The 9Th World: America’S Second Greatest Love Story

By Luis John Soria

In defense of our nation, Texas born Sergeant Soria has taken on many missions. Training for and fighting in combat has instilled a patriotic toughness and constant situational awareness within him.

However, when he is assigned to the 1996 US Helicopter Team and missioned to compete against twelve foreign countries in an aerial battle over American skies, he confronts the most challenging events of his life. Events ruled by extreme human emotions.

A chance meeting immerses this soldier's soul with the most powerful force on Earth, affecting him for the rest of his life. He fights for what she is to him; his soul mate, his one . . . true love.

This novel is intended for mature audiences and will take you through the inspiring, behind-the-scene story of one of Americas greatest, yet long forgotten challenges; the 9th World Helicopter Championship.

This true historic event captures worldwide attention, locals and foreigners come together in the beautiful state of Oregon for a sportsmanship event equal to none. An event where we came face to face with Americas once dreaded foe, the Russian Federation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2002
• ISBN: 9781491765500

Luis John Soria

Luis John Soria - Biography Mr. Luis John Soria was born in Houston, Texas in 1962 to an ethnically rich and diverse family. His mother, Carlota Moreno Soria, is a descendent of the Mayan Indians of Mexico. His father, the late Luis G. Soria, was a pioneer in the early 1950s working in the Dry Walling industry and is half-Spanish and half-Italian. Mr. Soria’s early childhood took him to live where his father’s work needed him. Places like Anaheim, California; Monterrey, Mexico; and San Antonio, Texas. When Mr. Soria’s parents divorced, he, along with his two younger brothers moved in with his mother’s parents in the small cattle town of Somerset, Texas. There, young “Luigi” is mentored by his Polish and German mixed step-grandfather, Louis John Skoruppa. “Grandpa” is a Germen speaking expert carpenter who loves to tell jokes, deer hunting, and fix cars; they both shared many adventures together. Mr. Soria graduated among 80 fellow classmates from Somerset High School in 1980. In 1984, Mr. Soria entered the United State Army Aviation Branch and retired in 2004 after an almost paralyzing auto accident. During his military career, Private Soria promoted through to the rank of Sergeant First Class (SFC, E7). He had many duty stations (in the states) he has called home: Missouri, Alabama, Georgia, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Virginia, and beloved Oregon. He also had overseas assignments in Germany, Israel, South Korea, and Saudi Arabia. SFC Soria is a helicopter mechanic and a Technical Inspector (TI) on the Bell’s OH-58 Kiowa Alpha, Charlie, and Delta combat scout helicopters. He is an accomplished Pathfinder and Aeroscout-Observer with over two thousand flight hours serving as a crew chief on Cobra, Kiowa, Huey, Blackhawk, and Apache helicopters. For his military actions during the 1991 Persian Gulf War (Operation Desert Storm/Desert Shield), SFC Soria earned the Meritorious Service Medal and the Bronze Star Medal from the XVIII Airborne Corps. After the first Gulf War, SFC Soria completed his first civilian college degree at Central Texas College in Killeen, Texas. He also completed his Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) Airframe and Powerplant (A&P) Mechanic Certification at Davis–Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, Arizona. After retiring to civilian life in November 2004, Mr. Soria worked for Delta Airlines until October 2011. After the airlines industry, Mr. Soria moved to Lakehills, Texas, where he has returned to college, attending the University of Texas at San Antonio.

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Copyright © 2002 Luis John Soria.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The words written within this novel are the sole product of the author and do not reflect the official policy or position of the Department of the Army, the Department of the Defense, the Central Intelligence Agency, or the United States Government. Views, opinions, and facts (or the lack there of) expressed by the author do not attempt to bring any harm or disrespect to any individual, group, religion, club, state, or government (foreign or domestic) whom might feel offended from the contents (or the lack there of) written within.

All names of characters appearing in this work have been changed to protect their identity.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

In Memoriam

Dedication

Dear Miss Rose

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

A Lonely Desert in Utah

Beautiful Day

The Cat I Would Love to Hate

Heaven on Earth

The Master of My Heart

Darkness

The Good Army

Make’em Dance

Word Up!

