by Ken Babbs
“Hey, Rajah,” Cochran yells. “What’s on the agenda today? Troopers or supplies?” Captain Beamus glances at Cochran, and looks away.
“Good thing you don’t get up this early every day,” I mutter. “Talk about getting off on the wrong foot.”
Captain Beamus goes out and bangs his metal coffee cup against a garbage can. Cochran bangs his cup on the table, clangs bouncing in my head echo like a decaying whistle. That pill’s still at work.
“Shitfire, Huck. I thought you were keeping track of the time and here you are dreaming like a horny college boy. Let’s make it.”
He grabs his Hammering Eight’s ball cap, whacks me on the shoulder, and sprints out the mess hall. We swish our mess gear in and out of the water, quick stop at the tent to throw the tin plates on the floor, snatch flak vests and pistol belts, and skid down the slick path into the ready room tent chanting, “Here, here, here,” as the Hammer rises to brief the mission.
5. Lost A Bird Gained A Bird
Jumping Jehosaphat Doc, can’t you give me something for the goddamn pain … or am I to wallow like a stuck hog in his mire and bleed till I puke my guts and chew off a finger … open the door let the wind whip in hot and dry off the sodden paddies … we’ve been issued flak vests and pants, and even though they are hot and uncomfortable, we wear the damned things even when wandering around the choppers parked at outlying airfields … or while checking out the marketplace in the nearby ville … next thing we know the ARVN Generals, green-tinted sunglasses beaming on us with envious glances, tell their American adviser, Hey we need flak suits, too, and in the blink of a Pentagon eye, 50,000 of them are sent to Vietnam and distributed to the soldiers … one day, when flying alongside a road, we see a mile-long line of ARVNs, encased in their personal flak jacket and pants, sweat pouring off the poor fuckers in the hundred-and-ten-degree heat … one of the soldiers tears off the American-made shit, throws the garb into the ditch, and then everyone starts ditching the heavy gear … no sooner are they free of the hateful things, than here comes an army of civilians to gather up the flak vests and pants and scurry home with their loot to put them to use … building materials maybe, keep the walls from being punctured with bullet holes … the smell of rotting vegetation primordial goo belches like thousands of years of decay sucked straight into my lungs … stink coming off me rank as any man shot to shit, no matter what his rank … who’s responsible for this mess, Doc … and don’t say, as it was in the beginning so it shall be in the end … give me more than that, Doc, if you’re up to the challenge … or is the responsibility too overwhelming? …
The Hammer’s a responsible man. Because of his ability to respond, you think? That’d be response-ability, I s’pose. You gotta admit the C.O.’s a hard working guy. Leads every mission. Racks up more flight time than anyone else. And his concerns don’t stop there. He personally attends to every detail that goes into an operation. Attends the Vietnam planning and briefing conference at Tan San Nhut airport in Saigon. Overflies the mission area in an L-19 spotter plane. Pinpoints the landing site on the charts. Ensures that the flight arrives over the troop pickup point at the right time. Figures how long it takes to fly from there to the zone. Plans the routes of entrance and retirement. Coordinates the close air support. Plans the times for reveille, breakfast, briefing and takeoff. And finally, when all the details have been reviewed with the operations section, he conducts the morning briefing. He’s worn down, eyebagged, nerves raw, but he pulls himself together, standing quietly, a moment of suspense, before he speaks.
“There’s scuttlebutt that some of you aren’t happy that I have decided that only those pilots who have qualified as section leaders will sign for the aircraft, those with the most time and experience.”
Means some of us are stuck in the copilot seat. The HAC, the Helicopter Aircraft Commander, is the pilot who signs for the helicopter, and the one responsible for whatever happens to the bird. As the Pope is infallible in matters pertaining to religion, the HAC is infallible in all matters pertaining to his chopper. The copilot is his subordinate.
“I’ve had Lieutenant Emmett pair you according to rank. The senior man signs for the aircraft.”
Emmett smiles from his position in front of the schedules board. Takes some fancy juggling on his part to keep the old junior-senior ploy afloat. He’s a team player though. You can count on that. Fullback’s body. Pile-driving legs. Determined gleam in the eye. Who wants to get on the wrong side of Grits? Cross him and fly with the heavies. No thanks.
