Rotors: A Novel of the Vietnam War

By Roger Gallagher

They were college kids and young soldiers who wanted to fly, and they knew little about Vietnam other than what they read in the newspapers before going there. But Ia Drang, Kontum, Bong Son, Pleiku, Dak To, and dozens of other places soon became their trials by fire as they flew the grunts into and out of hot LZs and exposed themselves to some of the most intense combat of the war. Their mission was to fly into isolated jungle hilltops and muddy rice fields often without knowing what they'd face. Consequently, the crewmen who flew the helicopters and manned the door guns suffered some of the highest percentages of dead and wounded in the history of American warfare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 12, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595887118

Roger Gallagher

Roger Gallagher is a retired pilot and the author of Rotors: A Novel of the Vietnam War. He lives in Norman, Oklahoma.

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ROTORS

A Novel of the Vietnam War

Copyright © 2008 by Roger Gallagher

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.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-44382-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-88711-8 (ebk)

Contents

ARRIVAL (Leaving on a Jet Plane)

BAPTISM (Soldier Boy)

THE STRAPHANGER (96 Tears)

CHU PONG (The Eve of Destruction)

THE HERO (Ticket to Ride)

BONG SON (Lightning Strikes)

STAFF OFFICER (Paint it Black)

LZ ENGLISH (Like a Rolling Stone)

DAK TO (Moment to Moment)

KONTUM (Wipe Out)

HOMEBOUND (If You’re Going to San Francisco)

About the Author

We were wrought up with ideas to fight for, and we lived many lives in those whirling campaigns. Yet when we achieved and returned home, we were met with silence.

For the soldiers who served in the First Cavalry Division.

ARRIVAL (Leaving on a Jet Plane)

Daylight flashed through the windows of the Lockheed C-141 Starlifter, but few men stirred. They had ridden for eighteen hours and wanted only to get off the airplane, find a bed and go to sleep. But when a PFC with a whitewall leaned against one of the small round windows and declared, There’s Vietnam, several men got up to look, while in the back row, two majors leaned against each other, one sleeping, the second taking the last swig from a vodka bottle and chasing it with the remnants of an orange soda.

Lines quickly formed at the four small, round windows, and the PFC was pushed against the wall.

Move your ass. You’re hogging it.

The intercom crackled. We’re beginning our descent into Pleiku. We advise you to take your seats and buckle up. These landings can be rough. All conversation dwindled during the continuing announcement. A crewman in the unloading area will hand you two bags. Carry them out and find your own after departing the aircraft. And good luck while you are in Vietnam. The Military Airlift Command has enjoyed flying you.

The major with the vodka bottle tilted it again, smirked, and put it on the floor.

Near the middle of the plane, Lieutenant Jim Frye rubbed his eyes, yawned and nudged the man on his left, which annoyed Butch Becker. What’d you wake me for? I just got her clothes off.

You’d better start thinking about Vietnam now that we’re here.

Women always come first. Besides, you’re married. You don’t have to hunt. But I have to take advantage when I can, even when I’m dreaming.

Jim feigned sincerity. You should also behave. You’re an officer and gentleman.

I know. That’s why she likes me.

It’s not the chunky one who tended bar in the Officers Club upstairs, is it? I heard that she wore out half the pilots in the flight class before us.

No, no. I was dreaming about the blonde who drove the white Mustang. The one who looks bitchin’ in her mini skirts.

I thought she was hot for John Boyd?

Butch sounded sure of himself. We’ll see when I get back in a year.

But don’t you think you’d better go look anyway? Jim suggested. You might miss something, maybe a girl on the beach waving at you.

To hell with you and Vietnam, Butch shot back. It’ll still be there when we get off this cramped, smelly airplane. And if not, maybe we can go home and call this war off.

No way. You’re a dreamer, Becker.

Yeah, I know. But I’m already counting the days until I go back to the States.

Jim massaged his forehead and hoped to lessen the deep fatigue. He was hungry and craved a bed and couldn’t recall ever sitting in one position for so long. They had made just two stops in the last eighteen hours, at Wake Island for fuel, and at Manila, where the stateside crew was relieved by a combat crew—khakis, low-quarter shoes and brief cases for whitewall haircuts, flight suits, jungle boots and weapons.

The Starlifter smelled like an old gymnasium, but at 550 miles per hour, it was fast and efficient, better than the boat that the Cav’s First Team had taken to Vietnam the year before. One of Jim’s classmates, John Boyd, had remarked that they were being flown to the war in lieu of another boat ride, because LBJ couldn’t wait to speed up the process.

When the line died down and it was his turn at the window, Jim pressed his forehead against the damp glass. The aircraft’s air conditioning was barely adequate for the two hundred men onboard, and there was no music, nor complementary drinks, just one overworked WAC to serve meals and to police the airplane of any gum wrappers, newspapers and magazines the soldiers decided to throw away. At the angle the airplane crossed the beach, he was able to see only part of the coastline—a thin brown strip and an expanse of green—no roads or towns. He thought the sight of Vietnam would stir him, but he only felt tired and stiff from sitting so long.