Negative Vibes

Six Little Indians

Spitefully Barren Terrain

Peggy Sue

Approaching Portland

Champoeg State Park

Disco Sucks!

To the Moon

The Russians are Here!

Fooling Myself

Captive Audience

1²th and Bellvue

Encouragement

The NRA

My World

Out of Control

Lake Oswego

Forever my Wife

Epilogue

Chronology Guide to the World Helicopter Championships

Copter Pilots Whirl in Salem for 9th World Championships

Acknowledgment

Works Cited

Abbreviations

About the Author

The 9th World

The Colors of the Clear Blue Sky

Lakehills, Texas

IN MEMORIAM

ARMY SPECIALIST BEAU BEAULIEU

ARMY PRIVATE SAMUEL D. COGGAN

ARMY SERGEANT JUSTIN EYERLY

ARMY PRIVATE FIRST CLASS MELISSA HOBART

ARMY PRIVATE FIRST CLASS LESLIE JACKSON

ARMY CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER TWO KEVIN L. JENKINS

COAST GUARD CHIEF BOATSWAIN’S MATE JACKIE E. KENNEDY JR.

ARMY PRIVATE FIRST CLASS ROGER D. LAUGHLIN

ARMY STAFF SERGEANT RENE LEDESMA

ARMY SPECIALIST JUSTIN LINDEN

ARMY PRIVATE ADAM LAWHORN

ARMY FIRST LIEUTENANT ERIK McCRAE

ARMY STAFF SERGEANT TROY MIRANDA

ARMY SPECIALIST CHARLES ODUMS

MARINE LANCE CORPORAL RAFAEL PALOMO

ARMY TECHNICAL FIFTH GRADE CHARLIE PEREZ

ARMY CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER TWO JOHN D. PETERSON

ARMY SPECIALIST RICHARD P. REYNA

ARMY STAFF SERGEANT ROBERT C. THORNTON JR.

DEDICATION

To my friends and family who are honored in the opening memoriam. We are grateful for your military service. I am deeply grateful for the precious memories.

DEAR MISS ROSE

Today, I live another day. And today, I am thinking of you …

FOREWORD

Luis John Soria is a friend of mine and I am honored to write this forward to his first book. Although short, I can give you an affirmation it is a great read and at times riveting.

It revolves around the time in his military career when he was with the US Helicopter Team during a competition with twelve counties in the state of Oregon.

I offer no spoilers, but what happens to Luis is a unique adventure and he finds the love of a wonderful woman.

Well written and I highly recommend this book to all.

JOSE ESCAMILLA

Filmmaker

PREFACE

I love America. I love our great collection of citizens. We are the greatest pool of people with our own unique experiences, educations, hopes, and dreams. We are a nation of role models showing how all the different ethnicities, religions, and languages on Earth can come together to live in civilized harmony.

I love our great deserts, green forests, and tall mountain ranges we all share and admire here in America. From the beautiful bay of Duluth, Minnesota to the fishing jetties at Port Aransas, Texas. From the warm beaches of Waikiki to the green grass surrounding the Statue of Liberty and to all the great lakes and lands in between—we are beautiful.

The opportunity to protect and serve our great nation gives me great honor. I feel a boundless patriotism every time I remember key events in my military career. However, my military career cannot compare to all the men and women, in the past and the present, who serve our great country with pride, dignity, and who have given us their greatest gift, their greatest sacrifice. Honor and Remembrance will follow you always.

Despite the eagerness to write about overseas wartime experiences, I will tell you a story about a different kind of war. A war with no bullets fired and no human lives lost. A battle we fought on our own American soil. A war of long ago, a war now long forgotten. This war you are about to read—the war which tore me apart—actually happened to me, happen to us.

In every human’s life, there will come a challenge to fight the toughest, most emotional, and most anxiety stricken event you will ever face. In our trying world of today, the ability to remember, to feel, and to live the greatest love of our lives is all we might need for us to rebuild, to try again, and to carry on.