“You also realize,” the Hammer continues, “there will be continual flight checks whenever we have the opportunity—give you junior men a chance to qualify as section leaders.”
Who gives a rat’s ass? Let the HAC take the rap if something goes wrong. There’s been a bit of grousing by the copilots I must admit. Put the mixture handle forward yourself, sir, your fucking arm ain’t broke, and don’t throw me no bones, minor gripes, considering.
“Any questions?” The Hammer pauses and looks around.
“Yessir.” Captain Beamus stands up. “Could we have an update on our official role here, sir? Some of the men think we should be allowed to fire on the zones as we go in.”
The hawks are eager. They want this to be a full-bore shooting war. Emmett talks it up all the time. The Red Horde is not just South Vietnam’s enemy but our enemy, too, and their advance must be halted and the only way to do that is blast them back into the hovels from whence they sprung. Keep it tight, go in low and hot, heads up all the way, backs pressed into the backs of the seats, shoulder straps snug, guns going off on full auto. Pooty piddlin’ war, but it’s the only one we’ve got, so let’s make the most of it.
The Hammer pauses to collect his thoughts, and then lays it on the line: “We are here strictly in an advisory capacity. No shooting unless fired upon. Our job is not to attack this country’s enemy, but to support the government in its fight against the Viet Cong.”
The dreaded VC. They pop out of canals and mangrove swamps, hit quick, capture guns and radios, disappear, then play hidee seekee with the ARVNs chasing them down like angry housewives stomp stomp gonna kill those fucking cucarachas, but too late too late they’re gone, escaped between the baseboard and wall, the paddy and the dike. Those M-60 machine guns in the bellies of our choppers are dying to spit fire, why have ’em if we can’t use ’em? And now we have M-14 automatic rifles with us in the cockpit.
“The main thing is, I don’t want any of our people getting hurt.”
Not even a slight flesh wound? Maybe on the face, a scar of war? A ticket into politics, and that’s where the power lies, not thirty years seeking a General’s star. I can see it now: WOUNDED VET FOR JUDGE splashed on billboards and across headlines in Bordertown, Texas, the cow-folks dumbfounded by the sight of a veteran with a purple heart on.
“An all-out shooting war might appeal to some of you but Washington doesn’t want it and neither do I. Be ready for anything. Climb out fast, fly at least fifteen hundred feet, above small arms range. If you have to go lower, keep your airspeed up and make constant heading changes, no sense in being an easy target.”
Those first tracers lacing the paddy LZ do raise an aversion to a tidy war wound. First emergency evac with three wounded ARVNs trailing entrails is enough to discourage thoughts of a scar. First round zinging through the metal skin of the chopper raises the hair on the back of my neck and fills me with a total hatred toward unseen strangers trying to kill a friendly, short, ugly Texican who wishes them no harm.
We’re running at the max. High speeds. Heavy loads. Hard on the Dawg. Mud and rain. A testing ground for tactics and weapons. Huge accumulation of American money and gear. A shitty job but somebody’s got to do it. Time will tell all tales but, as the feller said, looking at his house swallowed by the ground, “Looks like we’re pissing our goodies into a sinkhole.”
I’m flying copilot with Cochran who’s already made section leader, strictly on the basis of his superior
flying ability, which even his fiercest detractors can’t deny. The first inkling of daylight is showing on the horizon when we walk out to the flight line. The rain has let up and a mist hangs over the paddies. A rotten smell wafts from the water. Sergeant Soonto, our crew chief, has a big smile on his face as he waits at the chopper. He’s Samoan, with a mug that looks like Rocky Graziano worked it over, but he’s so tough he’d never go down, even if pummeled by the champ.
“Bird all ready, sir,” he says.
I kiss the Saint Christopher medal Rosey gave me, and climb in the Dawg and start running through the check list. “Rotor brake on. Radio master on. Fuel on. Emmett must be in a good mood, putting us together,” I tell Cochran over the intercom.
“Yep, he thinks he’s gonna clean up in that poker game tonight. Still doesn’t know I’ve been stringing him along. Mixture idle cut off. External power on. Collective down.”