All of a sudden the plane descended, and he hurried back to his seat. The change also brought Butch back to life. An unhappy look on his face, he tightened his seat belt and searched for his briefcase, planting both feet on it.

Damn. I knew this was too good to last, he complained.

The position of Butch’s briefcase jogged Jim’s memory. Remember the story about the captain who got shot in the ass while flying into Da Nang? It was during descent too.

Butch didn’t like the subject matter. Frye, you can say the damndest things at times.

Well, it was true. It was in the newspaper last week.

What if it was? I don’t need to see any more pictures of shot-up pilots, thank you.

Reaching for his briefcase, Butch promptly jammed it under his butt and readjusted his seat belt. I knew there was a reason why I paid fifty bucks for this thing.

Jim likewise grabbed his own briefcase and sat on it. A little bit of caution can’t hurt, he admitted.

Ivan Harry Becker talked with a slight, southern drawl. Just a country boy from Virginia, he claimed. He preferred Butch to Ivan or Harry—his Russian immigrant grandfather’s name. He was six feet tall, with athletic arms and legs, and while his brown hair and slate-gray eyes gave him a stern demeanor and a sarcastic attitude most of the time, Jim hadn’t ever seen Butch really mad. He was a competitive guy who had been the first one to eat bugs during survival training, and he took great pride about keeping himself in shape.

He and Jim had met at Fort Knox in 1965, when Butch drove up in a yellow Pontiac GTO with a black interior, a four-speed on the floor, four boxes of records, a sound system and three suitcases of clothes. A constant skeptic about life and Vietnam, he considered it a tradeoff—he got to fly, but the Army could send him to Southeast Asia in return for all that free flight time that didn’t cost him a penny.

The large C-141 rolled upright as it came out of a descending turn. The gears came down with a clunk and the nose rose into an elongated flare ten seconds before the aircraft settled solidly onto the runway at Pleiku. The big jet then shuddered under a rapid deceleration from the brakes being applied, and engines that were reversed at the same time pressed Jim hard against his seat belt. About half a minute later they turned off the runway and taxied quickly into the staging area.

When the aircraft came to a stop the soldiers got up and prepared to move into the center aisle and deplane. Butch and Jim pulled their briefcases from beneath them and got in the long exit line, then grabbed two bags after edging toward the back door. They hurried down the ramp, prodded by an army colonel with a swagger stick that he slapped against one leg like a metronome in slow motion.

Move it, fellas, he exhorted, swinging his arm like a traffic cop in a busy intersection. We need to get back in the air within ten minutes.

Once outside, Jim was hit by a blast of rancid, thick humidity and a roar from a line of men who clapped and cheered at the new arrivals. Hey, Newby, don’t get your ass shot off.

Another one called out just as Butch walked past him. Say, Lieutenant, give me your girl’s phone number. You won’t need it where you’re going.

Butch flipped him the finger, igniting more laughter, and someone else called out. Stay away from the tall whore in Sin City. She’s got the clap.

They were herded to an open area next to a row of tents and lined up by rank. Processing came first. The group was also split into two lines, one for enlisted, the other for officers and warrants. The first stop in each line was a GP (general purpose)-Medium tent surrounded by a waist-high barrier of sandbags. A small stenciled sign read ‘Admin’ above the door that Butch and Jim approached.

They probably want our dues for the Officers Club, griped Butch.

Inside a first lieutenant sat in a gray metal chair behind a small field table and checked everyone’s paperwork for wills, allotments, powers of attorney, home addresses, next of kin and 201 (personnel) files.

You missed a yellow fever shot, Sir, the lieutenant said to a captain ahead of Jim. Step over there and get one.

Jim had no sooner sat down and surrendered his records then the captain walked outside, rubbing his arm. The atmosphere of the First Cav’s in-processing was clearly one of efficiency and speed.

As the lieutenant took a slug of coke, Jim noticed the CIB (combat infantryman’s badge) on his jungle fatigues. He probably got it from a quick trip into the bush. Jim had heard stories about staff officers collecting unearned decorations by going into the field for a day or two, or riding in a helicopter on a log run (resupply flight) several times and putting in for an air medal because they had flown over enemy territory.

It must be tough sitting behind a desk all the time, he said to the lieutenant.

Desk, my ass, the lieutenant countered, looking at Jim critically. I did seven months in the bush and got wounded twice. It’s your turn now.

A rush of embarrassment spread over Jim’s face. Sorry … it was uncalled for.

That’s okay, the lieutenant responded in a friendlier tone. I’m a little touchy today because this damn leg hurts. He bent his left leg slowly and repositioned it with one hand. There’s still shrapnel in it. I’m supposed to wait another month to see if some of it works through the skin. The lieutenant looked over Jim’s records. Armor branch, huh? You ought to go to gunships, but the slick (troop carriers) units took some casualties recently and those battalions are short of pilots.

