony, the four-of usd be splattered against
those PSP walls like ham burger meat in a blender."

Joe looked up from writing a letter. "We'd be done for, that's for sure,
Stony." Tom added, "They'd need to scrape the remains off these metal
walls with a spatula. Wouldn't be enough to send home in a matchbox."
Stony said defensively, "Charlie'd never find this place in the dark."

Tom shrugged. "Maybe yes, but then again maybe no, One thing's for sure,
with the steep angle of those steps and the length of them, it'd take
just about four seconds for anything tossed down to tumble in here and
explode just as it hit the dirt floor."

"I have to use the latrine," Rutherford said abruptly scurrying up the
steps in his green boxer shorts. Joe and Tom shot me amused glances. We
talked in low tones and quickly made our plans. We heard Rutherford's
voice again.

"Holy shit! Hey you guys get up here. Looks like Evans's being overrun!"

Tom, Joe, and I scrambled single file up the steps. The other pilots
living in the hootch nearby had brought their folding chairs outside to
watch the fire fight on the perimeter. Two Cobra gunships were firing
rockets and miniguns at the perimeter. Flares were being launched. They
hissed and then popped over the battlefield illuminating the VC caught
in the wire. We watched for half an hour, got bored; then decided to go
to bed.

Rutherford, Joe, Tom, and I lay in our bunks. The darkness in the.
bunker was so thick you could have cut it. We could still hear the whirr
of the Cobra's miniguns and the occasional hiss and pop of flares being
launched.

In the darkness Joe said to Rutherford, "Don't worry, Stony, if sappers
do get through tonight all you'll hear before the big bang is the sound
of the explosive device bouncing down those wooden steps. That's all.
Good night."

"Good night." Tom said "Good night." I echoed.

"Good night!" Stony exclaimed. "How in hell can you guys go to sleep
knowing we may be pulverized down herp-?"

"But you said yourself we're safe," Tom reminded him in a consoling
tone. "And that's good enough for me."

"You'll never hear the explosion," Joe said. "Just the sound of
metal bouncing against wood, Stony. That'll be the last you'll hear.

"Thanks a fucking lot, Joe!"

Five minutes passed. In the solid darkness, Joe sneaked from his bunk,
as he had told Shonehour and me he would do, and silently made his way
to the base of the steps. He carried with him a full can of ham and lima
beans from our C-ration case. He tossed it up the short flight of
stairs. It fell with a dull thud and bounced back down the steps
sounding, just as we'd hoped, like an M-67 fragmentation grenade
tumbling in on us.

Rutherford began to scream, "Holy Shiiiitt!" He dove from his bunk
knocking Joe on his ass in the darkness, and scurried up the steps
hollering at the top of his lungs, "Sappers, goddamn, sappers everybody,
sappers, sappers!"

It was a solid week before Stony would utter one civil word to either
Joe, Tom, or me. For the remaining five months that we had to support
the 502nd up at Camp Evans, there was an empty bunk in our personal
bunker. From that night on Stony Rutherford elected to stay with the
other pilots in the open and vulnerable hootch.

CHAPTER 4.

December 1968

Merry Christmas, Ernest James.

Most of the pilots had flown more than nine hours today. There was a
mood of hearty camaraderie in the club at Sally following a particularly
successful mission. Several of our ships had taken hits, but we had all
made it back alive. Luckily, no one had even been wounded. Twenty
aircraft had been involved in airlifting men and equipment,
operating-out of Firebase Bastogne, into the various landing zones in
the jungle. It had been a muggy, sweltering day. The LZS had been tight
and difficult. The officers were ready to party.

At 2130 Ops Sergeant Peoples walked through the back door of the
officer's club surveying the smoke-filled room. He found the CO and
yelled to him over the loud music, "A platoon of grunts two klicks west
of Evans is in contact, sir. The flare ship stationed up there from
First Platoon has expended all its flares. Brigade's requesting we fly
up another ship ASAP to lend assistance!"

"It's raining like hell out there, Peoples. You sure they can get up to
fifteen hundred feet to drop flares in this weather?

"Other crew managed it, sir. "Guess you're right. Send the flare crew
then."

"Can't. Pilot's sick. He ate some bad C-rats or Somethin'. He's doubled
up on his cot in the flare tent. When he's not throwin' up he's runnin'
to the shit house. You'll have to send someone else."

"Are there any other ACS available?"

"They're all in here, sir. Rest of the company ACS are stationed up at
Evans."

The CO looked around the small room. He motioned for Spec-4 Flowers to
turn down the reel-to-reel. "Good Lovin" by the Young Rascals was
reduced to conversational level. The men fell silent.

"The flare pilot's ill," the CO announced. "Who's sober enough to
volunteer to fly a flare mission up at Evans?"

Several hands flew up. "Watkins, Fisher, you're both elected.

The two men did not look very sober to me.

Joe, standing next to me, said, "The old man's sending them?"

I shook my head. "Guess the rules are different in combat. A few beers,
so what?"

The two men exited the hootch into the rain. Spec-4 Flowers turned up
the volume on the tape recorder. "We Gotta Get out of This Place" by the
Animals, the theme song for every American GI based in Vietnam, now
vibrated from the sixty-watt Sansui speakers on the wall. All the
officers joined in the chorus.

Barely fifteen minutes later the two warrant officers sent to fly the
flare mission barged through the door of the officer's club. Their
unexpected entrance silenced the room. They were soaked through and
caked with red mud. They looked like two NFL players after a game in the
rain and mud. The first man, Watkins, yelled, "Woooeeee!" and jumped in
the air to plant both feet on the likeness of the Screaming Eagle on the
floor. Fisher did the same. Watkins's Nomex was torn off at the
shoulder. He had a trail of blood trickling down his forehead, over his
nose, and down his chin. He plopped down in the armored seat, pulled the
shoulder straps over him, strapped in, donned the red hero helmet, and
began to tell his story. "First of all, where the fuckin' hell's my
beer?"

Someone handed him a Budweiser. He popped the top, pressed the can to
his lips, threw his head back, chugged it down, squashed it in his hand,
threw it to the plywood floor, and then announced, "Gentlemen, drinks
are on me. Fisher and I are fucking lucky to be alive tonight, and I'm
here to tell you we're going to celebrate. Someone yelled, "What're you
guys doing back here?

What happened? Your aircraft red-xed or couldn't you find it in the
rain?" The club filled with laughter.

Watkins's thin, muddied face molded into a satanic grin. He reached into
the deep pocket of his green Nomex. He pulled out the hand grip of a
Huey's cyclic. "This is what's left of the fucking flare aircraft. We
crashed right outside the perimeter. Couldn't see the concertina wire
for all the fucking rain on the windshield. Caught the skids on the wire
on take off and we went ass over tits and speared into the mud, nose
first. The aircraft thrashed itself to pieces. Fish and I climbed out of
the wreckage, said fuck it, and came in here for a beer."

Everyone raised their glasses and cheered.

Joe leaned over and said in my ear, "They're all fuckin' nuts."

"No shit.

Several days passed. The rain finally stopped. The weather cleared
somewhat and nearly every pilot in the company flew from first light
till dark to catch up on resupplying the firebases and units in the AO
and shifting men and equipment before the next heavy rains began.

On December 6 our platoon had all ten ships shut down and lined up on
the PSP landing strip at Sallv waiting for troops to arrive -so we could
fly them into the field. I sat on the floor of the Huey with a note
pad on my lap and wrote a letter home.

6 December 1968

Hi:

I received your Christmas care package of goodies last night. Thank you
very much. You couldn't have picked better stuff to put into it. It's
the best thing that Is happened to me since I got here. The surfer
magazine and the MAD magazines are great. The chocolate chip cookies and
brownies traveled well also.

There isn't much to tell you about what has been happening. I still
really like the flying over here. I flew nine hours yesterday.

The other night while flying from Camp Evans to Camp Eagle I did
something different. We had several pilots on board so I asked the
aircraft commander if I could fly as door gunner for a change. The
gunner said he did not mind so I did. Anyway, we started to receive fire
over Hue, which is normal I asked the pilot if I could fire back and he
said OK. It was really neat to see my tracer bullets disappear into the
night. I suppressed the fire on the ground, though. Who knows if I got
the guy or not. All I know is that I stopped him from firing at us. One
tracer round missed our tailboom by three to ten feet.

That's about it for excitement.

Tell Nancy that we do have a radio station over here but we hear the
songs that were popular several months ago back home.

Not much else. Will write soon. Hope you received the money I sent for
Christmas presents for everyone.

Love, Randy

The following day I was assigned to fly COP Ned
Kelly on a trip to Da Nang for a PX run. I was thrilled to finally have
my turn to go. I hoped to buy a reel-to-reel tape player for my small
living area. That would really make it home, I thought. If the sound of
whopping rotor blades was the pulse of the war, music was its life
blood. Most of the pilots owned tape recorders to play their own
particular brand of music. It helped them maintain their sanity.

We flew south along the coast of Vietnam and over the Hai Van Pass.
Kelly told me that several months before a convoy got wiped out there.
"Used to happen regularly," he told me over the intercom. "There was a
time it was one of the most dangerous stretches of road in Vietnam."

Once over the pass we descended and flew at fifty feet and eighty knots
over the beach at Da Nang. We had to fly at that altitude to stay below
the approach path of the Da Nang air base, one of the busiest in
Vietnam.

It was about seven-thirty in the morning when we flew over the shanty
town of Da Nang. There were small fishing boats anchored in the muddy
harbor. A makeshift city spread along the beach and crept inland. The
crudely constructed dwellings made of plywood, tin, and scraps of
cardboard looked as if they would be destroyed by one stiff monsoon
breeze. Vietnamese men and women lined the beach, squatting and waving
at us as we flew overhead. Some wore the familiar conical woven straw
hat. Most wore black pajamas.

"Know what their doin' down there?" Kelly asked.

"Smiling and waving," I answered, thinking his question odd.

"Look closer."

I did. "Smiling and waving," I answered again. "They seem happy to see
us."

"Boy, you are some FNG." Kelly said shaking his head. "They're taking a
morning George. Giving birth to another VC. They're taking a morning
shit!

I looked down at them out the chin bubble. He was right. Lined in a row
for as far up the beach as I could see were people along the water's
edge shitting into the Gulf of Tonkin. "They wouldn't get away with that
in Huntington Beach. I can tell you that much," I said jokingly.

"Jesus, this isn't Huntington Beach, if you haven't noticed."

He pointed ahead. "That's Monkey Mountain in the distance there, " Kelly
referred to Marble Mountain, a tit of a hill sticking up out of
flatlands a short distance from the blue-brown sea.

"There're still VC living in the caves up there. Every once in a while
they lob a mortar or two into the marine compound at the base of the
mountain just to keep 'em on their toes.

"Why doesn't someone go up and clean 'em out? Shouldn't b e too hard to
do."

"You'd think itd be easy but it isn't. Every so often the marines launch
an assault up the hill. Several months back the Army Special Forces sent
ten Green Berets up the hill. None of them ever came back. The VC and
NVA are like cockroaches. You can't get rid of the fuckers. So they're
just plain ignored."

"Tenacious little devils, aren't they?"

"You don't know the half of it, new guy. As a race of people they got
more wanna than we ever thought of having.

"Wanna?"

"Yeah, wanna. They wanna win this war a hell of a lot worse than we do.
This is their land not ours. They got a vested interest in it where we
don't. We're just tourists. How long you been here anyway, new guy?"

"I don't know. Eight weeks I guess."

"How about you, Murphy?" he asked his crew chief.

"Nine-and-a-half months, sir," he said from the right hand gun well.

"And Jackson, how about you?" he asked the gunner.

"I'm so short I gotta reach up to touch bottom, sir. I'm what you call a
two-digit midget. TWENTY-seven days and a wake up and I'm fucking outta
here."

"And I've been here seven months," Kelly said. "We keep counting, every
one of us, and we won't stop counting till our year's up and we can fly
back to The World on that freedom bird and try to forget about this
godforsaken shit hole."

"Amen, sir!" Jackson agreed.

"That's the big difference between this war and the war our fathers
fought," Kelly continued. "If we were told we couldn't come home till it
was over, you can bet your ass we'd end it quick. We'd defoliate the
jungles, have the Sea t Bees level this fucking country, pave it with
black top, and turn it into one huge parking lot for Bangkok."

"Now you're talkin', sir," the crew chief said enthusiastically.

"There's a huge difference between them and us " Kelly continued. "We're
just visitors in this war, clock watchers waiting for the day when we
can go home I thought back to what Stu had said before we got off the
aircraft in Cam Ranh Bay. "The clock starts now, gentlemen," he'd said.
"Only 365 days to go till we go home."

"That's why we're going to lose this fucking war," Kelly said shaking
his head. "Cuz it's not our war. Never has been. It's the enemy's. And
they got a hell of a lot more motivation and wanna to win than we ever
thought the little fuckers had."

It was the first time any of the pilots had shared such a negative view
with me. I was young, apolitical. Patriotic, yes. Political no. It never
occurred to me that the American military machine could be overcome.
Never. Especially by a backward country where the people used water
buffalo to plow their fields and squatted on the beach to shit into the
sea. I thought little about what Kelly had said. He had to be wrong. It
was inconceivable to me that an American , with all its wealth, military
might, and righteousness could ever lose such a war.

We landed the aircraft at the pad near the PX and walked the half a
klick up a dusty road to the huge, warehouse-type building.
Duce-and-a-half trucks, some full of soldiers, others heaped with
supplies, and many jeeps rumbled past, each covering us in their cloud
of dust. Because Da Nang was a built up area, modern and civilized
compared to the primitive living conditions at Sally and Evans, I felt
out of place in baggy green Nomex, Yellow scarf, and holstered .38. This
must have been how the early cowboys felt when they returned to a
relatively civilized town after weeks on the trail. I had my first
inkling that some of my newness was beginning to wear off. I may have
been an FNG in the eyes of most of the guys back at Sally, but the
grunts and other troops I passed on the street wouldn't know the
difference. Knowing this made me stand a bit taller as I walked into the
large, air-conditioned building. The PX was cavernous, filled to the
gunnels with every type of booze, liqueur, 35-mm camera, civilian
clothing, food, candy, wrist watch, jewelry, stereo system, tape
recorder, and reel-to-reel tape player. And everything was unbelievably
cheap.

I bought a reel-to-reel, two twenty-five-watt Coral speakers, ten tapes,
several bottles of booze, and some stateside cookies. The brownies my
family had sent in the Christmas care package had arrived as hard as
bricks, and the chocolate chip cookies were powdered dust and pulverized
chocolate hits. I had not told my family in my letter home that the food
items had arrived damaged.

Ned Kelly let me fly his ship back to Sally, even letting me hover it
into the tight revetment. I was definitely putting the polish on my
control touch. After we shut down I rushed my tape player back to the
hootch, plugged it in, and put on the newly purchased Moody Blues "In
Search of the Lost Chord" tape. When I heard the noise that came out I
was shocked. The voices were low and distorted sounding as if the
performers had each consumed a bottle of Valium before the recording
session. "I've been ripped off!" I exclaimed.

Les Ramson was sitting on his bunk cleaning a British Sterling machine
gun. "No, you haven't. Your recorder's set on different cycles. It's
probably made for fifty cycles." He walked over and made an adjustment
on the back. "There, now give her a try." It sounded perfect. My area
was now complete.

That night I was scheduled to be flare copilot. That meant the aircraft
commander and I had to sleep in the flare tent outside of operations
where we would stand by in the event of a call out. I took my tape
player with me.

"What'cha gonna do with that?" the AC, Mick Shu bert, asked. "What? My
new tape player? Bought it today on the music. PX run to Da Nang.
Figured we could use some m "Where you going to plug it in?"

I surveyed the tent. One naked bulb hung on a wire over our heads. I
pointed, "Up there."

Shubert sat on his cot with arms crossed. "This I gotta see.

I reached into the chest pocket of my flight suit and pulled out a
screw-in type socket which had two plug receptacles on either side. I
had scrounged it from the supply officer, Douche Bag Dick Childs. With
Shubert holding my flashlight I stood on a chair and unscrewed the light
bulb, screwed in the socket, and put the light bulb back in.

"What about the plug on your reel-to-reel," he asked. "The prongs are
round. The ones in the socket up there are flat."

I pulled out my Buck knife, opened it and said, "Watch."

I cut off the plug and stripped the rubber insulation off the two wires.
Shubert said, "You're sure going to a lot of trouble just for a little
music."

"You bet. But it'll be worth it. You'll see." I stood on the wobbly
chair holding the cord with the two bare wires. "Ten seconds from now
we'll have music." I reached up to plug the bare wires into the light
socket.

Shubert told me later that before I tripped off the 25-K generator,
plunging the whole of Charlie Company into total darkness, he swears he
actually saw an arc of electricity, like a bolt of lightning, pass from
my left hand, around each ear like a brilliant halo, to my right hand,
completing the circuit. That was the moment I yelled, "Hollleeyyy
Fuuuckkkkk! " and was thrown off the chair and bounced, with a
resounding thud, onto the dirt floor. At the same time all the lights
and electrical appliances in the company went dead.

I vaguely remember picking myself up off the ground and hearing shouts
in the darkness from the company area, "Hey, hell, who the fuck tripped
off the goddamn generator! " The next night I had to buy the rounds yet
again in the officer's club and be rewarded with a "Himmmmmmm Himmmmmmm,
Fuck Himmmmmm! " from the guys for "creating an electrical disturbance,
a hard ground fault" in the flare pilot's tent. I was in no uncertain
terms told to stay the hell away from any form of electronic tampering.
No further warning was necessary. I could just picture the headlines:
"Local Man Electrocuted in Vicious Skirmish with Enemy Tape Recorder.
News Shocks Parents of Vietnam Vet!"

I was extremely grateful to be alive.

Of the ten aircraft commanders in my platoon it was generally agreed
upon by the other peter pilots that Bernie Nivens was the most difficult
AC to fly with. He was a high-strung individual-tall, lanky, and
extremely nervous. He had a right to be. He was a "magnet ass." Berme
Nivens had been shot down twice, and if hits were to be taken, Magnet
Ass Bernie Nivens seemed to attract bullets like a black suit attracts
lint.

Bernie had acquired another name, Wishy-Washy Berme Nivens. He was so
afraid of his lousy luck that he figured if he flew his helicopter "by
the book," as he had been taught in flight school, he would lessen the
risk of getting shot down or taking hits. So, when you flew as his peter
pilot, Wishy-Washy would rabbit on incessantly about the proper
flight-school procedures to be followed. On takeoff he would insist that
you pull no more than 2 percent engine NI above hover power. After
takeoff the rate of climb had to be exactly five hundred feet-per-minute
flown at precisely sixty knots. Upon reaching cruising altitude he would
tell you how to level off. "Lead with forward cyclic till ten knots
below eighty knots, then you can reduce power. You've got to practice
flying by the book. We were taught those techniques for a reason."

On approach he would insist on the normal flight-school sight picture of
between twelve and fifteen degrees, then he would talk you all the way
down as if you were a ten hour pre-solo student. Eight hours in the
cockpit with Wishy-Washy seemed Mm eight days. After flying with him it
quickly became obvious why he was a magnet ass. Putting into practice
the techniques we had learned in flight school was a sure way, even in
my inexperienced viewpoint, of making you a sitting duck in combat. Over
here it was necessary to learn a whole new method of flying in order to
make it through your year alive. Bernie Nivens had earned the name
wishy-washy because whenever he was shot at, the flight-school
techniques he preached so religiously went right out the window, and
flying for survival took over. It was without a doubt his flight-school
flying that put him into the sitting-duck type of situations in the
first place.

I was flying with Wishy-Washy one day over the mountains northwest of
Camp Evans. We were inserting men into a secure landing zone at the foot
of Firebase Barbara. We had taken five sorties of four men each into the
same LZ without incident. He was letting me fly at the time.

"Sixty knots on the climb out, Mains," he tapped the glass on the
airspeed indicator. "Not fifty-five, not sixty-five. Sixty. Try to fly
the machine with precision."

We'd been flying for more than three hours. I was hot and sweaty and so
particularly tired of his grandma attitude that I did something a peter
pilot should never do; I voiced a strong opinion of my own. "Some of the
other ACS might not agree with your techniques, Bernie. I've flown with
them all and one thing I've noticed is that they fly defensively to
lessen their exposure to enemy fire. Flying like we were taught in
flight school is just asking for it."

Bernie's face went red. "You telling me how to fly?"

"No. I'm just telling you what I've observed, that's all.

"The rest of the guys are cowboys. They tear the shit out of their
machines. You fly like I tell you and when you get a ship of your own
you'll treat her well and she'll always get you back safely.

"Or not at all," I said automatically without thinking.

"I've been over here nearly nine months and I'm still alive."

"I'd say You've been lucky, Bernie. You've never received the
million-dollar bullet that'll fuck up your day."

"And you, a new guy, are going to tell me how to stay alive longer?"

"I'm just telling you what I've observed in my flying with the other
ACS. it's my prerogative to adopt the style of flying that I think is
going to keep me alive. That's all that concerns me. Your style, Bernie,
I'm afraid will only serve to get me sent home in a box.

Bernie went scarlet. He grabbed the controls away from me. "I've got it.
II "You've got it."

"If that's the way you feel and you think you already know all there is
to -know about flying over here there's no reason for me to try and
teach you."

I wished that I'd never entered into this conversation. Why couldn't I
have just kept my mouth shut. Another case of my alligator mouth
overriding my hummingbird ass!

Bernie flew a textbook sixty-knot approach beginning at fifteen hundred
feet into the landing zone surrounded by high jungle. I actually
squirmed in my seat as we continued the slow descent. The other pilots
would have flown in at treetop level and, on occasion, they would have
varied their approach path if the wind direction, velocity, and
obstacles permitted it. Not Bernie. I felt we were like a huge, green
clay pigeon suspended in the air, inviting someone to take a potshot at
us. Charlie must have had the same idea. How could he resist such an
easy target? At two hundred feet on final approach, the ridge line on my
side of the aircraft lit up with green tracer rounds flying in our
direction. The crew chief began firing his M-60. Several grunts in the
back began firing their weapons too. At that point Bernie's
flight-school technique ceased abruptly and survival flying took over.
He threw the aircraft hard left and dove at the trees but not before we
took several hits. I scrunched down. My rectum clamped down so tightly I
thought it would pinch the seat. I waited for one of the burets to rip
into my body, silently cursing Bernie for getting us into this mess.

"Receiving fire! Receiving fire! " Bernie transmitted over the fox mike
radio to the ground unit we were supporting.

"Roger, Blackwidow Two-Seven. We saw where the fire came from. We're
sending men to the location to neutralize the position, over.

"Well, do that. I'm heading back to Evans to check out the bird Shit!

Just then the off pressure light on the master caution panel
illuminated. The gauge was slowly falling to zero. Bernie radioed on the
ground unit. "Parachute Runner, Parachute Runner, this is Blackwidow
Two-Seven. We're heading for Barbara. Oil pressure's falling. A bullet
must have hit an oil line."

"Roger, Blackwidow TWO-Seven. Copy. Good luck."

We would need all the luck we could get. Bernie leaned forward in his
seat and pushed the cyclic over, banking the craft, then leveled out on
a beeline course for LZ Barbara, the only landing pad for miles. The
firebase was just two klicks away. God, please let us make it, I
thought.

Mountainous, triplecanopy jungle passed under us.. And probably the
enemy. An engine failure here would surely mean our lives. If the crash
didn't kill us the enemy certainly would. If we were caught we would
probably be strung upside-down by our ankles and skinned alive. Then,
they would cut off our penises and stuff them into our mouths before our
guys could find us. The NVA and VC loved to get their hands on
helicopter pilots. I had heard enough stories to know I didn't ever want
to get shot down.

By now Bernie's conservative flight-school techniques had vanished. We
were now flying at 115 knots. The machine shook and vibrated as it
neared VNE, velocity never to exceed. I checked the gauges. The needle
of the engine oil pressure gauge was reading zero. The temperature
needle was now rising steadily above the red line. Hang in there. Don't
quit, don't quit, I said to myself, as if my thoughts could somehow keep
the engine running long enough to make it to the pad.

Bernie did a good job of getting us down. He executed a power-on
autorotation planting the skids on the PSP pad. Once down safely he
immediately rolled off the throttle. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
When the blades had stopped we got out and inspected the damage. Bernie
had done it again. He had taken five hits, four in the tail boom and one
in the engine oil tank causing the oil to gush out. The aircraft was
checked by a maintenance team flown out from Sally, repaired, and flown
out the same day.

When I arrived back at Sally I made a beeline' of my own. I marched into
ops and requested that I not be scheduled to fly With Wishy-Washy again.
My request was granted..

A new first lieutenant joined the Blackwidows. His name was Ernest
James. He was a blond-haired, sparkling blueeyed kid fresh out of flight
school and bubbling with enthusiasm. He couldn't wait to fly his first
combat mission. Ernest looked even younger than Junior although he
claimed he was several years older.

Ernest was a first lieutenant so he fell into the category of RLO, or
real live officer, as all commissioned officers were labeled by the
warrant officers. It was unusual to find a RLO who was humble, soft
spoken, and unpretentious, but Ernest was. I liked him from the first
day I met him which was a week-and-a-half ago.

Most of the pilots in Charlie Company thought Ernest was crazy to
actually want to fly combat missions, but Ernest did want to experience
combat in the worst way. I was one of the few pilots who understood what
he felt.

Because Ernest was a senior lieutenant in the company the CO made him
operations officer. That virtually grounded Ernest, which nearly broke
his heart. Ernest and I formed an immediate and fast friendship. On one
of the many evenings he came by my hootch for a few beers he asked me,
"Randy, what is it really like to fly in combat?

"You need to ask some of the more experienced pilots, Ernest. I've only
flown about 150 hours since I've been in country. I'm hardly the guy to
talk to."

I "Yeah, but the experience is still fresh for you, Randy. It's still
new, exciting, exhilarating. You aren't burned out yet like some of the
other guys I've asked. Come on, tell me what's it like."

"Hell, Ernest, you know if anyone hears me telling YOU war stories I'll
be buying rounds in the club and made to sit in the hero's chair
forever." Ernest just smiled and gave me a pleading look with his baby
blues. "OK, OK, Ernest, you win."

I collected my thoughts, then began, "You know the old adage about
flying don't you? Hours and hours of sheer boredom punctuated by moments
of stark-raving terror."

"Yeah," he said hanging on my words like I was some guru speaking great
truths. His blue eyes were sparkling.

"Yeah ... well, it's like that. You fly ass-and-trash in and out of
landing zones and fire support bases for hours at a time. You may have
been in and out of an area twenty maybe thirty times. Then there's the
one time you fly over the same area you've flown over all day and you
start taking fire. You get on the radio and start screaming for arty,
your asshole gets so puckered you couldn't drive a needle up it with a
sledgehammer. That's the moment of terror.

"What about the CAS. They've got to be hairy."

"In a way yes, in others, no. In combat assaults there are aircraft
everywhere. The LZS have been heavily prepped by B-52 strikes, then by
artillery. Then the ARA gunships prep it with rockets and there are
usually fast movers stationed at twenty-thousand feet with napalm if the
situation really gets heavy.

"Aren't you afraid of getting shot when you're in those LZS surrounded
by thick jungle where Charlie may be waiting for you?"

"Goddamn right I'm afraid!" I pointed between my eyes. "I get a feeling
right here every time I go in. Like someone's pressing on it with their
thumb. Like there's a big, red bull's-eye painted here and that's where
the AK round will find its mark. But thank God our exposure's limited.
We come in low over the trees and we're a target for maybe thirty
seconds max. That thirty seconds is the time it takes to fly over the
trees, land, drop off the troops, and take off again. As a peter pilot
I'm too damn busy hovering over the controls in case the AC gets blown
away to think about much else. I can always feel the bull's-eye pressure
on my forehead though. I think it's just me. But it seems like it's over
before it's begun. Once one or two sorties of troops have been inserted
the LZ is usually secured."

Ernest punched his palm with his fist. "Damn, Randy, I want to do that.
II "Can't you convince the old man to let you fly?"

"Nope, he says he needs me here. It's so damn frustrating."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Ernest asked, "Can I hear my
song?"

"Sure, Ernest." I reached over, put the tape on the reel-to-reel, and
turned it on. The hootch was empty, as the other officers were in the
club, so I turned up the volume. The song was "Love is Blue" by Ronnie
Aldrich and his Orchestra. It was Ernest's favorite, and he would often
stop by to have me play it for him. In the dim light of the hootch
Ernest and I sat silently listening to the beautiful melody with its
rising crescendo of violins. When it had ended, Ernest stood up to
leave, and I walked him to the screen door.

"Thanks, Randy. That song always gives me goose bumps-" At that moment a
flare sailed into the air on the perimeter then popped, illuminating his
boyish face. Tears were clouding his sparkling blue eyes.

"You're always welcome, Ernest. You'll get your day in the cockpit.
You'll see.

He shrugged and smiled. "Wish itd be soon. God, I want to fly.

"I know, Ernest. Believe me, I know."

A week later Ernest James received orders promoting him to captain which
put the final seal on his ambitions to fly. He could see himself
spending the remainder of the war flying a desk as operations officer.
Even more reason to chug-a-lug the "Blushing Asshole" sitting in front
of him on the bar.

The bartender of the officer's club, Spec-4 Flowers, had devised the
drink one night for an officer who had just been promoted. His creation
consisted of a shot from every bottle of booze behind the bar plus a
touch of grenadine to give it the pink color which gave rise to its
name. It was in the finest tradition of the United States Army that
newly promoted officers had to drink for their new bars. On this
occasion, the commanding officer, Major Posey, dropped the shiny new
captain's bars into the brimming mug and handed it to Ernest. Ernest
looked into the mug suspiciously. The record number of Blushing Assholes
consumed by an individual who then made it back to his hootch under his
own power was five. It was one of the warrants in First Platoon who had
made CW2. He drank them in quick succession and was found the following
afternoon under his hootch moaning like a man who had been fragged by a
hand grenade.

"Drink, Captain James," the CO commanded.

Ernest raised the glass to his lips, closed his eyes, and the men
chanted, "GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!" as he gulped down the volatile
liquid. He finished and slammed the empty mug down on the bar. He turned
to face the crowd displaying the new captain's bars clenched tightly
between straight white teeth. Everyone cheered.

The next morning Ernest was reported missing from his hootch. After a
short search by the company clerk he was found unconscious, half
standing, half leaning against the corrugated iron fence surrounding the
outside urinal, one leg stuffed up to the thigh in an overflowing piss
tube. After only three Blushing Assholes that is how Ernest spent his
first night as a newly appointed young captain.

23 December 1968

Merry Christmas everyone!

I flew to Da Nang today on my second PX run so
I was able to stock up for Christmas. I bought an imperial quart of
Bacardi rum for $1.40, a bottle of Old Granddad bourbon and a quart of
Smimoff vodka for the same price.

The supply officer lives in my hootch and I have been made Assistant
Supply Officer so we have the best hootch in the company. Being an
officer has its advantages. With my tape player we have almost all the
comforts of home here. Well, almost. I haven't seen a round-eyed girl
since I've been in country. "en I do I'll probably pass out.

The rains are here to stay. We've been told by operations that we may
get hit by a typhoon tonight. Guess we'll be grounded for a while. Keep
writing, your letters mean more to me than you'll ever know.

Love, Randy

I lay on my bunk in the darkness surrounded by the thin
green mosquito net. I thought about Michelle as I'd done so many nights
these last months. What would she be doing right now?

Who would she be with over the holidays? Would the company of her family
be enough for her or would she need to find someone else? I threw the
unwelcome thought from my mind. She had been good about writing to me,
as she'd been when I was in flight school. So supportive. I closed my
eyes trying to picture how she looked the night before I left. That
special night when she had cradled my head in her lap and stroked my
face with her long nails. The vision came back. I could almost capture
her lovely scent again. God, how I missed her. Especially now, at this
time of year. The holidays always made one so melancholy. I rolled over
on my stomach and pulled my pillow close to my face imagining I was
holding her. I ached with longing. What was she doing now? Did she miss
me as much as I missed her? God, these questions!

Thinking of Michelle in this way brought to mind a girl I'd met during
my flight school days. It happened in August, a month-and-a-half before
graduation. Bob Lawson, Stu Lindsey, and I had earned a three-day pass,
a break from flight training. We had completed our advanced instrument
check rides and had all passed. Our next phase of training was to
transition into the Huey. To celebrate, we had decided to spend our
three days on the beach at Panama City, Florida.

Stu owned a 1964 Volkswagon Bus he had driven out from California. It
was painted green and white and covered all over with huge, colored
stick-on flowers. It was one of those outrageous buses common during the
late sixties in California, but rarely seen in Alabama. We had attended
a
"Paul Revere and the Raiders" concert several weeks before in
Montgomery, Alabama, and, at the conclusion of the concert, as we were
driving out of the parking lot, we were pursued by a herd of groupies
who thought the psychedelic bus with California plates had to contain
members of the band.

Now we had three days off. Three days! When we drove through the main
gate at Fort Rucker the feeling of freedom was something sweet and
tangible. Bob was riding shotgun. He pulled out a six-pack of Colt-45
and popped the top on one of the cans, spraying malt liquor everywhere.
"Whoa!" he yelled. "Here, Stu, time to party."

Stu was driving. He took the can. "Waaaahoooo! Three glorious days in
the sun." He took a long drink. "Damn, that tastes good. Look out ladies
here come the horny bastards from California."

"I'll drink to that," Bob said tossing a can back to me then popping one
open for himself and taking a long drink.

"You'll drink to anything, Bob," I said.

"True, my friend, so true." He shoved a tape in the 8-track, "Country
Joe and the Fish." The three of us considered this our theme song and we
sang along with it:

For it's one, two, three what are we fightin' for? Don't ask me I don't
give a damn. Next stop is Vietnam! For it's five, six, seven open up
your pearly gates. There ain't no time to wonder why, WOOO HOOOO we're
all gonna die!

We had driven about a six-pack's distance and were working on number two
when Bob suddenly said excitedly, "Stu, pull over, pull over!"

"What, hell, what's the trouble?"

"No trouble, just saw something. Stop. Pull over, will ya?ll Stu pulled
off on the shoulder of the two-lane road. "What is it?"

Bob smiled. "Watermelon!"

"Watermelon?"

Bob flung open the passenger door, jumped out and ran toward a field
seventy-five yards away. He leapt over a barbed wire fence, walked
several yards, and bent over. When he stood upright he held a plump
green melon over his head. That's when we heard the two gun shots.

"Holy fuck!" Stu exclaimed. "He's gettin' shot at."

We watched Bob spin around to look behind him. A farmer- with a shotgun
had suddenly appeared and was in hot pursuit. Bob tucked the melon under
his arm like a halfback and began to run.

"Hurry up you dumb fuck!" Stu screamed. "Run! Run! Run!"

Bob looked as if he possessed superhuman abilities when he placed his
free hand on a fence post and vaulted the barbed wire fence, his body
going horizontal, still holding. onto the melon. When his feet hit the
ground he did not break stride and ran toward the bus. Stu popped the
clutch. We began to roll.

"Come on, get in, get in!"

Bob caught up and ran alongside, threw in the melon, and dove in. We
left the roadside in a cloud of dust.

"You crazy fuck," Stu scolded. "You damn near got your ass shot full of
rock salt."

Bob was puffing hard and turned to look out the window at the farmer
shaking his fist. He turned back and picked up the plump melon. "Yeah,
but look at this beauty. It was worth it. Damn, I need another beer.
Whew! Good experience for Nam, huh? Bet I'm the first of the three of us
to get shot at.

I popped the top and handed Bob a beer. "Now that's one distinction you
can keep!"

I met Lorraine on the beach in front of the Fountain-bleu Hotel. In
retrospect, I suppose she met me. Stu and Bob were horsing around in the
sea while I was lying on my towel, soaking up the sun, when she walked
up and asked me the time. She plopped down next to me and we talked. She
was from Atlanta and spoke with a southern accent that could melt
butter. She was twenty-one and attractive, with short, curly brown hair
that framed a delicate face with bright blue eyes. She worked as a
secretary for an insurance firm in Atlanta and told me this was her
first visit to Panama City.

During our conversation she looked down at MY left hand. "Is that a
service ring you're wearing?"

"Yes. It's a flight school ring."

She reached out and lifted my hand to take a closer look. It looked like
a college ring, solid white gold with a large blue stone. "Sixty-eight
twenty-three?"

"That's my class number. I'm due to graduate September twenty-third. The
sixty-eight means this year."

"What's WORWAC mean?"

"Warrant Officer Rotary Wing Aviator Course."

"So you're training to be a pilot, are you?"

"Yep. Helicopters."

"You going off to Vietnam then?"

"Most likely."

She lowered my hand to my towel and smiled. "You doing anything
tonight?"

Her forward question took me by surprise. "No, I ... I haven't anything
planned.

"I would really like to see you again, if that's all right. Would you
like to meet somewhere later?"

This was too good to be true. I would have been certifiably crazy to
have said no. "How about dinner?"

She smiled more with her eyes than with her delicate mouth. "Yes, I'd
really like that."

We set a time and a place. I later made some excuse to remove myself
from the company of Bob and Stu. I knew they would probably want to come
if I told them I was meeting someone. I took a taxi and met Lorraine at
at a prearranged spot. After we shared a
few drinks and dinner, we went at her suggestion for a walk on the
beach.

The conditions were perfect for romance. In the moonlight, feeling the
warm breeze on sunburned skin and the still-warn, squeaky-white sand
under bare feet, I took her into my arms and kissed her gently on the
mouth. That unleashed a passion in her which took me completely by
surprise. It was almost animal-like, as if she had been keeping her
emotions pent-up inside and they finally had come flooding out. As we
held one another she kissed my neck, face, and lips and pulled me
tightly against her slight frame. The heat between our two bodies was
electric, and it was now no secret that her charms had me in full
arousal. She embraced me pulling me even closer as if trying to fuse our
bodies together, as if she would never let me go. She planted small,
sweet kisses on my neck until her soft lips were next to my ear, then
she whispered, "Randy, I love you."