INTRODUCTION

The 9th World–America’s Second Greatest Love Story is my true, personal, behind-the-scene experiences during the 9th World Helicopter Championship. This championship was an actual helicopter aerial competition held in McMinnville and Salem, Oregon during the year of 1996. This is the first time (and thus far, the last time) this worldwide event would take place on American soil.

Among the twelve competing nations were the prior two event’s First Place holder—The Russian Federation. Fighting to win back the first place spotlight from the Russians is our team, The United States Army Precision Helicopter Team (USAPHT), operating as an element of the 1996 U.S. Helicopter Team.

This is my story of trying to deal with the pressure of competing for our country while experiencing the greatest love that arose from this very event. I use this story to show America that even in times of pressure, urgency, or even despair, we are still a great nation filled with individuals who fight for us always. We have and we will continue to overcome all challenges.

This is the most memorable experience in my life and the most heartbreaking.

I hope you enjoy it.

LUIS JOHN SORIA

A LONELY DESERT IN UTAH

Your work is so … wonderful. Lazy-white cumulus clouds slowly roll across the Utah desert in search of her yellow and orange islands so high. In the distance, they find prey and hang onto it in hopes of hiding a beautiful mountainous peak from this wondering view.

I am looking into a dream. There is no sensation of time or physical presence in the grand view that slowly passes before me. I softly float along the thermal heat rising from the ground below. I see a world as pure and as crystalline as jeweled sand on an untouched beach, as innocent as a falling snowflake on a calm winter’s day. A world with no technology, no implication of laws or restrictions, and no sense of any human inhabitation—I only see his presence and the splendor—reaching far below, above, and beyond.

I pull the edge of my helmet away from my face. I press my cheek hard against the hot, sunbaked plastic window and stare up past the shadows of the fast sweeping rotor blades.

The colors of the clear blue sky lie straight above. I do so love to see the blue curved dome of our little planet, especially at times like this, being so close to the top of it.

Breathtaking. It is so breathtaking to gaze up and touch heaven’s ceiling with the hands of my heart.

I watch as the Maker works his invisible brush, adding small dots of detail to his ever-changing work of art. Angel white clouds with dark flat bottoms try their best to block the view of the ceiling and of his making of the new.

Clouds follow with curiosity. They are so full of life, each one growing, blooming, and moving with their own sense of direction, own sense of personality.

I return my attention to the colorful passing of the Henry Mountains in the distance. Shadows from moving clouds dance over the golden, glistening sunlight as it blankets the faces and valleys of this beautiful mountain range.

It is a shame most Americans cannot experience the spectacular aerial view I have of our land up close like this, touchable only by the warmth of my heart. Most people are stuck in crowded jet airliners with tiny little windows, thirty to forty thousand feet in the sky, with no details of what I can see—no idea of what I can feel.

America! America! I sing to myself, God shed his grace on thee! If only I could remember the rest of the words, I chuckle in thought.

How I love this, this home of the brave, land of the free. I am so thankful to have been born an American. I am so thankful to have this chance to take in her beauty, exploring, to love all her splendor, to love all her joys.

Clouds moving close against the window rudely interrupt my tranquil view. When they break my meditating, they remind me of my simple existence in this machine. A machine that allows me to float, to dance with the clouds. I am reminded of all the science and all of the human achievements we have and benefit from.

The high-pitch sound of the turbine engine and transmission has become a quiet hum as they work the main rotor blades, pushing against the wind. The muffled rhythm of the machine vibrates the entire airframe and my entire body, but I feel nothing.

Realizing there is no feeling, I realize there is no sound. I think fast and remember to flip up the second little toggle switch on CSC¹ panel above me—my radio has been silent for some time now.

There is a slight sound of electrical crackle in my flight helmet as power applies to connect me to the UHF² radio. The soft lyrics of Pictures of You from the musical group The Cure’s All Mixed Up album is now playing over the airwaves to the speakers in my helmet. The only other sound present is the continuing rush of the wind, whistling through the two small vents in the plastic window.