Jim swallowed hard and wondered what was in store for him.

Five minutes later, Jim was finished and he went outside with the other officers and warrants to a set of metal bleachers. About an hour later, after the line was processed, a tall black captain strode to the front, accompanied by a sergeant who set a rocket box at the captain’s feet.

Good morning, gentlemen, the captain began. My name is Errol Anderson, from Tulsa. Do I have any Okies here?

Three hands went up.

Fine, Anderson noted, smiling. The rest of you can draw pictures for them.

He put a foot on the rocket box and waited for the laughter to subside. Is there anyone here on his second tour?

A dozen hands responded, including the vodka-loving major from the Star-lifter. You guys have heard all of this before and can fall out if you choose, Anderson explained.

One captain and two warrants left the bleachers, but the vodka-drinking major stayed seated. He looked too hung over to move.

Anderson started off by holding up a small white pill. This is a daily malaria prevention tablet. Take it with plenty of water or food. Next he showed them a larger orange one. Take this every Monday with your breakfast. It will give you stomach cramps, but it prevents a case of malaria. You can get both of these pills at any aid station. Don’t forget to take them. We just sent an artillery captain home because he stopped. He wanted to shorten his tour. He did. He’s also facing charges. Are there any questions about these pills?

Yeah, someone asked. Do they also kill your sperm count?

Anderson talked over the scattered laughter. "I don’t think so. However, take my advice and use a rubber every time. It doesn’t matter how pretty she may be.

Some of the Vietnamese strains of VD can’t be touched by medicines, and we already have a sizable population of infected GI’s at Camp Zama, Japan, who didn’t use protection. In case anyone thinks that is a free trip to the States, they won’t go home until they are cured. I’ve been told some cases are taking years."

Anderson then took his foot off the rocket box, reached into it and pulled out a four-foot-long snake, causing several men to squirm before realizing the snake was dead. Now here’s something a lot deadlier than the clap he said, holding the reptile’s head so it faced the bleachers. This is a banded krait. They live in great numbers in the Central Highlands, where you are going. Notice the tan and brown markings. They are similar to a copperhead, but these babies have fangs like a rattler. It likes cool undergrowth, and its toxin can destroy your central nervous system in two hours. We call him the two-stepper. Two steps after you’ve been bitten, you’re in deep shit.

The next snake Anderson picked up was thin, green and about two feet long. This is a bamboo viper. Think of him as a coral snake with fangs. He’ll be halfway up the elephant grass and ready to bite your face as you walk by, or he’ll be in your sleeping bag when you crawl into it. So roll up your bedding every morning. And shake your boots out before you put them on. Without immediate medical help, you won’t live four hours after one of these bites you.

But Anderson had saved the best for last. He and the sergeant pulled the snake out of the box and stretched him out to his eight-foot length.

Here is a king cobra. With one gloved hand he spread the massive hood, about eighteen inches long and six wide. He lives in this region, he noted, pointing to one end of the bleachers. We killed him three days ago … right over there.

Several guys looked to see if more were around.

Be cautious in new LZs and around your compound, especially at night. One guy got bitten on his way to the shower. The snake struck him right in the crotch.

Jim flinched as Butch’s fingers curled into his leg. Asshole, he hissed.

The briefing shifted to money and the black market and ended with a scattering of questions, just as a sergeant came up to Anderson and told him something, and Anderson nodded. There’ll be a delay with your Caribou that will take you to An Khe, he began. Charlie hit the first one on takeoff, but a second one will be here in forty-five minutes.

Sarcastic comments floated from the group. How do I resign?

I’m a pacifist. I love the Vietnamese.

I joined up for Germany, not Nam.

Quick. Somebody give me a rubber. The Cav is screwing me already.

Just then, Anderson’s head snapped southward as small explosions went off some two hundred yards away, and several guys scrambled off the bleachers and hit the ground before Jim realized what was happening.

Anderson regarded the prone soldiers with a neutral look. Charlie’s giving you a welcome. He does this now and then, but don’t worry. He’s never hit this area yet. He’d rather try for our fuel dump or the helicopters. But if you want shelter, there’s a bunker about fifty yards behind the bleachers. Just watch for the Caribou.

Jim went into a half-crouch, one arm resting on the third row, while Butch knelt beside him and let out a nervous laugh. Isn’t this a peaceful beginning?

Instead of replying, Jim watched the same dark-haired major from the plane sit on the bleachers and stare toward the explosions, and from the calmness the major showed, he decided the man was still too drunk to care.

He turned to Butch. Should we check on that guy?

Butch shook his head. If he’s stupid enough to sit there and get killed, that’s his problem. Go if you want. I’m staying right here.

Two Huey gun ships circled a couple of miles south, their rotors casting off threads of reflected sunlight, while far down the runway, a dozen men jogged toward two D-Model slicks, designed for carrying personnel. The soldiers boarded, and the two slicks lifted off and headed toward the circling gun ships.