Her words came -as a shock. This was all happening too fast. I never
considered myself particularly attractive to. women. All through high
school and my short time in college the girls hardly noticed me. I
hadn't even lost my virginity until I was nineteen. Nineteen! I knew I
lacked the kind of animal magnetism some men have that makes women fall
at their feet, but that seemed to be what Lorraine was doing now. I had
made it a rule that I would never tell a girl I loved her unless I meant
it. The words were too special to be used so lightly. I had told only
one girl I loved her. That was Sarah, the girl with whom I had lost my
virginity. At the age of nineteen, after knowing her for only three
months, I had asked her to marry me when I turned twenty-one, and at the
time she had said yes. Sadly, six months later, she met someone else,
her future husband, and we split up. I met Michelle six months later. I
had not even told Michelle I loved her. I thought I loved her, but after
Sarah, I was not sure.

Now this vibrant, attractive woman I held in my arms in the soft
moonlight and truly desired had told me she loved me after knowing me
for less than seven hours. How could I handle it? I did what any other
all-American young man would have done in a similar situation. I took
her to the nearest hotel room I could find and we made love all night
long.

I was able to get free the next weekend and I met Lorraine again in
Panama City as we had agreed. She had rented a hotel room and was
waiting for me. When I look back on our two days together I wonder why
our passion did not set fire to the bed. It was on Sunday afternoon, as
we walked along the beach by the water's edge, that I learned why I was
so special to her.

I checked my watch. "In about thirty minutes I've got to start heading
back. I've got to be back at Fort Rucker by six o'clock."

She began to cry and embraced me. "God, Randy, I missed you last week.
All I could do was sit at my desk and think of you. I was useless to
anyone."

I raised her chin with my finger to look into her eyes. "And I missed
you, Lorraine." I paused for a moment to look down at her and gather my
thoughts. "There's something troubling me though.

A look of concern came over her face. "What is it?"

"Well ... I guess it's the suddenness of our relationship. I've got to
admit, I'm more than a little confused by it all."

"You mean, that I could tell you I love you without really getting to
know you. Is that why you're confused?"

"Something like that. Yes."

"But I do love you, Randy. I love you in a very special way."

"Special way?"

"Yes." She bit at her lower lip as if she were having difficulty with
the words. "I must tell you. I hope you won't be angry with me."

"Angry? Why would I be angry? I may be confused about my emotions, but I
can't imagine what you could say to make me angry."

"OK, here goes then. Randy ... I'm ... I'm married."

I stepped backward. "Married! But you don't wear a wedding ring."

"I stopped wearing it several months ago. Please don't hate me. Listen to what I have to say. Then maybe you'll
understand.

I tried to compose myself. "Go on."

"You see, my husband is serving in Vietnam. He's a sergeant over there.
In the army. He's been there for eight months. We had a good
relationship when he left. Up until several months ago he used to write
me letters telling me how much he loved me and missed me."

"Up until a few months ago? You mean he doesn't write you anymore?"

"Yes, he writes. That's the problem. When he writes he also sends me
pictures."

"Pictures? What kind of pictures?"

She shook her head without speaking as if trying to fight off her desire
to begin crying again. "When he writes he sends pictures of dead people,
Vietnamese. Dismembered bodies. Charred men, women, and children. He's
been affected by what he's seen over there. It's just so foreign to me.
I want to understand, but I can't relate to what he's experiencing in
Vietnam. I really do want to understand, to be supportive. How can I
when he sends me those awful pictures. It's like he's a totally
different person from the man I married." She began to sob.

I pulled her into my arms and held her close to me. She cried into my
chest. I stroked her hair. "I think I understand now, Lorraine. It's OK.
God, I'm so sorry." I kissed her head and held her tightly. After that
weekend I never saw her again.

KAABOOM! KAABOOM! the artillery battery firing into the mountains
brought me back. Would someone be consoling Michelle while I was over
here? Was she in someone else's arms right now? Would I change as
drastically as Lorraine's husband had changed before his year was up. I
tried to drive these negative thoughts from my mind, but they kept
flooding back.

I rolled over on my back and stared into the darkness where I knew my
green mosquito net hung eighteen inches from my nose. I listened to the
rain beginning to fall lightly on the tin roof. I welcomed the nightly
rain. The sound would drown out my actions. I tried to imagine Michelle
with me now. I tried to conjure up her lightly perfumed aroma, but the
tropical air was too thick and wet to capture it. Her face was in front
of me now, suspended, as if my head were on her lap again and I was
looking up at her. I brought my hand under the dank sheet and let my
fingers trail slowly down my moist chest, imagining it was she who was
caressing my body. I held onto her image and slowly worked my hand
lower. Quietly, slowly, I held her sweetly in my mind and began to
relieve myself in the only way I could.

Choir practice was called and all officers were to be in the club on
Christmas Eve by 2030. We were told it was "which meant we couldn't get
a "command performance out of it. Major Posey ordered all officers to
attend to sing Christmas carols.

Spec-4 Flowers had set up an overhead projector and the words for "The
Twelve Days of Christmas" were displayed on the movie screen, a
four-by-four-foot piece of plywood painted white and nailed to the wall.
A captain from First Platoon, with a pockmarked face and a fine baritone
voice, stood next to the screen with a wooden pointer, and we followed
his lead.

On the 1st day of Christmas my true love gave to me: ii A hand job in
the left seat!

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me:

Two tits a dripping and a hand job in the left seat!

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me:

Three twats a twitchin, two tits a drippin, and a hand job in the left
seat!

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:

Four maidens a fucking, three twats a twitchin, two tits a drippin, and
a hand job in the left seat!

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:

Five ShankerSores Four maidens a fucking, three twats a
twitchin', two tits a drippin', and a hand job in the left seat!

And the song continued, the words becoming more foul with each verse.
For some reason the filthy language and hint of sacrilege didn't offend
anyone. No one protested or complained. Foul language was part and
parcel of the experience in Vietnam. It was accepted without question.
Each officer sang with gusto, trying to outdo the man singing next to
him. We sang with commitment, as if we were singing directly to God. We
wanted our voices to be heard all the way to the DMZ. To Saigon. To
Hanoi! Our passion for-singing somehow proved our firm commitment to be
there instead of back in The World with family and loved ones. I suppose
our singing warded off a type of depression, too, that if allowed to
surface would most certainly destroy morale. I remember saying to Joe in
between songs, "We'll probably get struck dead by lightning when we
return to our hootches tonight. God's gotta be really pissed off with
these songs we're singing on his son's. birthday. I I "Ha! Lightning
never. Mortars, rockets, maybe. That's how God'll pay us back if he's
really pissed off at us. He can't be too fond of us anyway or we
wouldn't be in this hell hole in the first fucking place. But lightning?
There's no way.he'd waste that old trick on us." Joe pulled out his
Zippo lighter and showed it to me. "This is the way I look at my
relationship with the big man upstairs."

I took it and read it. On one side was the raised 101st Airborne crest
with the Screaming Eagle. I turned it over. Engraved on the back it
said:

I KNOW I'M GOING TO HEAVEN BECAUSE I'VE SPENT MY TIME IN HELL.

I threw it back to him. "You gotta be kidding, Joe. I can't imagine you
thinking that melodramatic crap."

"It's a memento. A present, that's all. One of the grunts gave it to me
today after we pulled his unit out of the jungle. He'd been out there
for a month. He gave it to me as a Christmas gift after we landed back
at Eagle." Joe lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke, and put the lighter
back into his pocket.

I left the club just before midnight. I was the first person back to our
hootch. I was getting ready to turn in when where was a knock at the
plywood door. It was Ernest. He had brought two beers with him. He
wanted to hear "Love Is Blue" on my tape player before going to bed. He
sat on my bunk and I played it for him. He listened with a distant smile
on his young face. When it finished he lifted his Budweiser in a toast,
"To combat flying."

"To combat flying," I toasted back and took a long drink.

"To round-eye'd pussy," he said with a wink.

"To round-eye'd pussy, Ernest." I drank.

He finished the drink then cradled the can in his lap. Looking down at
it, he idly ran his finger around the lip of the can. He looked at me
again and raised the can. "Merry Christmas, Randy Mains," he said
looking at me with his features set. Sincerity filled his blue eyes.

"And Merry Christmas to you, Ernest James." We clicked our cans then
drank to the toast.

"KABOOM, KAABOOOMMM! the eight-inch guns exploded making me jump and
dribble my beer. "Not too damn merry for some poor bastards out there,"
I said wiping my chin.

"Or for us stationed here at Sally. Not really," Ernest said solemnly.

I tried hard to fight back the image of my family and the Christmas
decorations I knew would be scattered around the house. The colored
lights strung around the roof outside. The decorated tree in the living
room, its fresh pine scent filling the house. I tried to push back the
recollections of Andrea's excitement in the expectation of Santa Claus
sliding down our chimney. I suddenly felt deeply depressed. "Yeah,
Ernest," I said softly. "You're dead right. Not really a merry Christmas
here is it?" I tossed back the rest of the beer and pulled out the
cardboard box from under my bunk. The care package my family had sent.
"Christmas brownie?"

"From The World? How could I refuse?" I handed Ernest one of the small
brown bricks. He examined it and tried to take a bite. He finally gave
up, leaned over, and rapped it hard against the floor. It left a mark in
the dusty plywood. He looked up at me in bewilderment. I began to
giggle. So did he. Our giggles turned into deep belly laughs until tears
rolled down our cheeks and fell onto the floor to mix with the
Vietnamese dust. In the background we could hear singing drifting from
the club.

And though we have malaria! We still maintain our area! We like it here,
we like it here! You fucking A we like it here!

CHAPTER 5.

January 1969

Cobras in the Shit House.

My humanities professor in college informed our class one day that
ancient man thought the sky was continually ablaze and that night was a
huge black animal skin draped over the sky. Holes in that skin covering
the flaming sky explained the appearance of the twinkling stars.

Tonight in the moonless sky the stars looked like dazzling flecks of
shimmering silver reflecting the fire behind them. I had never seen the
stars so brilliant.

Joe, Tom, and I sat in the dirt with our bare feet dangling in a
drainage trench that ran outside the pilots' hootch at Camp Evans. Tom
and I leaned in toward Joe who was sitting between us and the three of
us continued to sing:

From the park you hear the happy sounds of the carousel, You can almost
taste the hot dogs and french fries they sell, Unnn-derrr the bo-o-oard
walk. Down by the sea-ee-eeee, yeah. On a blanket with my babeee, that's
where I'll beee!

The three of us spotted it at the same time. It was a white speck in the
sky, a light, larger than any star. It appeared from the horizon, rose
like a rocket, then hovered in midair, like an object at the apex of its
trajectory. Then it began to descend. It appeared as if it was coming
right at us. Without speaking the three of us dove into the shallow
trench. We poked our heads up and watched it. it seemed to grow larger,
about twice the size of any star.

Then, to our utter amazement, it rocketed straight up, accelerating as
it rose until it simply disappeared. Vanished. To this day we have no
idea what it was. We discussed it for five minutes and could not come up
with a plausible explanation. It was New Year's Eve. Maybe it had
something to do with that?

Or was it a UFO? In a combat zone one could expect to see anything. Not
wanting to appear fanciful we decided to treat the matter as the mystery
it was.

"What a fuckin' place to spend New Year's Eve," Joe lamented, his Texas
accent thicker than usual. He checked the luminescent dial of his Seiko.
"One minute to midnight. Hoo-fucking-ray!

You two think I'm going to give you a New Year's kiss, you're out of
your fucking minds."

"Cheer up, Joe, and just watch the perimeter, OK?" Shonehour directed.

We did not have to wait long for the show to begin. Suddenly perimeter
flares rocketed overhead like fireworks and popped all around us.
Machine guns fired red tracers into the air. Grenades and M-79 grenade
launchers fired, WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

WHOOMP! exploding into the perimeter. Each bunker on the berm opened up
to celebrate our New Year. Then the 105-mm howitzers fired accompanied
in sync with the loud eight-inch guns. KAAWHAM! KAABOOM! KAAWHAM!

KAABOOM! KAAWHAM! KAAABOOMMM!

What a show! It was the loudest, if not the most unusual, New Year's Eve
I had ever seen rung in.

4 January 1969

Dear Mom:

Received your letters today. Our platoon has been living up at Camp
Evans for the last ten days and I haven't had a chance to pick up any of
my mail at Sally for a while. Sounds like your Christmas was a good one.
Hope you guys got what you wanted I haven't been doing anything special,
just flying a lot. I have received lettersfrom almost everyone before
Christmas so I am doing a lot of letter writing. I have flown over two
hundred combat hours now. As much time as I got through all of flight
school I don't have much to say. I just wanted to write and tell you I'm
fine and that I'm thinking about everyone. Write again soon.

Love, Randy.

That was a typical I'm alive letter. Nothing important to say except to
give the family a date to look at in order to let them know that on that
day their son was alive.

At that time I received a letter from my mom which made me extremely
angry. In it, she told me how my stepfather had pulled strings to get
the son of a family friend into the California Air National Guard. My
stepfather had done this because the boy had a promising career playing
baseball for a Los Angeles team and did not want to ruin his career
chances by going off to war. No one could blame him.

I was angry because I too had asked my stepfather to get me into the
guard when I was in my first year at college. I figured it would keep
the draft board off me long enough to attain my four-year college
education so that one day I could transfer into the real air force and
fly jets. But he refused my request, maintaining it would be better
character building to make it in this world without his help.

Ned Kelly approached me at the bar in the officers' club and asked, "You
got any objection to flying copilot on an FOB mission with me tomorrow?"

I had heard a little bit about the Forward Observation Base missions.
They were veiled in secrecy and were reported to be the hairiest
missions the Blackwidows flew. "You think I'm ready?"

"You, Joe, and Tom are the most senior peter pilots we've got." He
allowed himself a small smile then quickly stifled it. "Guess we have no
choice. You want to volunteer, or don't you?"

"Sure. Ok, why not?"

"Good, then have my aircraft pre-flighted by 0515. We've got a 0530
crank time."

I draw him a mock salute and clicked my boot heels together. "Roger,
captain.

He shook his head, "When you going to stop being such a fuckin' new
guy."

I laughed. "Probably the day you get on that freedom bird to take you
back to The World, Kelly. Hey, can I buy you a beer?"

He checked his watch. "Naw. Gotta get up in six hours. Tomorrow be a
long day. I'm gonna turn in. I suggest you do the same. I don't want a
half-drunk peter pilot flying with me tomorrow. On FOB missions you need
all your faculties. You'll see what I mean tomorrow. Good night," he
said and left the club. He seemed unusually serious to me. I figured he
knew what he was talking about. Following his example, I also finished
my beer and left the club to turn in.

It was dark when -we took off from the Widow Web at Sally. We were a
flight of two Hueys and we flew loose formation at fifteen hundred feet
following Highway-I to Mai Loc. Joe was flying copilot with Bob
Couishaw. We landed at Mai Loc as the arc of the sun began to peek over
the horizon.

Mai Loc was the Forward Observation Base for the Fifth Special Forces
Green Berets. I had only flown this far north once or twice before. Mai
Loc was a barren, rectangular patch of dirt covered with a maze of radio
antennae, a few tents, and several hootches. The compound was surrounded with a high barbed wire fence and scattered bunkers.

We parked the two helicopters on the PSP pads inside the wire fence and
the four of us joined up and began walking toward operations. Kelly
said, "You guys go ahead. I'll catch up. Gotta give birth to another VC,
" and he made his way to a small latrine.

Joe, Bob Coulshaw, and I were about to duck under the flap leading into
the operations tent when we heard the most godawful scream. We turned
and saw Ned Kelly scrambling from the latrine. His Nomex was wrapped
around his ankles, and he fell to the dirt kicking. "Motherfucking,
shit, goddamn, Jesus, shit-fuck ... ahhhh!" We rushed over. Coulshaw
asked first, "What the hell you up to, Kelly? You look like you been
chased by a gator. Damn, I've never seen you move so damn fast before.

Kelly sprang to his feet and jerked his pants up, tucking in the top of
his Nomex shirt and looking back at the latrine with wide, wild eyes.
"There's a fuckin' goddamn big-ass snake in there. I'm not shittin' you
guys. And not just any kind of snake." He was breathing hard, obviously
still scared to death.

"What happened?"

"Just as I sat down on the two holer, just got my ass down, I saw a
movement off to my right. Then I see this flat brown and gray head pop
up out of the other hole and it's starin' at me face to face. It was a
goddamn cobra, that's what it was. Scared the goddamn livin' shit out of
me, Jesus." He shivered.

Joe laughed. "Well if it scared the livin' shit out of you then I guess
you won't be needing to go back in there then, will ya?"

Kelly shot him a disparaging gaze. "Not fuckin' funny, Sulak, not
fuckin' funny at all.

We cautiously checked out the latrine and found nothing. We even pulled
out the cut-in-half fifty-five-gallon drum that collected the shit.
Nothing. Kelly's snake had gone. Vanished. Simply disappeared. We gave
Kelly a hard time about his "mythological" snake and told him that he
had been seeing things, that he was probably suffering from severe
combat fatigue. If secrets were to be known, I am certain that there was
not one of us from that day on that did not check out the Mai Loc
shitter thoroughly before planting our thin, white bottoms down over the
black plywood hole!

We walked into the operations tent and were introduced to a friendly
special forces sergeant. The man had no neck and two thick arms
festooned with tattoos. He offered us coffee and led us into another
room for our briefing. I will never forget the impact of that briefing.
It was the first time I had heard that Americans were flying
reconnaissance teams into Laos.

The sergeant threw back a green tarp covering a map on an easel
depicting regions north of the DMZ and an area sixty miles west of
Vietnam's western border. Over the map were bold black letters that read
SECRET.

"Gentlemen," he began in a raspy voice. "We've got one six-man recon
team out at the moment consisting of four Americans and two ARVN
scouts." He pointed to a red dot on the map about forty miles into Laos.
"If you have to extract them, it'll have to be by Mcguire rig. There are
no natural LZS I'm afraid. Nothing but triple-canopy jungle.

Kelly took a drag of his cigarette, blew out the smoke and asked, "Any
signs of the NVA?"

The sergeant pointed to a spot north of the red dot. "They think there's
a company here. That's where they were headed. Their-mission is as per
our SOP. They're not to get into contact unless it's a matter of life or
death. The sergeant looked at me and Joe then at Kelly, "New pilots,
huh?"

Kelly closed his eyes and nodded. "Afraid so."

The sergeant made the next speech for the benefit of us. "The only
people who know about what we do here is the President of the United
States, me, the team of course, and you, the pilots. That is why this is
strictly a volunteer mission. We don't accept married personnel. The
risk is too great. Under the current political climate I'm afraid if you
go down over the fence," he pointed out the border on the map with a
thick stubby finger, " ... and we can't get to you, the United States
government will disavow any knowledge of your whereabouts and you will
be listed as missing in action. Is that understood, gentlemen?"

I felt a thick lump form in my throat. I stared back into the cold eyes
of the unsmiling special forces sergeant. I did not speak. Neither did
Joe. We both just nodded our heads, agreeing to the crazy conditions.

After breakfast in the mess hall we spent the day sweating in the
sunshine with our shirts off and pitching horse shoes outside the ops
tent. Joe and Ned Kelly tied their yellow neck scarves around their
heads in a thick headband to keep the sweat from dripping into their
eyes.

Just before lunch the ops sergeant came running out from the tent. "The
team's been compromised. They're being chased. Here." He handed Coulshaw
and Kelly each a slip of paper. "Those are the coordinates, frequency,
and call sign. Can you go get them?"

Everything went into fast motion. My heart began to race. I threw on my
Nomex shirt and dashed for the aircraft. Kelly started the engine
quickly and in no time we were a flight of two heading west. I pulled
out the map and circled the coordinates. Khe Sahn, where nearly a year
ago the marines got their asses handed to them during the Tet Offensive
of 1968, passed five klicks to the south of our flight path. A sudden
sickening thought came to mind. Tet was twenty-five days away. Sally was
only seven klicks from Hue, site of some of the bloodiest fighting in
the history of the war. Shit! I pushed the thought from my mind. One day
at a time I told myself.

The huge vertical face of Co Rock rose out of the jungle ahead. It was
on the Laotian side of the border-the highest geographical feature for
miles. Co Rock looked out of place, as if it had been shoved upward by
some primeval swelling causing it to tower like a natural fortress high
above the surrounding terrain and thick jungle. Its sheer, brown face
was scarred and had been blasted barren by megatons of ordinance from
countless air and artillery strikes. Huge artillery pieces had once been
positioned on Co Rock by the enemy. During the bloody battle of Khe Sahn
railroad cars with the guns mounted on them were rolled out of caves
located on the face of the ominous looking peak. The enemy had fired
down on the men at Khe Sahn, pulverizing them unmercifully. From this
strategic position, I could see it would have been like shooting rats in
a barrel.

Kelly positioned us north of Co Rock and a compass heading of 265
degrees. I followed our course with my finger on the map. Kelly did not
need to look at it.

Twenty minutes into Laos, Kelly pulled out the piece of paper the
sergeant had given him and read the team's call sign. He transmitted on
the FM radio, "Lively Runner, m Lively Runner, this is Blackwidow
One-Two. Do you read, over?"

Silence.

Kelly tried again.

This time a faint whispered reply came back. I could barely make it out.
"We read you, Blackwidow One-TWO. We've managed to give the enemy the
slip. There's a company of NVA five klicks to the north of us. We think
they've sent a platoon in pursuit. Wait ... we hear you. We hear you.
Popping smoke.

"Roger," Kelly acknowledged. He leaned over in his seat. "Murphy,
Jackson."

"Yes sir?"

"Keep your eyes pealed. Jackson fire only if I tell you.

"Roger that, sir."

"Follow me close, FNG. Although we make a hell of a lot of noise
hovering over the jungle the enemy can't tell where the noise's coming
from. But in case he gets lucky," Kelly paused to look over at me, "Our
skids'll only be a few feet from the treetops. There won't be but a
fraction of a second for you to take the controls from me if I get hit.
So don't fuck it up."

"Roger. I I "I have the smoke, sir," Murphy said. "It's purple.
One-thirty low."

"Got -it," Kelly said. He dumped the collective and kicked the machine
out of trim, causing us to fall out of the sky like a greased
refrigerator. Kelly radioed, "Got your purple smoke, Lively Runner. Be
over your location in three-zero seconds.

The reply was a little louder than a whisper now, "Roger, Blackwidow.
Confirm purple smoke. We're ready for you.

"Get the ammo boxes,ready, Murphy," Kelly ordered to the crew chief.

"Roger that, sir." He climbed out of his position behind his M-60 and
knelt on the floor of the Huey next to the three steel boxes.

The three Mcguire rig ropes were tied on individual tie down rings
located on the Huey's metal floor. They were individually coiled neatly
inside their own ammunition box. The heavy ammo box acted as ballast.
Once the aircraft is in a stable hover over the trees, on command the
boxes are thrown from the aircraft. The line unravels as the box falls
and breaks through the trees and branchs and finally finds its way to
the jungle floor where the team members are waiting. At the business end
of each rope is a canvas swing-type arrangement. That is where the man
sits. An adjustable loop is positioned on the rope at about eye level
for a man to slip his wrist through as a safety precaution. That way if
he falls out of the seat while airborne, or becomes unconscious for any
reason, he will at least hang by his wrist and not fall to his death.

Kelly stopped the dizzying descent, leveled out, and set up a short
final approach to the area over the green carpet below where I could see
the last of the purple smoke filtering up through the trees. Kelly
hovered the machine five feet above the trees. "OK, throw em out!" he
commanded The crew chief shoved out the three boxes. Suddenly I could
hear the clacking of machine-gun fire below. Kelly held the hover. There
was no talking on the radio, just that damn sporadic clacking of
machine-gun fire. My hands and feet were a breath's distance away from
the controls. Time seemed frozen.

"I see them, sir, " yelled the crew chief. "They're grabbing the ropes."

Come on, come on, come on! I thought. More clacking of small-arms fire
below. I waited for the bullets to hit the ship. There was nowhere to go
if we got hit. Just a sea of green, a flat jungle carpet for as far as I
could see. What the fuck am I doing here? I thanked my stars I was not
flying with Magnet Ass Bernie Nivens. My heart began to beat harder,
louder, until the radio crackled.

"OK, we're on, Blackwidow. Let's dee-dee."-which is shorthand for the
Vietnamese term "didi" meaning to run.

Kelly pulled in a handful of collective. We rose quicker than I thought
we would. Twenty-five, fifty, sixty, eighty, one hundred feet and still
climbing. I could see that the trick was to come up exactly straight or
else you would drag the three men dangling on the ends of the 150-foot
ropes through the trees.

"They're clear of the trees, sir," the crew chief yelled. "Let's do like
the man said. Let's dee-dee!"

Coulshaw radioed, "Blackwidow One-Four on short final."

"Roger.

Kelly nosed the chopper over, gained sixty knots, and we climbed slowly
to two thousand feet above the jungle. I turned in my armored seat to
look back. Murphy was lying on his stomach with a quarter of his body
hanging out the open cargo door. A shock of blond hair whipped in the
sixty-knot wind from under his green flight helmet.

"They've locked arms and legs, sir," he reported. "They're not spinnin'.
They look stable to me. I can see Mr. Coulshaw's ship hovering over the
place we just left.

"Thanks," Kelly said. He seemed to relax.

The FM radio crackled, "Blackwidow One-Four we're on? Go, Go, Go!" I
could hear continuous, heavy smallarms firing in the background of the
team leader's radio transmission.

"Roger, lifting."

Coulshaw was about five klicks behind us when we arrived over LZ
Vandergrift, a marine airstrip ten klicks south of Mai Loc. I never
thought I would consider Vietnam friendly territory, but after flying
over Laos, I certainly did.

Kelly brought the ship to a two-hundred-foot hover over the PSP
airstrip. The crew chief directed him in by laying on his stomach again
and talking Kelly down slowly. Any forward movement could cause the
three men suspended on the long ropes under the aircraft to get hurt.
Kelly lowered them down flawlessly. Once they were safely on the ground
we landed next to them and they scampered aboard. We had lifted out one
American and two Vietnamese scouts.

We watched Coulshaw and Joe make their approach. It looked odd with
three men on the long, thin strings dangling so far below the aircraft.
Coulshaw slowed his machine and came to a two-hundred-foot hover. I
could make out the figures now. But something did not look right. In
fact the scene looked terribly wrong. Two of the figures were slumped
over and hanging out of their canvas seats. The third man was struggling
to hold on to them. They were held in only by their arms, literally
hanging there by their wrists through the loop on the rope, and twirling
slightly as Coulshaw slowly descended. When they reached the metal
landing strip only one man stood initially, but as his weight settled he
grabbed his leg and collapsed. The other two looked like rag dolls as
they slumped in a heap on the PSP airstrip.

The surviving soldier later told us that the enemy platoon had caught up
with them as they were being pulled up through the trees. They had stood
on the jungle floor and fired up at them as they ascended, wounding all
three. The other two young Americans had been alive for several miles,
but had died enroute.

We flew the two dead men and the wounded soldier to the 22nd surgical
hospital in Quang Tri. After taking the survivors back to Mai Loc we
were released to fly back to Sally after dark. We arrived at the Widow
Web by 1930 and by 2000 it was raining again.

We had chow in the mess tent. It consisted of boded beef, stewed
potatoes, cabbage, and green Kool-Aid; we called it "green death"
because of the metallic taste from the large aluminum pot in which it
was mixed. For dessert we were served the familiar yellow custard, which
I left uneaten on the wooden table. Then I ran for the club, trying not
to get too drenched in the tropical downpour.

I stood with Joe at the end of the bar drinking a Budweiser and
discussing the events of the day. Captain Ernest James entered, ordered
a Blushing Asshole from Spec-4 Flowers, and cornered me at the bar. He
had heard about our mission into Laos and he wanted me to tell him all
about it.

"Not here, Ernest," I told him quietly. "Come by the hootch later.

He nodded then winked. "Gotcha, Randy," and he down the Blushing
Asshole and ordered another.

"Slow down on those, Ernest, or you'll never make it to the hootch.

"I'm getting used to these now. I'm in training to break the record."

"Just remember what happened last time," Joe reminded him. "Or you'll
end up spending the night sleeping vertical with your leg stuck in a
piss tube again."

"That'll never happen. I was just out of practice, that's all. I can
beat five Blushing Assholes and still make it back to my hootch under my
own power." Spec-4 Flowers handed him another of the pink-colored
drinks. "Thanks. He raised his glass. "To your good health, gentlemen."
:"To flying combat, Ernest."

"To flying combat!" He said enthusiastically, then chugged half the
contents.

Ernest never made it to the hootch to hear about the Mai Loc mission. He
was found the next morning by Les Ramson. Ramson was awakened at 0600 by
what he thought was a wild boar outside the hootch. That's what he
claimed anyway.- Armed with a 9mm pistol that he pulled out from under
his bed, he stomped outside angrily to investigate the racket. To his
surprise he found Ernest, fully clothed, sitting upright in the
unfinished bunker. His back was propped up against the muddy bank, arms
thrown to each side as if he were relaxing in a bathtub of brown water
one-foot deep. His head was thrown back, mouth gaping open, his drunken
snores sounding exactly like a series of small pig snorts.

The Blackwidows were assigned the task of supporting the marines
stationed up at Quang Tri, located north of Camp Evans and south of Dong
Ha. We were to fly in support of the marine "super grunts," as they were
called.

Quang Tri was a large-sized base with an airstrip long enough to
accommodate C-130s. There was a squadron of marine helicopters based
there-mostly Charlie and Echo model gunships and many tandem rotor
CH-46s, the smaller brother to the army's CH-47 Chinook. There were also
several Korean War vintage radial-engine H-34 helicopters. And there was
a fixed-wing contingent of twin engine OV-10s and small, single-engine
Bird Dogs. Other than the overloaded gunships the marines operated, they
did not have in their inventory a small troop carrying helicopter to
insert and extract the six and eight-man super grunt teams, so they
called on the army to supply them with two. The Blackwidows were the
army helicopter company closest to Quang Tri, so we were instructed by
division headquarters to carry out this task.

The super grunts were the marine's equivalent to the army's Special
Forces Green Berets. To the best of my knowledge they did not perform
recon missions over the border.

We were met on the airfield by a marine major and his number two in
charge, a tall, lanky captain with ears like wing nuts who spoke with a
thick southern drawl. While the major made the introductions the captain
stood on the skids and inspected the cockpit of one of our ships."

Sheeeeitt! " he exclaimed, scratching his head. "You fellas hardly got
any instruments. Not even a tacan. How do you find your way around the
country without a tacan?"

I looked at Kelly and he looked at me. We both shrugged. Kelly said, "We
use maps."

"Maps?" The captain said unable to hide the amazement in his voice. "You
mean you boys fly around the country in all kinds of weather by usin'
simple pilotage?"

"Yeah, sure. Don't you?"

"Hell, no! We ground an aircraft if the tacan's not working. I certainly
wouldn't consider taking one without it, would you, sir?" The major
chuckled. "Our SOP says we don't. But we probably do things a bit
differently from our army cousins here.

"Sheeeeeit," the captain said again, stepping off the skid by the
cockpit. "You wouldn't catch me flying round here without a tacan,
that's for damn sure.

Kelly pointed to his eyes. "These are the best navigation tools you can
have. They seldom go unserviceable. You can trust them a damn sight more
than some electronic nav aid. And the ADF, forget it. You fly the needle
on it thinking it's taking you where you want to go, and odds are
Charlie has a station set up cross the border somewhere with the same
frequency to draw you to him; then he'll shoot your ass down when you
make it down. No, sir, my two eyes are the best navigation aid I've
got and the only nav aid I'll trust."

The skinny captain shook his head. "Sheeeit. Not me. You army pilots are
even crazier than the stories I heard about ya'll."

The major slapped my back. "And they're good pilots, Captain. Damn good,
and we're damn lucky to have 'em on our team. Gentlemen, if you'll
follow me, I'll show you the club and where you'll be staying.

The marines treated us like royalty. That night we ate lobster in the
mess hall. Lobster! It was an amusing sight to watch because many of the
officers had obviously never eaten lobster before. It had been boiled
like a big shrimp and was served in the shell, so it was left up to the
individual to crack it open. The marines, being marines, attacked the
crustacean with knives and forks, and several even tore at the shells
with bare hands, gnawing on the shell with their teeth to get at the
sweet meat. One officer stabbed at his lobste-r with a fork, shooting it
off his plate and knocking over his water glass.

When I was nineteen I'd had a job working in the kitchen at The Village
Inn on Balboa Island, and I had been taught how to prepare lobster by
the chef there. I laid the sharp knife along the length of the shell
down the center and pushed down with my palm making a neat cut. Then,
using my thumbs, I peeled the shell back from the incision, exposing the
tender meat.

The lieutenant sitting across from me hollered, "Hey everyone, watch how
the army guy does it. He's got class, unlike the rest of you slobs."

His comment was followed by rude remarks and friendly cat calls. Soon
everyone was following my example.

That evening we were taken to the club and we were not allowed to buy a
drink. It was not long before we were singing a host of songs that we
had never heard before.

Oh! ... My husband's a brick layer, a brick layer a brick layer My
husband's a brick layer a brick layer is he.

All day he lays bricks he lays bricks he lays bricks and at night he
comes home and lays me!

Oh hey gig-a-gig ck a little pig faaaalllowww the moon!

Faaaalllowww the moon! Faaaalilowww the moon!

Hey gig-a-gig fuck a little pig faaaalllowww the moon faaaalliowww the
moon and you'll see!

A first lieutenant with whom we had been drinking took Kelly and me to
his room later to show us an unregistered Colt .45 he kept there.

"You said you can get booze for $1.40 a bottle?" he asked me drunkenly.

"Yep." I answered back drunkenly.

"Here." He thrust the loaded .45 at me. "You can have it then. Just
bring me a bottle of Smimoff next time you come up."

"That's all you want for it? A bottle of Smimoff?" I "That's all." I
extended my hand, "You got a deal." He shook my hand smiling. "Deal."

Kelly and I wove our way along the perimeter in the dark in the
direction of the hootch where we would be staying. Suddenly Kelly froze
in his tracks and said, "Quiet. There's movement in the wire."

We both stopped and crouched down. I cocked my newly acquired .45. I
strained to listen. Singing, was drifting from the club. I squinted to
see in the darkness. There was a quarter of a moon, but it was covered
by thin clouds. I could just make out figures making their way towards
us. There were three about fifty yards away and they moved silently.

I whispered, "What do we do?"

Kelly had the .38 out of his holster. "Be quiet and wait."

I was sobering up quickly. The figures were dressed in black and getting
closer. I took aim with the .45. Kelly sighted down his .38. As the
figures neared I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ear drums. It
seemed so loud that I was afraid the closing figures would hear it. I
put pressure. on the trigger. The outlines got to within twenty-five
yards. Kelly scared the hell out of me when he yelled, "Halt! Who goes
there?"

I was ready to pull the trigger when I heard a frantic, "Don't shoot,
don't shoot. We're friendly. For God's sake don't shoot!"

"Who are you?" Kelly asked.

I heard one of them say with a Brooklyn accent, "I told you this was a
dumb fuckin' idea, Zimwald. You shoulda listened to me, goddamn it."

"Put your hands over your heads and move up slowly, Kelly ordered, still
leveling his weapon at them.

"OK, OK, but for Christsake don't fuckin' shoot!"

The three figures stood erect with hands in the air and approached us. I
could now tell they were too tall to be the enemy and I began to breathe
easier.

Kelly And I stood there as the three men dressed in black pajamas
approached. One even wore a conical Vietnamese hat. Kelly asked, "What
the fuck you jokers doing out there? You looking to get yourselves
killed?"

"Just having some fun," one answered.

We were now face to face. "Just having some fun?" I exclaimed. "You
almost got yourselves blown away. Is this how marines have fun? Sneaking
around in the dark through barbed wire on their own perimeter?"

"We do it all the time;" one answered. "It's kind of a game."

"Game!" Kelly bolstered his weapon. "You're fucking nuts, all three of
you. Get the hell out of here before I report you to your commanding
officer. And for fuck sake don't do it again."

"Right, sir," they said and scurried off.

"Fucking marines," Kelly said. "Got about as much sense as a fucking ice
cube."

"That may be stretching it, Ned, don't you think?"

He chuckled. "You're learning, FNG, you're definitely learning." And
with that we went off to find our hootch and turn in.

28 January 1969

Dear Howard, I received your letter the 20th but I've been unable to
answer because I've been with my platoon up at Quang Tri seven miles
south of the DMZ FLYING for the Marines. So far I have logged 260 combat
hours, (six air medals) and I'm due to make Aircraft commander in forty
more flight hours if the other aircraft commanders in my platoon think
I'm ready. TET is coming up, the Vietnamese lunar New Year, and it seems
to be on everyone's mind. Remember the big TET offensive last year in
Hue? Well, everyone's gearing up for that.

The flying over here is exciting to say the least. To make it even more
interesting, I volunteer for the missions flying for the Special Forces
up north. Sometimes we make our own excitement. For instance about three
weeks ago I was flying as copilot on our way back to LZ Sally from Quang
Tri.

The weather was below minimums with a slight drizzle. Following the road
low level we flew over the Hue Bridge which crosses the Perfume River.
We decided to fly under it at ninety knots. We didn't do it once, but
twice. It was a crazy thing to do, I know, but it seemed the thing to do
at the time. I know it was a battalion first. It reminds me of the story
you told me once of buzzing your company area in your B-24 in North
Africa which resulted in blowing out all the windows in the mess hall.
Anyway, there's not much else. I think of you all and can't wait to come
home. Only eight more months to go.

Randy

Thinking about it now I guess we pilots were as crazy as the
marines Kelly and I had caught sneaking through the wire up at Quang
Tri. As if life wasn't fraught with enough danger we had to go out and
look for ways to try and kill ourselves.

When Jeff Leach and I flew under the Hue bridge we had hit the skids on
the water as we passed under. I held my breath both times we did it, and
I'll admit I was nervous. Not scared, just nervous, but I should have
been scared. It was a stupid thing to do. The clearance was minimal. If
I had to guess, it was maybe twenty feet from rotor head to the bottom
of the steel bridge. You might say we had as much sense as an ice cube.
Probably less.

In the club that night I told Joe and Tom Shonehour about our escapade.
Several days later Shonehour came up to me with a gleam in his eye.