My soul tries to reach back out to the passing scenery. My spirit flies high above the moving earth not so far below. However, no matter how breathtaking, nothing can compare to what I hold so dearly, carefully, in my hands.

♪I’ve been looking so long . . . ♪

I had taken the protective flight glove off my right hand and slowly with my thumb, I lightly trace over the vinyl-textured picture of indescribable beauty.

♪ … at these pictures of you♪

I trace along the outline of her young face, remembering the soft feel of her skin. I rekindle in my heart the feeling I would get when I would hold her cheeks cupped in my big hands and the way I would softly rub the back of her long neck. Sexy, thick, long, and silky-black hair—I love the feel of her hair as I comb it with my fingers. The sweet essence of her body still lays heavy within me.

God, how she would smile, I sigh with a deep breath. She has the sexiest smile with the reddest lips. She has no need for makeup or lipstick. She is a natural beauty and I am still so mesmerized. I keep looking into her big brown eyes and a glowing light forms around her picture. I no longer see the passing of the clouds, the passing of mountains. They have become one with the halo now surrounding her face. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman on this world. She is … God’s greatest gift on earth.

My mind drifts … drifts back to her … and I float away through the sky with her …

UtahFlightcopy.jpg

May 8 – 10:13 A.M.

Son-of-a-Bitch! The first cry of terror in my helmet did not register—this mind and body is still back with her in Oregon. A sharp one hundred foot drop jolts me awake. There is a sudden increase of turbulence from shaking hands on the flight controls, my soul comes rushing back into my body, my face hot, my nerves alert.

The speakers in the helmet blast with the sounds of an audio caution message. Vibrations shatter, sirens pulse and pierce, making the fluid in my ears shudder. The Oh shit, we got a light! is enough to let me know we had flown into deep trouble.

Today’s trip back home to Texas would take us from Provo, Utah to Roswell, New Mexico. The plan for this leg of the flight is to reach the FBO³ at the Monticello Airport in Utah, a little over two hundred miles from Provo, an ideal spot for our next refuel stop. However, the wind had suddenly changed direction during mid-flight and we had burned-up more fuel than projected.

"Chalk One!⁴ We got a fuel light!" barks over the radio from Sergeant Randy Goodwin, who is up front on the copilot’s controls of our helicopter. We are the number three helicopter in a formation flight of five.

Chalk One, radioed from Chief Jim Patrick, the pilot-in-command of helicopter number two in front of us, My light has been on … for three minutes now.

Any OH-58⁵ Army helicopter pilot would know when the fuel light comes on; you have about twenty minutes of fuel left. Chalk Two’s warning light had been on for three minutes. He has seventeen minutes left. Hearing this made my gut tighten and butt-cheeks clench.

"Randy, what does the ADF⁶ show?" I shout over his shoulder even though he can hear me clearly in his flight helmet. Panic can get the best of us, especially when death comes tapping on your plexiglass window. I quickly grab my aerial map laying folded next to me.

I read … six … fife … point … zero, zero … miles to go, a low, nervously quiet voice said.

Oh shit! I gasp. With the headwinds and time left on fuel, our distance left to fly before zero fuel is only, forty-two miles.

Have you ever tried to drive your car to a gas station with the fuel gauge below the E? You are not quite sure if you can squeeze any more fuel vapors out of the gas tank to make those last few miles to the next station. Now imagine the same sickening sensation in a helicopter—it is much worse. Now imagine five helicopters at ten thousand feet! It is not a pleasant feeling and this is the upsetting feeling in the stomachs of ten helicopter pilots and three helicopter crew chiefs.

We were trying to figure out where we could land in this mountainous stretch—where a few seconds ago—I was admiring the beautiful passing of cliffs, canyons, valleys, and mountains. Here is where the Continental Divide, the boundary of Death Valley, and the Great Salt Lake Desert meet. Here where no man lives, no roads, no telephones, and no help would be for miles around. We could land here, where the temperature of the desert floor is at an early seasonally hot 114 degrees.