After a few moments the shells stopped and Jim moved to a nearby water trailer for a drink. The specter of combat and its suddenness aggravated him. He was already hot and sweaty, and day one wasn’t turning out to be much fun. He looked toward the village of Pleiku, perhaps a mile to the north, an array of huts and small buildings with rusty tin roofs. It was a pretty name for such a squalid place in the middle of nowhere.

Far to the north the land rose up and formed a backbone of mountains that reminded him of the hills around Boise, his hometown.

Other sounds of people talking, a distant jet, an artillery piece firing far away, were on his mind when he bent down for another drink. Then someone called his name.

Hey, Frye, said John Boyd. Are you all right?

Jim straightened up. Yeah.

Boyd looked him over. You seem pale. Is the heat getting you?

No. I’m just tired. It was a long flight.

Where are they putting you?

I’m in the slicks.

Boyd smiled. That’s great. But I’m going to gun ships. Delta Company.

Boyd broke into a toothy smile and slapped Jim on the shoulders. Hey, we’re finally here. It’s going to be a blast.

Jim didn’t feel like joking just then with the free spirit of his flight class.

If we make it, he offered.

Boyd looked shocked. Make it, he uttered. Aaahh, the newspapers report only the worst stuff. Not everyone in Vietnam gets shot up. We’ll make it.

Just the same, I hope it’s a short year.

Not too short, John cautioned. I want some action. My old man was a conscientious objector in Korea and tried to get me into law school instead of the military.

Why didn’t you go?

Boyd looked incredulous. Are you kidding? Money can’t buy this, he stressed, swinging an arm toward Pleiku. This is the chance of a lifetime.

John Boyd was the party animal of Jim’s class. He liked to buzz water towers around Texas and chug pitchers of beer and break them on the floor of the club at Fort Wolters. Both episodes got him meetings with the base commander. Since Boyd was on his way to Vietnam, he often said he didn’t give a damn. Very few things fazed him. One time, when his class had a night cross-country at Fort Rucker, he buzzed a drive-in movie by making a hundred-foot pass over the cars, but failed to consider that his class was the only one flying that night. A month later he was stopped doing a hundred on his way to Panama City and was fined two hundred for telling the judge that there didn’t seem to be any southern hospitality in his town.

However, John’s greatest achievement came during an enemy aircraft recognition class when he slipped a slide of his roommate sitting in the bathtub, a beer in one hand and a rubber ducky floating in a bank of suds next to a half-erect penis. It took five minutes for the instructor to quell the laughter and to get on with the lesson.

Jim looked to the southeast and saw two F-100s accompanying another C-141 on final to the runway. No one had mentioned the necessity of a fighter escort.

An hour later Jim and a dozen other pilots were in the first Caribou bound for An Khe. At 125 knots, the Caribou was slow and noisy, but reliable, with powerful Pratt and Whitney engines and stout landing gears that let it get into and out of short, rough jungle strips and unimproved runways.

The same dark-haired major from the Starlifter sat next to Jim and watched the terrain give way to rolling hills and jungle. Ahead were solid trees, with only a slender asphalt road slicing into a narrow gap a mile away.

That’s Mang Yang Pass, the major offered.

He looked sober, but worn down, and when he smiled, the creases around his eyes made crows’ feet. He had combed his hair, though he reeked of alcohol and sweat.

The French got ambushed there in fifty-four. With so little space to bury them on the hilltop, the bodies were buried vertically. The unit was wiped out by the Viet Minh.

Now I see them, Jim finally declared, after focusing on the area pock-marked by small depressions which were darker than the surrounding ground. There were too many to count quickly, but he guessed the total was close to a hundred.

The major extended his hand. I’m Fred Cogburn. I was at Pleiku in sixty-four and flew in this area.

Major Cogburn looked to be in his late thirties. He wore three rows of ribbons on his khaki blouse. He smiled often and kept talking. In my first tour I worked with Special Forces from down south at Plei Me and north to Dak To. The Ho Chi Minh Trail lies less then thirty miles to the west. The Highlands are full of activity. You won’t want for excitement in the Cav. He slapped Jim’s leg and smiled at him. The Army needs new lieutenants like you to replace broken-down field grades like myself.

Although Jim was grateful for Cogburn’s friendliness, he didn’t feel prepared for Vietnam, and he couldn’t understand why the Army called time spent in-country a tour. It sure wasn’t an opportunity to go visiting or sight-seeing. What’s more, flight school had taught only the basics—instruments, formation flying, navigation and a smattering of low level, tactical flying. And survival training was more fun than work. The first day had been a lecture about edible bugs and plants and roasted ants and insects to sample, and that night they saw how to kill a man with a piece of piano wire, how to urinate quietly and how to defecate while lying on one side—all taught by a deadpan instructor.

If you can’t lie down, use one hand, catch it and bury it. And wipe before moving on, the instructor noted, amid random, muffled snickers from the students. You don’t want the VC to smell you. That’s why you don’t use after shave or cologne in the bush. Those things are a dead giveaway of your position to the enemy.