"Leach and I did -it too," he told me beaming.

"Did what?"

"Flew under the bridge. God, was it great!" He had a pronounced spring
in his step when he walked off.

When Leach and I had flown under the bridge the weather had been
extremely poor. It had been drizzling with a three-hundred-foot
overcast. Visibility had been down to a half mile. When Shonehour and
Leach did it the sun was shining in a blue, cloudless sky. There was one
other small detail about their exhibition. A one star general from
brigade, several full colonels, and two photographers, one from Time and
one representing Newsweek, were crossing the bridge at the time.

The photographers, seasoned war correspondents experienced at capturing
a shot in the heat of combat at a moment's notice, managed to frame
Leach's aircraft perfectly as it passed below them. The general had the
photos enlarged and intelligence evaluate them to nail down which
company the ship belonged to and who had been flying. On receiving the
report the general's first reaction was to court-martial Shonehour and
Leach. The Newsweek and Time photographers, however, wanted to run the
photo as a cover story back in the U.S. A lot of rhetoric took place Am
in headquarters at Camp Eagle. Many strings were pulled to keep the
story out of the press. In the end Shonehour and Leach were grounded for
two weeks and both men hit with an Article-15 plus a stiff fine.
Needless to say, no one flew under the Hue bridge again-and got caught,
that is.

Charlie Company's executive officer, Captain Curly, entered the mess
tent and glanced across to where I was drinking coffee at one of the
wooden tables. He walked over checking his clipboard, "Mains, you'll be
officer of the guard on the seventeenth."

I thought for a moment. "But that's Tet, sir.

"Well now we ow you know how to read a calendar," he said sarcastically.

"No, I mean, after last year wouldn't you feel safer with an RLO
infantry officer acting as officer of the guard? Hue is just a few
klicks up the road. You do remember what went on up there last year at
this time?"

Captain Curly was a short man with a bald head. He ran his hand over his
barren pate then said, "You questioning my judgment, Mr. Mains?"

"Of course not, sir. It's just that ... "Just that what?"

"Well, just that I've never been officer of the guard before. I'm just a
pilot. Last year a division of NVA occupied Hue. A division! Every year
during Tet there has been some sort of action. So I just thought .

"Well don't think, Mr., Mains. Just do it. You'll have a land line to
the ops tent and you'll have comms with the other five bunkers you'll be
in charge of. If you have a problem you can call cps and they'll alert
the company."

"That could be too late, sir. I really think  ..."

"There you go thinking again." His eyes rolled back then drilled into
me. "Just do it, understand?"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

CHAPTER 6.

February 1969

General Patton and the Buffalo BBQ.

For several days before my duty I stood next to the huge metal CONEX
container that was our mail room and watched how the other officers of
the guard went about inspecting the troops.

When the day arrived I stood in front of three rows of five men at 1715
sharp. All fifteen men were standing to attention in front of the ops
tent. I wore my steel helmet with camouflaged cover, my gleaming pistol
strapped snugly into its spit-shined holster and a flack jacket over
freshly pressed fatigues. My boots glistened under bloused pant legs. I
felt like General Patton! I looked right and left and called, "All right
men, Attentennnnshunnn! Preeee-seeent-arrmmmms."

I walked down the line inspecting the troops individually, mimicking
what I'd seen the other officers do. I never considered myself to be a
hard ass. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But considering the
importance of the date I thought it would be reasonable to expect the
men to meet some pretty high standards. My life as well as the lives of
the troops on guard duty with me and the men in Charlie Company were my
ultimate responsibility. So I figured I had better take the job
seriously.

I inspected each man, checking his overall appearance, but I was mainly
concerned with the cleanliness of his weapon. It might, after all, be
the weapon to fire the bullet to kill the VC that was about to kill me.

I took the weapon from the first man standing at attention in front of
me, opened the breech, placed my thumb in the chamber, and sighted down
the barrel. I was shocked. I looked at the man. "You plan on growing
potatoes in there, corporal?"

He looked surprised "No, sir."

I handed the weapon back to him. "Do you ree what the date is today and
what is significant about it?"

"Yes, sir.

"You plan to shoot dirt clods at the enemy if he decides to come through
the perimeter tonight, or do you plan to use real bullets?"

"Bullets, sir." he said, looking at me oddly.

"I doubt a bullet could furrow through all the dirt plugging up that
barrel. I suggest you go back to your hootch and clean that weapon. I
want to see reflections of the reflections when I look down there next
time. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Dismissed." He ran off toward the enlisted men's hootches.

By the end of the inspection I had sent three others back to clean their
weapons.

It was customary to select the soldier who stood out from the rest for
outstanding appearance and possession of the cleanest weapon. The man I
chose was dismissed and excused from having to pull guard duty. Such a
person was called a supernumerary. I then gave the remaining men the
password for the challenge response, "flying leopard, " and read the
standing orders from a notebook taken from Ops. By 1800 we were all
secure in our bunkers waiting for the sun to go down.

I examined the interior of my bunker into which thin, black wires snaked
their way from the perimeter, through the tangle of concertina wire. The
wires led to detonators on the claymore mines and FU Gas barrels. I
peered out the small slit between the sandbags and could see the green
claymores stuck in the ground. Their arched faces pointed in the
direction from which the enemy would be coming. Claymores are
anti-personnel mines. They contain a one-pound charge of C-4 plastic
explosive and, when detonated, scatter six hundred steel balls toward
the enemy. Ten crackers, the small, hand-held firing mechanisms for the
claymores, sat in line next to the telephone on a crude wooden table in
the center of the bunker. The firing devices for the four,
fifty-five-gallon FU Gas, or jellied gasoline, barrels, buried in the
ground outside our stretch of the perimeter, also sat on the table.
There were twenty steel ammo boxes of M-16'ammunition, twenty
fragmentation grenades, and I counted more than one hundred rounds of
40mm ammunition for the single-shot M-79 grenade launcher I would use as
the first line of defense. Also on the table, in its own wooden box, I
found a starlight scope.

I performed a commo check with cps and the men in the other bunkers. I
told them that I would be firing the M-79 indiscriminately into the berm
throughout the night and not to be alarmed. The M-79 had a sound easily
distinguished from anything the enemy had, so our men knew that if they
heard it it would just be me. We were well prepared, except for one very
important detail-I was a pilot, not an infantry officer.

Along with the two men assigned to my bunker I sat on top of the
sandbags and watched the sun sink slowly beneath the horizon. In the
distance I could see lights switch on and glow in the ancient city of
Hue. As twilight gave way to blackness, I tried to check my runaway
imagination which was straining to produce columns of dark-clothed
bodies creeping through the wire toward us.

I scanned the perimeter as I had been taught to do in basic training.
"Don't let your eyes fix on one spot," the drill instructor at Fort Polk
had said. "Continue to scan keeping the head and eyes moving. Always
moving. That's the way to pick up any movement." I placed the M-79
grenade launcher in my lap and brought the starlight scope to my eyes.
The eerie, green sparkling picture showed a perimeter free of invaders.

"See anything, sir?" asked the corporal who sat next to me.

I handed the starlight scope over to him. "Nah. Nothing. I I "You think
we'll get hit tonight?"

"Can't be certain," I said trying not to dwell on the possibility. "But
any poor soul that tries it can count on this: If I see anything out
there tonight, anything at all, you can bet it's going to look like
World War III cuz I'm going to throw everything we've got at him.

"I'm behind you, sir."

"Me too," the third man, a sergeant from supply, said.

I continued to scan the perimeter through the starlight scope. Every ten
to fifteen minutes I loaded the grenade launcher with a round that
looked like an overgrown .45 shell, and I shot it into the perimeter.
THUNK ... KAWOOMPH! If there was anyone out there planning on getting
through I would let him know there was some crazy bastard
indiscriminately lobbing grenades, and maybe he would stop and think
twice about it.

At 2000 hours I decided to check on the men on the other five bunkers,
calling them first on the land line to tell them to expect me. I grabbed
my M-16 and struck off. About forty minutes later, after I had talked
with the men on the first four bunkers, I was about fifty meters from
the rear of the last bunker when I heard a round being chambered.

"Halt, Halt, or I swear to God I'll shoot!" the voice had a quivering
panic in it that scared the hell out of me.

"It's me. Don't shoot, it's the officer of the guard."

"Flying  ..." he said, uttering the first word of the challenge. "What's
...  what's the second password then? Say it. Say it or I'll shoot!"

I could feel the familiar pressure between my eyes, the invisible bull's
eye. Imagine being shot by one of your own men. "Leopard! " I hollered.
"Leopard, leopard!

"OK. You can approach. But walk slowly." I approached very slowly.
When I could make out the figure of the man I could see his weapon
pointed at my face. "Relax, relax, it's me. Mr. Mains."

The barrel of the weapon dropped. "OK, sir. I just had to make sure,
that's all."

I climbed up next to him on the bunker and sat down. He was alone. The
other two men were inside. We began to talk. I found out he had been in
country for only two weeks. He'd arrived in Charlie Company only four
days ago and he was scared, really scared. I tried to put him at ease.
"The way I figure it, Charlie Company couldn't be safer tonight."

"Whaddaya mean? You said yourself every Tet something happens."

"Yeah, I know I did say that, but we're so damn prepared tonight there's
a good chance nothing will happen at all. I don't know about you, but I
don't plan on letting anyone even get in the neighborhood of LZ Sally,
let alone through the perimeter. You got your M-79 handy?"

He grunted at my last statement, handed me the M-79, and scanned the
berm. I chambered a round. "What's your name anyway?"

"Private Billingsley, sir."

I aimed the weapon upward toward the perimeter and fired. THUNK  ...
KAWOOMPH! "What's your MOS, Billingsley? "Company clerk."

I opened the breech and extracted the shell casing. "Where you from in
the states?"

"Montana. "You got a girl back there?"

His voice perked up. "Yes, sir. We're engaged to be married."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks," his voice trailed off. "She's worried to death about me
bein' over here. She's worried, humph. What the hell am I talking about.
I'm fuckin' worried."

"That's understandable, but it's not so bad here."

"Yeah? Then why am I about to shit myself then?"

I loaded another fat round, aimed, and fired. THUNK ... KAWOOMPH! "I'm
scared too, Billingsley."

"You are, sir?"

I took out the spent shell. "Yep."

"You don't show it."

"Just cuz I hide my fear doesn't mean I'm not scared. I can't show it
can I? If I did then how would that make you and the rest of the guys
feel? Besides, I've found from flying you can't think straight if you're
too scared. But enough of that, tell me about home."

"Well, uh, I live in the country, sir. On a small ranch my daddy and two
younger brothers run. Mom's a school teacher and I got an older sister
in college Billingsley and I talked for nearly two hours. When I hopped
off the bunker to return to my own he said, "Sir?

"Yes?" "Thanks. "I...I enjoyed talking to you tonight. I feel better
now."

"I enjoyed it too, Billingsley. See you in the morning "Yes, sir. See
you in the morning.

Once back at my bunker I took the starlight scope from the corporal from
motor pool and scanned the perimeter. "Told you, sir. Quiet as a
morgue."

"I'll be inside the bunker. Going to read the letter from home I got
today. Here," I gave him the M-79. "Feel free to fire it every ten or
fifteen minutes or so just to let Charlie know the crazy bastard hasn't
fallen asleep."

He laughed. "Roger that, sir. I'll give you a call if I see anything.

17 February 1969

Dear Mom:

I received your letter dated February 10th. I'm so glad you got my
pictures and money I sent you. I was hoping you would write and tell me
you received them so I could put my mind at rest.

It sounds like the weather has been better there lately. You're finally
getting some of the sunny weather southern California is famous for. I
wish I was there.

It's 2345 here now and I am writing this from inside a bunker. I have a
poncho draped over me to block the light of my flashlight from showing
outside. I am on the southeastern perimeter of lz Sally. I'm officer of
the guard tonight and I just came back from my rounds of the other five
bunkers. The men are jumpy and it helped to go talk to them. Today marks
the Vietnamese lunar New Year. TET. Every TET the Vietnamese have put up
a big offensive. Last year was the worst. The brass say that if nothing
major happens during this crucial time, peace maybe probable. I sure
hope so. I keep my fingers crossed. Give my love to all.

Randy

The long night passed giving way to gray, then slowly the world
outside our bunker was illuminated by a beautiful sunrise. We all
breathed easier knowing that the night had passed without incident-or
almost without incident.

Besides the eighty-four rounds of M-79 ammunition I had fired,
Billingsley had called excitedly on the land line around 0330 to report
that he had spotted movement in the wire.

"Wait one, Billingsley," I said on the land line. "I'll have a look
through the starlight scope." It was overcast with no ambient light, so
when I looked in the direction of his bunker through the scope I could
make out only an outline. Something was definitely out there. It was big
and it was moving ever so slowly.

I spoke softly into the land line receiver. "I confirm, Billingsley, I
do see something out there. Now, before we take any action, here's what
we'll do. I  ..."

That was all Billingsley needed to hear from me. The next instant the
whole perimeter erupted into a blinding flash, KAAAWWAAAABBBRRROOOMMM!
an orange, yellow, and red eruption as Billingsley detonated a barrel of
jellied gasoline, Fu Gas, in front of his bunker. In the light given off
by the cataclysmic explosion I could see no regiments of NVA charging.
Not even a company of VC. Not a platoon of sappers. Not even one VC.
What I did see was a startled water buffalo who one second was grazing,
and the next became beef barbecue on the hoof.

"Nice, Billingsley," I said over the land line and hung up.

The phone in my bunker rang immediately. It was the CO. "What the holy
hell's going on out there, Mains?"

I explained what had happened.

"I thought we were being overrun, shit. See that it doesn't happen
again!"

"Yes, sir," I said meekly and hung up.

Several days later I was walking to afternoon chow when one of the
warrants from First Platoon stuck his head out of the hootch next to
mine and yelled, "Anybody here have relatives in Southern California
they want to talk to?"

I could hardly believe what I'd just heard. "Yes!" I answered back.

"We got a phone patch with a guy in Long Beach. Is that close?"

"Damn, yes. My folks live in Huntington Beach."

I ran to the hootch where the MARS, or Military Affiliate Radio Station,
unit was located. It had two large, square aerials mounted on the roof.
It was a ham radio net. It worked by the operator contacting other hams
in various parts of the states who then made phone patches via the radio
link. In this case my folks would be billed only for the phone call from
Long Beach to their home about forty cents.

I rushed to the radio operator's side. He turned a big black dial on one
of the many radios sitting on a workbench. "That's better. Now, what's
your parents' phone number?"

I told him. The next thing I heard came as a shock. It was my sister
Nancy's voice. "Hello?"

I could hear the voice of the radio operator on the other end explaining
what was taking place and issuing instructions for her to say "over"
when she had finished talking. I was instructed to do the same. The
radio operator held the microphone up to my mouth. "Go ahead," he told
me.

"Nancy? Over."

"Randy? Randy, is that you? Over."

"Yes, yes. God, I can't believe it. I'm talking to you from the hootch
next door to mine Over."

"All the way from Vietnam? You're calling from Vietnam? ... Over.

"Yes. Over."

"I can't believe it. God, Randy, we really miss you! Over."

"I really miss everyone too. Over."

I Want to talk to Mom? She's standing right here. Over."

"Put her on. Over."

There was a short pause. Then I could hear Mom's voice. "Randy? Oh
Randy. We miss you, sweetie. Oh how we all miss you." There was a long
pause. She did not say over. I heard Nancy telling her. Oh, sorry, over,
honey.

"What are you guys doing? Over."

"Oh it's such a warm and beautiful day. You know how it can get
occasionally this time of year. It's so clear. Saddleback Mountain looks
like it's in our backyard. You can see for miles. Should be able to see
Catalina Island clearly off the coast. You know how it gets, honey.
Nancy, Andrea, and I are going to have lunch at the Jolly Roger on
Balboa Island, then after that we'll take the ferry across the bay and
go to the pavilion and sit and watch the sailboats sail by Over."

Immediately a sickening wave of depression hit me. It nearly overpowered
me. I suddenly realized they were living in a world parallel to mine
here. Mine, based on survival, was a day-to-day existence. Their world
was so normal. God, I wanted to be there with them. How I wished I had
never made this call.

"Hi brother Randy It was my little sister, Andrea.

"Hi Andy. I wish I could be there with you. Over."

"I miss you. I love you, Randy."

"And I love you, Andrea. Over."

There was a long pause. Andrea did not know what to say next. She
finally spoke, "Mom says I have to say good-bye now," she said in her
happy, little-girl voice.

I could feel my eyes tear. "I miss you, Andy. Your big brother loves
you. Always remember that, OK? I ... I gotta go now. Other people are
waiting to make calls too. Over." I lied.

"We love and miss you, Randy. Over," my mom said, now on the verge of
tears. I could tell by her voice.

"I'll write real soon, Mom. Your letters mean more than you'll know.
Please keep writing. Over."

"We will, sweetie. Gotta run now. We love you. Over.

"Love you too. Bye. Out."

The operator thanked the man in Long Beach for placing the call and
signed off. I felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach.

In the dim hootch the operator looked up at me. "It's tough, huh?"

"I'll never ever do that again." I breathed out heavily. "I never could
have imagined itd be so tough."

"Most of the guys do it only once. Hell, I run this setup. I could call
home nearly every day if I wanted to, but I don't. It's too damn
painful. It's better to keep home and loved ones in the back of your
mind. Once you hear their voices, know what they're doing, hear what the
weather's like, it's fucking murder."

I felt numb. Like I had just been told I'd lost a loved one. "Thanks.

"Don't mention it."

I put on my green baseball cap and made my way to the mess hall. It took
me a good three days to get over that call. It had been a big mistake.

24 February 1969

Dear Mom:

It's 0805 in the morning. The weather is real bad and we're on standby
to fly so I thought I would write a few lines to you. I was supposed to
take off at 0730 but there is a very low ceiling with steady drizzling
rain. It is getting worse so I don't think we'll fly before 12 o'clock.

It was good to hear your voices on the phone the other day. I don't
think I'll do it again though. It made me miss home way too much.

I did something interesting three days ago with three other pilots from
my platoon. The four of us took a day off from operational flying and
did something the Special Forces teams we fly practice as a matter of
normal operations. I flew at sixty knots hanging from the bottom of a
helicopter at 2000feet attached by a 150-foot rope. Let me explain. When
we fly missions up north for the Special Forces we usually have no set
landing zone to pick up the team because the jungle is so dense. If the
team is in trouble we have to get them out quick so we carry three ropes
per helicopter tied on the floor and coiled in ammunition boxes. The
setup is called a Mcguire Rig. The way it's deployed is, first, we hover
over the trees where the team is supposed to be then the crew chief or
gunner throws them out. The heavy boxes penetrate the thick jungle and
carry the ropes to the jungle floor. At the end of each 150-foot rope is
a harness, like a canvas swing, that each man sits in. When all three
men are secure on their separate rigs they lock arms and we pull them up
vertically through the trees. Once they're clear of the jungle, we fly
them twenty-five to thirty-five miles to home base with them on the
ropes below us.

Four of us from our platoon, all pilots, practiced this method of
extraction from the airfield. We were picked up and flown around for ten
to fifteen minutes at two thousand feet on the end of our ropes with
arms and legs locked together so we wouldn't spin in the strong wind
created by our forward airspeed. Don't worry, Mom, I wouldn't do it
again, but it was good for us as pilots to know what the guys we're
pulling out of the jungle have to go through. The experience will make
us that much more careful. I'll write again soon.

Love, Randy.

Captain Curly approached me as I was walking to the showers with bar of
soap in hand and dressed only in flip flops and a green towel wrapped
around my waist. "Mains, you're scheduled for your aircraft commander
check ride tomorrow. I guess the other ACS in your platoon are getting
damn desperate if they have to recommend the likes of you." His stern
look melted into a smile. He was one of those men who looked funny
smiling. "Good luck."

"Thank you, sir.

Joe Sulak and Tom Shonehour had been recommended to be ACS too. If we
passed we would be assigned our own personal aircraft. Then it would be
up to us to train the new peter pilots unfortunate enough to fly along
with US.

Tom and Joe flew their check rides a day ahead of me. They both passed
the combination oral examination and the 1 1/2-hour check ride without
incident. My check ride, on the other hand, nearly got me killed.

I was scheduled to fly with the senior company IP, a CW2 named Chuck
Decker. He gave me the oral exam in the operations tent. I noticed right
away he had short-timer pilot's eyes-intense, darting, suspicious. While
we walked out to the Widow Web to our aircraft he told me, "I got less
than two weeks of this shit to go, Mains." He was one of those guys who
did not look at you when he spoke. "I already got my orders. I'm going
to Rucker where 150 hour students will be trying to kill my ass. So I
want you to keep it in mind that this'll be a straightforward check
ride, nothing fancy. It'll be as I've briefed you in ops. Nothing more.
Any questions?"

"No. Don't think so."

"Good."

The first hour went well. We were flying south of Sally just outside the
perimeter, making our landings to a grassy area away from the rice
paddies and Vietnamese ville. I made the takeoff after making a running
landing with a simulated fixed-pitch tail rotor failure.

"That was fine, Mains. Now take it around and I'll give you a hydraulic
failure on downwind. I want you to perform the emergency procedure and
land the aircraft as you would in a real emergency."

"Roger."

A hydraulic failure in the Huey is no major event if handled properly.
It is like losing the power steering in your car. The controls become
extremely stiff and difficult to move, but you can get down OK if you
make a running landing as does an airplane.

We were on climb out passing through two hundred feet when Decker
reached over to turnoff the hydraulic switch. It was a special kind of
switch that had to be lifted up and pulled back over a small barrier to
turn it off. In this way it could not easily be inadvertently switched
off. I now had no hydraulic pressure to assist me. I moved the jerky
controls. ]Decker was looking out his side window as if disinterested.

I recited the emergency procedure. "First, I'll adjust to a comfortable
airspeed between sixty and seventy knots. I'll recycle the switch. If
that doesn't restore the hydraulics I'll reach up to the hydraulic
circuit breaker. Pull it out, if no power's restored push it in ... what
the ... ?"

I noticed the engine N2 RPM decreasing. I instinctively tried to lower
the collective to enter autorotation. I muscled it down. As I did I
quickly scanned the instruments. Compressor RPM decreasing. Two hundred
fifty feet of altitude. Descending quickly.

Simultaneously Decker's head swung to look in the cockpit. Thinking I
was just an FNG trying my best to kill him he said, "Whatre you doin'?"

"Engine's quit! Switch on the hydraulics!

He visibly jumped in his seat and quickly switched on the hydraulics. I
aimed the ship for a dry rice paddy. He transmitted, "Mayday, Mayday,
Mayday, this is Blackwidow Three-Three engine failure southern perimeter
of LZ Sally!"

He just got the mayday call out when we passed through fifty feet and I
hauled back on the cyclic stick, raising the nose of the chopper and
putting us into a flare. We stopped descending as the airspeed washed
off quickly. At twenty knots the machine began to sink again as we ran
out of airspeed to trade off for height. At ten feet I yanked up on the
collective pitch lever on my left to use the inertia in the wide blades
to cushion our descent. I pushed forward on the cyclic. The aircraft
leveled. I used the remaining collective pitch to cushion our landing.
The craft skidded over the soft dirt for ten feet and we came to an
abrupt stop. The blades coasted down slowly above us. We had been lucky.
We landed in the middle of the rice paddy and missed the four dirt banks
surrounding us.

The blades coasted to a slow, steady run-down and Decker looked at me
with wide, disbelieving eyes. "What the fuck happened?"

"Engine quit, that's what happened. I think I know why it quit. Put your
hand on the hydraulic switch again."

He reached over taking the switch between gloved thumb and forefinger.
"Look there. Look at the cuff of your flight glove."

"Well I'll be fucked," he said.

We almost were. Behind the hydraulic switch sat the fuel switch. It was
an "up and over" type of switch like the hydraulic switch in front of
it. When he turned off the hydraulic switch the cuff of his flight glove
had caught the fuel switch and turned it off also.

Two helicopter gunships landed next to us in a boil of dust. "Blackwidow
Three-Three. You OK?"

"Roger," Decker radioed on guard frequency. "Wait one." He turned on the
fuel switch and said to me on intercom, "Try to start her up."

I did. The fuel ignited and the turbine engine whined to life again.

"We'll be fine. Thanks for coming."

"Roger. Glad to be of assistance," and they lifted off.

I twisted on the throttle to bring the RPM up to flight range. "Want to
continue?"

"Are you nuts? Like I said earlier, I'm too short for this shit. Take us
back to the Widow Web." It was the first time that day the man smiled.
"Congratulations, Mains. You passed. I have to admit that was some check
ride. Yes siree," he chuckled to himself shaking his head. "That was one
hell of a check ride."

CHAPTER 7.

March 1969

"DEAR Mom: Your Son's a Star!"

If I had not been looking forward to Tet because of the frightening
stories I had heard about the events of the preceding year, I was
looking forward even less to the A-Shau Valley assault being planned by
the 101st.

The year before the First Cav had lost fifty-eight helicopters the first
day they flew into the A-Shau. Some of our old hands who had been peter
pilots at the time said it was a real blood bath. One of the pilots had
a reel-toreel tape recording of the radio traffic taped by an
enterprising pilot on that day. A group of us listened to it in the
officer's club one night. The screaming and horrendous radio chatter
recorded from the three aircraft radios blaring at once did not fail to
raise the hair on the backs of our necks.

Worse than the actual assault was the waiting to go in. The operation
was plagued with delays. We sat through two three-hour briefings in our
mess hall which detailed at length the assault on the A-Shau. When the
day finally arrived for the first assault, and we were all psyched up
for it, the mission was called off. This happened again several weeks
later. We psyched ourselves up like football players going into the
Super Bowl, then at the last minute we were told, "Sorry, game's been
canceled." The day-to-day waiting was becoming unbearable, and we all
would have preferred just to get it over and done with. On both
occasions bad weather had stopped us from carrying out the massive
airlift of troops.

Even more worrying was the obvious lack of security surrounding the
upcoming mission. We had waited so long that the details of the mission
had doubtless been compromised to the enemy. This was brought home to me
by an incident that took place after the third briefing, held in the
mess hall, detailing the A-Shau Valley assault.

The following morning I rolled out of bed at 0500 ready to go on the
mission only to be informed by ops that it had been scrubbed, yet again!

When I got back from an early breakfast my hootch maid, Thu Yung,
(pronounced too young) was making up my bunk. She stood upright. "Oh,
Mr. Mains. You here?" She said with genuine surprise in her voice. "What
happen? You not go A-Shau today?"

Her words horrified me. I marched over to operations and cornered Ernest
James. "What kind of security is it when even the hootch maids know when
we're going to assault the A-Shau?

You remember what happened last year. You can bet if our hootch maids
know, Charlie knows. And if he knows he'll just be sitting in the jungle
waiting for us, and we'll see an even bigger blood bath than the First
Cav saw last year!"

Ernest only shrugged, unable to offer any consolation. He did talk to
Major Posey who ordered that from then on all Vietnamese employed in the
mess hall would be required to leave the building during briefings. Big
deal!

The mission had become so compromised even shopkeepers in the village as
well as the hootch maids were calling in debts and giving no further
credit. Naturally they wanted to be paid in full in the likely event
that the man owing them did not return from the massive assault.

I had been told that the A-Shau assault would be a huge media event. The
first aircraft to land would contain the camera crews from the major
networks plus several photo journalists. After our first briefing in the
mess hall three weeks before I'd written to tell my family to look for
the 101st in the Los Angeles Times and on the six o'clock news.

16 March 1969

Dear Mom:

Received your letter yesterday night dated 8 March.

You said you were going to watch for our company in the newspapers. We
postponed going into the A-Shau Valley until further notice because of
weather.

Well, my company has moved. We have moved from LZ Sally to Phu Bai now.
Phu Bai is about seven miles south of Hue and it's really neat here.
There is a big airstrip where C-130s and 707s can land. LZ Sally was a
very small place, actually very vulnerable to attack. Here in Phu Bai,
though, it is really built up with a big PX and hospital nearby.

Our hootches here are longer than the sixteen-by-thirty-two-foot
hootches we lived in at Sally and we can build our areas any way we want
them. My area's coming along. I have some mats down on the floor and a
shelter over my bed to hold my belongings on top. I made a desk and I
have a beaded curtain covering my doorway. I bought a chest of drawers
from the gook village. We have a 30-k generator in the company but it is
not hooked up yet. Should be tonight, though.

I confiscated a black light and bought one of those fluorescent
paintings from one of the villages to hang on the plywood wall. My tape
recorder is set over my bunk with my speakers on the opposite wall. I'm
listening to Peter, Paul and Mary's "Leavin' on a Jet Plane" right now.
God, I can't wait. Because we're based in Phu Bai I should receive my
mail a day sooner because the airstrip is here.

In February a new battalion arrived in Vietnam from the States to
support the ]Olst, but will not become operational until April. It's an
army experiment to see if an aviation unit can be fully trained and
combat-ready for instant insertion into Vietnam. There is a good chance
that I will be infused into it because I'll have just enough time left
in country to fly with them and teach the new pilots how to fly over
here. Seven warrant officers and eight regular officers are supposed to
be infused from our company. I hope I don't because in our battalion we
have all experienced people. But in their battalion everyone is new and
I can see that will be a problem. I'll let you know what happens.

I really like our new location here at Phu Bai because "it's more like
civilization, whereas at Sally we were kind of alone. Not much else for
now. Will write again soon.

Love, Randy.

P. S. I've found out that I'm going on R&R to Bangkok the 19th of April.
I will be over the hump then. Can't wait!

The idea of training a unit in the states and expecting it to measure up
to the standards of a seasoned combat unit in Vietnam was absurd. Our
company commander, however, saw this as a wonderful opportunity to get
rid of what he termed, "the assholes and the incompetents of Charlie
Company.

Using the same logic, the commanders in the 158th saw a golden
opportunity to rid themselves of their assholes and incompetents. So on
the day the swap took place the Blackwidows received six men instead of
the fifteen we had expected. In my-opinion only two of the officers we
received fell into either category. The two undesirables were Captain
Buck Phillips and a man we immediately nick-named "Captain Crunch" after
the character in the breakfast cereal. Of course the 158th were
similarly served by the Blackwidows, but with a significant difference.
The men we sent them were experienced incompetents or assholes of which
Douche Bag Dick Childs was one.

Captain Crunch flew for a month or two with a manner so abusive and
cocky that he managed to alienate all his fellow pilots. To gain more
control over the men he assigned himself to operations with Captain
Ernest James. Captain Crunch was bearable only as long as you could
avoid talking to him. As a pilot warrant officer you did not have to
talk to him. You could simply tell him to "fuck off" and he usually did. The
enlisted men, on the other hand, could not be so direct without getting
into a lot of trouble. Captain Crunch soon became so unpopular with the
enlisted men that his hootch would get CSD with the vomit-inducing gas
at least one night a week. So common did the occurrence become that his
five hootch mates kept their gas masks on a nail over their bunks, and
whenever another CS canister was thrown into the hootch they put on
their masks and walked outside, grumbling gas cleared.

It was, however, Buck Phillips, the second undesirable, who was to
become the biggest problem for me. He would be the one to try, along
with Major Torq, the new company commander, to get me drummed out of the
United States Army. But I am getting ahead of myself At about the same
time that the 158th arrived in country I started to notice a drastic
change in the attitude of the new pilots coming to the Blackwidows.
Their outlook on the war seemed distant. Removed. Uncaring. I felt they
were less motivated than Joe, Tom, or I had been nearly five months ago.
They lacked the enthusiasm of my predecessors to get the job done.

These FNGS told us how public support for the war back home was
waning-that there was a strong public opposition movement that was
gaining momentum urging the United States to pull out. Public opinion
claimed that we were doing more harm than good in Vietnam, that the
American war machine was indiscriminately killing and maiming innocent
victims of a war they themselves did not want. The opposition claimed
that we Americans were prolonging and propagating the war for the good
of the politicians and not for the good of the people we were trying to
help. The reports were confusing. It was difficult to believe public
sentiment could switch so radically, that Americans back home were not
supporting their fighting men overseas as they had during World Wars 1
and 2 and the more recent Korean War. The thought was beyond my
comprehension and went against everything I was brought up to believe
in, so I simply chose not to believe it.

18 March 1969

Dear Mom:

Hi.

Not too much to write about, but while I was free I thought I would
write a letter to you.

I have been working pretty hard on my living area, which is a chore. We
have to wire our hootches and build our area ourselves. It's a
J'ull-time job, I tell you.

Phu Bai is all right, boy. All we need now is our generator and we'll be
up-tight. My tape player is a set up and ready for action.

The only thing I am sweating out is the possibility of getting in .fused
into the new battalion. If I do, I'll have to move from here to Camp
Eagle and start, all over again. Ugh!

I hope Andrea is feeling better after her fight with the flu. Poor kid.

I am now flying as an AC, Aircraft Commander, and it is making my time
pass super quick because of the added responsibility. Enclosed are
several copies of my AC orders. Please keep them in a safe place for me.
I must have them for my next duty station.

Not much happening over here. Yesterday I flew eight hours. By the way,
I -have some pictures, forty-five of them, to send to you guys. They
turned out real good. When I get a chance I'll send them in a small
album like I did last time.

Until my next letter, take care of one another.

Love, Randy

On the evening of 21 March 1969, all the ACS and peter
pilots in Charlie Company were informed that the A-Shau Valley assault
would begin at 0500 the next morning. The mission would take place as
per our previous briefings. I went to bed early though the news caused
me to sleep only fitfully that night.

At the scheduled time, twenty Hueys cranked up in the dark and departed
the Widow Web for the staging area at LZ Birmingham. We shut down in a
long row on the left side of the oiled-dirt airstrip and waited.

Some of the men drank coffee, some wrote letters home, others opened
cans of C-rations and ate the bland contents, while still others tried
to catch a few minutes of sleep. The six soldiers assigned to each ship
sat by the machines and waited. We all waited for the order to get
airborne and insert the first wave of troops.

I was aircraft commander of the number two aircraft. The number one
helicopter, Wishy-Washy's ship, carried the most important cargo of all:
the news media. The commander in the C&C, command and control, aircraft
who had been flying over the valley at five thousand feet since first
light radioed back and said the ground fog had finally burned off and
gave the order to begin the assault.

Captain Crunch, Bernie's copilot, ran to the center of the strip. He
held his arm over his head and made several sweeping circles. "OK, crank
'em up. We're going in."

We flew low level, two flights of ten, over sharp ridge lines and small
valleys, guided on the radio by the commander, Eagle Six, flying in the
C&C bird. The closer we got to the valley, the more nervous I became.
The tape recording of last year's assault I had heard in the club
replayed in my mind. Would Charlie be waiting for us this time? I
wondered.

"You're two klicks from the first LZ Yellow Lead," the C&C commander
radioed from above. "You'll be landing to the area on the valley floor
as briefed."

"Roger, " Wishy-Washy Bernie Nivens answered. His voice sounded two
octaves higher than usual.

I flew echelon right on Bernie's ship, concentrating on keeping his
rotor disk on the jungle horizon. I kept glancing at the news cameras
aimed at me from the open door of Bernie's chopper. Great! I thought. If
we do get hit, shot down, or blown to pieces the event will be captured
for posterity and shown on the six-o'clock news for all my friends and
family to see. I vividly remember that photographer with the probing
lens filming us ... waiting to film the action ... waiting for that
Pulitzer prize-winning shot. Waiting I silently cursed him.

We flew over the last ridge line and began a smooth descent. This is
where Bernie's flight-school flying paid off. Flight Lead in a formation
had to fly precisely by the numbers or else the formation would quickly
disintegrate. Any error in angle or bank or airspeed or descents or
climbs that were too quick or too slow became magnified one-hundred-fold
in a flight of ten. The southern valley floor had been well prepped with
previous B-52 strikes, arty, naval artillery, and ARA. The LZ loomed in
the distance. It looked scarred and torn, dotted with huge craters
filled with muddy water. I could see twisted foliage and angular roots
sticking up in the humid air from felled trees, blasted out of their
individual patch of moist earth by tons of ordnance.

"You're one klick out, Yellow Lead. Good luck."

"Roger Eagle Six. Break ... Yellow Flight this is Yellow Lead. We're
beginning the approach. Pick your spots."

The aircraft commander flying the ship behind us radioed, "Goddamn,
Chock Two, this is Three. A burst of tracers just flew up between us. It
looked like your ship was covered. Shit. Did the guns see where it came
from?"

A gun team leader answered. "Roger, Chock Three, this is Gunslinger
Four-Zero, we saw it. We're rolling in hot."

"Charlie was shooting at us, " my peter pilot said. "Did we get hit?"

The crew chief answered. "I think I heard something hit the tail." I
concentrated on the approach and said, "Keep your eyes on the gauges.
Stay close on the controls. We'll check it out when we land somewhere
safe."

"Roger that," the peter pilot answered.

The primeval real estate on our port and starboard sides erupted in
small flashes followed by dirt blasting high into the air. The ARA
Cobras dove from the sky paralleling our course and continued firing
their rockets. I surveyed the long landing zone and tried to judge where
Bernie was going to land. I picked a spot near a large crater and
committed myself to it.

I could see the quick puffs of white smoke from the M-60s on Bernie's
ship firing on both sides. "Open fire." I commanded.

The loud clatter of our own M-60s drowned my thoughts as I guided the
aircraft down, aiming at a spot to the upwind side of the bomb crater.
The troops waited anxiously at the door until our skids hit the ground.
Then they leapt out.

"We're clear, sir."

I knew that it would be several seconds until Chock Ten would be on the
ground. The waiting was unnerving. "Come on, come on, come on!" I
surveyed the area expecting enemy gunfire at any moment and the chaos
that follows, as it had happened last year. The enemy B-40s, 51 caliber,
the familiar clatter of AK-47 machine-gun fire, the green tracer rounds.
Where was he? Where was the enemy? Nothing. Chock Ten finally radioed,
"You're up Yellow Lead."

"Roger, lifting."

Ten helicopters took off as one. I could hear Eagle Six calling to White
Lead in the second wave of ten behind us. They were beginning their
approach. I waited for the words "Receiving fire, receiving fire." Again
nothing. Was the enemy just playing with us? Was he going to wait for
the second assault, third, or fourth before he let us have it?