There are now thirteen sets of eyes looking for a close and safe place to land. Some eyes on the map, some eyes on the horizon, and most eyes on the fuel gauge. Overlapping chatter blared over the radio’s airway.

We could land and call for gas, is the first recommendation; however, this is the time before personal cellular phones were common. We are on a peacetime mission and our helicopters fly stripped of any long-range military style communication equipment. We only have vintage UHF and VHF (line-of-sight) short-range radios that are not effective on the ground.

We could turn around to the alternate refuel point? Again, not a good idea, we had flown too far to turn back at this point.

Drop to twenty-five feet and keep going! the decision is made by our flight commander, Captain Benjamin, who is in the first helicopter of the formation. He is hoping the headwinds would not be as strong at a lower altitude.

I straighten up in my seat and tighten my restraining harness as tight as I could force it.

Normally, we would fly in a tight military formation, but a free-flight formation is authorized and the helicopters quickly scatter in an urgent race for the FBO. My chopper noses over and we drop like a twenty ton armored tank that has lost its parachutes during a military airdrop—we come screaming down from the sky.

Increasing our airspeed increases the vibration on this thirty plus year old airframe! Damn, what a risky feeling—we try desperately not to shake all the rivets loose.

Now mind you, the Army spends many of our tax dollars on flight training and developing the skills of these fine aviators. I have the greatest of respect and confidence for my friends in their capabilities and abilities. I could tell by the silence that now fills the radio airways, we all were recalculating our gas burn rate.

Chalk Two is pulling away a little to the right. They have less of a payload; thus, they could muster a little more speed out of that mid-1960 airframe.

Turning my torso as far right as I could, I strain to see the rest of the flight. Chalk Four and Chalk Five were behind us; however, they were slowly falling back. Chalk Five is passing Chalk Four. Four is our slowest pig.

They will be okay, I tell myself, and God will be with them.

I look at her picture again before I safely place it back into the chest pocket of my flight suit. I rest my right hand over the placement and feel the pounding pulse of my heart beat faster, touching her picture. I close my eyes.

He will also be with me, for now more than ever, I want to be with her.

BEAUTIFUL DAY

Three Days Earlier – May 5 – 8:42 A.M.

It is a beautiful day to fly, I said to Staff Sergeant Izzy Martinez as we make our way through the crowds of spectators—we are carrying cans of soft drinks for the rest of the ground crew—Martinez⁷ stood a good four inches taller than I, so he is leading the way.

There’s lots of folks outs here, he replied in his heavy southern Texas twang.

Most of the spectator’s heads are turned toward the sky, but sometimes between our Excuse us we would get a few eyes falling on us.

Are they looking at our flight suits? I wonder to myself. Maybe they are looking at our darkly tanned skins or our black mustaches and black hair, courtesy of our deep Hispanic heritage. Must not be too many Hispanics up here in this part of Oregon I chuckle.

The sun is up and shining early this morning. Not too hot, in fact, it is a cool 68 degrees and a slight breeze rustled through from the south.

I can feel the carnival atmosphere among the Oregonian spectators, especially with the loud screaming whines of aircraft engines above. The harmony of Oohs! and Aahs! echoing throughout the crowd temporarily stopped us to watch two Gyro-copters do cool loop-de-loops above the spectator area.

Y’all think that’s neat to do in our birds? Martinez asks.

Would be! But, I prefer the straight and level.

He laughs in agreement.

We continued to maneuver through the crowd, slowly making our way to the edge of the grandstand and up the steps. We quickly walk along the narrow front path in front of all the seated spectators. On the other end of the stand, we walk off and over toward the gate which divides the crowds from the helicopter holding area.

At the gate, a guard waves us through. He does not pay much attention to us; his eyes are fixated on the activities in the sky.

Aren’t those babies fun? Martinez said to the guard in passing.

The guard quickly glances down to the twang speaking Texan and has an expression of puzzlement on his face as he nods in agreement to Martinez.

It is … a form of English, I assured the guard.