The next night they navigated a three-mile escape and evasion course to a make-shift Vietnam village. At first, Jim and Butch, who were paired together, were careful, but after walking through brush and undergrowth, it became tedious, and as they traded off—one on the compass, the other in the lead breaking ground—they lunged into the undergrowth, sliding, sometimes falling, no longer careful about snakes, animals, mosquitoes, ticks and whatever else was out at night. They raced the clock to evade their captors and meet their imaginary pick-up ship.

At one point Butch became frustrated. You’re going too fast. Quit rushing me.

Jim slowed down and then stopped. Hold it. I hear a jeep.

Go to the right. We’ll slip by them.

They were circling around when suddenly the ground gave way, and Jim tumbled onto a road just as a voice called out from behind the lights of a jeep. Get on your belly and spread.

Jim lay on his stomach, gravel digging into his chest.

Give me your card, Lieutenant, the soldier’s voice demanded.

Someone flashed from behind the jeep and the soldier fell to the ground, and Butch called out. Let’s go.

Wanting to put distance between themselves and the shouting soldier, they plunged into the thick undergrowth and didn’t slow down to catch their breath until getting past a small knoll a hundred yards away.

The relative peace and beauty of the jungle below made Jim recall a time he and Butch talked about a book they had shared. It was Background to Vietnam, and it stated: The American troops in Viet-Nam are stern and tough. They are selected from the cream of the American Army and serve for only a year. They know that the war is not going well for them and they are angry—they will do anything to win it.

Butch was a disbeliever. Cream of the crop, huh? That’s not anyone I know. Boyd cares only about partying. Dryden loves horses and the mountains. Ted Marshall would rather be on the beach at Carpentaria tossing a Frisbee then serving over here. I’m here because I was ordered, and you didn’t want the military unless you could fly. So how can 1500 ordinary guys going through flight school at Wolters and Rucker every month be the cream of the Army? It sounds more like the Pentagon’s dart board, if you ask me.

The Caribou descended into Camp Radcliffe, named for the first officer to die from hostile fire in the First Cav. Radcliffe sprawled northward in a vast horseshoe around Hon Kon Mountain, some four hundred feet high, its peak bristling with radio antennae. It was a strategic base of operations, thirty-five miles west of Qui Nhon and about forty east of Pleiku, and it straddled the only main road in the Highlands. Radcliffe was right in the middle of Vietnam.

They left the Caribou and walked to a bus, and as Jim stepped inside, a band played for the homebound guys taking the Caribou back to Pleiku, and then to another Starlifter home.

That’s ‘Garry Owen,’ the Cav’s favorite tune, Major Cogburn explained. Scottish immigrants brought it to America with them. It’s been in the cavalry for a hundred years.

When the bus began to move it was immediately obvious that dust was everywhere at Radcliffe, a fine red powder that got into everything and made it easy to spot new guys, because their clothes weren’t yet tinted red.

Radcliffe bustled with activity. As they crossed the Song Ba River on a rickety wooden bridge that looked too weak to support a heavy vehicle, a Huey sat in the shallow stream while four crewmen gave it a wash job. On the far side of the river, not fifty yards away, lay a Skyraider, broken in half, its canopy wrenched to one side, and a shattered wing rested in the grass. Nearby, a dozen barefoot Vietnamese filled sandbags. Across the road, a soldier received a haircut as he sat on a stool, his rifle butt on the ground, the muzzle in one hand.

Not far into the compound, two dozen soldiers lined up by a small metal building with a postal sign on the door, and a little further, waist-high circles of sandbags surrounded two artillery emplacements, the crews piling ammo boxes near their guns. A stone’s throw away, half a dozen guys played basketball amid floating dust clouds that were generated by their shuffling boots. The makeshift court was close to a line of soldiers holding their record packets, waiting outside a long admin building.

Hordes of sleeping bags lay spread open on doors and tents, drying in the sun, and a helicopter on a pad near the bus blew waves of dust through the open windows, prompting the driver to shield his eyes and curse the pilots.

They passed a ruined artillery piece, its barrel peeled back like a banana skin. From the heavy rust on the barrel, it had been there quite awhile.

Tents outnumbered buildings five to one and scrubby banana trees sprouted everywhere that two feet of space was available. One tree had a chain around its base, and on the other end a baboon scowled at a skinny dog which was smart enough to stay barely out of reach.

Noise and people in a hive of different activities dominated the entire installation, and there wasn’t any small pocket of ground that didn’t have a coating of the ever-present red dust.

After being unloaded in the battalion area, Jim’s new home turned out to be a GP-Medium, with a personal living area; one solitary cot in a six-by-eight space. Some guys had made chairs, desks and tables out of old artillery boxes, and a camouflaged parachute draped across the ceiling above a green rubbery sheet, called membrane, that covered the uneven floor.