I let the copilot fly the ship back to Birmingham where we would pick up
more troops. Wishy-Washy and Captain Crunch were told on the command net
to return to Camp Eagle to pick up the division PIO, Public Information
Officer, now that the news media had been successfully inserted. I was
told to move up from Chock Two to Chock One. I would be Flight Lead on
the second lift into the A-Shau.

We landed back at Birmingham, picked up six more troops, and headed west
into the mountains again. On final approach to the LZ I chose to land to
the upwind end of a huge bomb crater. That way, when I flared, the
aircraft's tail boom would be over the hole and could not hit the
ground. It was a trick I learned as a peter pilot. A hitch in my plan
became apparent however when I was on short final for the LZ. There was
a news cameraman standing on the exact spot where I was going to land.

"What's that guy doing?" I said over the intercom.

It was impossible to go around with nine aircraft in trail, and I could
not aim at another spot. There was no other and I was too heavy anyway.
I was committed. "He'd better get the hell out of the way or else he's
going to get flattened," the copilot said.

The man did not move. He kept on filming, the lens aimed at us with his
eye glued to the viewfinder of his news camera. I continued the approach
as if he were not there. It was a "him or us" situation. At the very
last instant, when the situation seemed to be irrevocable, he must have
realized I was not going to avoid him. He dove to the side of the bomb
crater just as our skids planted into the soft earth. I silently cursed
him.

On the third assault the Chock Two aircraft landed to my left. I glanced
over and watched in horror as one of the soldiers jumped and ran from
the chopper. The adrenalin must have really been pumping because the
young soldier's feet were running before he hit the ground. He left the
helo like a rifle shot and clambered up the side of a felled tree
directly under the chopper's rotor blades. I could hear the loud "THWAK!

" as the end of the metal blade hit the grunt's steel helmet. Arms and
legs flailing, he did a one-and-a-half flip with a half-twist, landing
in the bomb crater next -to us in the middle of a huge puddle of water.
Two of his buddies grabbed the unconscious soldier by the armpits and
dragged him to our now empty chopper and threw him aboard.

"Chock Two, this is Lead," I radioed. "We got a medevac. You take the
lead. Gotta get this guy to the hospital."

"Roger.

I took off and banked hard right in a maximum performance climb heading
for the coast. I called brigade. They told me to take the man to the USS
Repose, the hospital ship offshore. I had never landed on a ship before.
I checked the SOI, hanging around my neck by a string, for the ship's
frequency.

As we neared the coast I could see the white ship several miles off
shore. I dialed in the frequency and called to tell them what we were
bringing them.

"Roger, Blackwidow 25. This is the FDO. Flight deck officer. You're
cleared to land. Ship's head is zero-eight-five, speed five knots.
Apparent wind red twenty at fifteen-Report abaft the beam, over. II I
looked over at my copilot. "You understand anything that guy's sayin'?"

"Nope.

"Me neither. Guess we'll figure it out when we get there." I pulled the
red trigger on the cyclic stick and broadcast, "Roger, Blackwidow 25.
We're coming in."

"Copy, Blackwidow 25. We have medical staff waiting." I looked back
at the Huey's floor and asked the crew chief on the intercom, "How's he
look, Taylor?"

Taylor was kneeling by the man's side. "He's unconscious but breathing.
His head looks like an overinflated football."

I could just make out the flight deck at the stern of the ship when we
were a klick away. I could also see an American flag flying near the
bridge. That was all I needed to check the wind direction. I figured
that if I just treated the deck of the ship like a moving jungle ridge
line and simply drove the helicopter down to it till the skids hit the
steel deck I'd be all right. We landed without incident.

The crew chief jumped out to inspect the tail boom for any hits we might
have taken on the first sortie into the A-Shau. Men and women in
brilliant white uniforms ran out to us, crouching under the spinning
rotors, to take the injured soldier away. We must have looked like
something out of The Twilight Zone. They certainly appeared so to me.
Here we were in our combat machine, dressed for the A-Shau Valley
assault. M-60 machine guns and ammunition draped on either side of our
aircraft; thick bulletproof chest protectors held in place under our
shoulder straps; space-age flight helmets, the gunner and crew chief
with the smoked visors pulled down making them look like beings from
another solar system. And here they were in their sterile hospital
uniforms, pale skin, clean fingernails, some wearing snow-white shoes,
others with spit-shined low quarters. Were we part of the same war? I
thought not. They took the man, carefully laid him on a stretcher, and
rolled him away.

The crew chief climbed back behind his M-60. "We took one hit through
the elevator, sir. Only went through the skin. Didn't hit anything else.
Won't be a problem."

"Thanks, Taylor."

The radio came to life. "Blackwidow 25, ship's head is still
zero-eight-five. Speed five knots. Apparent wind red twenty at thirteen.
You're cleared for takeoff forward of abeam when ready."

"Blackwidow 25, roger." I looked at my copilot, shrugged, then looked up
at the American flag snapping in the wind to orient myself to the wind
direction.

I lifted the machine to a hover, pushed in left pedal, and took off
along the left side of the ship into the wind. I banked over the
blue-green Gulf of Tonkin forward of the ship's bow and leveled out to
fly back to the coast, back to the war.

"Thanks, Blackwidow 25. We'll take good care of your soldier."

"Thank you, Repose. It's good to see a little bit of "Real America' for
a change. Talk to you later. Out."

I found out later that the soldier had suffered only a concussion and,
apart from waking up with a severe headache, he was going to be all
right. The steel pot he had been wearing had saved his life.

We refueled, with rotors running, at the POL at Camp Eagle and returned
to Birmingham to pick up another sortie of troops. We heard that one of
our aircraft from First Platoon had been hit by an RPG on the third lift
while we were on, the dust-off mission. It was Chock One, and the
aircraft had just taken off from the valley floor when it happened. The
AC, a first lieutenant named Ward, the Peter pilot, a warrant officer
named Kirby, a gunner named Miller, and the crew chief, Miles, all had
been killed when the ship exploded in midair.

Several of the gunships from Delta Company had taken heavy hits also.
One of the Cobras from ARA got shot down and crash-landed on the side of
a ridge line. Luckily, no one had been seriously injured, and a Huey was
able to fly in and rescue the two pilots. All in all the A-Shau assault
was not the blood bath we had expected, although it did have its
moments.

Eagle Six in the C&C bird ordered four of us from Birmingham to an LZ to
pick up soldiers that aircraft from the 158th, the new stateside outfit,
had inserted in the wrong coordinates. The news of the mistake did not
surprise us.

It was like old home week. Ned Kelly flew Chock One. Joe Sulak was the
AC in Chock Two. Tom Shonehour flew Chock Three, and I was the AC in the
fourth aircraft.

The landing zone was big enough to hold all four aircraft, but it was
surrounded by high jungle. The four of us made the approach with gunship
support. The waiting soldiers scampered aboard. It was now midday and
extremely hot and humid, robbing our aircraft of precious horsepower.
Ned Kelly was the first to attempt a takeoff.

Bringing his aircraft to a hover, he reported it was at the red line on
power. He hovered to the end of the zone, turned around, and
accelerated, nose down at a steep angle, toward the high trees. Just
when it looked as if he was going to crash into them he pulled back on
the cyclic, and the nose of his chopper pointed skyward, trading off
airspeed for altitude. Once the aircraft was over the trees the nose
dropped and he accelerated away. Tom and Joe did the same.

Because I had just refueled, my aircraft was a lot heavier than the
other three ships. I tried to bring the aircraft to a hover, but it sank
back down into the high elephant grass. The engine could not produce
enough power. There was no way we were going to get out of there with
six soldiers on board. We could not leave them. We could not take off.
We were trapped. I surveyed the tree line expecting to see the enemy at
any moment. I felt very alone and extremely vulnerable. The familiar
bull's-eye pressure was building up between my eyes. I called on the
VHF, "Send in another ship. We can't get out."

A ship from the 158th had just inserted a load of soldiers a klick away
and was empty. The pilot was stateside trained with little combat
experience. He was flying a brand new, powerful H-model Huey. Eagle Six,
directed him to land and take three of my soldiers.

He made a quick, steep approach into the LZ and landed next to me. Three
soldiers from my aircraft ran over and hopped aboard, and he quickly
departed. Even with only three soldiers onboard our aircraft was heavily
laden, and I had to use the airspeed-trade-off-for-altitude takeoff
maneuver to get out.

I learned later that the 158th pilot had had a rotor overspeed coming
into the LZ and had over-torqued the machine's main transmission and
drive-train during the takeoff. The machine had to be flown back to Camp
Eagle for maintenance because of his lousy piloting technique. The
pilots in the Blackwidows got a chuckle out of that story.

The insertion of troops from Birmingham lasted for several hours. Later
in the day we inserted soldiers into a small landing zone on a ridge
line overlooking the A-Shau. It was a tight, single-ship landing zone.
On the first wave we lost one of our ships. The story is best described
in a letter I sent home to my stepfather.

24 March 1969

Dear Howard:

Hi. I have a few minutes to scratch a few lines to you. We took off on
our mission today at 0645 but the clouds were too low and too thick to
continue. We were to fly up north along the DMZ for the Special Forces.
I'm back at Phu Bai now waiting for the weather to clear so I have this
opportunity to write.

Our,company flew into the A-shall Valley two days ago. You probably saw
the assault on the news back home because NBC cameramen took movies and
news photographers took stills of my ship information from the lead
helicopter. Our company lost a helicopter on our first lift into a real
tight LZ The pilot and copilot managed to get out without a scratch. The
LZ we landed in was surrounded by fifty-foot trees, blown out of the
jungle by a five-hundred-pound bomb dropped from a sky crane helicopter
earlier. The reason the aircraft crashed is because just before the ship
could set its skids on the jungle floor the grunts started jumping out
prematurely. The pilot couldn't control the helicopter as it began to
rock back and forth as the soldiers leapt out. The aircraft's rotor RPM
began bleeding off so he maneuvered the aircraft in a tight turn to try
and dive out of the LZ. In the turn his boom hit a tree stump knocking
out the tail rotor, an the helicopter spun 360 degrees and crash-landed
on its side and tumbled down a mountain slope. The crew scrambled out
before it burst into flames. No one was hurt up front. The crew chief
got one of his fingers cut off and the gunner was thrown clear and
wasn't found for twenty minutes. He was knocked unconscious. When they
got to him he had a cut on his head and possible skull fracture. Going
into the A -shall Valley a cobra gunship got his hydraulics shot out.
One of our ships lost its hydraulics too.

On the first lift of the assault, the pilot of the ship in trail behind
me radioed and said we were covered by a hail of green tracers. I wasn't
even aware we were being shot at. We were lucky. We only took one hit
through the elevator. Last year during the first day of the air assault
into the A-shall Valley the 1st Air Cav lost a lot of ships! All I can
say is I go on r&r in two weeks and I'm ready.

More later, Randy.

I did not mention the four men we lost in the ship that had been blown
out of the sky by the RPG. I never referred to death in my letters. In
order to spare their feelings I pretended it did not exist.

Charlie Company spent the rest of that week plus all of the next in
support of the troops we had inserted into the A-Shau. All the pilots
were flying eight- and nine-hour days. As each day passed I mentally
ticked off another on my countdown for R&R. The closer the date got the
more excited I became.

Just before sunrise on March 25 Phu Bai was hit by a barrage of rockets
and mortars. It was the first time we had been hit since Charlie Company
moved from Sally. I didn't mention the attack in any of my letters home
to my family. I needn't have bothered to spare their feelings, however,
as they would find out about the attack in the usual way-through the
news media.

In due course I received a letter from home. The A-Shau Valley assault
had hit the news and headlines back home. My mom sent me a picture of my
helicopter going in on the first lift. When I saw it I was reminded of
that photographer and his probing lens.

30 March 1969

Dear Mom:

I received your letter today with the clipping. The picture you cut out
is of my helicopter flying into the A-shall.

Things are looking up here at Phu Bai. We scrounged a pool table the
other day and I now spend my rare time off trying to sharpen up my game.
It's raining now, and 98 degrees. I'll never get used to this crazy
weather. I've practically got webbed feet! I go on r&r in a few, days so
I'll write to you from Bangkok.

Love to all.

Randy.

31 March 1969

Dear Mom:

Received your letter today with the enclosed clipping from the newspaper
describing the rocket and mortar attack that occurred here a week ago. I
can't believe it made the headlines. I was eating break fast in the mess
hall when they started coming in. "en the first one hit and exploded I
leaped from the table and ran for the aircraft as I'd been instructed to
do in the event of an attack. By the time the fourth one impacted I was
in my ship, airborne and gone. That is the plan we follow -in case of an
attack like that. All the ACS are supposed to run to their aircraft and
take off. The attack wasn't anything big though because it was mainly
aimed at the south end of Phu Bai. Please don't worry. I go on r&r soon.
Will write from there. Love, Randy.

CHAPTER 8.

April 1969

R&R "Back in the USSR.

When I examined the stack of letters Mom had entrusted me with that
night in her apartment, I was only able to find one letter for the month
of April. The date was 29 April 1969, and the letter was written on
stationery from the Siam Hotel Co., Ltd., 1777 New Petchburi Road,
Bangkok, Thailand, but I had sent it from Vietnam.

There are distinct memories of the R&R that easily come to mind. It
would be understandable to question someone's memory after twenty years,
but I can assure you that if a half-naked Thai girl chased you around
your hotel room, over bed and dresser, brandishing a Buck knife and
threatening to cut off one of the most favorite parts of your anatomy,
you, would not be able to erase a memory so terrifying.

My R&R began the morning of April 19. I watched Bien Hoa Air Base
disappear below me from the window of the 707. It felt odd actually to
be leaving the war behind me. It would take more than just lifting off a
runway to rid my mind of the war. I knew that. But I was determined to
try my hardest to push it aside. It felt strange to wear the once
familiar civilian clothes I had dug out from the bottom of my footlocker
back at Phu Bai. My shoes had mildewed and become stiff from disuse. It
had taken half a day of scrubbing to rid them of the green mold. It had
taken a full box of soap powder and three washings to rid my clothes of
the pungent jungle smell. It was yet another unexpected by-product of my
six months in combat that I now felt out of place wearing civvies. By
this time I was far more comfortable wearing my scruffy combat boots and
my loose-fitting Nomex flying suit and yellow scarf, which had been my
uniform each day of the last six months.

After landing at Bangkok's Don Muang airport I was one of a herd of
soldiers taken by bus to a large room in the USO building to receive a
short briefing before being let loose on the city.

"Men!" the sergeant E-6 began from his podium. "Welcome to Bangkok. You
will have seven days here. Before you leave this building bound for your
respective hotels it is my duty to warn you that statistically you have
a 60 percent chance of contracting some form of venereal disease during
your stay here. VD is rife, gentlemen, so I suggest you take the
necessary precautions."

Like the war stories I had heard, the stories about VD in Southeast Asia
were many and sometimes lurid. It was said that certain strains were so
resistant to modern antibiotics that once you caught them they were with
you for life. Vietnam Rose, for example, was one of those. It was even
rumored that one strain turned your penis black until it eventually
atrophied and fell off! I never did manage to verify that one. But even
after taking all the health risks into consideration, for some odd
reason, the sergeant's advice did not sway me. It did nothing to
persuade me to take "the appropriate precautions." I had decided well
before leaving Vietnam that going on R&R meant, first and foremost, I
was going to get laid. I was also going to get drunk, I was going to
dine in as many good restaurants as I could afford, and if there was any
time left over, I was even going to see the tourist sights that Bangkok
had to offer. I was quite simply going to treat myself to one hell of a
good time. What I would not allow was any negative thinking that might
spoil my long-awaited week of R&R. I was here to forget about war and
death. I had been sent here to enjoy living and forget the ugliness I'd
seen. I was here to relax. It was my duty to salute smartly and do just
that!

In retrospect I realize how immature I was to disregard the health
warnings, but at the time I saw myself as the young warrior, halfway
through his tour in a not-so friendly war zone with the very real
possibility of returning to America in a coffin staring him in the face.
Or even worse, I might return home as a cripple. So I was going to blow
off a lot of pent-up steam. For a week I was going to indulge in every
hedonistic pleasure. I was going to do it while, biologically,
everything still functioned. The way I viewed my situation, my week in
Bangkok could well be my last opportunity to experience life to the
fullest.

In the USO in-processing center I met two infantry first lieutenants
with whom I hit it off immediately, and we decided to stick together.
One of the lieutenants had had the Siam Hotel recommended to him, so
after changing our "green money" to Thai baht at a military money
exchange office we flagged down a taxi and instructed the driver to take
us there.

The best way to describe Bangkok traffic is to compare it to the bumper
cars at the fair, but without any consideration of organization or
safety. The clogged streets were teaming with cars, trucks, bikes, and
Vespas, each adding its contribution to the thick accumulation of
foul-smelling engine exhaust. Amongst the traffic one could spot the odd
darting pedestrian running for his or her life in an attempt to cross
the street. It was every man for himself. The only rule I could see was
that there were no rules. If one vehicle was a paint job's thickness
ahead of the other, it had the right,of way. There were many times the
three of us thought a collision was imminent and threw our arms outward,
closing our eyes for the impact, when, at the last possible instant, our
driver would take the action necessary to avoid it.

The Siam Hotel turned out to be a fairly upmarket hotel for Bangkok. Not
exactly up to Holiday Inn standards, but clean enough. We checked in,
took our luggage to our individual rooms, and met in the lobby fifteen
minutes later.

For transportation we decided to hire a taxi and driver from the hotel
for the entire week. We were told that both would be at our service
twenty-four hours a day and, with the cost split three ways, it seemed
like a good deal.

The three of us had discussed our first plan of action. I acted as
spokesman and told Sam, our Thai driver, "Sam, take us to the best
massage parlor in Bangkok, " and added, "The one with the cleanest
girls."

"I know just where to go," Sam said smiling at us in the rearview
mirror.

While negotiating the nerve-shattering traffic he told us the place we
were headed had the reputation of being the cleanest place in Bangkok.
"The girls have a medical test every two weeks and keep a health card
that is stamped after every visit. It is the best place, I can assure
you," he told us.

The fime of us knew that it would probably be an easy matter for the
girls to obtain forged health cards, but figured it was in the interests
of the management to at least try to keep the girls clean-that is, if
they wanted future business from the weekly throng of American GIS. This
was our way, anyway, to try to ensure we did not end up in the 60
percent infected bracket. Privately I figured my odds were reduced to
about 50 percent.

I cannot recall the name of the establishment that Sam took us to. But I
do remember the wonderful manner in which we picked our masseuse. We
were truly like small boys in a candy shop with an unlimited selection
before us, insatiable appetites, and more money than good sense.

Our driver ushered us inside. As we entered, the first thing thrust into
our hands was a frosty bottle of a lethal beer called Singha. I had been
warned about Singha. It was said to be partly made with ether. I could
believe it. After the first bottle, which barely even touched the sides
of my throat because of the thirst I had developed in the sweltering
heat, I was well and truly anesthetized.

An attractive lady approached us. I guessed that she was in her early
thirties. She asked if we would like a massage which struck me as an odd
question. Why else would we be herr,? We answered politely in the
affirmative and she motioned with a long red fingernail. "Come this:way
then, gentlemen," she said with a coy smile.

We came to a wall covered with a full-length curtain and were made to
stand in front of it. I glanced across at my two companions. We shrugged
looking at one another blankly. Then Mama San pulled a chord at one side
and the curtains parted slowly. We were now looking through a one-way
glass at what, in my estimation, must have been seventy-five or even a
hundred Thai girls. They were sitting in a room similar to the lecture
theater of my old college. We had called it "the forum." The seating was
tiered, each row higher than the one in front so that one's view was
unimpeded. Here the rows were curved and tiered deeply so that the feet
of one girl were level with the head of the girl sitting in front of
her. That way most of the girls' charms were exposed for our inspection.
Each girl wore a white cotton blouse, white shorts, and high heels.
Pinned on her chest was a large red button with. a clearly visible
number painted on it.

Mama San approached us. I remember her heavily perfumed scent. "Pick a
number please, gentlemen. Take as long as you like."

One of the lieutenants voiced my thoughts in mumbled tones, "Holy shit.
Goddamn, I've died and gone to heaven."

I scanned each row methodically, my eyes falling on each girl to assess
her individual beauty. A particular girl caught my eye almost
immediately. She had long, shapely legs. Her sable hair was neatly cut
short in the style of the British singer Lulu. She looked taller than
the rest of the girls, and her lips turned up in a natural smile. Her
dark brown eyes sparkled even from a distance. "I'll take number
thirty-seven."

Mama San smiled approvingly. "You have very good taste, sir."

The two lieutenants each took their pick and the three of us were led
down a dimly lit hallway to our allotted massage rooms. A girl brought
us another bottle of Singha beer and I entered, taking a sip from the
bottle.

Dominating the room was a well-constructed, long wooden table on which
rested a padded mat. A bathtub was in one corner and a work table sat
next to the "bed." Creams, oils, powders, and instruments of pleasure
sat on that table. The dark wooden walls of the small room or cubical
stopped three feet short of the ceiling. What was being said in the
adjacent cubicle was clearly audible.

"Can you guys fucking believe this place?" came the disembodied voice of
one of the lieutenants.

"No," answered the other lieutenant. "R&R's going to be
out-fucking-standing."

"And I'll drink to that," I replied to both, taking a large gulp from
the bottle.

The door behind me opened. Mama San entered leading in by the hand the
vision that I had picked from the lineup of girls.

"This is Chu," Mama San said. "She will take very good care of you." I
was very willing to believe that. I extended my hand and introduced
myself. The girl smiled politely and half bowed as she timidly shook my
hand.

"I will be back later," Mama San said with a smile. "You are in good
hands now. Please enjoy yourself" Please enjoy myself?

God, if I don't I have to be dead! I thought.

Chu was even more beautiful close up. Her olive complexion was smooth,
flawless. She motioned to me to move next to the table with the padded
mat and then methodically removed my clothes. I was relieved to see her
take the trouble to examine me for any visible signs of a problem that
could infect her. I assumed that this was normal practice with all her
clients. She led me to the bath. She washed my hair, shaved me, cleaned
my nails and my feet, poured warm water over me, and scrubbed me until
every square centimeter of skin on my body was bright pink. She drained
the tub, had me stand, and toweled my body dry. She wrapped a fresh
towel around my waist and laid me on my stomach on the long table. That
is when she began the massage. Her pampering, with her strong, deft
fingers working deep into my muscles, sent warm tremors of pleasure
through each cell of my body.

I could tell the two lieutenants in the adjacent rooms had reached the
same stage of their "treatment" because I could hear the rhythmic
slapping of hands against skin punctuated by the occasional grunt and
moan of pleasure. There was nothing overtly sexual about the massage,
but that is not to say I wasn't aroused. Chu knew well how to keep a man
on the brink of ecstasy. Her technique exceeded pleasure and at times
bordered on pain. She rubbed sweet-smelling oils on the dry parts of my
body and sprinkled talcum powder on the wet parts.

The grand finale came when she flipped off her high heels and hopped up
on the table, stood to her full height, which I estimated to be about
five feet eight inches, and proceeded to walk on my back. It was then,
and only then, that I had regrets about picking one of the larger girls
in the house. But it had been worth every baht. I had never in my young
life experienced such pure pleasure and physical bliss. And this had
been achieved without her actually making love to me.

An hour had passed when Mama San knocked on the door and entered. Her
timing was perfect. I had just finished dressing. I was light -headed,
numbed by the beer, and relaxed by the hot bath, my body feeling totally
drained from the massage. "You enjoy?" Her question was accompanied by
the now familiar smile. "Oh yes," I answered weakly but with enthusiasm.

"You like to take Chu home?"

"Oh yes!" I said, now very enthusiastically. The negotiated price was
twenty-five dollars a day. The two lieutenants and I had already
discussed how we would conduct the business side of things. I told Mama
San, "I will come back here with my two friends at five-thirty this
evening. I will pick up Chu at that time and we'll all go out to a
restaurant that the girls recommend." I looked at Chu. She smiled
holding my gaze with her dark, almond eyes.

"Very good," Mama San agreed. "Then Chu stay with you in your hotel
tonight?"

"Yes." I looked over at Chu. "If that's OK?" I felt corny saying that
knowing perfectly well it was Chu's job to stay with me. I wanted to
make the experience seem less sordid than going into a meat market and
taking home a side of beef.

"Good. Chu will be waiting."

Chu shook my hand and left the room while Mama San and I dealt with the
finances. Mama San was disappointed that I would pay for only one night
and not for the whole week. I explained, "If Chu works out, Mama San, I
will pay for the rest of the week. I want to be sure we will be
compatible before I pay for her services for seven days."

Her face suddenly took on a look of scorn. "You no butterfly are you?"
she asked, her polished English suddenly eluding her.

"Butterfly?" I didn't know what she meant. "No. I'm a pilot but  ..."

"You don't go from flower to flower. Like butterfly. You choose one
girl. Stay with her." I understood her meaning. "Yes, I will choose only
one girl, Mama San. But she must like me. I must like her. Chu seems
lovely. But maybe she will not like me. Maybe, just maybe, we will not
get along."

"Humph!" Mama San studied my face, then said, "Ok. But I hope you not
butterfly." Her facial lines softened. She became pretty again. "No
problem. You'll Eke Chu. You see. She make you happy. Very, very happy.

We took our taxi back to the hotel. Our recollections caused the
silliest grin to form on Sam's face. "I told you you'd like. I told you.
I told you," he said happily.

We returned to the massage parlor at 1730 as we had arranged with Mama
San. The young girls were even more beautiful in western clothes. They
wore miniskirts and were immaculately made up and lightly perfumed. So
perfect did they seem, they reminded me of little dolls.

They recommended a restaurant which they told us served the best Thai
food in Bangkok. We sat on floor cushions at a low table and ate a
delicious dish of marinated beef and rice. The dinner was followed by a
traditional Thai floor show. Ladies in traditional costumes of brightly
colored silk moved in the slow, fluid motions of the national dances,
the long golden appendages on each finger exaggerating their graceful
hand movements. It was enchanting.

Following dinner, Sam drove us to a bar recommended by the girls. With
our girls clutching our arms we entered the dark, smoky bar. A loud
stereo system was playing "Purple Haze" by Jimmy Hendrix. In the thick
heat it blasted the music from huge black speakers with such heavy bass
that each drum beat felt like the eight-inch gun concussions at Sally.
At the far end of the room, on a packed dance floor, a throng of
gyrating dancers moved up and down as one, in sync with the beat. We
sat down at a vacant table littered with half-empty bottles of Singha
and awash with spilt drink. A heavily made up waitress in a short,
frilly dress cleared the mess and took our drink order. The song died
away.

The next song the DJ played was a song that neither the two lieutenants
nor I had ever heard before. It was a Beatles number, and for that
reason I paid particular attention to the words. I could not believe
what I heard. It made my blood pressure rocket. My heart began to pound.
The song being played was "Back in the USSR."

I acted more on instinct than by anything else when I stood from my
chair incensed with rage. "What's that they're playing?"

Confused thoughts swirled through My brain. Was this some sort of
propaganda? Was it really the Beatles singing such an anti-American
song? Was it playing in America now? If so, how could Americans back
home listen to, or condone, such a song?

Why was it allowed to be played here in a country that was supposed to
be against the very ideals we Americans were fighting against and losing
our lives for in Vietnam? The new pilots coming to the Blackwidows had
told me about the shifting tide in public sentiment back home, but for
God's sake, this was sacrilege. My friends were "over there" trying to
stop the spread of communism to the free world, and here were the
Beatles singing "Back in the USSR!"

Now angry and out of control, I started for the booth where the DJ sat.
The two lieutenants followed closely. Chu flew to my side. "No, no, no.
Please. It's a popular song. There is nothing meant by it. Nothing.
Please, stop, please, please!"

She was tugging at my arm trying to stop me.

"It's an outrage, Chu," I explained. "It's not right and I'm not going
to sit here and listen to it."

I arrived at the DJ booth. The two lieutenants arrived at my side just
as I reached over to pull the skinny DJ toward me. I dragged his body
across the tonearm of the record player, grinding the song to an
ear-splitting screech. All activity on the dance floor ceased. My
actions were now dictated by the adrenalin pumping through my veins. My
voice was not loud but firm and direct. "I don't want to hear any more
of that record, understand? I got friends fighting against the
communist-backed VC in Vietnam right now. My friends wouldn't appreciate
it. Furthermore, my friends and I don't appreciate it. Play something
else, but not that. Do you understand?"

In the dim light all I could see were wild, frightened eyes and huge
buck teeth. "Yes sir, yes sir, I understand. I understand. I
understand," he said quickly, nodding affirmatively.

I let him go. Chu pleaded, "Come. Please. Sit down!" I could now feel
every muscle in my body shaking with rage. She tugged at my arm.
"Please, please. Let's sit down." One of the lieutenants said, "I think
he got the message. Come on. Let's get us a beer."

Our return to the table was quickly followed by complimentary drinks
from the manager. The two lieutenants and their girls again took to
drinking and laughing and enjoyed happy small talk over the loud music,
the incident seemingly quickly forgotten., I could not forget it,
though. My violent overreaction to hearing the song troubled me deeply.
It was not like me to lose control, to make a public scene. I'd never,
until tonight, acted in such an impudent and foolhardy way. The more I
reflected on what I'd done the deeper the feeling of contempt and
embarrassment became. In my gut I knew I'd probably react the same way
again, but knowing that did not help. Such strong opposite and confused
emotions occupying my mind was something foreign to me. The shame I felt
was greater than the feeling of any accomplishment for my corny,
patriotic outburst.

I took a long drink from my bottle of beer and decided that what was
done was done, and that my gnawing feelings of guilt and humiliation
would not serve to undo past actions. I would not let my nagging guilt
feelings spoil the remainder of the evening for the others.

An hour or so passed and as we were getting ready to leave I excused
myself to use the toilet. I was still feeling guilty about my outburst.
I snaked my way through the crowd to the DJS booth. The skinny man had
his back to me and was thumbing through a stack of records. "Excuse me?

The man turned when he heard my voice. When he saw who I was he sat bolt
upright, eyes blinking in obvious alarm. I extended my hand. "Just
wanted to say I'm sorry." He looked at me, then at my hand for a long
moment. "I lost my head earlier and I want to apologize."

The man cautiously took my hand without speaking and we shook hands. He
nodded closing his eyes, then opened them again showing me he'd
understood. He smiled, exposing his huge buck teeth. I nodded, half
smiled back, and returned to the table feeling marginally better.

We arrived back at the hotel around 0100. Although I'd had a lot to
drink I now wanted desperately to make love to Chu. My body ached to
make love to her. I was, in the immortal words of Blackwidow 14, Bob
Coulshaw from Arkansas, "hotter than a two-peckered owl in a forest
fire."

The first time was -almost an air burst. I was so excited I nearly came
before I entered her. The second time the experience was more civilized.
It could almost have been described as tender, even loving. I tried to
be considerate and worked hard to please her. Afterwards, she appeared
to fall asleep in my arms. I wanted to make love again and she clearly
did not. My attempts to persuade her otherwise were futile. Her only
response was to grunt and curl up with her back toward me and feign
sleep. I tried to arouse her by stroking her body tenderly, working my
caresses from her firm, round breasts, downward. When my hand came close
to her pubic region she would tighten her legs, pull them up to her
chest, and edge away from me. When I would try to form my body to hers,
she would scoot to the edge of the bed, curling up into the fetal
position. I finally tired of the chase and rolled over in frustration.
Tomorrow, I thought, I'll get another girl. To hell with this butterfly
shit. I was glad I hadn't paid Mama San for the whole week.

Chu was gone when I awoke. She knew it was not going to work between us.
I told the two lieutenants what had happened over breakfast by the pool.
They had had better luck with their girls and had arranged to see them
again that evening. We decided to look at some of the sights, but before
setting out I had Sam take me to the massage parlor.

I chose another girl by the same voyeuristic process, had another
massage, and made the deal with Mama San. The young woman, whose name
was Lee, was very short, unlike Chu. With my arm around her the top of
Lee's head was well below my chest. We made an incongruous looking
couple, but I found her high spirited, happy, and loving. She had silky
black hair that flowed to the middle of her waist. Lee's most
distinctive feature, which I could not have noticed when I chose her
because she'd had her mouth closed, was her gold tooth, the one to the
left of her front teeth. Again, Mama San was a bit put out that I would
not pay for the remaining six days, but, as I would find out, she was
not as put out as Lee would be.

After I had given Mama San the money, Lee insisted I take her to the
hotel immediately and make love to her. When we entered the hotel room I
was made to sit on the bed while she performed a slow striptease in
front of me. She peeled off her clothes as if unwrapping a wonderful
present. I sat on the edge of the bed with an uncontrollable grin on my
face. She removed her red silk blouse and tight black skirt, then turned
her back, took off her low-cut, black-lace bra, and slowly turned again
to face me. She slowly lifted her arms, cradling her head in her hands
to show off her two beautiful upturned breasts to best advantage. She
then stepped out of her black lace underwear as a prelude to a sexual
attack, which was the closest a man can come to being raped. Her wet,
uninhibited animal passion was almost frightening. She was, as it turned
out, apparently insatiable and extremely enthusiastic and vocal during
our lovemaking. At one point I was quite alarmed when she began
breathing in short staccato breaths, each breath getting louder and
louder to the point of orgasm, when she arched her back and yelled, "Oh,
Ohhh, Ohhhh, Ohhhhhh, I'm I'mmm, I'mmmmmm cooommmmmiinnngggg!" at the
top of her lungs. I half expected the hotel manager to come pounding on
the door to investigate what the ruckus was all about. Lee and I
seemed to be suited to one another. She even suggested that I take
another girl, but I obviously said the right thing when I told her she
would be enough woman for me.

After Lee's acrobatic audition, the two lieutenants, Lee, and I piled
into the back seat of our taxi. To my extreme embarrassment Lee kept
massaging my groin and giggling at my state of arousal. My efforts to
discreetly swat her hand away to keep the two lieutenants from noticing
were to no avail. They knew. I knew they knew, and the driver, Sam, kept
nodding and smiling at me knowingly in the rearview mirror. It was a
relief when we finally dropped Lee off to do some shopping. We arranged
to pick her up that evening with the other two girls before going off to
see some of the sights.

The remaining days seemed to melt into one another. We dined and drank
at a different restaurant every night. For the duration I did not have
to touch a knife, spoon, or fork. Lee fed me, even in the restaurants. I
do not consider myself a chauvinist. I did, however, consider myself a
man who may not live to see the end of his combat tour, so I did not
protest when she insisted she attend to my every whim. She even shaved
me each morning. We took the girls dancing every night, and each night
Lee made love to me until I was too exhausted to move.

The two lieutenants and I saw all the sights Sam could think to show us.
He even took us to a jewelry store one afternoon. We protested at first.
We told him we did not want to buy any jewelry. He insisted. We knew he
was given some sort of kick-back for bringing GIS to that shop. We
finally relented.

When we entered the store the familiar Singha beer was offered to us on
a tray. The day was so hot and sticky the beer came as a welcome
refreshment. I drank two beers in quick succession and was hopelessly
drunk. I sat down and the Thai jeweler convinced me I "needed" to buy a
star sapphire ring as a memento of my R&R in Bangkok. So I did. I was
pleased with my purchase, initially. But after I sobered up I discovered
it was much too large for my finger. (I would lose it within the first
thirty seconds of swimming in the Gulf of Tonkin).

On the third morning of my R&R after Lee and I had made love she
fastened the clasp of her bra and said, "Why you butterfly? Why you no
keep me for all time?"

Here it comes, I thought. I stood up and put on my boxer shorts. "Lee, I
like you very much. I just had a bad experience with the first girl,
that's all."

"No! You butterfly," she spat. "You no like me. You pay each day. You no
want me whole time."

"I do want you. It's just  ..." I knew that whatever I said was not
going to sound right. I was caught in a losing situation no matter how I
tried to reason with her. The only,way to make her happy was to pay Mama
San the money for the rest of the week. But then she'd have me. No. I
wasn't going to be taken. "We'll just see," I told her.

Lee rummaged through my suitcase at the side of the bed. She pulled out
my Buck knife and opened the blade. She looked at me strangely. I
laughed. "What are you doing with that?" I held out my hand and
approached her. "Here, give it to me before you hurt yourself.".

She held the knife out at arm's length. "No! You butterfly. You no like
me. I good to you. You no good to me."

"That's not true, Lee. I do like you. I told you I had a bad experience
with the first girl. Surely you can understand  ..."

Her eyes were suddenly on fire. "No! I do not understand. You say you
like me. You say you not butterfly. I not believe you. You bad man.
Bad!" she lunged.

I stepped back just in time. "Lee, this isn't funny. Now give me the
knife."

"No! You bad. You butterfly." She sprang at me. I leapt over the bed
using it as a barrier. She jumped over it and took a quick swipe at me
with the knife. The blade passed within inches of my right arm. I looked
at her in disbelief. She thrust again. I turned in time to avoid the
blade. Then she chased me.

We did several circuits around the room. At one point I pulled out a
small dresser from the wall to keep her at bay. She kicked at it and
with a smash it fell over. The Lamp on top of it crashed to the floor. I
grabbed a pillow from the bed. "Cut it out, Lee, goddamn it. Someone's
going to get hurt!"

"You, Mr. Butterfly. You going to get hurt. I will cut it off. Then you
will be butterfly that cannot fly." She stabbed at me again.

The blade darted at my bare chest. I turned. She missed. In the same
motion I hit her arm hard with the pillow. The force of the blow
momentarily knocked her arm to her side. I grabbed her wrist, disarmed
her, threw the knife to the far corner of the room and threw her to the
bed. I quickly tossed the pillow aside and threw myself on top of her.
She kicked and struggled. I tried to avoid her knees aimed at my groin.
I was afraid if her arms got loose she'd gouge my eyes out. I held her
wrists and pinned her arms over her head. She fought for a moment, then
suddenly stopped squirming and looked up at me, searching deep into my
eyes. We were both breathing hard. Time seemed suspended. Her expression
softened, her breathing slowed, and I could feel her muscles relax. Now
I was really confused. I dared not release her. One moment she wanted to
kill me, now she seemed to be beckoning me with her smoldering eyes. Her
lips parted slightly as if she were going to speak. She slowly arched
her head up to me, still staring. She closed her eyes. I hesitated, then
brought my lips down to meet hers. I released her wrists and embraced
her and she embraced me. For the next half hour we made tender and
passionate love. Later that day I gave Mama San the money for the rest
of the week.