Cochran hits the starter and the gas-fired eleven-hundred-horse radial engine belches blue smoke out of the exhaust. “Steady on fourteen hundred RPM, oil pressure good, instruments okay. Rotor brake off.”
The blades wind up and settle into their familiar rhythm.
“All set down there, Soonto?”
The crew chief clicks his mike. Chocks clear. Tap the brakes. Shoulder harnesses locked. We roll forward into the number-six slot.
“Hammer Flight ready for takeoff,” the Hammer says over the radio.
He lifts off and we follow him aloft, six sections, four choppers each. Cochran and I are flying wing on Pappy Lurnt. His bird is a black silhouette against a red background as the first rays of sunlight streak across the sky.
When we reach altitude Cochran says, “Take it a while, Huck, I’ll see what I can raise on the AM band.” He picks up an English speaking voice. “Hot shit, Hanoi Hannah.”
Her voice is prim and meticulous. “Just as the gruesome Japanese emperor worshippers of World War Two had to drink cup after cup of hot sake for their ancestors’ sakes before launching kamikaze flights, the barbaric American Marines leaving Soc Trang airfield this morning gorged on human livers ripped from valiant Vietnamese women and children in order to work themselves into a killing frenzy and ensnare our freedom-loving people into their materialistic slavery …”
“The nerve,” Cochran interrupts. “To think of such a thing. Having to ensnare anyone into materialistic slavery.”
“Yeah almost as bad as her inability to complete her sentence.”
“… it is still not too late, Marines, to come to the aid of the Vietnamese freedom fighters and defend our people and country from the atrocities performed by the Army of South Vietnamese troops under orders from the capitalistic puppet ruler Diem, that traitor to the people of Vietnam who lives in an opulent mansion on his Mekong River estate, outside the occupied capitol of Saigon where the orders from the imperialists are broadcast through the puppet’s mouth in lies that cost our people dearly in every hamlet overrun by ARVN thugs machine-gunning women and children, their cries heard world-wide by all people of the common bond begging you Marines to abandon your misled generals and join us on that day when all men and women will stand side by side as equals and free peoples commonly joined in the peaceful struggle against the true enemies of mankind: hunger and want; and now a song by one of your favorite groups, the Shirelles. Take my love with you to any port or foreign shore …”
“And on and on she goes,” Cochran says. “VC say it goddamn be their way, ARVN say goddamn no, ours.”
“Maybe we’re playing it wrong,” I say. “We should bomb them with goods. New refrigerators, motorcycles, tape recorders, TVs, all the prime stuff.”
“I do believe you are showing signs of wisdom, massuh Huckelbee, but it isn’t the American way to hand over our precious commodities. No, what we want to do is bomb them with money.”
“Yes. Greenbacks falling from the sky. Then they could buy our precious commodities.”
“That’s right. Ensnare them into materialistic slavery. They’ll be just like us” … for I’ll be true to you soldier boy …
“Close it up,” The Hammer cuts in over the radio. “We’re going down for the pickup. You’re straggling, number seven.”
“Click click,” someone keys his mike, a flagrant breach of proper radio procedure.
“That wasn’t me,” Rob Jacobs radios.
Ben-San, flying co-pilot with Pappy Lurnt, waves. Is he the mysterious clicker? We fall into column and angle toward a packed clay runway sitting next to a dirt road.
“Relief is near,” I say over the intercom.
“What relief?”
“Shade from the broiling sun.”
Heat waves shimmer across the water-soaked land.
“You call that Vietnamese pop stand shade?”
The runway, a hummock of elongated clay, looks like a turd floating in water. A thatched roof, open-sided hut sits at one end. We land and park in a row and wait with our rotors spinning.
The Hammer comes up on the radio. “Troops are still a quarter mile away.”
Figures. The way they take their time, no wonder the Cong always disappear before we get there.
“Shut them down,” the Hammer orders. “Looks like we’ll be here awhile.”
We kill the engine and set the rotor brake and climb down. Everyone heads in a straggly pack to the pop stand. Forget the American type geedunk and glups. The pop is tepid, the ba muoi ba “33” beer laced with formaldahyde. The snacks are left over from French colonial days. We cluster together in as much shade as we can find. The Hammer strides over.