The guard laughs with me in funning Martinez’s accent and then he returns his attention to the gyro choppers high above.

Ha, Martinez mocks my laughter as we continue our walk. Some guard, he adds, He didn’t even look at or check our badges.

Badges! Joo don’t need no stinking badges! I joke with a modified line from the movie The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Martinez is now looking at me with a negative shaking head.

I grin widely and nod my head positively.

I do agree with his point, he had not checked our identification cards; however, I believe the guard knew he did not have much to worry about seeing us two in military flight suits.

On the other hand, most people would prefer to see a helicopter from a distance. The dramatic noise and dust from the machine spinning and blasting winds from their main rotor blades into civilians’ eyes, ears, and mouths would be enough to make any civilian duck for cover.

Parking for the helicopters is staged in several wide rows. Each row has eight to ten helicopters across and their pilots have parked them inline, dress-right-dress to each other. The parking area begins about fifty feet or so to the right of, and, as you face the grandstand.

I have never seen such a vast collection or variety of helicopters since Desert Storm. At last count, there were twenty-five competing helicopters with an additional five choppers for display use only and an additional thirty-five helicopters parked for the fly-in event.

You had several R22 helicopters from the Robinson Helicopter Company. There are the two Gyro-copters; one is a single seat version and the other is a two-seat model. Each one had rear-facing props and engines. There is a pair of MD 500s representing the McDonnell Douglas Company. If you remember from the movie Apocalypse Now, the MD 500 are the smaller scout helicopters with big-rounded front windshields.

In the mix, we also have a competing team from the United States Coast Guard, who flew in with an awesome orange painted HH-65 Aérospatiale Dolphin. This Coast Guard team’s home station is along the lower end of the Oregon coastline. There are a couple of piston engine powered helicopters which look to have come right from the opening scene of the TV series M*A*S*H*. This helicopter is a Bell 47, produced by the Bell Helicopter Company. Also from Bell, were the B-206 and B-206L3 helicopters. Civilians refer to them as the Jet Ranger and Long Ranger, respectively. These babies are freshly washed and waxed, making their differently colored paint schemes reflect the Oregon’s sunlight with great brilliance. The Rangers were first born in 1966 from their earlier military version, known as the OH-58 helicopter. Of course, the OH-58 is my favorite. Back in the day, they only came in two models, the Alpha and Charlie models. The Oregon, Idaho, and Arkansas National Guardsmen mostly used the Alpha models.

There are many more other types of helicopters as well as several World War II airplanes. These planes are on static display and some are performing in the air show portion of this competition. There is a North American Aviation P-51D Mustang with its highly polished bare skin standing ready for a dogfight as it did when it came off the assembly line back in 1944. This aircraft is so clean you could eat off its highly detailed, 1,510 horse-powered, Rolls-Royce V-l2 engine.

B25Jcopy.jpg

In addition to the North American Aviation’s Mustang, we have a beautifully restored and operational B-25J Mitchell and it Wows! the spectators with its low-level flyover. You could clearly see gun movement from the operational upper ball turrets as it pretended to take on an unseen predator.

There are even older aircrafts on display. I am like a child experiencing the excitement of a museum visit and I am overwhelmed with the displays of old dinosaur’s bones—seeing them for the very first time!

There is a 1928 Stout Metal Airplane Company’s Ford Tri-Motor passenger plane. The sheet metal covering it looks like brand new galvanized roofing material my grandfather would use to build storage sheds out on his ranch. It has three big radial-type piston engines with short exhaust pipes, and when the engine fires up, it sounded worse than my old six cylinder, ’63 Fairlane when the muffler had dropped off.

In the backdrop of this National Helicopter Championship (towering over four stories high as a tribute to the history of American Aviation) is one of our nation’s most prized possessions, the Spruce Goose. I like to think of this aircraft as the ninth Wonder of the World. Now if you know aviation, you know that Howard Hughes’ Spruce Goose creation was way ahead of its time. I remember seeing old black and white footage of it skimming the waters off the Californian coastline. What a marvelous machine! Whenever I had some free time from working on our helicopters, I would mosey over to the ten-foot high chain linked fence, and stand overwhelmed by the size of this airplane.