The Boeing 707 taking us back to the war landed at Tan Son Nhut air base
on April 26. It was a quiet flight from Bangkok back to Vietnam. The
mood that hung in the cabin of the aircraft was. morose. I felt the
depression as well. Like the rest of the men I surely did not want to go
back. I thought of Lee. It had been a tearful goodbye, on her part
anyway. She had made me feel that she was genuinely sorry at our
parting. I could imagine her now, sitting in one of the tiered rows at
the massage parlor, waiting for another GI to choose her. I pushed that
thought from my mind.

lieutenants and I went our separate ways at Tan airport. I left them
waiting for another flight out. My to Bien Hoa would not leave for
another two days. I was shown.the BOQ where I met another warrant
officer helicopter pilot who was stationed in II Corps. He had just
returned from a one week R&R in Singapore.

We were both awe struck by the modern facilities we found at the air
force base. It was like something you'd see back in The World. I
overheard in passing a candid conversation between two air force
officers when one said to the other, "This is an air-conditioned war,
goddamn it. if I can't get that silly gook from maintenance to fix the
AC in my hootch, they can get someone else to fly their fucking
airplane."

Air conditioners I remember thinking Such a thing was unheard of in
Charlie Company.

Two air force captains who flew F-100 jets befriended us and asked us
along for dinner in the officers' mess It was a properly constructed
building accommodating several hundred officers. I was shocked to see
that the interior was as nice as anything I had seen stateside. A full
colonel joined the four of us at our table.

During the meal waiters attended to our every need. Our hosts were
curious about the war we fought and asked many questions about our mode
of operation and experiences to date. They were particularly impressed
with the number of hours we had logged so far and could scarcely believe
that the average flight time an army helicopter pilot accumulated in one
year was somewhere around a thousand hours. They wanted to hear about
our various roles, combat assaults, and the ass-and-trash,
search-and-rescue, and dust-off missions we'd flown.

At the end of the meal when coffee had been served the colonel stood,
held his water glass in the air, and clanged the edge with a spoon.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" The conversations in the room hushed.
"Gentlemen, we have the great honor this evening of having with us two
army helicopter pilots who, I have learned after talking with them, are
fighting a totally different kind of war than the one we're fighting.
Their war is more intimate. More hairy. And a hell of a lot more
dangerous than anything we see. Their war is real flying, gentlemen. And
there may be a time when we ourselves may need their services if we ever
have to punch out. We can feel a lot more confident knowing men like
these could one day save our lives. Therefore, I want to propose a
hearty toast to these two gentlemen sitting here tonight." He raised his
glass looking down at us. The rest of the men stood and raised their
glasses also. "To our two young army helicopter pilots-who, I might add,
have balls as big as grapefruit!"

"Here! here!" everyone replied in one voice, then drank. I was
embarrassed, but at the same time honored that these air force pilots,
these jet jockeys, should think so highly of us and be so impressed with
what we did. It remains to this day one of the highest and most
cherished compliments I have ever been paid in my aviation career.

I managed to stay in the Tan Son Nhut BOQ for three days before taking
my leave of the warrant officer from II Corps and hopping on a C-130
bound for Bien Hoa. That same day I caught a C-123 to Phu Bai. When I
arrived back at Charlie Company I found that I was on the schedule to be
the stand-by flare pilot that night.

At midnight Spec-4 Flowers rushed out of ops to the flare tent. "Welcome
back, sir. You've got a mission to fly to the A-Shau."

"Fucking great!" I said sarcastically.

He handed me a piece of paper with the coordinates. "Division wants you
to drop flares over that area because a company we inserted yesterday
has lost all communications with the TOC. Last HQ heard they were in
contact with a force of NVA, size unknown.

"Who's my peter pilot?"

"New guy. A first lieutenant named Andre Gower."

I walked over to my air craft following the beam of my flashlight. This
was Gower's first flight as copilot in Vietnam. We strapped in and he
began to recite the lengthy flight-school pre-start checklist. I stopped
him when he was reciting, "Seat belts and pedals adjust."

"Whoa! You can forget that, lieutenant. We kick the tire and light the
fire over here." I reached over and set the DCVM on battery, turned on
the fuel switch, reached overheard and flicked on the inverter, checked
and set the throttle, hit the clock, and pulled the starter trigger.

It was darker than the inside of a Vietcong tunnel complex on our flight
out. There was no moon, a slight overcast, and no visible horizon. As
Joe used to say in similar situations, "It isn't just dark. It's fucking
dark!"

We approached the coordinates where I thought we should be on the map,
and I told the crew chief, "OK, Taylor. You can get ready to push out
the flares."

"Roger, sir.

The twenty flares were long aluminum tubes that were stacked laterally
on top of each other on the Huey's floor. Each had a stainless steel
lanyard that was tied to one of the many attaching rings on the floor.
When a flare got kicked out, the weight of the flare caused the lanyard
to pull out a pin, setting off a mini explosion of burning magnesium. It
had often occurred to me that if one of those flares inadvertently went
off in the back of the aircraft I would most certainly die. And it would
be an extremely unpleasant way to die. Even if it was possible to get
the aircraft down, you would probably be burned so terribly you would
wish you had died.

In the darkness Taylor stepped from his position behind his M-60 and
over the high stack of flares. I heard a loud "POP" and knew instantly
he had caught his foot on one of the lanyards. He had only seconds to
get rid of the flare before it would ignite and we would go up in a
cataclysmic ball of flame. I turned around in my seat in instant panic
and yelled without pressing the intercom, "GET IT OUT OF HERE!"

I thought, This is it. We were going to die. But in an instant Taylor
kicked the tube with all his might. It sailed off the stack of flares
and out the door into the blackness. After clearing the door it ignited
a micro-second later next to the chopper, blinding me as if I had looked
directly into the sun. I shut my eyes, but when I looked at the
instrument panel I still saw the flare, a ball of fire, etched on my
retina. We were level. I could tell that much by the instruments. My
heart was ready to beat out of my chest.

"Sorry, sir," the crew chief replied weakly.

"Thank Christ you got rid of it, Taylor. To hell with You guys. I'm
going back to Bangkok. I'd rather take my chances with VD and the
possibility my pecker could fall off than come back here and put up with
this. II My night vision slowly returned to normal. We circled over the
jungle at two thousand feet occasionally drawing enemy fire from below.
The green tracers floated up at us in slow, graceful arcs. The lost
company never responded. We learned the next day that they had been
overrun. There had been no survivors.

 29 April 1969

Dear Mom:

Hi. Well, I'm back. Ugh! Can't say I'm overjoyed to be here. I'm not so
sure R&R is such a good thing. It makes you remember what it's like to
be back in the real world.

MY first night -back from R&R I had to go fly into the mountains and
drop flares to try and locate a company. of men that were air lifted in
and they had lost radio communication. I flew till 0230. Boy, was I
tired. Then I flew over eight hours the next day.

Tell Nancy I received the "Laugh-In Book " she sent. Thank her for me.

Bangkok was unbelievable. I took a lot of pictures and I'll send them to
You when I get the chance. When I came back here I had eleven letters
waiting for me. What a treat. I managed to stay away from the company
for fourteen days. I spent a lot of time at the Tan Son Nhut officer's
club down south.

I'm getting back into the swing of things here now. Today I flew nine and
a half hours.

Not much else for now. Five and a half months to go.

I'm over the hump. At least that's something.

Randy

I waited for the burning, the dripping, a raw sore to appear. Each
day in the shower I would inspect myself for any sign of it turning
black, atrophying, and falling off.

But my luck seemed to be holding. I was certain that I had not joined
the 60 percent after all. I had come through my R&R without contracting
any sort of infection. It was another thing to be thankful for, and
indeed I was, as I entered the second half of my tour.

CHAPTER 9.

May 1969

Assault on Hamburger Hill.

It was about this time in my tour that I began smoking cigars again. I
suddenly had the desire to smoke small Hava Tampa Jewels which, with
their wooden mouthpiece, gave me something to gnaw on while flying. I
didn't have a great need to actually smoke them, but the habit was a
diversion during the long hours of flying over there. I hated
cigarettes. I never could inhale without coughing. I had begun to smoke
cigars several months before I joined the service, but stopped
immediately after an embarrassing incident that took place in the Los
Angeles reception station. It happened in a room where about a hundred
men were seated waiting to in process.

A sergeant yelled out my name. "Mains!"

I stood up and strolled to the front of the room smoking a long, angular
cigar called a Wolf's Brother's rum-soaked Crook. I took a big puff,
blew out a cloud of smoke and sat down next to the sergeant's desk.
After studying me for a moment he announced to everyone in the room,
"Hey everyone, goddamn if this guy doesn't look just like a fucking
movie star!"

Because L.A. is so close to Hollywood I figured the sergeant really knew
what he was talking about. "Yeah?" I said. "Who?"

"Well, when you're smokin' that cigar, you look just like Lassie taking
a shit." The room broke out in laughter.

"Now, hot shot, what's your date of birth?"

That was my first introduction to army humor. It had put me off cigars
from that day to this.

I was with several of the other pilots sitting in a circle on folding
chairs in Joe Sulak's hootch. It was sometime after evening chow and
Ernest was trying to persuade Tom Shonehour to tell us his incredible
war story, a mission he'd had that day near the DMZ. I struck a match
and lit the end of one of the small cigars, blew out the smoke, took a
sip of the cold beer I acquired from Shonehour's small refrigerator, and
waited with the rest of the group to hear him spin his yarn.

Ernest prodded excitedly. "OK, Tom. Go ahead and tell us what happened."

"OK, Ernest. I promised you I would so here goes. Well, we were flying
for the marines out of Quang Tri, " he began. "It was supposed to be a
routine insertion ten klicks east of Khe Sahn. That is until Ziker got
the shit shot out of him and took a bullet through the wrist on takeoff
and crashed. They were lucky the aircraft didn't burn." Shonehour took a
quick drink of his beer then continued. "From then on the whole
operation turned into a Mongolian cluster fuck. I broke off my approach.
No one knew where the enemy fire was coming from. The guys were
scrambling out of the downed aircraft. Then we spotted it. It was coming
from a ridge line to the north. We called in the gunships and they blew
the shit out of the place. The firing stopped and I landed by the
wreckage to pick up Ziker and the crew. Ziker's wrist was fucked up
pretty bad and he'd been knocked half unconscious in the crash. We could
see Ziker's crew chief on his knees near the wreckage waving for help.
That's when both my crew chief and gunner ran from my ship over to
Ziker's. I just about had a shit fit! I started yelling at them to get
back. Neither of them heard me. Then the most fucking incredible thing
happened. Scared the shit right out of me and my peter pilot. From the
tree line to our south, four NVA soldiers dressed in black pajamas came
charging our aircraft."

"Damn!" exclaimed Ernest excitedly. "What'd you do then?

"What the fuck could I do, Ernest? If I took off I would have left my
gunner and crew chief on the ground with the crew of the crashed Huey.
If I stayed with no one behind the M-60s to defend us, I could see we
were going to be overrun."

"Shit!" Joe said.

"I nearly goddamn did!" Shonehour said downing another gulp of beer. "I
pulled out the old pearl handled M-1 he slapped the obscene
semiautomatic sawedoff weapon he kept there in his holster, " ... and I
aimed it out my window at the charging NVA."

"I don't fucking believe this," Leach said in disgust. "This sounds like
something out of fucking Hollywood."

"Tell em, Dryhurst. Am I shittin' my friends here or is this the gospel
truth."

The FNG peter pilot, recently infused into the Blackwidows from the
158th, scanned the expectant faces around him. He raised his right hand,
"He's telling the truth. I swear to God."

"OK, Tom," Joe said. "What happened next. You've got your M- I out the
window of your helicopter like John Wayne and you're single-handedly
going to take on four NVA reg rushing you in black pajamas. Now what?"

"I'm not shittin' you guys. This fucking happened. OK, anyway, I take a
bead on them, site right down the barrel, and before I squeeze the
trigger I notice they're unarmed. They are now running at us with their
hands reaching for the sky."

"You mean they're going to Chien Hoi?" Leach said from his bunk, meaning
they were giving up.

"Goddamn right, Leach. That's exactly what they did. Right on the spot.
They were running at us screamin' and hollerin' in Vietnamese with their
hands raised. Then, as if things weren't fucked up enough already, we
started getting shot at from the same ridge line the gunships were
supposed to have neutralized. So now we're being shot at from our left,
and the four NVA are charging us on our right.

"Sounds like a nightmare," Ernest said shaking his head.

"Oh, but it gets better.

"Better?" Ernest screwed up his face.

"We're on the ground running at full RPM waiting for the crew of Ziker's
ship, plus my crew. We're being shot at from two hundred meters away
with no one to fire our guns. I can tell now that the NVA are definitely
Chien Hoiing. They jump on my aircraft, and two of them get behind the
M-60s and begin firing back at the enemy on the ridge line who are
firing at us."

"Now I've heard everything," Leach said from his bunk.

I "It's the truth, Jeff. Swear to God. Anyway, by now my crew has
Ziker's crew out of the wreckage and the six of them scurry aboard my
aircraft with the NVA still firing." Shonehour stopped his story to
laugh at the recollection. "They didn't know whether to
shit-or-go-blind. They thought the NVA had captured our aircraft. I had
to yell at them to get on before they turned around and ran the other
way."

"What a mess," Ernest said. "You had to be awfully heavy with Ziker's
crew, your crew, and the NVA soldiers on board."

"It was a flat LZ. No real obstacles. That was the least of my problems.
I figured I was going to get the machine out of there if I had to carry
it out on my fucking back and flap my wings like a goddamn eagle." He
finished his beer and took another from a small refrigerator next to his
bunk.

"That's some war story," Ernest said. "You lucky bastard."

May 1969 seemed to be a particularly lively month for war stories. May was the
time of year the weather was good, and Charlie Company was flying its
combined tails off. One evening during the first week of May all
Vietnamese help was cleared from our mess hall and we sat through a
three-hour briefing for a future combat assault code named "Apache
Snow." We were told we were going into the A-Shau again. This time I
discovered I would be flying the lead aircraft in Yellow Flight to land
and deliver troops to a hill named Dong Ap Ba several klicks east of the
border. Dong Ap Ba would later be known as Hamburger Hill.

Several weeks ago our CO, Major Posey, left Charlie Company for good to
return to The World. He had completed his one-year tour and had DEROS'D.
He was replaced by a major named Torq. It was during the week of the
Hamburger Hill assault that our brand new company commander flew up a
female Dutch correspondent he'd met in Saigon to write a story on the
Blackwidows. Her name was Henry Schrode. She was blonde, with a short
hairstyle typical of the late sixties, like Doris Day's, and she filled
out a pair of tailored jungle fatigues like a Playboy playmate. She
spoke seven languages, and her favorite drink was straight Vodka. In the
three days she stayed with the Blackwidows she adopted Ned Kelly, Joe
Sulak, and me. She had quickly come to the conclusion that Major Torq
was a jerk and that we were a lot more fun. We would stay up until the
early morning hours talking and just plain enjoying her lively female
company. It upset Major Torq that she avoided him, a major, for three
lowlifes like us. During one of these late-night drinking sessions I
invited Henry to return for my birthday party to be held on July 2. She
said she would try to make it.

On May 13, the day of the CA back into the A-Shau, the operation to
insert troops into Dong Ap Ba went without a hitch. We met with little
resistance from the enemy and took few hits. Several aircraft did get
shot up, but those were in Alpha and Bravo companies. The Blackwidows
had been lucky. It was just a very long day of flying that was otherwise
unremarkable. But, as I would later find out, it would turn into one of
the biggest political circuses in the history of the war.

On May 20 I flew a routine mission that turned into a living nightmare.
That's how combat flying is. It shifts from the mundane to the
horrendous most often when you least expect it. This particular memory
has become part of me. I have relived the mission hundreds of times in
my mind. It is as clear to me now as if it had happened yesterday.

It was like a sauna in the cockpit. The sweat was dripping down my
forehead in rivulets forming salty pools in the hollows created by the
hard plastic bridge of my armyissue sunglasses. My helmet felt like a
green oven threatening to cook my skull and fry my brain. My green Nomex
flight suit clung to my skin like a wet plastic bag. My back, the itchy
fire-retardant material soaked through with perspiration, stuck to the
green mesh of my armored seat. A small, half-smoked cigar hung from my
mouth. I chewed aggressively at its wooden tip. I was flying at fifteen
hundred feet, an altitude safe from small arms fire, toward our
objective, an LZ one klick south of the DMZ.

Four marine reconnaissance team members sat impatiently on the hot, gray
metal floor of the bumpy chopper going over the last minute checks of
their weapons and equipment. Their young, serious faces were grotesquely
painted with green and brown camouflage grease paint. You could tell the
four men were hyped up and tightly strung like football players before a
championship match. In a few minutes they would be dropped into the LZ
and disappear into the jungle to stalk the elusive enemy. The remaining
four members of the eight-man team were flying in the second Huey
trailing a mile behind, commanded by Warrant Officer Bill Rickter.

With an airspeed of 110 knots the LZ came into view quickly. It loomed
out of the thick mantle of twisted jungle a half mile ahead. It was one
of those LZS blasted out of the triple-canopy jungle by a
five-hundred-pound bomb dropped by a sky crane helicopter two weeks
earlier.

I turned in my seat. "You guys ready?" I said over the intercom.

My crew chief pulled back the bolt of his pedestal mounted M-60 machine
gun and released it, driving a 7.62-mm round into the chamber with the
heavy clank of metal slamming against metal. He raised a sweat-stained
Nomex flying glove and gave the thumbs up sign. "Right behind you, sir."

"How about you, Garrett?"

The gunner also chambered a round. "Ready, sir.

I glanced at my copilot. He was an FNG lieutenant, straight out of
flight school. This was his third.mission in country. "You ready,
O'Connor.)"

"Ready." He looked and sounded nervous.

"Relax, O'Connor. This should be a piece of cake," I said trying to put
the man at ease.

Through habit, as I had done hundreds of times in the months I had been
flying in Vietnam, I swung the holstered .38 revolver to my groin as
added protection and tucked it comfortably between my legs. In the same
motion I adjusted the "chicken plate," a twenty-pound, acrylic,
three-quarter-inch armored chest protector, under the two webbed
shoulder straps of my seat harness. O'Connor watched me and quickly did
the same.

I pressed the red trigger on the cyclic control stick and radioed to the
second helicopter, "We're beginning our approach, Bill."

"Roger, Randy. We're a mile behind you."

Two heavily armed marine Echo-Model gunships circled five hundred feet
above us ready to offer suppressive fire around the LZS perimeter. They
were armed with 2.75-inch rockets and miniguns capable of delivering
three thousand rounds per minute. Two F-4 Phantom jets were on station
circling at twenty-five thousand feet, loaded with napalm just in case.
-"We'll cover you, Blackwidow 25, " one of the gunship pilots radioed.
"Whenever you're ready you can begin your approach."

"Here we go," I said on the intercom to the crew and rolled the chopper
into a hard right bank.

The green horizon appeared to turn ninety degrees against the blue sky
strewn with white, puffy cumulus clouds. I added right pedal, kicking
the aircraft out of trim, and lowered the collective pitch lever,
causing the machine to descend at more than three thousand feet per
minute. With both large cargo doors open on the side of the aircraft the
wind howled through the chopper as it plummeted out of the sky. I guided
the craft in a downward spiral.

A gunship dove past our falling Huey. Puffs of smoke trailed from its
rocket pods as the 2.75-mm rockets ignited and snaked their way- to the
perimeter of the landing zone. They found their mark and exploded with
great orange flashes, flinging moist red and brown dirt and green
foliage high into the dank Southeast Asian air.

"When we're on short final for the LZ, open fire," I instructed the
crew. "Roger, sir," Taylor and Garrett answered in unison.

The howl of the hurricane-force wind on their boom microphones nearly
blanketed their replies.

"Watch the gauges, O'Connor, and stay close on the controls."

O'Connor didn't answer. His eyes were transfixed outside the chopper
watching the jungle rush rapidly toward us.

"O'Connor?" I said again, glancing at him momentarily.

"Roger. I'll follow you through. Goddamn, they sure didn't teach us this
type of approach in flight school."

"They should have." I banked the machine from a steep, tight right turn
to a steep left turn. "It could save your life one day. Charlie looks up
at us falling out of the sky like this and thinks We're out of control
so he thinks why waste bullets on a helicopter that's going to crash
anyway? Or if he does decide to shoot at us he'll have a hell of a time
hitting us at this rate of descent. And all these unusual attitude
changes make a nearly impossible target to hit.

The second gunship began its run on the LZ. I straightened the ship out
and slowed the rate of descent for a normal approach fifty feet above
the treetops. The small landing zone was encircled with trees ranging
from seventy-five to one hundred feet high. The taller ones were up
slope along the planned departure end of the ridge line. I picked my
spot to land, not to the center of the zone, but slightly to the right
of center where the exposed roots, twisted trees, and chunks of moist
earth were less dense.

The perimeter, forty meters to the left of our aircraft, exploded at
regular intervals from the impacting rockets from the gunships. The
shock waves from the blasts rocked our descending helicopter as it made
its way to the planned touchdown point.

I flew our ship over the tree line and began to descend into the gash
carved out of the jungle that was the LZ. I gave the command to open
fire. Taylor and Garrett sprayed the surrounding tree line with metallic
defoliant to keep the enemy's head down if in fact the Vietcong were
there.

The ratt-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat from the two M-60s filled the cockpit
with their synchronous clatter. I planted the skids of the chopper in
the soft soil. The four-man recon team leapt off like clockwork.

"We're clear!" Taylor yelled. "They're gone!"

"Coming up," I said.

With the weight of the four men, their weapons, ammunition, and supplies
off-loaded the Huey climbed slowly but steadily until it cleared the
hundred-foot jungle thirty-five meters to our front. Once clear of the
trees, the gunner and crew chief stopped firing their weapons.

I pushed the cyclic stick forward accelerating the aircraft to sixty
knots and began a maximum performance climb to fifteen hundred feet. The
second helicopter began its approach behind us. O'Connor began breathing
again.

"Whatd I tell you O'Connor. Piece of cake, huh?" The lieutenant managed
a smile, a smile of relief:

"Receiving fire! Receiving fire!" came Bill's frantic cry over the
radio, filling -the crew's headsets. The radio transmission jolted my
senses. I instinctively threw the aircraft into a quick 180-degree turn
to view the LZ we'd just left.

"They're breaking off the approach," the crew chief yelled.

I radioed, "You all right, Bill?"

"Everything looks all right, Randy. We took a few hits. The gauges look
all right. It's hotter than a goddamn hornet's nest down there. Charlie
has your four men pinned down in the center of the LZ."

I lowered the collective pitch lever to begin a descent. "Taylor,
Garrett."

"Yes, sir."

"We're going in after them. Open fire when I give the order. We'll
approach low level from the north, the way we came in. When we cross the
tree line I'll give the command to start firing."

"Yes, sir."

"O'Connor,follow me close on the controls and. I paused to look directly
into the lieutenant's eyes to emphasize what I was about to say, "  ...
if anything happens down there be prepared to take the controls and get
us out. Do you understand?

O'Connor's eyes got large. The color disappeared from his thin, sweaty
face. "Yes, I understand."

I radioed the second chopper. "Bill?"

"Go ahead, Randy."

"We're on our way in to get those guys. Coordinate the gunships to cover
the perimeter. I'll be approaching at treetop level from the north. Have
the F-4s drop their sortie on the zone's eastern and western
perimeters."

"Roger, Randy. Good luck."

I dove the chopper at 110 knots, leveling the ship at treetop level and
flying in the direction of the LZ. The jungle below was now a green
blur. "OK guys we're almost there. Hold your fire until I give the
command."

"Roger, sir."

I pulled aft on the cyclic control stick, flaring the chopper. Its nose
reared back to a thirty-degree attitude to kill the forward airspeed
before we reached the tree line on the zone's northern perimeter.
Suddenly we crossed over the naked opening in the trees. "Open fire
now!"

We descended into the zone.

The helicopter's machine guns rattled. Hot shell casings flew from the
breaches, bouncing off of everything in the chopper-the floor, the back
of my helmet, our armored seats-while Taylor and Garrett sprayed the
landing zone with bullets in an effort to keep the enemy's head down.

I maneuvered the craft, descending below the high surrounding jungle
tree line. In the zone lay three Vietcong soldiers dressed in black
pajamas, now drenched in their own warm blood that oozed freely from
fresh wounds.

Dirt kicked up by the bullets fired from the tree line flew in the air
around the four pinned men. I could see them below, lying on their
stomachs facing the cardinal points of the compass. They fired into the
jungle with everything they had. O'Connor hovered over the controls as I
guided the chopper into the cavernous LZ.

The scene turned into a flaming holocaust. The first napalm bomb dropped
by an F-4 exploded sixty Yards away along the western perimeter, shaking
the craft with a sudden jolt. The heat wave and blast from the explosion
swept across our hovering helicopter like the searing blast from a jet's
exhaust. The noise from the gunfire was deafening.

The hot, acrid smell of napalm mixed with the expended gunpowder, smoke,
and thick Vietnam heat was nearly suffocating. I landed where we had
dropped the men. They were now pinned down thirty yards away.

A screaming Vietnamese soldier bolted from the tree line. His clothes,
skin, and hair were ablaze from the fiery napalm. The gunner quickly cut
him down. His body collapsed to the ground in a fiery heap, twitching
and writhing in spasms until there was only an amorphous mass of
lifeless, burning flesh offering yet another pungent aroma to the
already putrid stench.

The first two recon team members sprang up off their bellies, jumped to
their feet, and ran backwards towards us, reloading and continuing to
fire their weapons at the faceless enemy. I could hear bullets
occasionally hitting the ship. I watched the engine instruments
intently, my hands vice-tight on the controls.

First one, then a second man scampered aboard the chopper. Sweat rolled
down my forehead and my sunglasses, immediately leaving wiggly streaks
of dried salt on the glass. The third and fourth man jumped up and ran
backward toward us. The third man stumbled on an exposed tree root and
nearly fell.

For God's sake hurry up, I screamed to myself. The scene unfolded around
us in slow motion, surreal, confused, distorted. Rockets fired from the
gunships overhead hammered the perimeter with bone-jarring tremors that
shook the craft with each blast. "WHUMP! WHUMP! " The rockets exploded
in pairs followed by falling debris of soil, foliage, flesh and bone.

The last two men threw themselves on board. "Get the fuck out of here! "
the team leader screamed from the back. His shrill voice carried over
the sound of gunfire.

I pulled up on the collective pitch lever. The helicopter rose from the
ground, climbing slowly through the smoke, stench, and heat. The two F-4
Phantom jets streaked by low level on either side of the landing zone at
three hundred knots within seconds of each other. Like two silver
bullets, they dropped their remaining sortie of napalm. The two
simultaneous explosions that followed caused a deafening explosion of
heat and light that shook the helicopter as it slowly made its ascent to
clear the tall trees to our front. I could tell the aircraft was heavy.
Maybe too heavy. The helicopter strained for altitude. Twenty feet,
feet, fifty feet, she rose slowly. We'd refueled in Quang Tri prior to
the mission and had topped up to twelve hundred pounds of fuel. The
approach into the LZ takes less power than a vertical take off out of
the same landing zone. Without the four men the Huey had no power
problems, but with the added weight she was severely limited.

The four soldiers continued to fire their automatic weapons from the
chopper's open doors into the flaming LZ. Taylor and Garrett continued
firing, the barrels of their M-60s now glowing red hot.

Her ascent was slowing. Sixty-five feet, seventy feet she clawed, shook,
and struggled for altitude. The turbine engine strained and whined
to develop enough shaft horsepower to pull the weight of the heavily
laden craft vertically over the hundred-foot trees. All the power
instruments were well into their red lines. The aircraft stopped
climbing twenty-five feet below the tree tops unable to ascend one foot
more.

Is this how I'm going to die? I thought in horror. Hovering here like a
tin duck in a shooting gallery ready to be picked off by the enemy
seventy-five feet below?

O'Connor began to panic. "Goddamn, let's get the fuck out of here."

"Not enough power!" I yelled.

I pulled in more collective and the rotor RPM began to decay spilling
lift. The ship began to sink back down into the LZ. Back into the
holocaust below.

Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! the dreaded low rotor RPM audio warning rang
loudly through the pilots' headsets. I fought for control, fought to
maintain altitude. One of the machine guns stopped firing.

"My gun's jammed, sir," Taylor said frantically. "I, I I can't clear
it."

Suddenly the green plastic window over O'Connor's head exploded,
showering plastic splinters everywhere. O'Connor tucked his head down
instinctively. He threw his hands over his flight helmet to avoid the
shower of debris caused by the Vietcong bullet fired at us from the
jungle below.

Two of the enemy ran from the trees carrying Russian made AK-47 machine
guns. Before they could stop to take aim one of the recon team members
threw a fragmentation grenade between them. The blast flung them in the
air and back into the jungle's smoldering eastern perimeter.

The helo sat hovering seventy-five feet above the zone at full power,
the engine straining to deliver every bit of its 1250 horsepower, unable
to climb, too heavy to power up any higher in the thick tropical
moisture and burning heat.

I suddenly remembered that as a last resort if you added right pedal it
takes pitch from the tail rotor giving more engine power for the main
rotor, and when power is marginal it just may give the extra edge to get
out of a tight situation.

Desperate, and out of ideas, I kicked in right pedal. The aircraft swung
violently to the right. I dipped the nose, guiding the machine through
the sporadic enemy fire. The skids dragged through the tangled branches
of the lower trees to the rear of the zone. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! several
more VC rounds punctured the aircraft. We cleared the trees with no room
to spare, accelerating down the jungle-covered mountain slope to safety.

The machine-gun fire ceased. All that could be heard was the loud, low
guttural roar of hot air rushing through the gaping hole over O'Connor's
head. I accelerated to sixty knots and began a climb.

Bill radioed, "You guys all right? Shit, that was some show!"

I radioed back and told him everyone was OK. The chopper shimmied,
vibrated, and shook violently. The caution warning light segment on the
instrument panel was lit up like a Christmas tree with red and yellow
lights, but the Huey managed to stay in one piece for the twelve-minute
flight to LZ Vandergrift where we landed safely on the strip.

23 May 1969

Dear Mom:

Hi: Received your letter telling me you heard about the 101st Airborne
Division and our air assault on the A-shall Valley. Yes, we put the
troops on the mountain they call Hamburger Hill you say you're hearing
so much about. It was a clean combat assault. We lost no aircraft.

Tonight we had a USO show with Australian entertainers. I took one look
at the round-eyed girls and my body began to shake. God, they were
beautiful.

I've been told I have put in for the Distinguished Flying Cross for a
mission I flew three days ago. I pulled some Marines out of a hot
landing zone and got them back safely. The copilot told the Awards and
Decorations Officer about it and he is writing me up for the DFC.

Please don't worry, Mom, you know I always look out for number one. I
still enjoy the flying. Keep writing.

Love, Randy.

It was always my feeling that if I was going to get killed in Vietnam it
would not be as a result of being shot down or killed by an enemy
bullet, though the incident near the DMZ was one of a few exceptions to
nearly make me change my mind. I thought if I didn't survive it would be
my own stupid fault. I would let my guard drop and the cause would be
pilot error, pure and simple. I nearly proved my philosophy one evening
when my crew chief came by my hootch to ask me to move my aircraft from
the maintenance facility back to its revetment. It was the one and only
time in my aviation career I flew when I was drunk.

I had consumed two double screwdrivers about thirty minutes before
Taylor appeared. I felt relaxed rather than drunk. The time was about
2130 and it was dark and drizzling. I walked out to the aircraft wearing
an olive drab T-shirt, boxer shorts, and thongs. Taylor was already at
the aircraft and I had him sit in the copilot's seat. I strapped in,
started the engine, brought the rotors up to flight RPM and took off
over the perimeter into the blackness. Climbing through seventy-five
feet my head began to spin. I banked the ship to the left. Suffering the
effects of the alcohol I lost all spatial orientation, and it was then I
began to panic. I thought about the two pilots who had crashed that
night outside the perimeter at Sally under similar circumstances after
accepting the flare mission. I increased the angle of bank to turn back
to the Widow Web in hopes that I would pick up the lights of the company
area. A sudden brightness flashed across the windshield reflected in the
raindrops running along it. Thousands of tiny star bursts seemed to
explode on the windshield further hindering my forward visibility. I
forced myself to push the cyclic forward to aim at the approach pad of
the Widow Web. A maintenance team was working on a ship in the rain; a
bank of spotlights illuminated their working area. They were aimed right
at us, and because I was now flying into those lights I was blinded. I
thought we were hovering forward toward the Widow Web which was now a
hundred yards in front of us. I glanced out of the side window away from
the lights, and to my horror, discovered we were hovering backwards. The
ship was fifteen feet over a bunker on the berm. I could see the
soldiers below running from the rain accelerated down on them from our
rotors. From instinct I wanted to say, "You got it," to my copilot
because I knew I had lost it. But there was no copilot. Taylor did not
know how to fly. I glanced over at him. His face was a mask of fear.
Fighting against all the signals my brain was receiving from my body I
made myself push the cyclic further forward to make the machine fly to
the pad.

I only just managed to get the ship down in one piece. I carefully
hovered it into, the revetment and shut down the engine. That simple
little exercise scared me to death. I shuddered to think how close I had
come to losing control of the aircraft I knew so intimately from flying
it every day. I felt that the ship had become almost a part of me after
more than seven hundred combat hours. Flying had become like breathing.
But not tonight. I had screwed up royally, nearly succeeding in rolling
the helicopter up into a ball. The experience served to humble me. It
also taught me, probably at the right time, that if you get too cocky,
too blase about safety, if you reach the stage in your aviation career
when you think you've got flying whipped, that's when it's time to
beware, because something will reach up and bite you to remind you to
keep your guard up. Without this awareness you will doubtless be
rewarded by having an accident. At that moment I vowed never to mix
alcohol and flying again. It is a promise I have kept to this day.

27 May 1969

Dear Mom:

Well, everyone sure is hearing a lot and talking a lot about Hamburger
Hill. To tell the truth a lot hairier things have gone on over here, but
for some reason the press has decided to lock onto this story and whip
everyone up into an emotional frenzy. The reason they are publicizing
Hamburger Hill so much is because people are saying we were the
aggressors in taking it. Damn right we were! We had to be. How can you
expect to fight, let alone win a war, without being aggressive?

The people's protests back home really make a lot of guys over here mad,
including me! If the people in the States were over here, they'd see
what's going on for themselves, then they d offer the support we need to
fight and win this war.

The flying's been hectic. I've been getting over 120 hours a month. Let
me close by saying please don't worry about Hamburger Hill any more. We
have it. It's secure. No sweat. Not much else to say, please keep
writing.

Love, Randy.

CHAPTER 10.

June 1969

Tigers, Elephants, Deer, and ROKS.

I couldn't remember the last time I saw my company area in daylight. It
felt as if I had spent a lifetime getting up at 0500, taking off before
first light, flying for eight, ten, or even twelve hours, and arriving
back at Phu Bai after sunset. One day I logged more than sixteen hours
of flight time, flying from daybreak until after midnight.

I was now sitting in the second row of our makeshift outdoor movie
theater on a metal folding chair that I brought out from the mess hall.
It was 2030. I was drinking a lukewarm can of beer, waiting for the
movie to begin. The air was hot and thick. I was exhausted. I had not
had a shower since last night. I hadn't even had chow. I landed a half
hour ago and I was still wearing the sweaty Nomex I put on at 0500 that
morning.

Because movies are sent so infrequently to Charlie Company the
projectionist changes the sequence of the reels each night to add
variety to the same movie. This makes it seem like we are watching a
different movie every night. The movies are projected onto a white
plywood screen nailed up on two vertical, twelve-foot-high
four-by-fours.

The first night the reels are played in their proper order. The second
night the second rrel is shown first, the third reel is shown second,
and the first reel last. The third night reel three is shown first, reel
one second, and reel two third, and so on.

During the break between reels Captain Ernest James walks around the
outdoor theater and calls out the names of the ACS and passes out
mission sheets from ops for the next day's missions. The sheets contain
the particulars of the mission such as lift-off time, unit to be
supported, position of the unit's support base, call sign, and radio
frequency codes to be looked up in the SOI. The SOI, or Signal Operating
Instructions, is a secret document kept by the aircraft commander. It is
a small book each aircraft commander wears around his neck on a thick
string when he is flying. He usually keeps it in the right chest pocket
of his Nomex flight suit.

Ernest was rushing around passing out the mission sheets before the
first reel began. "Shonehour!" He yelled.

"Here!" Tom answered back.

Ernest walked over to him and handed him the sheet.

"Sulak!"

"Here, Ernest!"

"Kelly!" "Right here, Ernest!"

Ernest gave him his sheet. "Mains!"

"Here, Ernest!" I yelled.

He was a fair distance away. He searched the crowd of over a hundred
men. "I don't see you!"

"In the second row!" I shouted.

I could see him looking for me. "Still can't see you."

"Wait one, Ernest." I replied taking out the emergency pen flare gun
from the breast pocket of my Nomex. I screwed in the red flare, held it
over my head, and with a warning shout of "Stand by!" fired the flare.
The bright red flare rocketed straight up over the heads of the GIS
sitting in the outside theater. Peals of laughter and applause filled
the company area.

"Ah, I see you now, Randy," he chuckled.

Under the red glow of the descending flare, Ernest approached and handed
me the mission sheet.

"Thomas!" he continued and walked away.

A new captain to Charlie Company, Captain Buck Phillips, sent to us by
the 158th, marched over. "Give me that flare gun soldier. Just what in
hell's name do you think you're doing firing that thing in the company
area?"

"Getting Ernest's attention," I explained.

My insubordination shocked him. "That's Captain James to you, mister.
You don't call a superior officer by his first name."

I tried hard not to laugh out loud. I was dog-tired and my first
instinct was to tell him to go fuck himself. I fought to keep my
composure before I spoke. "I was just trying to get Ernest's ... uh  ...
Captain James's attention."