“All right,” he says, “any more of that mike clicking business and you’ll be on the flight line every night practicing proper radio procedure.”
Kapow! Kapow! Two shots startle out. Dios mio, holy shit. We split in all directions. Don’t bunch up. One round can get us all. I sprawl beneath the pop stand. Kapow! I peek around the corner. Cochran stands out in the open, on the edge of the runway, pointing his pistol across the paddy water.
“What you got?” I yell.
Kapow! Kapow! The water spurts fifty yards away. Cochran lowers his .38, pops the cylinder and ejects the empty casings.
I sprint over to his side. “What was it?”
He pulls bullets from his bandolier and shoves them into the pistol.
“I’ve been carrying this damned thing around so long I’ve built up an uncontrollable urge to shoot at something. When I saw those ducks I couldn’t resist.”
“You were shooting at ducks?”
“Yeah, missed the fuckers. They flew away over the dike.”
“Ducks,” I growl. The rest of the pilots stand in a semicircle, muttering to one another, “Ducks, ducks, for the sweet mothering Jesus, Cochran.”
“Be kind to your web-footed friends,” a pilot sings. Others join in: “For a duck may be somebody’s mother …”
The Hammer stomps up, quieting everyone. He snatches Cochran’s pistol and holds it out to Captain Beamus.
“Confiscate this man’s weapon. Lieutenant Cochran won’t be allowed to carry a firearm until he learns the proper responsibility for its use.”
Beamus shoves the pistol inside his flak vest. The Hammer faces the pilots and looks them over with a grim face.
“Let this be a lesson. I’ve noticed a certain laxness in your professional bearing and it’s bound to affect performance. Don’t let it go any further. The ARVN troops will be here in a few minutes. There will also be South Vietnamese dignitaries flying in to assess the success of the mission. They want to make this a showcase operation. The area will be alive with reporters and TV people. I have no doubt of our ability to uphold our end. Keep your minds on the job and stay out of trouble.”
He spreads a map out on the ground. We crouch around it and look down at the positions circled in red: the landing zones, a few klicks apart. Supposedly behind VC lines. For a week Air Force pilots have been looking for that line but so far there’s been no contact. Today we’ll go deeper into
Indian country, see what we can flush out.
We break up the meeting and head for the choppers. The ARVNs march in on the road that connects the strip to the neighboring village. Their steel pots hang low on their heads. They carry live chickens, and ducks strapped to their packs in mesh bags. They walk hand in hand and whistle and sing. No wonder the Cong can hear them coming.
We fire up and as soon as the troops are aboard we pour on the turns and head for the zone, radio blaring … asked your mama for fifteen cents . .
The scuddy clouds have blown clear and the zone lies ahead. Cochran leans into the straps and turns up the radio … see an elephant jump the fence … Two-seater American T-28s, prop-driven trainers converted to fighter bombers, flash by, Vietnamese pilot in front, American advisor in the rear seat. They rake the zone with machine guns, pull up, bombs gouge craters in the mud … jumped so high he touched the sky … Cochran pushes the nose over and we roar in, rotor head vibrating, wind zinging, Thomas Rufus singing … never got back till the Fourth of July …
“What the hell’s that?” I yell.
Bullets splatter the water as we flare over the rice paddy … walking the dog … stitchings from automatic weapons sewing holes across the smooth surface. I grab the M-14.
“We’re pilots, not gunners,” Cochran bellows. “Ride the controls.”
He’s walking the Dawg across the paddy, raising a geyser below us … just a-walking the dog … The transmission screams as we hover over the water. The ARVN squad leader, a grizzled veteran, jumps out and disappears in six feet of water leaving a bubble and protruding rifle barrel. Soonto grabs the barrel and hauls the NCO back aboard. Cochran adds power and noses forward to a clay dike where he sits down on solid ground.
“Kick the bastards out,” he orders.
Another dike sits thirty yards to our left. Bushes and trees line its banks. My ears are attuned to every strange zing and splat, anything different from the familiar yowl and yammer of the chopper. Geysers spout in front of us.