He had no sooner gotten his bags arranged when two dozen Hueys floated across the company area, depleting their airspeed and banking onto the base leg of the traffic pattern. As they landed and hovered, they picked spots on a huge grassy expanse across the dirt road from his tent, their rotors slapping the air like gigantic grasshoppers, drowning out all other noises, until the entire flight was on the ground and their engines were at idle.

Not much later the pilots started drifting into the company area, and Jim recognized Jay Dikes, two classes ahead of him in flight school. Jay gradually introduced him around while the other pilots went about settling in, getting a shower, donning clean fatigues or having a drink. All the activities were in concert with sounds of Bob Dylan and Nancy Sinatra that floated from several tape recorders among the tents.

He spent the afternoon arranging his gear and planning his living space, and after evening chow, at a party in Jim’s tent, he asked Jay about Evan Smith, a mutual friend who had played basketball at Wolters with both of them. Dikes pulled from a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and answered in a matter-of-fact manner.

He got shot down at Chu Pong by a fifty cal. He didn’t have a chance. From the wounds I saw, he must have been dead before he hit the ground. Fifties shred a helicopter like Swiss cheese. I hope you never have to face one.

Changing the mood to something more appealing, one pilot mentioned the good prices he had found on tape recorders in Hong Kong. And you get free champagne while shopping, he explained. It’s a buyer’s paradise. Girls are everywhere, and most of them are for sale. I might extend if I could have one more Hong Kong R and R.

But Jay wasn’t convinced. Not me. One tour and I’m gone. Graduate school is calling.

Right on, another agreed. There’s no way I’d extend even for a single day.

Evan had the same plans, another pilot said, looking at his beer can.

That’s a hell of way to go, Jay remarked. He was promoted to captain three days earlier.

Jim was wondering why there was so much rust on his beer can when the tent shook from explosions and he dashed outside, nearly taking a tent rope with him and causing the other pilots to break out in laughter.

Jay called to him. Hey, Jim, that’s outgoing, not incoming.

Two gunships orbited just off the perimeter and fired rockets into the jungle, and the artillery fired another salvo toward the north, shaking the night air in sharp, invisible shock waves.

Random comments from the tent burned Jim’s ears. We got us a hot one this time.

Did you see those reflexes?

And that speed. Goddamn, Snidely, you wouldn’t have survived that charge. It was a good thing you weren’t in his path.

I can outlast any FNG shave tail, the reply came.

Jim went back into the tent and noticed that Hal Snyder, who had made the last comment, was drunk to the point of passing out. He was about five-five, one-forty and small-boned, with a head of thick, black hair. His build was frail enough that he probably had to drink extra glasses of water to pass the weight regimen on his original flight physical. He was dubbed Snidely because of his long handlebar moustache. Though only thirty years old, his face was weathered and old-looking, and he swayed back and forth, even though he was sitting on the floor. He had the cocky mannerisms and walk of James Cagney.

Tuy Hoa, the last operation for the pilots, was being rehashed. Although one infantry battalion had spent a month searching for a Viet Cong headquarters, from initial contact with a sizable Viet Cong force, the operation soon became a series of sporadic firefights, flushing out half a dozen VC at a time and never corralling larger groups.

That was a smart Dink, Snyder admitted, talking slowly, his eyes barely able to focus. He hit us after we crossed the tree line, low and slow. He struck the floor with one hand, spilling beer onto his pants. That’s when the son-of-a-bitch got my door gunner.

He took another drink and wiped his mouth. Good man, Andrews. He was on his third extension. He had three kids. Jesus.

Jim’s neck tingled, and Butch’s face was drawn tight. More guns fired, but both of them sat still. Snyder raised his beer and the others followed in a toast to Andrews. When Jim raised his glass to drink the toast, Butch cast him a critical look that made Jim stop.

Can you imagine a guy like that being a door gunner for three-fifty a month? You couldn’t pay me enough to do it. At least we can control the aircraft, which gives us some say over our lives, but door gunners just hang on and pray.

And kill VC, Jay reminded Snyder.

It’s not for me, someone said. They have to fly with different pilots, and I know for a fact that some of them scare the gunners with their flying and cowboy antics.

It sure beats humping the jungle and living with leeches.

I’m not so sure, Snyder countered. You can’t hide a Huey like you can a grunt. In thick jungle like Chu Pong and the border, it’s hard to see further than fifty feet.

Well, at least there won’t be any more Ia Drangs, said Ralph Wills, an older warrant officer who had served as an enlisted man for twelve years before he went to flight school. Despite a recent bout of dysentery, Wills still had a small beer belly and the beginnings of a double chin.

Ed Carter, a baby-faced warrant who sported a red line of fuzz on his upper lip, joined in. If I never go back to the border, that’s fine with me.

Charlie can still pick his time and place to fight while we can’t, unless we find him, Snyder answered. That puts us at a disadvantage. Vietnam isn’t like the other wars where we knew about the enemy positions and advanced toward them.

Wills turned feisty. Just let him stand and fight and we’ll blow his shit away.

He’s a coward, Carter bragged. When he’s trapped, he fades away. The Cav will spend the rest of the year looking for the Second VC Headquarters, just like we did at Tuy Hoa.