"What do you think this is around here, a goddamn circus?"

I began to answer, "Well, sir, now that you mention it"

"Never mind." He threw out his hand. "Gimme that flare gun."

I shrugged and handed it to the captain.

"This won't be the last you'll hear of this, Mains. That I can assure
you!" he shouted and set off toward the orderly room.

His statement set off a barrage of cat calls and boos from the rest of
the -audience, which accompanied Captain Buck Phillips as he walked
away. The heckling did not stop until he had disappeared into the night.

3 June 1969

Dear Mom:

Not much happening out of the ordinary over here. Things have been
really jumping in the north and northwest of the A -Shau Valley. I've
heard we should be pulling out the troops the 101st has there in August
because the monsoon makes it impossible to resupply troops there by air.

I have about eight hundred combat flight hours now. I figure I will see
over one thousand hours before I leave here. I think I'm starting to get
the hang of the flying over here now. I must close now.

Write soon, Randy

The arrival of June marked the eighth month I had been
in country. I thought by this time I had seen everything there was to
see over here in the way of troop pickups. assumption was soon proved to
be premature. The voice on the Fox Mike radio sounded extremely
urgent. "LZS cold, Blackwidow 25. You can make your approach, but make it
quick."

The soldier's urgency was perplexing. If the enemy wasn't around why did
I have to make it quick. "Understand the LZ is not hot?" I queried.

"That's affirmative. But get down here and pick us up. And do it fast."

The voice was panting now as if the man were running. I couldn't imagine
what was going on. I had been suckered into hot LZS before, told they
were cold when they were not. I did not want to have it happen again.
"We see your green smoke. Confirm you're in contact."

The voice was definitely panting now. "That's ... affirm. But ... hurry
...  get us ... out of here.

"Roger." I  could see the men running through the high elephant grass.
There were five of them. I said on the intercom, "Keep a close eye out,
Taylor. I don't want to be flying into an ambush."

"Roger, sir.

The gunner added, "LZ looks OK to me. I can't understand why those guys
are running."

"Me neither. Be ready to shoot," I cautioned.

"Roger that, sir." I heard him chamber a round.

I flew one of my dizzying descents toward the LZ and guided the machine
on approach to head off the first running man. I maneuvered the
helicopter next to him and he flung himself on board. The other four men
piled in after him. The last man screamed, "OK, let's fucking dee-dee
out of here!"

I pulled pitch. We began to rise. I heard Taylor yell to the team
leader. "What's the rush?"

"Tiger!"

"Tiger?"

"Yes." The team leader pointed to the LZ. As I circled in the climb I
could see a large tiger standing in the tall grass looking up at our
ascending chopper. We had robbed him of his lunch. I had never seen a
tiger in Vietnam before.

The team leader hollered, "The son of a bitch stalked us for nearly one
klick. We fired a few rounds at it to try to scare it away, but he
wouldn't leave us alone. He kept on stalking us. Shit, if Charlie isn't
fucking bad enough to contend with the fucking animals over here'll eat
your ass." He shook his helmeted head. "What a fuckin' crazy goddamn
place this is!" I had to agree.

Elephants were a common sight in Vietnam. The NVA was said to use them
like trucks to carry equipment on the well-concealed jungle highways. I
frequently saw the huge, gray beasts roaming lazily in the open areas
near the Laotian border. What angered me were the stories about gunship
pilots firing down on them and blowing them apart with rockets and
miniguns. I actually saw it happen only once. When I realized what was
taking place I came up on the radio and chastised the crew of the
offending gunship for their barbarism. They took no notice of my pleas
for them to stop. As they saw it, it was their job to disable the enemy
in any manner they could. In their eyes they were just doing their job.

I had finished doing some personal administrative chores at Camp Eagle
late one afternoon when a CH-47 Chinook helicopter flew in from the
A-Shau carrying a large dead deer in a cargo net slung under its huge,
flat belly. It dropped the deer on the pad and flew off. A Korean
soldier waved thanks to the pilot and walked over to the carcass. I
could see the animal's brown coat riddled with bullet holes. The man
stuck his knife in the deer's belly and gutted it on the spot.

I had heard how tough the ROK, Republic of Korea, army soldiers were.
The stories made them sound totally ruthless. The NVA and VC were
deathly afraid of them and the Koreans were universally respected for
the topnotch soldiers they were.

The story of the technique used by the ROKS to interrogate a group of
prisoners has passed into Vietnam lore.

They would ask a man a question once. If he did not answer he would be
shot in the head. Then they would move to the second man and ask him the
same question. If he did not answer he would be shot in the head, and
they would move to the third prisoner and so on. The ROKS were famous
for their practice of throwing prisoners from helicopters if they did
not cooperate. The ROKS, as you can imagine, had a higher success rate
in obtaining information from prisoners than any other service. If they
took a Vietnamese village and found VIC present they would cut the heads
off the enemy and place them on long poles outside the entrance to the
village as a warning. I had never met one of these hardened ROKS, so I
was not ready for what I saw the Korean soldier do next.

The man had an empty gallon tin can with him. After he cut open the deer
he reached into its chest cavity with his bare hands and scooped out the
animal's entrails, placing them in a pile. He then dipped the can in the
gaping hole of the animal's chest cavity and filled it with blood. I
watched in disgust as he walked a few yards away from the small group of
us who had come to watch and he squatted down. Next, he brought the can
to his lips, tipped his head back, and cradling the can in both hands,
he gulped down the animal's warn blood. I could well understand why the
enemy feared those soldiers so.

Although I was not a dedicated dust-off pilot there were many times I
flew wounded to the hospital because I just happened to be at the right
place at the wrong time, as was the case when I picked up the soldier
who got hit on the head with the rotor blade during the A-Shau Valley
assault. The opportunity came up again when Joe Sulak and I were
supporting the marines up north.

I was making a routine approach to one of the pads at LZ Vandergrift. I
was on short final when the landing pad suddenly exploded in front of me
in a great orange flash followed by a tall plume of white smoke. The
concussion really jolted the ship. I instinctively threw the cyclic to
the left and began a steep turn. I could see and hear several more
explosions peppering the surrounding air base. Joe radioed. "It's a
mortar attack. Christ, Randy, you'd be fucking dead if it happened ten
seconds later. We're getting the hell out of here and flying back up the
valley."

I was in the middle of guiding the machine around in a steep, 180-degree
turn. "Roger that, Joe. We'll follow you." I nosed the aircraft over and
began to fly low level behind him back the way we'd flown in.

The unit on the ground radioed, "Blackwidow two-five!

Blackwidow two-five! This is March-Bandit. We've got wounded. Can you
come back and pick them up? Over."

I turned the aircraft around. There was no sign of further explosions.
"Joe, I'm going in to pick up the wounded.

"Good luck. I'll be circling three klicks to the north."

I landed to one side of the pad n't to a gaping, smoldering hole in the
steel planking where the mortar round had impacted. The marines
approached quickly carrying three wounded soldiers. Two of the men
loaded on board did not appear to be too badly hurt to me. They were
conscious and had half-walked with the assistance of their buddies. But
the third man was unconscious and in two pieces. They laid him gently on
the floor, his right leg, which had been blown off above the knee, with
its white bone, the femur, sticking out several inches from the raw
flesh. The man who had carried the leg stuck it onto the exposed bone.
The booted foot stayed upright for a second then flopped over at an
obscene angle. One of the soldiers ran up to my door and yelled over the
noise of our screaming engine, "They were in the shit house when it got
hit."

I looked up and saw the remains of the plywood structure. Seeing how
much damage the mortar had caused made me wonder how anyone had survived
the blast. The soldier gave me the thumbs-up sign, and I pulled pitch to
take off immediately. As we climbed away in the turn, the pad exploded
again behind us with a direct hit from another incoming mortar. We made
it to the hospital in fifteen minutes.

There were other instances when I carried young soldiers who had no hope
of making it. They were already gone. My most vivid recollection of such
a mission is the morning I was called to pick up ten dead soldiers
outside the perimeter of Camp Evans.

From three hundred feet on approach I could see the green body bags
arranged neatly in a row along one of the dikes of a rice paddy. As-soon
as I landed, several soldiers wearing green boonie hats and no shirts,
their grim faces camouflaged with dark green and beige grease paint,
began loading the five bags that made up our load onto the Huey's gray
metal floor. I could smell the stench of death immediately.

The sharp outlines of the bodies were visible through the bags. One of
the shirtless soldiers walked around the front of the chopper and opened
my door. I slid back the armored plate on my seat. The soldier stood on
the helicopter's skid to yell his message so I would hear it through my
green flight helmet.

"Take them back to the surgical hospital at Phu Bai, sir. They'll know
what to do with them."

"What happened?" I yelled over the whine of the turbine engine and quick
WOP-WOP-WOP of the wide rotor blades beating the thick, humid air.

Sweat dripped off the soldier's tan, mud-streaked chest. "Fire fight."

"How many'd you lose?"

The soldier held up ten fingers.

"How many VC did you kill?"

"None!"

"None?

He explained, "These guys you're carrying are part of a platoon that
split up to ambush Charlie last night. They opened up on each other some
time in the early morning.

"Was the enemy anywhere around?"

The soldier shook his head in reply.

"You mean these guys killed each other thinking the other group was the
enemy?"

The soldier nodded.

The Peter Pilot flew the ship to the hospital at Phu Bai. Sometime
during the flight I turned in my seat and glanced back at the body bags.
Four of them lay neatly on the floor, but one of the bags was propped up
against the transmission island as if the person inside were sitting
upright. The hundred-knot wind entering through the two open cargo doors
whipped at the top of the body bag. A tuft of blond hair suddenly
appeared from the top of the bag and snapped in the breeze. In the wind
the bag started to work its way down the form entrapped inside until a
full head of blond hair was visible. I could not tear my eyes from the
sight. The bag worked lower exposing the forehead, blond eyebrows,
closed eyes, then a straight nose, until finally the whole head was
visible. The boy would have been about my age. There was no blood, no
gore, nothing on the smooth face to suggest mortal injury. It seemed
crazy to me. He appeared to be only sleeping. The blond hair was now
whipped wildly by the wind, adding to the illusion of life. I turned to
look straight ahead out the windshield and pushed in the floor mike
switch with my combat boot. "Taylor?" The crew chief answered, "Yes,
sir?"

"Would you reach over and cover up that guy's head?"

"Roger, sir."

I turned around again thirty seconds later. The crew chief had closed
the top of the bag and was now securing it with a short length of
stainless-steel safety wire. Several strands of blond hair still
protruded from the top.

"It's secure, sir," said Taylor who resumed his place behind.his M-60.

"Thanks.

My Peter Pilot looked over at me and said, "You OK? You look white as a
sheet."

"Yeah, sure." I looked out the side window for a moment at the high
jungle peaks to the east bordering the A-Shau. Then I looked across at
the peter pilot. "What a waste, huh? Really a waste. God, he looks so
young."

"We're not exactly ready for social security ourselves now, are we?"

"No, I guess you're right." I thought about it for a moment before
replying. "I just hope I live long enough to collect it, that's all."

It seemed that there was one whole week in which I flew nothing but
medevac missions, carrying men that had been killed or wounded in some
equally crazy, senseless manner. I had to fly one dead soldier from
Firebase Birmingham to Camp Eagle who had survived both the A-Shau
Valley assault and the slaughter on Hamburger Hill and was due to leave
country after completing a full year in Vietnam. He was on a truck
taking him to his base camp to out process when he accidentally leaned
against the muzzle of his M-16 and it discharged. The bullet tore
through his heart and killed him instantly.

Then there was the soldier whose platoon had come under fire by the VC.
He pulled out a grenade, pulled the pin, and threw it. It hit a tree,
bounced straight back at him, and blew him up.

Probably the worst incident was that of the soldier who had been shot
accidentally by his best friend during a fire fight. We had to carry
both the body and the unfortunate assassin. You could tell instantly by
looking at the man that his mind had snapped. He sat in the back of our
chopper rocking back and forth staring with a disbelieving gaze at his
buddy encased in the green body bag. He hummed a tune that I did not
recognize. From time to time he would break down and cry for perhaps
thirty seconds, and then he'd stop crying and hum the tune again. The
war was definitely over for him, I thought. Or was it? He looked so
disturbed I imagine that to this day he is still affected by that
traumatic event.

Not all the injuries I saw were severe, and some even had an element of
humor. Lieutenant Andre Gower, the new copilot who had flown with me on
the flare mission on my first day back from R&R, was flying with Ned
Kelly over the A-Shau on a routine resupply mission when they got shot
at with a 50-caliber machine gun. When a 50-caliber tracer round comes
at you it looks like a red golf ball. At least that's how it was
described by Andre Gower after one came crashing through the Peter
Pilot's chin bubble and blasted the toe off his jump boot. The toe of
his boot looked like something worn by a clown in the circus. The
leather on the toe was blown outward as if the explosion had occurred
inside the-boot. He was lucky. He suffered nothing worse than a blood
blister on the end of his big toe. But that was not all. He would become
eligible for a purple heart if he shed blood, so once back at the
company area he pricked the blood blister with a pin and hobbled over to
show the awards-and-decorations officer his wound. Sure enough, he was
put in for a purple heart. But better yet, the pin-pricked wound
festered in the Vietnamese tropical heat. It became so infected he
eventually had to be medevaced to Japan for several months. His wife
flew over to join him. All the time he remained in Japan recuperating,
his remaining days to serve in Vietnam were clicking off. Everyone
considered Lieutenant Andre Gower to be a lucky son of a bitch. And that
he surely was.

16 June 1969

Hi:

I have been getting a lot of mail from you guys. Sorry, but this is
actually the only time I have had to write in the last week. I finally
got a day off because I have been flying so much lately. The regulations
state they must give you a day off if you have exceeded 120 flight hours
in a thirty-day period, You asked me in your last letter what date I
expect to get home. I should be in the U.S. the 15th of October.

Seems like a lifetime from now.

I'm, glad you liked the small photo album I sent to you. I will send
more when I receive them. Gotta go.

Take care.

Randy.

It was in June that Joe Sulak nearly got killed. He, Ned Kelly, and I
were flying back from Mai Loc after extracting an eight-man team out of
Laos on the Mcguire rigs. We were given orders that on our ferry flight
down to Phu Bai we were to check in with a small unit who needed
extracting south of LZ Sarge, and we were to fly them back to Quang Tri.

It was around 1600 in the afternoon. We flew a loose trail formation to
the coordinates given to us. Joe was flying the lead aircraft. I could
hear him on the radio making contact with the ground unit. "I have your
yellow smoke, unit seven-oh-two. You had any enemy contact recently?

"-Negative Blackwidow Double-Deuce. Not since yesay. Only thing is the
LZS a bit tight. We had a resupship in yesterday. You should have no
trouble getting and out."

"Roger, be there in two mikes."

Ned Kelly and I circled our ships to the west at fifteen hundred feet
and watched Joe make his approach to the jungle. Ned made the usual
macabre remark over the radio, " Hey, Sulak. If you get killed can I
have your stereo?"

"You can have it all, Kelly," Joe answered back good naturedly.

I looked down through my side window and watched as Joe hovered over the
dark hole in the jungle and disappeared down into it. It look tight,
real tight. Ned Kelly began his approach a klick away.

The radio suddenly crackled. I could hear the clatter of machine-gun
fire in the background. "Blackwidow Double-Deuce, goddamn, you OK?"

"We're hit! We're aborting. We're aborting," I heard Joe say forcefully
but coolly.

The soldier on the ground radioed, "It was an RPG. Looked like it hit
your tail, Double-Deuce.

Joe replied, "Goddamn, I believe it. Hell of a lot of vibration in my
pedals. I'm still trying to guide her out of here.

I could see Joe's ship emerging from the hole in the trees. I nosed my
helicopter over and dove to take up a position to fly alongside him. Ned
Kelly asked on the UHF radio, "What happened, Joe?"

"I think an RPG went through my tail rotor. Nowhere safe to land around
here. Going to try and make it into the strip at Vandergrift. Follow me
close."

"Roger. I I Joe tried to lighten the weight of the fear we all felt.
"Looks like you may get that stereo after all, Kelly."

"Who you kidding, Sulak. You're too goddamn cheap to let me have it that
easy, you sorry Texan." Kelly answered back. He couldn't disguise the
concern in his voice.

Kelly flew several rotor disks away from Joe's left side. I flew equal
distant on his right. Several baseball-size holes could be seen in the
aircrafts tail boom. I fully expected to see the tail rotor disintegrate
and Joe's aircraft start to spin uncontrollably. But it held together
and he made it back to the airstrip at Vandergrift and shut down.

In one of the tail rotor blades there was a hole the size of a golf
ball. Joe had seen the RPG come out of the jungle, the white ribbon of
smoke snaking its way toward them in the restrictive LZ. He said he'd
never felt more vulnerable but could do nothing but scrunch down in his
seat and close his eyes to wait for the explosion. When it didn't come
he knew his luck held and that he wouldn't have to give up his stereo
that day.

Ned and I had to leave Joe at Vandergrift and fly back to the LZ to
finish the job. We made three sorties each to extract the men on the
ground. On each sortie I had to descend into that same LZ, which looked
like a one-hundred-foot, deep-green barrel, and I half expected to see a
ribbon of smoke make its way from the dense tree line to finish the job
the enemy had bungled on Joe's helicopter. Ned Kelly and I encountered
no further resistance, however, and the airlift went without a hitch.

As I discovered on the night I'd stupidly tried to reposition the
aircraft having had too much to drink, when you think you have flying
mastered something occurs to bring you up sharp, to let you know that if
you don't stay on top of it it'll reach out, tap you on the shoulder,
and poke you in the eye. I had another such occurrence when I was flying
for the marines out of Quang Tri on a routine insertion mission. I
dropped my guard and almost bought the farm.

It was an extremely windy day. I was hover-taxiing out to line up for
takeoff when an army Bird Dog ground looped then flipped on its back on
the runway in the thirty-knot cross wind. No one was hurt. The pilot
scurried out of the wreckage and surveyed the upside-down airplane with
hands on hips. That accident should have been sufficient warning to be
extra careful on take-off and landing at day. But it wasn't.

My copilot, a short, skinny warrant officer named Costello, was a senior
peter pilot who had survived three helicopter crashes to date in
Vietnam. He was cool, quiet, and cynical.

I began my approach to the ridge line where the C&C aircraft instructed
us to insert the five marine troops. Because of the high winds whistling
over the mountain I should have made a steeper-than-normal approach to
avoid the severe down draft on the lee side of the mountain. Instead, I
made my standard low, flat approach. On short final the gusting down
draft hit the machine with a loud Woooosh! It was as if I had flown into
an invisible claw that gripped the machine and tried to pull it down
into the jungle below. I instinctively pulled in the collective pitch
lever to check our alarming rate of descent. The engine could not
deliver the power to fly us out of the strong down draft. The rotor RPM
began to decay. Usually it is in the green at 6600 engine RPM. The low
RPM audio wailed in our ears. The nose of the aircraft began to yaw to
the right even with the full left pedal pushed in. The pedal hit the
stop. That is when I lost total yaw control and the nose of the craft
turned right ninety degrees to our approach path. The RPM gauge read
5500, well below the flight range. Costello, thinking this was going to
be crash number four, coolly reached over and switched off the low RPM
audio, and waited for impact.

One hears of aircraft commanders so composed during emergencies that, as
they are about to crash, they manage to keep their voice calm and
unruffled even as they broadcast their mayday call. I hoped I would be
able to cope in a similar way, but as it turned out this was far from
the case. I keyed the mike switch and broadcast to God and everybody in
support of the mission, and that included two marine gunships, the
second Huey carrying the remainder of the team, two army ARA Cobra
gunships,' and two F-100s at fifteen thousand feet. I yelled as I
watched the ridge line rush at us sideways, "Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,
Shit! Shit! Shit! " before the skids of the Huey hit the floor of the LZ
side on.

I will never know how I managed, after performing a semi-autorotation to
the LZ, to miss the surrounding trees, drop off the troops, "milk" the
engine RPM back to 6600, and get out without further incident. Although
I was elated to have avoided crashing, I felt like a fool.

For my comic outburst on the radio that day I had to buy all the rounds
in the Quang Tri officers' club that night. If I was asked once, I was
asked fifty times, "Hey ... aren't you the guy who broadcast "Jesus
Christ, Jesus Christ, Shit! Shit!

Shit!' on the radio today?" I just nodded trying to act as humble as I
could and bought the man a drink. I took the ribbing without comment. I
was just thankful we hadn't crashed. Again, I'd been reminded not to let
my guard down. I'd been lucky and had walked away from my mistake. I
knew of other men who had not been so lucky. Douche Bag Dick Childs was
one of those men.

The CO had seen the golden opportunity to get rid of First Lieutenant
Dick Childs during the swap in personnel with the 158th. Childs had
proved to be a lousy Huey pilot and the Blackwidows were glad to be rid
of him. We learned several weeks later that he didn't want to be with
the 158th, and after a week the 158th discovered they did not want him,
so he requested and got transferred to Delta Company, the gun platoon.

One clear day in June, when all the other pilots in Charlie Company were
flying, a sleek Cobra gunship landed unannounced in the Widow Web. The
pilot who climbed out of the machine was Douche Bag Dick Childs. He
sauntered into my hootch. It was one of the few days I was not flying. I
was grounded with a mandatory day off because I had flown more than 120
hours in the preceding thirty-day period. He greeted me like a long lost
brother, and I offered him a soft drink. Ernest James had seen the Cobra
land and rushed over from ops to join us.

Ernest asked Douche Bag to tell him about the action he had seen so far,
so we heard how he got shot down during the assault on Hamburger Hill.
He'd had to make a forced landing to a hillside. The Cobra had rolled
down the hill and was a total write off. He and the copilot were pulled
out by a ship from Alpha Company. He told several more war stories, and
he finally announced that he had to be leaving.

I was glad to hear it. He made me uncomfortable. He was a poor pilot and
full of bullshit. A deadly combination. A lot of pilots I met were full
of bullshit. The trouble with Douche Bag is that he believed his
bullshit. Safe pilots knew where the bullshit ended and reality began.
That was the difference.

Before he left the hootch he turned and pointed with his thumb, "Either
one of you two want to go for a ride in that Cobra I got parked out
there?" The thought frightened me. "No thanks."

Ernest nearly fell over himself in his enthusiasm. "Hell yes, Dick.
Goddamn, I'd love to."

"Come on then, Ernest. I'll show you how the gunnies do it."

He winked at me. "Beats the hell out of flying slicks."

I resented his remark and his pompous air but said nothing. Good natured
competition between gunship pilots and slick pilots had always existed.
But it rubbed me the wrong way knowing the kind of pilot Douche Bag Dick
Childs was. He said, "Should have Ernest back in a half hour."

"You do that," I replied like an overprotective parent.

Leaning against the sandbags surrounding my hootch wearing green boxer
shorts, green T-shirt, and shower shoes, I watched the sleek machine
nose over and take off from the Widow Web. Ernest waved at me from the
front seat. Childs sat behind him in the narrow, two-pilot machine. The
nose pulled back abruptly and the helicopter rocketed upward in a
maximum performance climb to about fifteen hundred feet, banked, and
headed toward the coast.

I walked back to my area and lay on my bunk under the hot breeze of my
fan and waited. An hour passed. They did not return. An hour and a half
passed. Still no sign of them. I walked over to ops and told Spec-4
Peoples I was worried. He picked up the mike of the FM radio and put out
a call. Nothing.

After nearly two hours and still no Ernest, Captain Crunch called
headquarters at Camp Eagle. We found out a Cobra gunship had been seen
swooping through the sky over the coast near Vinh Loc. Headquarters was
trying to figure out who it belonged to.

According to the eyewitness report the Cobra dove, doing about 190
knots, then pulled straight up, losing airspeed, and at the top of the
climb did a hammer-head turn. The witness to the accident, an LOH (light
observation helicopter) pilot from Division Arty out of Camp Eagle, said
that the pilot blew the maneuver because he caused negative Gs on the
rotor head. The rotor system became unstable causing its hub to slam
against the mast which then snapped off and separated from the aircraft.
The LOH pilot said they were at 1500 feet when the rotors went one way
and the aircraft nosed over and fell to earth. Douche Bag Dick Childs
and Ernest James died instantly when the rotorless Cobra airframe
slammed into a rice paddy at more than 200 knots and exploded on impact.

Numbed by the tragic news, I walked back to my hootch and, although it
was only midafternoon, I poured a double vodka and threw it down,
following it immediately with another. I flopped down on my bunk and
played Ernest's favorite song, "Love Blue," on my reel-to-reel. My mind
and body were torn by the opposite emotions of extreme anger and deep
sadness. I wanted to punch my fist through something, to scream out that
it wasn't fair. Thoughts of Ernest's contagiously happy personality and
his enthusiasm for combat flying filled my mind. His senseless death
sickened me. If Dick Childs hadn't died in the accident I thought I
would have rung his fucking neck. But that wouldn't bring Ernest back.

I played "Love Is Blue" one more time and, when it came to the part
where the violins reached their crescendo, Ernest's favorite part in the
piece, I began to cry. I cried for the selfish reason that I would
deeply miss the smiling, baby-faced captain, and I cried at the
knowledge that his death had been so completely futile.

CHAPTER 11.

July 1969

Miniskirts, Flares, and a General Court-Martial.

On 2 July 1969 I celebrated my twenty-third birthday. On that day I
received one of the most memorable Surprises of my life. The occasion is
well documented in the letter I sent home six days later.

8 July 1969

Dear Mom:

Sorry I haven't written for a while, but I have really been flying a lot
lately. I have been receiving all your letters though. Thanks for the
birthday goodies. Let me tell you what happened on my birthday. You
won't believe it. I don't believe it and it happened to me!

The captain responsible for scheduling the missions knew that July 2nd
was my birthday so he gave me July 2nd and 3rd off. The 2nd for my
birthday and the 3rd to recuperate from my birthday. On or around June
28th the commanding officer gave us permission to remodel our hootches
if we wished. The words were barely out of his mouth before we had built
a bar and sitting ro-". in our hootch. We installed a small refrigerator
behind the bar and we were ready to go. On July 1st I took a hop to Da
Nang for a booze run and by the 2nd I was ready for a party. But the
best is still to come.'

I was walking by the front of my hootch when Joe Sulak stuck his head
out the door and told me to come in because there was a birth da gift
waiting for me. When I walked through the door, Joe stepped back and
from behind him this blonde woman dressed in jungle fatigues was coming
at me with arms spread and lips puckered. She grabbed me and planted one
of the biggest kisses on me I've ever had, then she wished me a Happy
birthday. "Where did she come from, you ask?

About two months ago the CO flew her down from Saigon to do a story on
the Blackwidows. She is a Dutch reporter traveling around Vietnam giving
the people in Holland the scoop on what's happening over here. As it
turns out, she thought the CO was sort of a clod so during her stay she
used to end up in our hootch talking to Joe Sulak, Ned Kelly, and me. I
remember asking her to come to my birthday party and she said she would
try to make it. I had forgotten about her promise, but, sure enough, she
flew up from Saigon to be here for my birthday party. You could have
knocked me over with a feather. Her name is Henry Schrode. She's a
beautiful girl with an accent that melts my heart every time I hear it.
She knows seven languages too.

To continue. The CO was away doing business at Camp Eagle so ops gave me
an aircraft and I flew us to the beach. This particular beach is like an
in-country r&r center for the troops of the 101st. She and I stayed
there all day. I knew some of the Sea Bees stationed there and one of
them let me use his surfboard. So Henry,and I went surfing in the Gulf
of Tonkin. We had to walk far down the beach because you can imagine
what a blonde in a bikini in Vietnam would do to the other guys here. I
was the envy of everyone.

After a full day at the beach we got dressed, me in my Nomex flight suit
and she in her form-fitting jungle fatigues, and we got in the
helicopter and I flew us back to base. Practically every guy in the
company greeted us as we landed and escorted us to my hootch where we
freshened up and 'changed for the party. Henry emerged wearing a bright
pink miniskirt, and I mean miniskirt. I about passed out every time I
looked at her beautiful, strong, tan legs. It was much too much for me.
The party broke up around 0230. Every guy stayed to the end even though
most had a 0430 crank time that morning. It was a dream. Great party,
stereo going full blast, beautiful girl, good friends, sunburned from a
day of surfing at the beach and knowing I didn't have to fly the next
day. The experience made me homesick.

Only three months and I'll be home. I can't wait.

Love, Randy.

In my letters I made no mention of an incident that took place just
after my birthday, on the Fourth of July to be exact. It served to make
my remaining three months in Vietnam miserable and nearly ruined my
career as an officer in the United States Army.

Apparently it had become the custom in Vietnam to celebrate the Fourth
of July with flares, gunfire, and cannon fire. The CO called the company
together and gave specific orders for no one to celebrate this year in
such a visible manner. He informed us that intelligence reports
indicated the enemy might be waiting for such an opportunity to strike.
So I played poker in my hootch with three other pilots and proceeded to
get drunk on whiskey and Coca Cola.

At 2230 Captain Buck Phillips entered our hootch and said, "OK, everyone
out. There's a company formation."

I checked my watch, pulled the cigar from my mouth and said, "At 2230?"

"Get out there, Mains!" he barked.

His hostile attitude confused me. Why was he so uptight? I left the
hootch with the others and joined the rest of the company personnel
assembling outside the orderly room. I was a lot drunker than I'd
thought. I'd had perhaps four, maybe five, strong whiskey and Cokes and
had trouble walking. I puffed on my cigar and milled around the crowd of
men looking for members of my platoon so I could join them in the
formation.

Another captain, who had been sent to Charlie Company from the 158th,
Captain Pratt, walked up to me, stood nose to nose and screamed in my
face, "Get over there, Mains."

I looked in the direction he was pointing and looked back at him
stupidly.

"Move!" he screamed.

In my drunken state I took a deep puff on my cigar and blew the smoke
out slowly into the man's face. It was dark, but I could see the burning
rage in his eyes. I turned and walked away from him and took my place in
the formation next to Joe.

The CO, Major Torq, standing in front of the assembled men with Captain
Phillips to his right and Captain Pratt standing to his left, announced,
"Someone here disobeyed my direct order tonight and set off a flare. I
have called this formation to find out who that someone was?"

No one spoke. I stood weaving from the effects of the alcohol and took
another puff on my cigar trying to focus on the outline of the man
standing in front of me.

The CO continued, "I have a pretty good idea who it was, but I want to
hear it from the man himself."

Again silence. A few men coughed. No one spoke.

Anger charged his voice. "The man will wish he'd never disobeyed my
orders. I'll find out who it is. When I do he'll wish he'd never been
assigned to my command." He turned to Captain Pratt. "Dismiss the men."

Back at my hootch the four of us resumed the poker game. As the first
hand was being dealt a corporal from the orderly room came in and said,
"Sir, old man wants to see you."

"What for?" I "He just said he wants to see you. Don't know why."

I looked at the other three men seated at the table, shrugged and left
with the corporal. I was so affected by the alcohol I nearly stumbled
climbing up the three wooden steps leading into the CO's hootch. I
knocked on the door and was given permission to enter. Buck Phillips and
Captain Pratt were standing behind the desk of a seated Major Torq. The
three men looked far from happy. I approached the desk, snapped to
drunken attention and slurred, "Sir, Candidate Mains reporting as
ordered, sir." I was by now so drunk I replied as if still in flight
school.

Before I could correct myself Major Torq said, "Just sit down, Mains."

I took a chair facing his desk. He leaned forward with hands clasped
tightly together on top of the desk. His eyes narrowed. "I know it was
you. You're the one who shot off the flare tonight, aren't you?"

His accusation served to sober me up a bit. "No, sir.

"It's no use denying it, Mains. I have a witness who says he saw you
shoot off the flare on the perimeter tonight and that goes directly
against division orders."

Buck Phillips, his arms crossed across his chest, smirked with
satisfaction behind the Major. I tried to focus my hazy vision on Torq.
"But ... I was playing cards with three guys in the hootch tonight. I
never left them. I've got witnesses."

Major Torq slammed his hand on the desk. "I don't care if you say you've
got witnesses, Mains. I have a witness that says you were the one who
did it." He now pointed a finger at my face. "I'm going to court-martial
you, Mains. I'm going to make an example out of you. And if I can, I'm
going to drum you out of the United States Army. I My brain swirled with
alcohol-clouded thoughts. Why was he doing this? Why was he out to get
me? Was it because of Henry?

Because I took his girl? Surely not.

Torq continued, "And you owe Captain Pratt here an apology."

"Apology?

Torq leaned forward in his chair, "You seem to have no respect for
superior officers do you, Mains. You call them by their first name I
glanced at Captain Phillips. He still had the same smirk on his face.

Torq continued, and you blew cigar smoke in Captain Pratt's face during
the formation tonight in flagrant disregard of his rank. Now I want you
to apologize.

I looked up at the man, trying to focus on his face. "i'm sorry ... I
blew smoke ... in your face ... sir." I felt like an idiot. What I
really wanted to do was tell all three miserable, rear echelon sons of
bitches to go somewhere and fuck themselves. I couldn't believe this was
happening. It had to be some sort of nightmare. Here I was, risking my
life, flying my rear-end off in a combat zone. Hell, I could be killed
on a mission tomorrow, and here were these three FNG clowns making me
apologize for getting drunk on the Fourth of July, of all days, and for
blowing a little smoke? In my drunken state I wanted to leap to my feet,
rip the wings from my chest, and make a rude gesture before turning on
my heels and storming out. I wanted to tell them to fly eight or ten
hours a day themselves while I stayed back in the rear sitting on my
butt to deal with their trivial bureaucratic BS for a change. Why didn't
they go off and get shot at! But of course I remained silent. It was one
of the rare occasions in my life when, thoroughly provoked, I kept my
mouth shut.

Major Torq filed charges against me. My army records were flagged,
frozen in limbo, until the matter was settled. The worst news was that I
was grounded.

I was flown to HQ at Camp Eagle two days later to meet with the Judge
Adjutant. He advised me that if I had, in fact, been in the company of
my friends that night that I should obtain statements in triplicate from
each man. So I did. There had been two others in the hootch that night
and they also wrote out sworn statements to the effect that I had not
been absent during the time in question. I took the five statements to
Camp Eagle.

A colonel there saw the handful of evidence supporting my case and told
me, "Now son, we all have friends. You know, and- I know, that friends
will do a lot for us when the chips are down. I suggest you submit only
three of those statements. That'll be enough."

The most painful part of the ordeal was being grounded. I hung around
the company area like a bird with clipped wings, feeling as useless as
the maintenance officers who never flew outside of autorotative distance
from the Widow Web. They were the only pilots I saw during the day and I
made every effort to avoid them. As each day passed my self-esteem
slipped another notch until I felt even less significant than they. At
least they were flying.

The other pilots sympathized with my position, but that didn't make
things any easier. I felt like a leper, an outcast. I felt like a
freeloader not pulling my weight. I now knew the agony Ernest James must
have felt watching all the crews take off on their combat missions to
return hot, sweaty, and tired with their war stories from a full day's
flying.

I would lie in my bunk at night frustrated and angry, fantasizing about
taking the unregistered .45 I'd acquired from the marine lieutenant in
Quang Tri and sneaking into Major Torqs hootch, placing the barrel
against his temple and whispering into his ear, "Quit fucking with me,
Torq, you understand? Just drop the bullshit charges you've fabricated
against me, let me go back to flying, and I won't pull this trigger and
blow your miserable fucking brains out." I replayed the scene over and
over in my mind while I waited. This insane fantasy gave me some
perverse sort of satisfaction.

One day while I sat in my hootch writing letters home a captain from
Second Platoon came in to talk to me. He was a nice guy named Eric
Farlow. I'm not quite certain why he came to talk to me but I suspect
Major Torq probably sent him. Farlow told me he sympathized with my
unfortunate situation.

"There are some people that are just not cut out to be in the military,
Randy," he told me in apparent sincerity. "I'm afraid you are one of
those people. You are what we call 'route step' " (that is to say, I
marched at my own step, out of time with everyone else). He continued,
"I sense, although by all reports you are a highly competent and
respected pilot, that you do as you please when on the ground, that you
have difficulty accepting authority. The army is the wrong place to have
an attitude like that."

"Yes, sir, I agree with you."

"You do?"

"Yes. I admit I have difficulty accepting authority when I have no
respect for the person behind the rank. Buck Phillips and Captain Pratt
are two good examples. A man has to prove his worth to me. He has to
earn it. They're two sorry excuses for captains in my book. And I'm not
alone when I say that."

He looked at the plywood floor, shook his head and let out a small
laugh. "It's that attitude of yours that's got you into the trouble
you're in now. And I can promise it'll YOU continue to get you into
trouble until you either change it or you get out.

I chuckled, "I doubt if my attitude will change, sir. It's the flying I
really care about in the army. And flying's taught me that it's your
performance that talks and the bullshit that walks. Flying does an
excellent job of separating the bullshit from the bullshitter. What I've
learned is that the BS may work in a command on the ground but that same
kind of thinking will get you killed in the air. Douche Bag Dick Childs
was a perfect example of what I'm talking about."

"Yes, you're probably right, but while on the ground we have to learn to
'play the game' in order to survive. You, unfortunately, do not play the
game."

And he was right. I could not play the game. In my mind it was
hypocritical. Childish. And by sticking to this MO ral ground my
remaining time in the army would be as a swimmer fighting against the
tide. And like that swimmer I would eventually become exhausted and give
up, or hope I could hold out-until the tide turned in my favor.

The days of waiting for a court date dragged on forever; each day seemed
longer and hotter than the next. I remember lying on my bunk under my
fan listening to AM radio on 20 July 1969 and hearing the news that we
had landed a man on the moon. The irony of that feat overwhelmed me at
the time. The twenty-five billion dollars spent to accomplish Neil
Armstrong's "one giant leap for mankind" was being hailed as the
greatest technological mobilization the world had known. Yet here on
earth we could not sort out the problems embroiling me and half a
million other Americans in war. OK, we'd won the space race. So what? We
had broadened our horizons when we couldn't even control the frontiers
here on earth. It was laughable. I wondered what were the military
ramifications of such an endeavor. I was now cynical enough to believe
that the real purpose behind landing a man on the moon had some far
greater tactical meaning than the self-righteous reason given by the
United States. Okay, we had proven that America was the leader in the
space race. But as far as I could see we were still falling behind in a
primitive war that was losing popularity each day it was being fought.