The Evergreen Company, headquartered here next to the McMinnville Airport, had acquired this monster and now temporarily housed it in a huge and ugly cage-type hangar. The wings of this beast lay next to the fuselage, taken apart for the trip here. I do not know how long it had been here, half-disassembled, nor do I know how much longer it would stay. Nevertheless, it made me feel sad to see it like this, all torn apart, unable to fly. The huge body of the fuselage pointed north, away from the seated spectators, with its little pilot window sitting quietly above the nose. This scene gave the feeling it is very unhappy. Trying its best to ignore the nearby festive activities, which sadly, would not be participating in.

If they would just put her back together, I utter under my breath, and fly her again. I hold onto the protective fence, wishing to pull it down and set her free. That would be an air show to see!

Now I know you have been waiting, so here is the part where I come in! I belong to a small Army detachment of men from Fort Hood, Texas. Our small team represented the Active Duty side of the United States Army. We deployed here to compete against the National Guard and Reservist side of the Army and against other branches of military services. In addition, we compete against an army of civilian teams during this American National Helicopter Championship.

We originally started our flight up here with six OH-58 Charlie Model helicopters. Unfortunately, we lost one to engine failure in Boise, Idaho. Timing restraints left us with no options, we had to leave that sixth helicopter until we could return to fix it and fly it out later.

We were now down to five helicopters for our six-crew team to compete in. We had some seat swapping and maintenance scheduling challenges in store for us, but with logistics preparation, sweat and our persistence, everything is sure to pay off. We were into the third and final day of this national competition and all we could do now is wait for the pilots and copilots to continue on doing their best in flying skills.

Martinez and I made our way across the helicopter parking area to the rental van (we converted it into our mobile maintenance van) where the ground crew is hanging out, waiting for one of our team’s helicopters to return from their qualifying event.

Who wants Pepsi? Martinez asks as he sticks his head into the open side door of the five row, fifteen-passenger van.

Yeah, who wants to drink pond water? I add. A couple of snickers slip out from the group; they all know I would walk a mile for a Coke instead of drinking a yucky Pepsi. Martinez has a look of annoyance on his face … he is an avid and devoted Pepsi drinker.

Who is out now? I ask as I take a seat in the very back of the van passing out cans of slightly depressing/warm refreshments.

My bird just left, says Specialist Jerry Scott, who is from Minnesota. He is dealing cards to the three other players.

Good take off? I question him, testing him, for I knew his helicopter is out there now.

You betcha, Sergeant Soria, Jerry replies in a nervous Minnesotan accent. He is new to the game of Spades, but his partner is frustrated in trying his best to make up for the sandbags Jerry already collected earlier in the game.

They’ll be in the window for a service when they get back, Martinez informs as he looks over his maintenance schedule and toys with a calculator.

Nuts! Shawn said in frustration. Sergeant Shawn Peoples is Jerry’s card playing partner. I am not sure if Shawn’s expression came because of the terrible hand he is dealt or because of the fact that he and Jerry would be back on the flight line to work on the bird when it will land in a few minutes time.

Shawn is an African-American man from southern Georgia, near the little town of Herod. Home of the Andrew Jackson Monument, he so proudly claims as he introduces himself whenever he meets somebody for the first time. Shawn is over six feet tall and his shoulders are half as wide as the van’s bench seat he is sitting on. He makes Mr. T look like a little girl. We actually had to remove a bench seat from the middle of the van and turn it around to face Shawn’s seat to make room for him and the makeshift card table in the middle.

Oh, come on Shawnee, don’t be nervous, I’ll go out and supervise you as you work, I teasingly said as I picked up an old copy of the local newspaper crumpled at my feet. The headline read:

COWS SPOOKED BY HELICOPTERS IN LOCAL AIRSHOW

Yo man, just when I get a good hand, Shawn mumbles trying to bluff the other team. I have to leave!

I look over his shoulder to see