We need a scorched—earth policy, Wills chimed in. That would deny him any local support.

But Snyder was dubious. We’d have to level all of South Vietnam. What about the civilians?

They’d finally have to stand on one side or the other.

Carter raised a beer. I propose a toast to scorched earth.

Napalm them all.

Everyone drank, except for Jim and Butch.

Wills had another solution. Form a line at Vung Tau and march to Hanoi, burning tunnels and villages as we go.

A chuckle arose from Carter. And everyone from light colonel up has to get in the front line.

Now that’s a hell of an idea, Ed. You’ll get a medal for that.

They were getting pretty high, and the tension between differing ideas lessened. Some guys opened new beers. Until now, Pops Thornton had sat and listened. He was in his forties, bald, but sported an Eisenhower ring over his ears. From his physique and posture, it was evident that it had been years since he’d been in shape. He had volunteered for Vietnam from a National Guard unit in Alabama and the Army sent him through turbine helicopter transition at Fort Rucker. Pops and a buddy had gotten drunk in a bar and had signed up together, but he passed the physical and his buddy didn’t. Diabetes took him out. So a commissioned officer reverted to a warrant in order to fly helicopters and participate in his third war—the target of jokes among field grades—but not with the men who shared a cockpit with him.

Pops had a colorful background. He had been a Navy Assault Boat Operator during World War II and claimed to have been onboard when MacArthur stepped into the Philippine surf. He said he was just out of the picture, and no one doubted him, at least to his face. During Korea he had flown some early helicopter medevac missions deep into North Korean territory, to pick up a downed pilot. Then he drifted into the National Guard, worked as an insurance salesman, managed a Dairy Queen, and raised two daughters. When he got a few drinks in him and loosened up, he was well known for his impersonations of Bear Bryant, whom he claimed to know.

Without being overbearing, Pops challenged the group’s drunken bravado. Charlie’s no coward. We’ve all seen evidence of that. We’re up against soldiers who have fought for fifteen years and are defending their homeland, they think, against invaders. If they retreat, they leave behind friends and relatives. This isn’t survival for us, but it is for them. As they see it, there are no rules except to fight to the death. And I think that’s why there will be more battles like Ia Drang. But they will pick the time and place, not us.

Jay was feeling his beer. Pops, you ought to be a recruiter. Johnson could put a million GI’s over here with that speech.

Pops leveled a harder look at Jay. Before Ia Drang, the Cav stumbled around as it pleased, begging Charlie to start something. Well, he did, and it hurt us. Only our helicopters flying in additional ammo and reinforcements pulled us out. If the relief force hadn’t marched to our rescue, we’d have had a stalemate.

Wills didn’t buy so much negativity. But we also learned at that time not to operate outside our artillery cover. We fly everywhere in pairs now, with jets on standby for close-in fire support.

Pops didn’t waiver. We must not give him the first shot.

We can’t help that. The damn rules of engagement shackle us.

Yes, we can, by bombing more and using artillery around the clock.

That would mean killing civilians too.

I hope not. But Charlie simply can’t have any more sanctuaries.

Carter was confident. I don’t think he can afford such losses again.

Oh, he can, Pops assured him. But that’s not the issue. The point is, can we afford ours? The folks back home won’t stand for a lengthy war.

Jay had heard enough and fumbled with his tape recorder. Who wants to hear the Temptations? I’ve heard enough of this war bullshit for one night.

My Girl came on, and Jim rocked to the music. It was one of his favorite songs.

But Pops stayed on his soapbox and ignored the music. We got our butts kicked at Ia Drang until we received help. This war is changing and getting more deadly.

Jim remembered newspaper pictures of a shot-up helicopter in an LZ, the fuselage burning. One pilot lay on the ground, his chest blood-stained. One reporter had written that the US was involved in a full-scale war after the Battle of the Ia Drang. Although the battle had been declared a victory, the press printed varying accounts because of the American dead and wounded.

Snyder wouldn’t have any of Pops’ caution, and he grew boastful; We’ll chase Charlie all the way to Hanoi if we must.

Pops remained unimpressed with the beer talk. American forces cover less than five percent of South Vietnam. With all the restrictions we have about crossing borders and operating in the north, this war’s a long way from being over.

Carter rubbed his forehead like he was in pain. I’ve had all this I can stand.

The next instant, Snyder fell onto his side, let out a growl and braced himself into a sitting position. Then he looked at his half-full glass of beer and broke into a triumphant smile.

Way to go, Snidely, Dikes called out, laughing. Not one drop got spilled during that nosedive. You’re pilot material for sure.