In my growing depression I was convinced mankind had gone totally mad.

I had been grounded for a full three weeks before Major Torq finally
called me into his hootch to give me the verdict.

He thumbed through the file in front of him then closed it and folded
his hands. He looked angry. "I'm afraid we don't have enough evidence on
you to prosecute on the flare incident, Mains. However I am pressing for
nonjudicial punishment under the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military
Justice). I am issuing you with an Article-15 for insubordination to a
superior officer because you blew cigar smoke into the face of Captain
Pratt."

I was actually relieved at the news. "When can I go back to flying,
sir?"

"Immediately.

I could not help smiling. I think my obvious enthusiasm must have taken
him by surprise. "Is that all then, sir?"

"Yes, that'll be all. You're dismissed."

I stood, snapped to attention, saluted, and turned to walk out. Then I
stopped, turned back around, and asked, "Sir, may I ask you a question?"

"YOU may."

"Exactly what is it I've done that gives me the feeling that you have it
in for me, sir?"

His face revealed his astonishment at my forward question. "I don't
'have it in for you,' Mains. I simply detest your kind."

"My kind, sir? What do you mean?"

"Most of you warrants have no military bearing whatsoever. You're a
mockery to the United States Army. I sense that you personally do not
respect authority and I think, as an individual, you are highly
irresponsible."

"Irresponsible, sir?" I laughed. "Irresponsible? I've flown more than
eight hundred combat hours over here and I've managed to bring Uncle
Sam's property back day after day. No one's been killed on my ship, sir.
Not even scratched. I've risked my life and the lives of my crew to
accomplish the missions I've had to fly over here. And you say I'm
irresponsible?"

"I'm talking about the childish flare incident in the movie theater last
month."

"I see. And that makes me irresponsible? You naturally figured that if I
shot off the flare in the movie theatre I was surely the one who did it
on the Fourth of July. Is that it, sir?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you, Mr. Mains. Consider yourself
damn lucky you got off as lightly as you did. I'll give you fair warning
now. I'll be watching every move you make from here on in. If you screw
up the least little bit, and don't play the game, or you make one minor
military infraction, " he held out his hand and closed it into a tight
fist. "I'll have you. Remember that. Now, dismissed.

I flew my first flight, after being grounded for three weeks, with Buck
Phillips as my copilot. I did not mind because although I had zero
respect for him as an officer and as a leader of men, I was elated to be
flying again.

We flew for nearly eight hours for the marines out of LZ Vandergrift. At
one stage in the mission we picked up eight troops in the field. As it
happened, when I lifted the aircraft up to a hover I had to push in full
left pedal to stop us from spinning to the right. The pedal hit the
stops and we began to turn to the right anyway. I snapped off the
throttle to stop the turn and did a hovering autorotation to the ground.
I asked the crew chief to off-load three troops, and we took off without
further incident.

At the end of the day back at the Widow Web, as we were walking to the
company area, Buck Phillips told me that he had been checking me out all
along. If he had seen me do anything unsafe on the mission he had been
instructed by Major Torq to take away my AC orders rendering me a
permanent copilot. He went on to inform me that he'd been impressed by
my flying ability and that I had passed and that I could continue to
exercise my rights as aircraft commander. I was infuriated. What gave
him the right to check me out? He was neither an instructor pilot nor an
aircraft commander. He had less than fifty hours of combat time in
country and he was checking me out? There was no one to whom I could
complain as he was under orders from the CO. Phillips even had the
audacity to imply I should be thankful he was not rescinding my AC
orders. His presumptuousness not only enraged me but also the other
pilots in the platoon when they heard what had happened.

Several days later Major Torq appointed Captain Buck Phillips our
platoon leader. A week later Phillips made himself an aircraft commander
against the protests of the other ACS in the platoon. That act would be
his final undoing.

For his first flight as an aircraft commander Phillips assigned himself
the brand new H-model Huey that Junior and Captain Paulson had flown up
from Cain Ranh Bay. That fact, in itself, made a lot of the other ACS in
the company angry. It was customary for a new aircraft to be assigned to
one of the senior ACS.

When Phillips picked the brand new aircraft up to a hover he
overcontrolled the tail rotor pedals and smashed both of the aircrafts
synchronized elevators into the steel walls of the revetment. He landed,
shut down, and the aircraft was then out of service for a week for
repairs.

The arrival the week before of that same new aircraft was an event that
itself caused a shroud of mystery to fall over Charlie Company that
would remain unsolved for several days. The mystery began when Junior
and Captain Paulson landed in the Widow Web in the brand new machine. It
was in perfect condition except for one small thing. There was an
unexplained bullet hole in the tail boom. Junior and Captain Paulson
seemed as surprised to see it as we were.

Ned Kelly cornered Junior in the club that night and asked, "How did you
guys manage to take a hit on a routine ferry flight, anyway?"

Junior and Paulson looked at one another and feigned ignorance. "Don't
know," Junior said innocently. "Must have been when we were flying over
the jungle."

Kelly eyed Junior suspiciously. "Yeah, but you were flying coastal to
Corps and, knowing you two like I do, you had to be flying so damn high
to avoid getting shot at you probably needed oxygen. So, how'd you
manage to take a hit?"

Junior seemed nervous. He chugged half his beer before answering, "I
told you, Kelly, I don't know. It was just there."

"You mean it just suddenly appeared? When'd you notice it?" Kelly asked
unwilling to let up. Most of the officers in the club were now listening
to the interrogation.

Junior looked at Captain Paulson who looked away from him quickly and
sipped at his own beer. "I don't know," Junior whined. "I didn't notice
it until we landed back here."

"You were on a three-day ferry flight and you didn't notice it till you
got back here? You two are maintenance officers. Didn't you see it on
one of your daily preflights?

"Nope."

"And you mean to tell me you didn't hear the bullet hit your ship?"

Paulson butted in, "He told you, Kelly, he doesn't know when it
happened. We didn't hear anything. We landed here and that's when-we saw
it. The round didn't hit anything vital. It's repaired. Why can't you
just drop the subject?

Kelly eyed Junior and Paulson for a moment, then he said, "Because it
intrigues me. I, think you two know something and you're not telling us.
I think you're covering up something, and I want to know what it is.
Your story's too flaky. Now tell us. We're all friends here. What
happened?"

Some of the men now listening joined in, "Yeah, come on. Tell us what
happened."

"Drop it, Kelly. Nothing happened. We just took a hit. That's all. Hell,
it could have happened when we took off from Bien Hoa after refueling
for all we know. Who the hell knows? Just drop it, OK?"

Kelly smiled, took a drag from his cigarette and squished the butt in an
ashtray on the bar. "I'll find out. Don't you worry. You guys are hiding
something and I'll get to the bottom of it-Flowers!"

The bartender rushed over. "Yes, sir.

"Set up a couple of Blushing Assholes. One apiece for my two friends
here."

Flowers beamed, "Yes, sir!"

"We gotta get going," Junior said. "We can't stay. Really. We have test
flights to fly tonight. We can't hang around and get bombed."

"We'll let you guys go when we hear the story."

And a good one it turned out to be. Though they protested long and hard
we would not let them out of the club until we had heard it. Paulson and
Junior had met some nurses in the officer's club in Da Nang and Junior
had promised one of them a ride in the helicopter. The next day Paulson
and Junior landed the showroom-new H-model Huey on the beach. Junior
placed the giggly nurse in the copilot's seat, put a flight helmet on
her, and was standing on the skid leaning over adjusting her seat belt
when they began taking enemy fire. Captain Paulson, taking full stock of
the situation, panicked and yanked in a handful of collective pitch. The
light machine rocketed upward as if fired from a cannon. Junior was
still standing on the skid and had a death grip around the now screaming
nurse. His feet were slipping off the skid and he literally held on for
his life. The copilot's open door was flapping wildly in the breeze and
slamming him in the ass as they passed through five hundred feet. Just
envisioning the incident had us rolling on the plywood floor of the club
with uncontrollable laughter. The operation was thereafter known as the
"Combat Assault on Heartbreak Beach." Paulson and Junior had to buy the
rounds in the club all night long and never made it out to fly their
maintenance test flights.

One of the combat yarns I had heard in flight school was the story of the
helicopter pilot who landed in an LZ and looked up to see he was staring
down the barrel of the enemy's submachine gun. Having, by then, flown in
Vietnam for nearly nine months, I could not imagine being able to sneak
up on anyone, much less the enemy, considering the loud racket a Huey
made. So I discounted that story as implausible, that is, until it
happened to me.

I had picked up a super grunt team out of Quang Tri and was to insert
them a klick north of Khe Sahn. The marine super grunts looked like a
gang of thugs. None of them carried the same type of weapon. They even
dressed differently. Some wore sleeveless fatigue shirts, others were
bare-chested. A few wore green headbands, while others had camouflaged
faces and bandoleers of ammunition crisscrossing their chests.

The landing zone was located in a clear area on a ridge line. There were
few trees. Most had been bombed out over the years. It was covered
mainly by tall elephant grass. I was hovering the machine over the
grass, just about ready to land, looking through the chin bubble between
my pedals to set the aircraft down. A thick, sweaty arm suddenly
appeared next to my helmet, the finger of the hand pointing out the
windshield in front of me. I looked up as the inside of the chopper
exploded in gunfire. Two startled Vietnamese had stood up, and one was
aiming an AK-47 at my face from fifty yards away. I froze, feeling the
pressure of the invisible bull's eye between my eyes. I watched as both
men were hit with a solid curtain of gunfire from our ship and were
thrown backwards. I yanked in the power, pulling aft on the cyclic
stick. The machine rose and leapt into the air backwards from the grassy
knoll, the nose pointed to the sky, the tail toward the jungle. I
continued to accelerate backwards, then kicked in right pedal turning
180 degrees and flew down the mountain slope to safety.

23 July Hi Mom:

I received a letter from Michelle today telling me she is attending
summer college in Guadalajara, Mexico. She says she is really enjoying
staying with a Mexican family there. She is with three other girls. I
think it does a person good to see how people in other lands live so you
can appreciate how good we really have it in the USA. I know I'll never
look at the U.S. the same way again. It's the best place to be in the
world.

We had an awards and decorations ceremony and the battalion commander
gave out some medals. I got the Army Commendation Medal and an air medal
Not much else.

Keep writing, Randy

For months Captain Curly had been trying to persuade the head nurse at
the hospital at Phu Bai to come to Charlie Company for a cocktail party.
When he finally succeeded in convincing her to attend, he decided the
best place to have the party was in our mess hall.

Ten nurses showed up. It was a very stilted affair at first. It reminded
me of my awkward days attending high school dances. We tried to make.
polite conversation without incorporating our usual four-letter words
and Captain Curly tried to persuade the women to drink the lethal punch,
a sweet variation of Spec-4 Flowers's Blushing Asshole concoction. But
the women were savvy to such devious tactics and sipped weak wine and
soda instead, leaving the deadly punch for the officers.

Tiungs deteriorated as the night wore on and the level in the punch bowl
receded to reveal soggy and discolored fruit lying at the bottom. liven
up the party Captain Curly thought it would be good fun to drop his
pants and moon several of the nurses, offering the horrified ladies a
full view of his dangling genitalia. Then someone broke not one, but
two, raw eggs over Captain Curly's bald head for being uncouth in the
presence of ladies. Another officer was found in a ditch outside the
mess hall suffering from alcohol poisoning. Another had a piece of his
front tooth knocked out by a half-empty beer can which had been hurled
at him for following Captain Curly's example of mooning the nurses. The
women stormed off enraged. Luckily for them they departed before the
food fight began.

The next day Captain Curly received a short, scribbled note from the
head nurse thanking, in her words, "the assholes of Charlie Company for
a perfectly horrific evening," and added, "in the future do not ever
attempt to invite the nurses back again."

CHAPTER 12.

August 1969

Poetic Karma Strikes the Brass.

3 August 1969

Hi Mom:

I've been receiving your letters regularly, but to be honest I just
can't think of anything interesting to write about.

It's hot here now and it feels good when I fly because I can climb to
three thousand or four thousand feet and cool off.

I bet things are beautiful in southern California right now. The
beaches, beautiful girls, and you're in the height of summer. I miss it.

I sure enjoy your letters. I do receive every one even though it seems
like I don't by the way I don't answer each one. Please keep them
coming.

Love, Randy

I still bore a lot of resentment toward Major Torq, Buck
Phillips, and Captain Pratt for needlessly making my life so difficult.
As if following some grand scheme to balance right and wrong in the
universe, Karina took over and each man in turn seemed to receive his
just reward. Captain Buck Phillips was the first to receive his.

Captain Phillips flew for only one week as AC in the new H-model Huey
after it came out of maintenance. On a combat assault we had near LZ
Vegel he decided to fly flight lead. It would be the last time he would
fly.

After the three-hour CA to insert the grunts, we were flying back to the
Widow Web in a flight of ten. Buck Phillips elected to break formation
and buzz a Vietnamese village. He performed a wing over and dove at one
of the homes he had singled out from the rest. The house was made of
bamboo and scraps of wood and was covered with a corrugated tin roof.
When he pulled out of the dive he did not lead the maneuver with forward
cyclic, but instead pulled in collective pitch. When he noticed the rate
of descent was too great to stop, he flared the aircraft. The new
machine fell through the flare and the newly repaired tail boom smashed
into the fragile Vietnamese home. The force of the tail boom slamming
into the hootch caused the small dwelling to explode into bits of
kindling. A large chunk of wood became a deadly missile striking and
killing a small Vietnamese boy running away in fear of the diving
helicopter.

Instead of landing immediately, Phillips flew the damaged aircraft back
to the company area. The maintenance personnel found that three of the
four bolts holding the tail boom onto the main fuselage had been sheered
off by the force of striking the house. Phillips had been lucky he got
the machine back without crashing.

Buck Phillips was immediately stripped of his command, court-martialed,
and subsequently sent back to the states. It -was later rumored he had
been seen at the primary flight-training facility at Fort Wolters in
Mineral Wells, Texas. He had been stripped of his wings and assigned to
the supply depot where he was issuing flight suits to the new warrant
officer candidates. It was also rumored that an allotment was being
deducted from his paycheck each month to pay for the damage he had
caused to the new aircraft.

Major Torq had his own problems. A general from Division Headquarters
landed in the Widow Web -the first week in August and performed a
surprise inspection of the company. After the inspection the general
told Major Torq that he had never seen a company in such an
administrative shambles, and if Torq did not want to be stripped of his
command he had better shape it up in two weeks, or else.

Another inspection was carried out at the end of the two-week period and
Major Torq passed, but only barely. For the rest of the time I was in
Charlie Company, Major Torq lived in fear of,another surprise
inspection. His new worry seemed to take the heat off me.

Although Captain Pratt was a rated aviator he was primarily an infantry
officer. For some reason headquarters at Camp Eagle sent him orders
assigning him to command the tiny TOC, Tactical Operations Center, on
the most remote piece of real estate the 101st owned. It was a tiny,
6500-foot hilltop named Eagle's Nest overlooking the A-Shau valley. He
was to command a five-man listening post during the long and wet monsoon
season. He was given one week to pack his belongings and ship out.

It seemed to me that all three had received -their just reward for
having made my life so miserable and that if perhaps they had not tried
to make my life so unpleasant some great deity upstairs would not have
punished them. I did have some lingering compassion for each man's
plight, but nonetheless, I walked around the company area for several
days with a smug grin on my face.

Because the monsoon was bearing down on us quickly we began a large
operation to evacuate the troops from the A-Shau before the rains began
that would make resupplying them nearly impossible. This was a time of
endless eight- and ten-hour days in the cockpit. Each day seemed like
the previous. I ate, flew, drank a few beers at night, then collapsed
into bed to do the same the next day.

26 August 1969

Dear Mom:

I borrowed a Super 8mm movie camera from a friend the other day and
bought five rolls of movie film from the PX. We had a mission to support
the marines up at Quang Tri so I shot a movie of our mission to send
home to you. It will show a segment of a day in the life of a helicopter
pilot over here. I sent it off to be processed so when you receive it
you'll know what it is. Please don't peek! I will edit them into a movie
and will show it to you when I get home.

I flew 140 hours in a thirty-day period so I have been grounded for three
days. That's company policy to avoid excessive pilot fatigue. It feels
good to have the time off. Maybe I'll go to Da Nang tomorrow.

The guys that were scheduled to go home in September got a ten-day drop.
I don't know why they got the drop they just did. Maybe the same will
happen to me.

I haven't received my orders for my next duty station yet. Should be
coming up soon.

The weather has been extremely hot with many 110-degree days. Sounds as
if you guys are having a good summer. Hope Andrea still enjoys her
swimming lessons. She must be getting good.

I received a letterfrom Michelle and she's back home from summer college
in Guadalajara. She said she had a good time.

Coming home is all I think about now. Our company policy is to stop
flying fifteen days before deros (date estimate return from overseas). I
don't know why I threw that in. It just came to me.

, Not much happening. Our company has stopped flying for one of our
divisions and is flying near Quang Tri for the Marines and the Special
Forces. The missions are a lot more fun.

Mom, Happy Birthday. I'll take you out for a belated birthday dinner
when I get home. Fifty days to go. I'm a two-digit midget!

Love, Randy

It was in August that I received a letter from my sister,
Nancy. She wrote to tell me that Mom had had a nervous breakdown. The
stress of my being in Vietnam and the waiting day after day for the
mailman to bring her news of whether I was alive or dead finally got the
better of her until she simply succumbed. Nancy told me the doctors
thought she would be out of the hospital in time to see me when I
arrived home.

I had reed the day I medevaced my first dead soldier that the casualties
of war are not confined to the battlefield. I wondered how many other
mothers, fathers, or family members of the men over here were suffering
the invisible wounds inflicted by this unpopular war? Receiving that
letter from Nancy shortly after the flare incident was the last straw. I
could not wait to get out of it. I'd had enough. I was finished. It was
someone else's turn.

I remember scanning my face in the shaving mirror hanging on its nail
over the crude plywood table I had built in my area. It was drawn and
soaked with perspiration. I no longer had the youthful, naive
college-boy sparkle in my blue eyes. They looked back at me with an
intensity that frightened me. There was a maturity, a knowing gaze in
the reflection. They were short timer's eyes. I was definitely not an
FNG any more. All the old guys were now gone. Ned Kelly, Dan Crawford,
Bob Coulshaw, Wishy-Washy Bernie Nivens, Les Ramson, Jeff Leach, Douglas
Julian Carson-they had all done their year and gone back to,The World. I
was now the old guy.

I lived daily by my wits and my skills as a combat helicopter pilot. By
now I had flown more than nine hundred combat hours. I had made
life-and-death decisions on a daily basis as easily as a similar young
man might make back in The World would decide what color socks to wear.with
his suit, or what time to pick up his girl to take her on a date. I
looked at myself and felt old before my time. But, paradoxically, inside
I felt charged and more alive than I had ever felt before. The lifestyle
over here affected me like a strong drug. I thrived on it. I was hooked,
addicted.

I would admit it only to myself, no one else, that I was good at what I
did. A pilot over here had to have a certain conceited, self-centered
attitude or he would never climb in the cockpit and take the machine
aloft in such hostile conditions. Nothing I've achieved in my life since
has been as rewarding as the knowledge that I had done it-flown combat
and come out of it alive. But I could not let myself be swept away by it
all. I still had forty-five days left to serve. A lot could happen in
forty-five days. A lot could happen on your last day of flying. That could
be the day the bullet with your name on it finds its mark between your
eyes. No, it would not be over, really over, until I stepped off the
plane in San Francisco. Then I could afford to drop my guard and then,
and only then, could I pat myself on the back and say, "You've made it."

I woke up, I flew, I went to bed. Day after day it was the same. I felt
like I was strapping on a Huey in the morning, like an article of
clothing, and unstrapping it after an eight or ten-hour flying day. All
the ACS were dragging. With such monotony quite small things in our
lives would keep our spirits up, like the night we told an FNG pilot to
sleep in Stony Rutherford's bunk when Rutherford was on R&R.

After evening chow Tom Shonehour led the new guy down the hall to
Rutherford's area. It was across a small hallway from mine.

"Afraid it's the only place we have for you to sleep," Tom said
apologetically. "I'm really sorry about that."

The new guy was short, about Joe's height. He was thin too and had a
high, squeaky voice. "No need to be sorry. This'll do just fine," he
said as he threw his duffel t)ag onto Stony's bunk.

I was just across from Stony's area, sitting back in my folding chair
drinking vodka and orange soda, when I said, as we had rehearsed,
"Shonehour, you really think it's a good idea for him to sleep there?"

Tom shrugged, "I don't think it's catching. Besides the sheets have been
changed."

The FNGS face showed immediate concern. "Whatta ya mean you don't think
it's catching? Something wrong with the bunk?"

"Oh no. Of course not. It's fine. Don't listen to Mains over there. He's
just ultraconservative on health issues. You'll be just fine sleeping
here."

"Health issues? What health issues?"

"You mean you didn't tell him, Tom?" I scolded.

"No need to worry the man needlessly, Randy. Just drop it will ya?

"Drop what?" the FNG was hooked.

"Oh, nothing," I said flippantly. "Tom's probably right.

You'll be OK. I'm probably overreacting. Just forget it." I took a sip
of my drink and pretended to lean over in my chair and search for
something on top of my plywood desk.

I could sense our victim looking at me and then assessing Tom. "OK, you
guys. What's wrong with the guy who usually lives in this area?"

"Nothing," Tom said innocently.

I turned to face Tom. "Nothing, Tom? Come on, I think it's only fair to
let him know what happened to Rutherford. After all, if the same happens
to him who can he blame? If you tell him then he can take the necessary
precautions."

"Necessary precautions? What necessary precautions!"

We really had this one good, I thought.

Tom closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "Oh, all right."

He looked into the expectant eyes of the FNG and said, "Stony Rutherford
had to be medevaced for a slight health problem."

"What kind of health problem?"

Tom looked at me. I nodded as if to say go ahead tell him. Then he
looked back at the FNG. "He had to be taken out on a stretcher because
of ... well ... he had terminal crabs."

terminal crabs!" The FNG shouted and quickly grabbed his duffel bag and
dragged it out of Stony's area into mine.

"Goddanm, don't fucking bring them in here!" I shouted.

The startled FNG jumped back into the small hall between the two areas,
dragging his duffel bag with him. "Well, shit, what do I do then?"

Tom spoke coolly. "The place has been fumigated. His sheets have been
burned. The area has been inspected by the division doctor and given a
clean bill of health." Tom pointed to Stony's crude desk. "See those
four green cans of louse powder?"

"Yes."

"Well, if it'll make you feel more at ease you can sprinkle that powder
around the area. If there're any more of the little suckers around that
stuff'll take care of em." Tom turned to leave. With his back to the FNG
he gave me a wink. I nodded. Tom said, "I'll check to see how you're
doing tomorrow. Sweet dreams, " he said, then left. The FNG stood
outside Rutherford's area for several minutes contemplating what to do.
I pretended to be going about my business. Finally I heard him drag his
duffel bag into Stony's area. Five minutes passed then I heard the FNG
say, "There. That ought to take care of any of the crabs that were
left."

I walked over to see what he'd done. It looked as if a snow storm had
hit Stony Rutherford's area. Everything, and I mean everything, was
covered with white louse powder. All four cans of the stuff.

"Yeah, that ought to do it," I said slapping the FNGS shoulder. A small
cloud of white powder rose when I did so. I chuckled to myself and went
back to my area to turn in for the night.

paid Shone hour back in the most bizarre manner for his prank on the
FNG. He, Joe, and I were in the club one night g beer. Shonehour
hollered over the song playing on the stereo, "Be right back. Gotta take
a piss!"

Joe and I continued our conversation at the bar. Ten minutes later Tom
burst into the club, stomped on the likeness of the Screaming Eagle on
the floor, and came over to us. "I'm going to kill my goddamn hootch
maid.

"Why?" Joe asked.

"Cuz she caused me to piss in my pants, that's fucking why."

We both looked down at Tom's soiled crotch and laughed. Joe asked, "And
how'd she make you piss in your pants?"

To our astonishment Tom unbuckled his pants and let them fall to his
ankles. By now most the officers in the club were watching him. He
pointed to his fly. "Because the silly bitch sewed my boxer shorts shut,
that's why. She must of thought they'd ripped open and sewed them up. I
was bustin' for a piss right then and I couldn't find the goddamn hole.
By the time I got my cock out of my pants I had nearly filled up both
boots." He bent down to pull up his pants. "Wait till I get my hands on
her. She's dead. She's dead I tell you!" All the men got a good laugh
out of that one.

When Tom returned to his hootch that night he inspected the rest of his
green boxer shorts and, as he had guessed, they had all been neatly sewn
shut.

CHAPTER 13.

September 1969

Ushering Back a Lost Tradition.

The FNG who spent his first few nights in Stony Rutherford's area was
quickly gaining a reputation. In Joe Sulak's words, "That new guy is
turning into a real dildo. II The FNG did have a name. His name was
Anthony Ambrose. The second day Ambrose was in company he managed to
discharge his .38 revolver in our hootch, firing a bullet through four
of the living areas and out the screen door at the other end. On hearing
the discharge everyone dove to the dusty plywood floor of the hootch.
Luckily no one was hit by the stray round.

Richard Michaelson, a pilot who had been with the Blackwidows for six
months and had moved into Ned Kelly's old area, picked himself up off
the floor, stormed over, and grabbed the still smoking weapon from the
startled Ambrose. "Watch what the fuck you're doing, goddamn it. You
trying to kill somebody?"

The FNG smiled stupidly at Michaelson without answering.

"You think it's fucking funny you almost blew one of us away just now?"

"No, it's just that .

"Just that, what? That you don't know how to handle a fucking simple
weapon?" Michaelson inspected the revolver ensuring that there were no
more rounds in the six chambers before throwing it onto Ambrose's bunk.
"You do that again and I'll personally make sure you don't touch another
weapon again. Understand?"

The FNG nodded dumbly, but it was not to be the last time he would get
in trouble for firing his .38 without permission.

Several days later he was flown by the company instructor pilot, along
with another new pilot, to the training area outside the perimeter at LZ
Sally for their company check ride. While the IP and the other FNG were
flying the training maneuvers, Ambrose sat on the dike of a rice paddy
waiting for his turn. He spotted some pigs and thought it would be good
sport to shoot pigs belonging to a Vietnamese farmer. He shot and killed
three of them. The IP spotted him being chased by the irate farmer
across the area they were training in. He guided the aircraft down
alongside the running FNG, picking him up just as the farmer was about
to get his hands on him. That episode was strike two against Ambrose.
Strike three would get him transferred to the 158th. The incident in
question happened several days later.

Ambrose was given the simple task of loading a two and-a-half-ton truck
with ammunition from the ammunition dump at Camp Eagle. He was to drive
it back to Phu Bai. It seemed like a simple enough task, but not for
Warrant Officer One Ambrose. He had the enlisted men load the truck so
full of am-munition the weight of it broke the truck's rear axle before
it could be moved from the ammo dump. Ambrose never flew one mission
with the Blackwidows. Major Torq had him shipped out of the company that
same afternoon.

7 September 1969

Hi:

Received Nancy's postcard so I thought I'd send a letter to you. Not
much happening. I estimate twenty more flying days for me now. I need to
fly about sixty more hours to make 1100 combat hours. Twenty days or
sixty hours whichever comes first will put an end to my flying. That's
company policy. I'll probably, get bored not flying the last couple of
days here, but if I do fly I won't be assigned a mission where I "hang
it out" too much. That's the way it's done.

I finally got my orders and, after a one month's home leave, I'll be
going to Fort Wolters, Texas, where I'll become a flight instructor. My
friend here named Joe Sulak who I went to flight school with, received
his order "; and he is going to Fort Wolters too. We've decided we are
going to rent an apartment together in Fort Worth.

Being stationed at Fort Wolters will allow me to be home for Christmas
which should be fun.

I'm still waiting to see if the people who Deros in October get a drop.
If I do that would get me home earlier than the ]5th. Here's hoping, but
I'm not counting on it.

Not much else to tell except I am still flying a lot and believe it or
not I still enjoy it.

Take care, Randy

Tom Shonehour and I had a flight over the fence into
Laos to pick up a special forces team whose position had been
compromised. They had called for extraction because they were being
chased by the enemy with tracking dogs.

We were flying at two thousand feet. We had flown past Co Rock and were
a few miles into Laos when a large puff of black smoke suddenly appeared
between our two helicopters. It was the first time that such a thing had
happened to me. It surprised me, and rather than take precious time to
analyze what was happening, I had learned that when something did not
look right to react first and ask questions later. So I banked the
machine hard left. Another burst of black smoke exploded between Tom's
ship and mine. I could see Tom banking his ship to the right.

"You see that, Tom?" I radioed.

"Roger that. Was that what I think it was?"

"Flack? Yeah, I think so, Tom."

I leveled out, flying ninety degrees from our original heading. I had
only seen flack in war movies, never over here.

Our , escorting gunship pilot radioed, "We saw where it came from,
Blackwidow. We're rolling in hot."

"Roger, Gunslinger."

We watched the two Cobra gunships dive and fire a pair of rockets, 40mm,
and minigun bursts on the spot in the jungle from which they saw the
37mm come. There definitely had been something down there, because after
the second ship fired and pulled up there were several large secondary
explosions.

"That should do it, Blackwidow. I think we've neutralized the position.
You can continue heading west."

"Good job, Gunslinger," Tom radioed.

Tom and I joined up in loose formation and returned to a heading to fly
to the location of the special forces team.

We were able to hover over the Laotian jungle, drop our ropes, and
extract the team without incident. What distinguished this from the
other pickups I'd flown with the special forces was that, along with a
team member, I now had a prisoner dangling under my aircraft.

On the flight back to Vandergrift, while we were flying at two thousand
feet and 60 knots, Taylor leaned over his M-60 gun mount to check on the
two men on the separate 150-foot strings. "Sir, they're fighting," the
crew chief said excitedly.

"What?"

"The special forces guy's fighting with the prisoner he picked up."

I radioed to Tom. "We got a problem, Tom."

He was flying a half klick off our right wing position and closing.
"Yeah, I can see. They're going at it like a couple of torn cats. The
gook's got your guy upside-down and he's swinging his fists like a wild
man."

"Who's winning?" I could feel the ruckus through the flight controls.

"Can't tell. Wait a minute ... Now the gook's upsidedown. They're locked
leg and leg. Wait one. .. they're both upside-down. Goddamn, it
looks like a cat fight in midair. Now the gook's clawing at the special
forces guy's face. Wait a minute ... he's pulling a knife. "Who's
pulling a knife?" I asked, alarmed.

"Special forces guy. Shit, he's hacking at the prisoner's rope. He's
trying to cut him loose!"

"What?"

"Shit, the gook's = fighting now. Goddamn, there he goes. Fuck!

I banked left, away from Tom's aircraft, and looked over the armor
plating out the window of my door. I could see the body falling, arms
and legs flapping wildly, scratching at the thick, hot air as if trying
to fly. The man turned into a speck then disappeared against the green,
leafy backdrop of the jungle below. I leveled the craft and took a deep
breath. I radioed to Tom." Shit! What a way to go."

"Guess the gook took exception to being captured."

"Yeah. But even so ... anything's got to be better than being cut loose
at two thousand feet."

"Guess the dink thought differently."

"Yeah," I answered. "Guess so."

I thought about the commitment of the enemy and my own lack of it. I
doubted I would have put up a fight like that if the roles were
reversed. Or would I? Over here, probably not. But if I were fighting
for God, country, Mom, and Disneyland on home soil, yes, I probably
would. But not over here. And certainly not now. Let the new guys be the
gung-ho freedom fighters. I had nearly done my time. I felt like I had
completed a one-year prison sentence. I was reaching the end of my
rotation in the seemingly never-ending cycle of faces shipped over here
to then be shipped back 365 days later. It was someone else's turn.

I seriously questioned my I-don't-give-a-shit attitude. But why should I
be any different from any of my predecessors? They had set the pattern
of behavior all along and I, as well as Joe and Tom, had followed it to
the letter. We had been good students and we had learned well. I had
only one thing on my mind at this stage in my army career: to make it
home alive. Let the heroics go to the FNGS who didn't know any better,
or to the crazy sons of bitches that thrived on war; like Ned Kelly.

I had heard that Kelly was back in country after signing up for another
six months in Vietnam. In a letter he said he could obtain an early out
from the army by doing so. But I knew better. He liked flying over here.
The crazy, seat-of-the-pants lifestyle had crept into his blood.

The company instructor pilot still preferred to use the green area
outside LZ Sally to perform pilot training and to give check rides. On
one of our pilot-training missions outside LZ Sally the instructor pilot
was late to recover from an autorotation and the aircraft landed hard
and slid into a high clump of earth, tearing off the right skid. The
instructor flew the aircraft back to Phu Bai and decided to pull a prank
on the air traffic controller in the tower.

"Phu Bai tower, this is Blackwidow One-Three. I've got a
landing-gear-unsafe indication warning in the cockpit. I'd like to do a
fly-by and wondered if you could check it out."

"Roger, Blackwidow One-Three. I'll be looking for YOU. "Roger, tower. Be
there in five mikes."

Of course there are no such things as gear indication lights in the
Huey. The skids, permanently attached to the airframe, do not move. When
the instructor flew by the tower at forty knots and the controller saw
that only the left skid was visible he panicked. "Blackwidow One-Three,
don't land, I repeat, don't land. I can see only one skid down. You must
have a hang up."

"I gotta bring her in," the IP said in his finest Hollywood
never-say-die, film-star voice. "The men're waiting for me in the Widow
Web. Request permission to land."

"Negative, negative, Blackwidow One-Three. I repeat, I see only one
skid. Do not land. I repeat, do not land!"

"Gotta bring her in tower. Sorry. Blackwidow One-three out."

The controller was screaming now, "Negative! Negative! Do not land!

Repeat, do not land! Blackwidow One-Three acknowledge!

Acknowledge, over!"

The stunned tower controller watched as the olive-drab aircraft
descended behind a row of hootches and disappeared into the Widow Web. I
imagine he watched expecting to see a huge explosion and a cloud of
black smoke appear on the horizon. What he couldn't see was the
maintenance team waiting for the crippled bird. The aircraft landed on
one skid and hovered in a level attitude while the team of men rushed
forward and piled a mound of sand bags under the area where the damaged
skid had been. The IP had to hold the hover for about three minutes
before being given the thumbs up sign to shut down. The only black smoke
on the horizon that afternoon was from the burning shit and jet fuel
from the latrines at Phu Bai.

Na Trang, a small coastal village five klicks northeast of Sally, had to
be evacuated. A sprawling, underground bunker complex had been
discovered there and the 101st wanted to level it.

I picked up a full colonel and several interpreters from Camp Eagle and
landed outside the ville. When we landed I could see refugees waiting to
be airlifted to another village. They had all their worldly belongings
with them and were being held in a fenced-in area guarded by a group of
idle soldiers. The colonel riding in back asked me if I had ever seen an
underground bunker complex. When I told him I hadn't he asked if I would
like to take a look. He assured me the area-was secure, so I rolled the
throttle to flight idle, gave the controls to my peter pilot, and took
off my chicken plate and flight helmet before following the colonel into
the ville.

It felt strange to be on the ground. My role in fighting this war was to
fly over it in my helicopter, entering into the ground portion of combat
only sporadically as I dropped off and picked up the troops. Entering
the ville, which had recently been the scene of a fierce ground battle,
made me feel a little uncomfortable. The .38 I had strapped on my hip
seemed woefully inadequate right now.

Grunts were milling about everywhere in what must have. been a typical
post-battle scene. Most were still wearing camouflaged steel helmets and
olive-drab flack jackets. They carried their weapons, M-16s, M-60s, or
M-79 grenade launchers, lazily over shoulders, cradled in the crook of
an arm or pointed at the ground. Some were walking individually and
others talked animatedly in groups. An air of quiet peace pervaded and I
began to relax. That is until I heard the crackling of gunfire from an
M-60. I nearly dove to the dirt. The colonel and the two Vietnamese
interpreters did not seem to be concerned. The colonel laughed at my
attack of the jitters. "Probably just trying to clear out any new
tunnels they've discovered, " he told me.

I nodded nervously, relieved to hear the explanation.

We passed twenty or so dead Vietnamese lined up outside a hole in the
ground. Some were blown to pieces with arms and legs missing. Others had
only small puncture wounds, tiny red dots from grenade fragments. Nearly
one quarter of the bodies were female. The tops of their black silk
pajamas had been pulled up to their arm pits exposing their breasts. The
pants had been pulled down below the knees exposing the pubic area. Even
after being over here for nearly a year I was shocked at this sight.
Somehow, their partially nude bodies marked the final sacrilege Of their
death. It was a grotesque and cruel affront to their personal dignity
and privacy.

I felt a macabre fascination for the death which confronted me, an
irresistible compulsion to. look closely at the bodies lying there on
the dirt. Most of the corpses had gaping mouths and unseeing, half-open
eyes. I had never looked into the eyes of a dead man before. Most of
those I had carried had been encased in body bags which lent an
impersonal detachment to their deaths. I'd only had to deal with green
shapes, not the once walking, talking, living, breathing individual
encased inside. There had been the blond boy whose young face had
emerged from the bag in the wind. But his eyes had been closed. He
looked peaceful, as if he were just sleeping. But as I looked at these
bodies, I could tell there had been agony, and surprise, in their
deaths. I studied the eyes. Like those of a fish left in the sun too
long, they were dry and clouded. I noticed that some of the dead had
their ears cut off. These would be kept as war trophies, souvenirs. I
now recalled the story Lorraine had told me on the beach in Panama City
about the pictures of dead and mutilated Vietnamese her husband had sent
her. I felt sickened at the sight before me and turned away.

The colonel was given a tour of the bunker complex by the lieutenant
whose company had found and destroyed it. We did not enter the various
holes scattered around the ville. I would not have been able to bring
myself to do so anyway, but we were shown the several entry and exit
holes of what, we were told, was an underground Vietcong headquarters.
Alongside some of the entrances there were more Vietnamese bodies laid
out in a line. Once again, the women had their tops pulled up and
bottoms pulled down, and some of the men had their ears cut off. I had
seen enough. I asked the colonel if I could begin ferrying the refugees
to Tay Hoang, the next village approximately ten klicks up the coast. He
gave me the go ahead, and I walked back to the waiting chopper.

I flew for more than three hours moving men, women, children, pigs,
chickens, and personnel possessions. On one sortie, whereas we usually
carried six fully loaded combat troops, I flew twenty-two men, women,
and children plus their belongings. My crew chief, Taylor, remarked that
the Huey looked like a Tijuana taxi. He wasn't wrong.

The human waste I'd seen in the village that day troubled me. It somehow
brought the reality of the war too close. Up until then, for nearly a
year, I had managed to keep it at arm's length. For several days
afterward I dreamed of the dead men and women lying in rows and thanked
my stars for two things: One, that I had not been a grunt. Two, that my
going home date was less than a month away.

19 September 1969

Hi:

Received your September ]5th letter. Well it looks like I won't get my
drop. I haven't heard anything, but I am so short now that a few days
doesn't make any difference one way or the other. I can't wait to get
back to the world. I try not to think about it too much, but I can't
stop myself. It sure has been a long, long year. It's going to be weird
to get back to the world, I tell you. Seeing girls again, being able to
go out and buy a good meal any time I want. Go shopping in a real
department store, trade my green wardrobe in to wear civilian clothes
again, go to a real movie. The freedom will be mind boggling. Right now
I can't imagine it. The first week I'm home will probably be dedicated
to just trying to adjust and rid my mind of the combat mind set I've had
to develop to survive over here. I can't wait to drive my sports car
along coast highway with the stereo blasting out "Aquarius " by The
Fifth Dimension. That's my favorite song over here.

I stop flying missions in 11 more days. Eleven days! I can't believe it.
I guess I won't believe it until it's all over and done with. It's -fun
being an old guy because if there are any questions from the new guys
I'm called on to answer them.

Joe Sulak and I had to write an article for the 101st Airborne newspaper
drawing from our experiences. We were asked to write a helpful article
that would be of importance to other aviators in the division.

Not much else happening. The monsoon season is moving in now following
its normal cycle. The weather is getting pretty bad. I'll close for now
but will write again soon.

Randy

Joe, Tom, and I had graduated from flight school 23 September
1968. On 23 September 1969, we received orders promoting us to CW2,
chief warrant officer two. The promotion to CW2 was one of a series of
events that were milestones in the short timer's calendar. It meant, in
effect, that you were next to leave country.

There was a party in the club that night. The bartender, Spec-4 Flowers,
had finished his tour and had gone home, but his Blushing Asshole recipe
and the tradition of drinking for one's rank still persisted. Tom, Joe,
and I drank for our new bars to the cadence of the men surrounding us,
all of whom were now FNGS in our eyes, yelling, "GO! GO! GO! GO!" From
that night onward, after having seen probably twenty other pilots
receive their new rank of CW2, I finally felt like an old timer. The
three of us celebrated with beer mixed with three or four Blushing
Assholes, our arms around each other's necks, singing our hearts out to
the songs emanating from the reel-to-reel. I staggered back to the
hootch and fell into my bunk in the early hours of the next morning.

On 30 September 1969 I flew my last mission with the Blackwidows. It was
a multiship operation to extract a company of soldiers from a moderately
tight landing zone east of the A-Shau. I knew in advance it was my last
mission in Vietnam. In many ways it would have been better if the ops
officer had just come up to me one day and told me that the mission I'd
just flown had been my last. The knowledge that I was now flying my last
mission added a nagging tension to what should have been a routine trip.
I tried to enjoy it knowing it would probably be the last time in my
military career I would fly the Bell Huey, having made up my mind to get
out of the service as fast as Uncle Sam would let me.

I was flying with a new peter pilot named Zydel. He was young,
smooth-faced, eager, and enthusiastic, just as I had been twelve months
before. He had carried out the preflight at first light that morning and
was strapped into the. copilot's seat ready to hit the starter switch
when I am AC of the ship. I did my own preflight and climbed in. Without
speaking to him, I asked the gunner and crew chief if they were ready
and as soon as they replied I started the engine.

After making the radio call to Flight Lead the six of us took off from
the Widow Web. Our aircraft was Chock Two in the formation. I didn't as
much as look at the FNG sitting next to me. Besides making the radio
calls I guess I didn't talk much either. Finally, having waited long
enough for me to brief him or even acknowledge his presence, he pressed
the floor transmit button and asked, "What do you want me to do?"

I looked over at Zydel and was about to speak when, suddenly, I
remembered my first mission in country with CW2 Crawford. He had told me
to just sit there and monitor my bootlaces and that if he got shot I was
supposed to fly him to the hospital in Phu Bai. That was more or less
what I wanted to say now in the same circumstances. I wondered if I was
now staring at him with the same haggard, short timer's eyes? I forced a
smile. "I'll take her into the LZ the first time. If it's not too tight,
and you feel you can handle it, you can take her in after that." Zydel
smiled. "Thanks," he said enthusiastically.

I cannot remember how long we flew that day, but I do remember my peter
pilot thanking me profusely for letting him take the ship into the
moderately tight landing zone. He confessed to me that he'd had problems
with his pedal control in flight school. Landing in the LZ that day had
helped alleviate some of his fear. I told him I'd had the same anxiety
when I was new and that he needn't worry, he would quickly get the hang
of it.

In the "old days," when the Blackwidows were based up at Sally, it had
been the custom for an AC on his last mission to perform a low,
high-speed fly-by of the company area. Since Major Torq took over no one
had done it, but I figured it was about time to dust off the old
tradition.

We flew back as a formation flight of six aircraft. I radioed to Flight
Lead that I wanted to do a fly-by to celebrate my last mission. We
switched places so that I was now flying Flight Lead. I guided the
echelon right formation at 110 knots and five hundred feet over the
Widow Web. On my command I began the steep, right break. The aircraft
pealed off behind us at three-second intervals. I kept up the airspeed
and dove at the pad, leveling out at 120 knots, and then flew at what, I
was later told, looked like about three feet between the rows of
revetments. We were approaching a hootch at the end of the Widow Web and
I pulled back hard on the cyclic nosing the craft skyward. I vaguely
remember seeing a gold television aerial on top of that hootch. I
continued to pull back on the cyclic until it felt like the nose of the
helicopter was pointing straight up. Zydel grabbed the front of the
instrument panel with both hands, pulled his body forward against the G
forces, looked over at me and yelled, "Are yoooouuuuuu ssshhhittttinnggg
meeee!"

When the airspeed dropped to zero I kicked in right pedal to do a torque
turn. Now it appeared as if we were nosed straight down at the Widow
Web. I could see the other aircraft on short final landing in single
file. In the dive the yellow needle of the airspeed indicator quickly
registered eighty knots. I leveled out and set up for a normal approach
to the pad.

When we landed Ned Kelly was there to greet me. He walked over to the
revetment, threw open the door of the chopper, and slid back the armored
plate as the blades coasted to a stop. "Goddamn, Mains, that was some
flyby. Good to see you're bringing back the old tradition. Haven't seen
one of those since Sally."

I shook his hand, with mine still encased in a Nomex glove. "Well,
goddamn yourself, Kelly. Whend you get here?

"Got in country two weeks ago. Flew up this morning from II Corps.
Thought I'd check in to see how you're doing. I can see you haven't
changed. Torq caught the flyby. He looked pissed off."

"Torq, yeah, I wouldn't doubt that."

I got out and squatted down to glance under the aircraft. Along the
belly, forward of where the tail boom attaches to the fuselage, I could
see a one-foot-long gold line where I had nicked the television aerial
on the hootch. I reached under and rubbed the mark off with my glove.
There was no damage. I stood and looked across the Widow Web at the roof
of the hootch. I could see the aerial still standing. Must have just
grazed it," I said.

"Yes siree, that was one hell of a fly-by," Kelly said again.

As Kelly and I were walking back from the Widow Web to operations he
told me about his signing up for another six months in Vietnam. He said
that going back to Fort Wolters to instruct brand new students would be
too boring for him after the excitement over here. I could only tell him
he was nuts, and he did not dispute my observation.

When I got to Ops I was told to report to Major Torq immediately. I
knocked on his screen door, entered his office, walked up to his desk,
saluted smartly, and said, "Sir, CW2 Mains, reporting as ordered."

He was sitting at his desk and returned the salute. As usual he looked
pissed off. "Sit down, Mains."

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to tell me what in hell that was out there just now?" I
feigned ignorance. "What, sir?"

"You know what I'm talking about. That childish aerial display just now.
What do you think you were doing?"

I decided to tell him straight. "Trying to bring back some of the esprit
de corps that used to be in this company, sir.

"What do you mean, Mains? You think flying like an aerial cowboy breeds
esprit de corps?"

"I think you've missed the point, sir.

His face went scarlet and he pointed a stubby index finger at me, "No,
mister, I have not missed the point. You've obviously missed the point.
Your military bearing and personal discipline are nonexistent. And I'll
tell you something: If you didn't have less than a week left in Charlie
Company, and if I hadn't already given you an Article-15, I would bring
you up on charges. As it is I'm grounding you for thirty days and
placing a letter to that effect in your personnel file.

"But sir, I've flown my last mission. I go on leave for thirty days. I
won't be flying during that time anyway. Why bother?"

Major Torqs face molded into a self-satisfied grin. "The written
reprimand will let the commander at your next duty station know what
he's getting, Mains. That's what purpose it'll serve."

I decided not to argue. There was no point. In part, the reprimand
placed in my file read: "Warrant Officer Mains has demonstrated a
flagrant and total disregard for government property and for published
rules and procedures when he performed the unauthorized fly-by on 30
September 1969." I especially liked the part where it stated: then the
nose of the aircraft exceeded 70-degrees nose-up pitch attitude. Mr.
Mains performed a right 180-degree torque turn maneuvering the
helicopter in a 70-degree nose-down pitch attitude in the dive.

The rest of the men in the company loved it. My final gesture was
toasted and lauded and I was unable to buy a drink in the club that
night. It was pleasing to hear that the fly-by tradition would be
resurrected and adopted as SOP, standard operating procedure, by future
pilots of the Blackwidows, regardless of what the old man said. Joe,
Tom, a visiting Ned Kelly, and I drank heartily that night to the legacy
I was leaving to the Blackwidows.

CHAPTER 14.

October 1, 1969

"One in Three, Candidate. One in Three!"

Dear Mom:

Just a cheery note to let you know that I flew my last mission
yesterday. I also have some good news that I received from the ops
officer about a half hour ago. I'll be home three days early! That'll be
on October 12th! So expect me to call you from San Francisco
International the 11th or 12th. I'll tell you then what time to meet me
at Los Angeles International. I am so anxious to get home I nearly can't
stand it. See you guys in eleven days!

Love, Randy

Joe Sulak's last flight in country was a memorable one as
well. His last mission was a PsyOps mission to be flown over the coastal
communities. His mission required him to fly from LZ Tomahawk, a fire
support base situated north of Da Nang, all the way up to the DMZ. After
finding the large underground bunker complex in the ville northeast of
Sally, headquarters thought a PsyOps mission would be in order.

A PsyOps mission, or psychological operations mission, was used in
conjunction with the Chien Hoi.program. Chien hoi means open arms in
Vietnamese. An optimistic psychologist somewhere in the Pentagon came up
with the idea of the Chien Hoi program as a psychological weapon that,
if used properly, might convince the enemy to give up and, hopefully,
switch sides.

The helicopter's role in a PsyOps mission begins when technicians place
huge loudspeakers facing at a forty-five-degree angle outward, in the
open area where the troops usually sit in the back of the helicopter. An
interpreter sits in the back of the helicopter and speaks into a
microphone. His message is fed into an amplifier boosting it into
megawatts of power. The message is then blasted over the air asking the
enemy to give up and promising him good things if he does.

To obtain the best coverage in an aerial PsyOps mission the pilot must
fly the Huey over the area at low level and at a low airspeed. Joe was
not too happy about the flight configuration, but he figured the area he
was going to fly over was secure so he went ahead without complaint.

For two hours he flew over rice paddies and coastal communities, the
interpreter's voice blaring, telling the enemy hiding below to lay down
his arms and come over to our side. At the same time his assistant was
kicking out Chien Hoi leaflets with the same message printed on them.
When the area on the map had been covered and all the leaflets had been
thrown out the door, the interpreter told Joe he could return to Phu
Bai. That is when Joe had a brilliant idea to cap off his last flight in
country. He asked for the microphone and the puzzled Vietnamese
interpreter handed it to him. Joe instructed his peter pilot to fly low
and slow over the 101st headquarters at Phu Bai. The peter pilot did as
he was told.

So, from the slow flying, low flying U.S. Army Huey came the message in
Joe's slow Texas drawl, "Attention, attention, attention, yankee
imperialist pigs! Throw down your arms, drop all weapons and give up! I
repeat. Throw down your arms, drop all weapons and give up! Chien hoi!

Chien hoi! Chien hoi!"

He made several passes over the startled soldiers on the ground who were
looking skyward, mouths agape, and Joe kept repeating the message.

After he landed back at the Widow Web he walked into ops and called
headquarters. He found out that the switchboard had lit up following his
PsyOps message. At last count there were thirty-two American soldiers
who had called in to lay down their arms and give themselves up!

What most of us considered incredible about the incident was that, for
some unexplained reason, Joe did not get into trouble for his
treasonable act. We were all genuinely shocked, but glad that the army
had finally developed a sense of humor.

4 October 1969

Hi:

I received your letter dated September 30th. I would suggest that the
best days to wait for my phone call telling you I have arrived in San
Francisco are between the 12th or 13th. I have no idea of what time,
though.

The departure routine from here goes like this: I clear company four to
five days prior to my return date to the States. I leave for Bien Hoa,
our division rear area, where I finish clearing and get manifested on a
plane for San Francisco. From there I will book myself on a flight for
L.A. when I find out my flight number and time of arrival in Los Angeles
I'll call you from San Francisco so that you can be waiting. That's how
it works.

This will be my last letter. God, those are beautiful words. I "I'll see
you at the airport.

Love, Randy

The day before Joe, Tom, and I were to leave Charlie Company
for Bien Hoa to begin our out-processing, Joe and Tom entered my hootch
and asked me if I'd like to join them at the Widow Web to say good-bye
to a good friend. I walked along with them to take one last look at the
machine that, through its reliability and forgiving nature, had been a
patient teacher. She had brought us back home safely from every mission.
We discovered that our combined combat flying hours totaled more than
three thousand for the year. She had served us well. She had taken us
from fledgling FNG pilots, barely able to keep her in control, to the
now highly experienced, capable aviators we were. In aviation terms she
had nurtured us from the cradle and taken us to manhood. Joe, Tom, and I
agreed that we would miss flying the reliable Huey which had become a
valued and treasured friend.

Standing next to the Huey in the Widow Web, the three of us reminisced
about the year. We told our war stories in shorthand as we knew each
other's experiences by heart. Tom began, "Remember when the NVA rushed
my aircraft and I was going to shoot the bastards with my pearlhandled
pistol?" Joe and I laughed. Then Joe said, "I keep thinking about that
hover hole and the RPG Charlie fired through the tail rotor. Damn that
was a close one."

"Kelly and I thought you'd had it, Sulak," I said. "And what about that
mortar attack at Vandergrift we flew into with the pad blowing up in
front of me on short final?"

Joe shook his head, "A few seconds later you'd have been history,
partner."

Then we got onto the subject of the -one-in-three odds of getting killed
that we had heard so much about in flight school. Tom boasted that we'd
beaten the odds. I wasn't yet so sure. I wondered about Stu Lindsey and
Bob Lawson to whom I had been closer during flight school than I had
been to Joe or Tom. Were they still alive? Had they, too, made it
unscathed? I would find out when I got to the out-processing station.

Joe, Tom, and I said our good-byes to the officers and enlisted men in
Charlie Company and caught a C-130 to Bien Hoa from Phu Bai. We found it
difficult to believe we were going home at last, that we had actually
made it through our year.

When we arrived at Bien Hoa to out-process a clerk reviewed my records
then said, "You can't leave country until you pay your fine."

"Fine, what fine?"

"Says here you were issued an Article-15 in July. Is that correct?"

"I was told I was going to get one, but I never saw it."

"Well it's right here." He showed me, then held out his hand. "That'll
be two hundred dollars."

"Two hundred dollars!"

"Says so right here. You can either pay or stay."

"That's one hell of a choice." I pulled out the money from my wallet. I
had just been to the paymaster. This visit to division administration
was my last stop. "Here." I paid him using two crisp one hundred dollar
bills. "Now can I leave?"

"Yes, sir. Oh yes, wait. There's one more thing."

"What's that?"

He handed me a large envelope then reached under his counter and handed
me a small blue case. I opened it. Inside with its red, white, and blue
ribbon was a Distinguished Flying Cross.

I looked up at him and laughed. "Why does it seem ironic to me that I
pay you two hundred dollars for blowing cigar smoke in a captain's face,
then you award me a DFC?"

"You blew smoke in a captain's face, sir?"

"Uh Huh."

"Right on! Oh yes, and congratulations on your DFC, sir. You see, I
couldn't give it to you until your records had been cleared. Paying the
fine unflagged them."

"Thanks." I chuckled and added, "What a crazy fucking place."

"You got that shit right, sir. This fucking place is fucking loony
tunes."

The mood at the out-processing center felt like a homecoming event. The
men I had shipped in with a year before and then had become separated
from were now shipping out. I recognized a lot of my friends from flight
school. The greetings were almost always the same. When you saw a
familiar face you rushed over, shook hands, then immediately exchanged
news about who had been killed or wounded. After having talked to my
friends and from their information I figured we probably lost 25 percent
of our class.

I finally saw Bob Lawson. He was standing at the bar in the officer's
club. I yelled his name and we rushed toward one another and embraced. I
held him at arm's length by his shoulders and said, "Goddamn, Bob, I
never thought I'd be so glad to see your ugly face again."

He was beaming. "It's good to see you too, Randy." He started to
apologize, "Goddamn, I wanted to write to you but ... I waved him off.
"Forget it, Bob. Me too. Hell, I understand  ..."

I was afraid to ask the next question. I took a deep breath and summoned
up the courage. "What about Stu?"

He shook his head. "Last I heard he got shot down. From what I could
gather they shot out his tail rotor and he went in spinning. There was a
fire. He's alive, but I heard he got hurt pretty bad." The news hit me
hard. "Shit."

"He's in the VA hospital in Long Beach. We can see him when we're on
leave."

We traded war stories. Bob had been shot down twice and had crashed
once. He had been lucky. After hearing about my year he told me I had
been lucky also.

The mood inside the Boeing 707 that was to fly us home was electric. As
it began its takeoff roll down the runway I got the feeling that every
man was mentally willing it off the ground. When it finally gained
flying speed the nose lifted and it rotated into the air. As the wheels
left Vietnam so did all the men let out a cheer that could have been
heard back at Phu Bai. I was going home. I looked over at Bob seated
next to me at the window seat. He was watching the hootches, the green
jungle, the black smoke from the burning shit, the Vietnamese villages,
and the rice paddies disappear beneath us as that big, beautiful freedom
bird climbed for altitude. He looked over at me. His eyes were tearing.
He clenched his jaw and gave me a hearty thumbs up sign. He turned and
looked out the window again. I settled back in my seat. Damn, I was
going home!

Home to my family. It was like a dream. I could not believe it was
happening.

Filled with nervous energy I sat up and looked around the plane. If
someone had given me five dollars for every smile I could count I would
have been a rich man. Yes, I told myself, I do believe it now. It is
truly happening. I am really going home.

I didn't know what to expect when I stepped off the plane in San
Francisco. By the stories I'd heard I half expected to get shot at by an
antiwar demonstrator. I wondered about the change in sentiment towards
the war. How bad was it really? And were people back home actually
hurling verbal abuse at the people who fought in Vietnam? I would find
out soon enough.

When I emerged from the plane's door in San Francisco I paused for a
moment and took in a deep breath of the crisp night air. I could feel
the freedom in the air. It was something tangible. It seemed to recharge
me after the twenty-two-hour flight. I was home. Home in California!

Dressed in my wrinkled army greens, pungent with the smell of a year in
a mildewed foot locker, I rushed into the terminal. I fought through the
crowds of civilians and booked a flight to Los Angeles. I called my
folks. Mom answered. She and my best friend and surfing buddy, Greg
Omberg, had been waiting by the phone for my call. She said, "Randy, oh
Randy, are you here?"

"Yeah, Mom. I made it. I'm home!" I gave her my flight details. "See you
in two hours."

"TWO hours." Her voice was full of relief. "See you then, honey. God, we
love you." Hearing her voice made me want to cry.

I walked up to the nearest bar, ordered a vodka collins, and when the
bartender put the drink in front of me I downed it in one gulp. I had
been rehearsing the scene in my mind for a month. The drink was sweet
and cold. I slammed the empty glass on the bar startling the customers
and said, "Thanks. I've been waiting all year for that," and rushed off
to catch my plane.

Mom looked frail and gaunt when I spotted her waving in the crowd. I
could see she'd been sick. She really cried when she saw me come down
the ramp at Los Angeles. We embraced for a long time. I turned to my
friend Greg, shook hands, then hugged him too. The feeling of
exhilaration was like an electric charge running through my body. Mom
told me that Michelle could not meet me too as she'd had other plans
that couldn't be changed. I was disappointed, but I understood.

I did not sleep for three-and-a-half days. I tried to go to bed, but
every time my head hit the pillow I just lay there and stared up at the
ceiling. Too excited to sleep, I got up and drove my sports car up coast
highway, the stereo blasting out "Aquarius" by the 5th Dimension, as I
had dreamed of doing so many times when I was over there.

I went surfing again with my friend, Greg. After several hours in the
water we stood on the beach next to our long boards propped up in the
sand. We looked out over the Pacific and we discussed the war. He
genuinely wanted to know what it had been like. He listened. He was on
leave from the Sea Bees and was shipping out for Vietnam in two weeks.

Michelle drove over to see me. She hugged me. I kissed her. I closed my
eyes and I held her close and breathed in her fresh scent. I had
forgotten how beautiful she smelled. She looked lovely and the feel of
her body against mine made me ache. But I knew, although we were
physically close, I was mentally distant. I was difficult to approach. I
needed time to unwind, to get a hold of my feelings. She told me that
during the year the memory of me had been to her like the song by Glen
Campbell, "Gentle on My Mind." I liked her analogy and thanked her for
her letters over the last year and for being there for me. I saw her
only one -other time during my month's leave. Her life no longer
coincided with mine. It did not include me. She had other friends. I did
not press the issue. I understood.

Mom took my clothes from the duffel bag and had them cleaned in order
to, in her words, "rid them of the smell of the war."

They had that dank, mildewed smell of the jungle.

I played with my little sister, Andrea. I visited with my
eighteen-year-old sister, Nancy. I gave a hug and hearty handshake to my
stepfather. They all watched me. The whole family watched me. I think
they were looking for signs that I had changed. And I had. My values had
changed. My view of life had changed. Everyone said I seemed much more
mature. A neighbor remarked that I had left Huntington Beach a boy and
had returned home a man.

I was struck by how clean, orderly, and sterile everything was back
home. When I thought about the mud, dirt, dust, and filth in Vietnam it
seemed like a dream. Not a nightmare. Just an unclear dream. I had a
hard time imagining the guys in Phu Bai in the officers' club right now,
perhaps flying their hairy missions. It all seemed light years away. It
seemed unreal.

I set up the new stereo I had had shipped home from the PX mail order
company in Japan and concentrated on the new music. I went into a music
store in Fashion Island and had the clerk pick out twenty of the most
popular current albums and I bought them all. I had never heard of
Creedence Clearwater Revival. And Bob Dylan had changed his style
considerably. He then had a hit out called "Lay Lady Lay."

Everything was as I remembered it except that now the guys had long hair
and wore headbands. Drugs seemed to be more prevalent. The war was
featured on the news every night as well as the recent demonstrations
against it. I tried to ignore it, to push it from my mind, but of course
I could not.

One evening Mom invited twenty family friends for drinks and dinner, a
celebration in honor of my homecoming. After dinner everyone moved into
the living room to view the 8-mm movie I'd taken of the mission to
extract six marines out of the bombed-out landing zone near Khe Sahn.
The cheerful party chatter turned to silence when I dimmed the lights
and switched on the projector. To give the film more "feeling" I'd added
a sound track which I played on the stereo-a compendium of songs popular
at the time.

When the fifteen-minute film ended and the lights had been switched back
on, I scanned the faces staring back at me. Their reaction to the film
surprised me. A seriousness had descended over the audience. The look of
astonishment was on each person's face. A second or two passed without
anyone speaking a word, then the room erupted in applause as everyone
stood from their seats.

I was told that my short had suddenly had the effect of making the war
disturbingly close, and very real-that their exposure to the war had
been deadened by the start of the bombardment of war news footage on the
nightly six o'clock news. Viewing my crude, homemade movie had
accomplished what the news media had failed to do-it brought the war
home.

I had been home for two weeks when Bob Lawson called me wanting to know
when we should go see Stu at the VA hospital. We scheduled it for two
days later.

Bob drove us in his fire-engine-red TR-6. Traveling in the fast lane
northbound on the congested 405 freeway we talked about the likelihood
of walking into the ward, confronting Stu face-to-face, and seeing that
he had been really messed up. What then? We knew we'd have to face him,
and we both felt guilty for not going to see him sooner.

The wards were overflowing with casualties of the war. As we were led to
Stu's ward we were followed by the eyes of men who had not shared our
luck. They had been wounded and were here recuperating. Some had
bandaged heads, others had missing limbs, patched eyes, taped
extremities. Some of the men had bitterness in their eyes. Others
hatred. Or was I only imagining it? Was I reading in a guilt I felt for
making it out of the experience without being wounded? Was I really
feeling guilty for making it back to The World in one piece? For not
being one of the 58,000 or so men who would die in the war. I looked
into the faces of these young men and tried to imagine myself in their
place. The thought angered me. Yes, I would have been hostile and bitter
had it been me lying on one of those beds.

At last the nurse turned left into a room and held the door open for us.
"He's in the last bed on the left. Near the window."

We thanked her and walked in. I could feel the blood drop from my head
to my feet. I wanted to turn and run. I suddenly felt I was not at all
prepared to see my friend. How had he changed?

The eyes of the men in the beds lining the walls followed us. I was
ready to scream. We approached the row of windows. Stu was close. I saw
a drawn white partition to my left. Stu was there. Behind it. My feet
mechanically kept,me moving, Bob trailing close behind. My heart was
beating harder than it ever had on any CA. I circled the partition and
we came face to face. Stu's body was in traction. His face looked back
at me blankly for a long moment. He looked startled. Then I watched it
transform into the familiar smile. At last he spoke, "Goddamn, you guys,
it took you fucking long enough to come see me," he scolded.

Through the numbness I could feel myself smiling too. I was smiling
because he was still the same Stu. Hell, he didn't look too bad. Not bad
at all. OK, he was in traction, but he looked no different. I arrived at
his bed, leaned over, and gave him a gentle hug so I would not
accidentally cause him pain. He embraced me in return and slapped my
back heartily with both hands. I released my friend, then Bob did the
same. "Come on you guys. Cut it out. You'll ruin my image.

Bob had heard correctly. Stu's aircraft had taken an RPG through the
tail rotor and he had gone in spinning. There had been a re and the crew
chief had dragged him out of the wreckage. Stu showed us the tender
looking scar along his arm from the third-degree burns. His main injury
had been a broken back. This would cause him to walk with a permanent
limp and he would always need a cane. He told us he had a 100 percent
disability from the army. We joked about him free-loading off the
government, that he had probably done it on purpose. It was macho talk.
That was all. It lightened the atmosphere to talk in such terms. Inside
I did not feel light hearted. My good friend had nearly been killed, but
he was alive. We had beaten the odds and considering those odds, making
it back alive was definitely something to be thankful for.

Glossary.

AC: Aircraft commander. The AC sits in the left seat.

ADF: Automatic direction finder. A radio aid in an aircraft
incorporating an instrument with a needle that points to the direction
of the non-directional beacon ground station.

AK-47: Soviet-produced semiautomatic or automatic 7.62 mm assault rifle
used by the VC and NVA soldiers.

AO: Area of operation. The geographical area covered by a particular
hit.

ARA: Aerial Rocket Artillery. A Cobra gunship armed with 2.75-inch
rockets.

Article-15: Nonjudicial punishment that can be imposed by a commanding
officer.

ARTY: Artillery.

ARVN: Army of the Republic of Vietnam.

Ass-and-trash mission: The carrying of men and equipment.

Autorotation: An emergency procedure particular to helicopters that must
be performed when the engine quits. Autorotation is when the aircraft is
flown like an autogyro. The rotors freewheel powered by the air moving
through them with the blades in flat pitch.

AWOL: Absent without official leave.

B-40: A rocket-propelled grenade launcher manufactured in the communist
bloc countries and used by the NVA.

Berm: The perimeter of a fortification.

BOQ: Bachelor's Officer's Quarters. Accommodation on a base reserved for
visiting officers.

CA: Combat assault.

C&C: Command and control. Usually a helicopter with a mission commander
aboard orchestrating an operation.

C-4: An extremely powerful plastic explosive.

C-ration: Combat rations.

Chieu Hoi: Meaning "Open Arms." A program developed to encourage the
enemy to lay down their arms and defect to the other side for
indoctrination.

Chicken plate: A twenty-five-pound acrylic chest protector worn by the
pilots. Capable of stopping a 7.62-mm bullet.

Clackers: A hand-held detonating device for claymore mines.

Claymore: Anti-personnel mine used in ambushes and perimeter security.

CO: Commanding officer.

Cobra: A gunship helicopter designated the AH-1G. Also called a snake
for its long, thin appearance.

Collective: Short for collective pitch lever. A flight control situated
to the left of each pilot. When lifted it increases the pitch of the
main rotor blades collectively causing the aircraft to rise. When
lowered the pitch in the main rotor blades decreases causing the
aircraft to descend. The throttle, a twist- grip type as on a
motorcycle, is located at the end of the collective.

Conex: Large, square steel containers for shipment and storage of
supplies and equipment.

CS gas: Vomit-inducing gas termed "chicken shit" gas by the soldiers.

CW2: Chief warrant officer two. This grade is normally earned twelve
months after graduating from flight school.

Cyclic: The control stick located in front of each pilot. With an
appearance much like the stick found in conventional jet aircraft at the
time, the cyclic controls the tilt of the main rotor. If the pilot moves
the cyclic forward the main rotor tilts forward causing the helicopter
to follow. If moved left, right, or rearward a similar resulting
reaction will follow.

DEROS: Date Estimate Return from Overseas.

Didi: Vietnamese, meaning to run.

Dirks: Derogatory name for the enemy.

DMZ: Demilitarized Zone.

Deuce-and-a-half: An army two-and-a-half-ton truck.

Dust-off: Used to describe a medevac helicopter.

F-4: A fighter-bomber widely used during the war called the Phantom.

FAC: Forward air controller usually flying in a small, prop- driven
airplane.

FDO: Flight deck officer. Responsible for the safe operation of aircraft
aboard a ship. Firebase: Artillery sites that would support ground
forces in their AO.

FNG: Fucking new guy.

Frag: Fragmentation hand grenade.

Fragged: Term used to describe being blown up by a fragmentation
grenade. Usually done on purpose by a soldier on the same side.

Fu gas: Fifty-five-gallon barrels of jellied gasoline usually buried
along the perimeter of a fortification and detonated in the event of a
ground attack.

GCA: Ground-controlled approach. A radar approach in which a pilot is
talked down for a landing to an airfield by a radar controller. The
pilot performs the approach given glide- slope and distance information.

Gook: Term used to describe the enemy. NVA, VC, or any Vietnamese in
general.

Helo: Helicopter.

Hootch: Usually a 16' x 32' dwelling built a foot or two off the ground,
made of 4' x 8' sheets of plywood, surrounded all around with screening
material. The roof is made with sheets of corrugated iron.

HQ: Headquarters.

Huey: The name of the Bell UH-1 helicopter.

IG: Inspector general.

IP: Instructor pilot.

Klick: One kilometer, slightly more than one-sixth of a statute mile.

LOH: Light observation helicopter. Usually a OH-6 Cayuse similar to the
Hughes 500 flying in the commercial world today.

LZ: Landing zone.

M-16: Standard semiautomatic and automatic rifle issued to the infantry,
5.56 mm.

M-60: Light machine gun used by the infantry. There were usually two
mounted on the Huey, one on each side.

M-79: 40 mm grenade launcher.

Mcguire Rig: A one-hundred-fifty-foot rope attached to tie- down rings
on the floor of the UH-1 helicopter and thrown down through jungle
canopy. Used to extract soldiers in terrain where a landing could not be
made. Three were normally used at a time. Each rope had its own canvas
seat, similar to that found on a swing. There was an adjustable loop
above where the man's head would be to insert a wrist to hold him in the
event the man fell out of the swing seat. Primarily used in Laos.

Minigun: A Gatling gun driven by an electric motor and capable of firing
2,000 to 4,000 rounds per minute.

MOS: Military occupational speciality. Job title.

Napalm: Acronym--for naphthenic acid and palmetate. Jellied gasoline
like Fu-gas. When dropped from fighter bombers it produces a wall of
flame.

Nomex: Fire retardant material developed by Dupont and used in flight
suits and flight gloves.

NVA: North Vietnamese Army.

O-club: Officer's club. The officer's club at LZ Sally and at Phu Bai
were modified plywood hootches.

Peter pilot: Name for any copilot. The peter pilot flew in the
right-hand seat.

PIO: Public information officer.

Piss tube: An artillery canister buried in the ground as a urination
point for soldiers. A narrow fence of corrugated iron was placed in
front of the piss tube offering minimal privacy.

POL: Petroleum, oil, lubricants. The term used for any aircraft
refueling point.

PSP: Perforated steel plate. Interlocking steel plates used for making
runways, taxiways, and aircraft movement areas. Also used for making
aircraft revetments.

PSYOPS: Psychological Operations. Leaflets were dropped urging the enemy
to give up, or loud speakers were placed in the helicopter with blaring
messages urging the enemy to Chieu Hoi.

PX: Post exchange. A retail store for servicemen.

Revetment: Two parallel walls made of PSP filled with sandbags or merely
a wall of sandbags where a helicopter parked. The idea of a revetment
was to prevent shrapnel damage in the event of a rocket or mortar
attack.

RILO: Real live officer. Term used by warrant officers to describe a
commissioned officer, second lieutenant, and above.

ROK: Republic of Korea. Used to describe a Korean soldier.

Round: Bullet.

RPG: Rocket-propelled grenade. Also known as a B-40 rocket. Initially
designed as an antitank weapon but later used to shoot down aircraft.

Sapper: Enemy demolition and assault teams.

Satchel charge: Usually a canvas pack with a handle suitable for
throwing. Packed with explosives and carried by sappers during an
attack.

Sea Bee: Naval Construction Brigade.

Snake: Another term for the AH-1G Cobra gunship because they were long
and extremely thin like a snake.

SOI: Signal Operation Instructions. A book carried by the pilots
containing the secret radio codes and call signs of the units in their
area of operation.

Spec-4: Specialist 4th class. E-4.

Spec-5: Specialist 5th class. E-5.

Tacan: Radio navigation aid that gives azimuth and distance information.

Tet: Vietnamese lunar New Year.

The World: The states. America. Home.

TOC: Tactical Operations Center.

Transponder: An electronic aid normally carried in an aircraft that,
when interrogated by a radar pulse, will automatically send back an
assigned, four-digit number code identifying the aircraft on an air
traffic controller's radar screen.

VC: Vietcong.

Villle: A village.

XO: Executive officer. Second officer in command.

About the Author Randolph Mains flew 1042 combat hours during his
one-year tour in Vietnam, where he was awarded the Distinguished Flying
Cross, twenty-seven Air Medals, and the Bronze Star Medal. He remained
in aviation and currently has over 7500 flying hours.

His twenty-year aviation career has taken him to the Australian Outback,
where he lived on a 1632-square-mile cattle ranch, herding cattle by
helicopter and delivering meat by small, fixed-wing aircraft to
aboriginal settlements scattered throughout the Northern Territory. It
was in Australia that he and a colleague purchased, sight unseen, a
Cherokee-6 fixed-wing aircraft that had crashed in the remote Simpson
Desert. They rebuilt it there in the desert and flew it back to
civilization.

He has flown seismic survey and heli-rig work over the jungles of Papua
New Guinea. It was in New Guinea that he tried his hand at hunting
crocodiles.

In 1976 he was employed as a senior instructor pilot for Bell Helicopter
International in Iran for two-and-a-half years prior to the revolution
and managed to flee the country on the last commercial charter flight
out.

Two weeks later, in February 1979, he began his EMS, emergency medical
services, career flying on the Houston Life Flight program. He found
himself a pioneer in this new and exciting field trying to prove to a
skeptical medical community, and to a doubting American public, that the
helicopter air ambulance concept could work and save lives in peacetime
as it did in Vietnam. Through the hard work and the dedication of other
equally committed ex-Vietnam helicopter pilots like himself the concept
was accepted and adopted by other hospitals nationwide.

In 1980 his company sent him to San Diego to help set up what has become
one of the most successful hospital-based helicopter programs in the
United States today. He acquired his California emergency medical
technician certification after seeing a need for an extra pair of hands
at the accident scenes to which he flew the medical teams. In 1982 Mains
won the first annual Golden Hour Award and was flown to Washington, D.C.
to receive the accolade that recognized him as the top medevac pilot in
America.

While still working as chief pilot for the San Diego Life Flight program
he graduated in May 1984 from San Diego State University, where he
earned a degree in journalism and a minor in English and creative
writing.

After he, himself, nearly lost his life on three separate occasions, he
wrote his first book entitled The Golden Hour. The novel addresses the
grim realities faced by EMS pilots flying in programs across America who
operate their machines in a sector of civil aviation where, while saving
lives, the odds of having a fatal accident are as high as any the men
faced in Vietnam.

In December 1984 Mains moved to the Middle East to accept a position
with the Royal Oman Police Air Wing.