BAPTISM (Soldier Boy)

The next day, after meeting their Flight Platoon Leader, Captain Ernest Farmer, Jim and Butch were scheduled for an orientation flight. They drew their weapons and flight gear and reported to the operations tent where Major Gene Keller, a lanky redhead in his mid-thirties, briefed them from a tactical map affixed to a large slab of plywood. It was splotched with varying colors; red for the enemy, and blue for friendlies, with blues outnumbered by the reds five times over. The least active area was between An Khe and Qui Nhon, while many red circles dotted the mountains west and north of An Khe and stretched to the Cambodian border. Cav units were all over the Two Corps sector, from Bong Son, seventy miles up the coast, to a hundred miles south, near Phan Thiet, a small fishing village by the South China Sea.

Pops and Ed Carter stood in the back of the room, not paying much attention, until Major Keller raised his voice to include them by mentioning that Jim and Butch were finally ready to go fly.

On their way to the helicopters the sun made the back of Jim’s neck hot, and it wasn’t even nine, yet the air was still and damp, like Alabama summertime at Fort Rucker. The morning air had a languid, heated atmosphere that was sure to grow hotter.

As they walked along, Pops and Ed rehearsed their plan.

Let’s avoid the ROK’s (Republic of Korean soldiers) to the south.

Okay. Stay above three thousand?

Roger. I get nosebleeds anyway.

I’ll start out leading and we can switch later, so both of them can practice formation.

Right.

Do we stay up the company and approach radio frequencies?

Yeah.

Shall we hit a pinnacle at An Khe Pass?

Pops waited to answer, as if mulling something over. Not this time. There might be snipers around. Let’s break them in nice and gentle.

Butch looked at Jim and rolled his eyes, but Jim tried not to show a reaction.

Carter was in a jovial mood. There’s nothing like busting your cherry on the first flight.

Both warrants laughed, and Jim shook his head in disbelief and wondered if they were serious or merely heckling two new guys. It didn’t sound funny to him.

Butch then asked how the Golf Course got its name.

Because Charlie likes to play on it, Pops answered, swinging his arm in a wide arc. I never heard who dubbed our heliport the Golf Course, but when the entire Cav is here we have three hundred aircraft in one place. It was too much of a tempting target, so we don’t do that anymore, but we still get mortared now and then.

On the south edge of the vast heliport, two huge Skycranes squatted like praying mantises, and half a dozen Chinooks rested in sandbagged revetments one row away from the Skycranes, though the most numerous aircraft in the Golf Course were D-Models (slicks) and B-Models (gunships). Together they outnumbered the other aircraft at least ten to one. Several dirt roads crossed the Golf Course in a grid that enabled vehicles to approach any helicopter on the heliport. The place looked like the main parking area at Fort Rucker, only with grass and sandbagged revetments instead of concrete, asphalt and large, permanent buildings.

During the pre-flight Jim looked for leaks on the engine deck and fingered the fittings on oil and fuel lines, and also checked the play in the tail rotor bearings. He worked his way around the ship, getting familiar with the helicopter again, since he hadn’t been near a Huey for six weeks, and then it had been in flight school. The skids had several long gouge marks, the transmission cowling wore deep scratches, and one side window was patched with gray hundred-mile-an-hour tape.

His concern for the damage was noted by Pops, who explained. We don’t worry about minor fixes like windows and dents.

Jim ran his hands over the scratches and checked the cowling fasteners, wondering all the time what had caused the damage that Pops hadn’t covered. Compared to the aircraft at flight school, this one looked ragged and beat up.

She’ll break branches and keep flying, Pops said, patting the fuselage like he would a horse. This isn’t flight school. The only standard maneuvers we do over here are straight and level. The rest is based on your experience, skill and mission requirements.

Jim was on the roof five minutes later, pushing and pulling on the rotor head when the crew chief and door gunner approached carrying belts of ammunition, and he got down to meet them. The door gunner was the PFC at the C-141’s window. He smiled politely behind an array of pimples and introduced himself as Jerry Pittman.

From the cocky, cold way he acted, the crew chief, Sgt. Moke Jones, exuded toughness. His black face was shiny and smooth, his jaw half-clenched so that he seemed to be etched out of stone. He had dark brown eyes that held a constant, hard glare. He was medium in height, but well muscled, like a boxer. He pronounced a quick hello to Jim, gave him a firm handshake, and went about showing Pittman where to store his gear, how to fit the chest protector and how to properly rig the M-60 machine gun on its mount outside the sliding cargo door.

By the time they belted in, went through the starting procedure and were ready to go, the heat inside the aircraft was like an oven. Jim fumbled with his notes, but Pops mashed the intercom button with his right foot and stopped him.

All you have to do today is fly and familiarize yourself with the terrain, he said, extending a thumbs-up signal to Ed and getting one in return, then keying the radio. Golf Course, this is Eagle One-Four, flight of two, ready to depart east.

Roger, One-Four. Do you need lobster (artillery) coordination?

That’s affirmative.

Roger. The hot sectors are from zero-six-zero to one-two-zero. The pass is cold. Wind is one-five at five; altimeter is twenty-nine-nine-two. Report leaving the IP (Initial Point). You are cleared for take off.

Jim hovered to a take off lane and waited for Butch to move in behind, and together they lifted off and climbed over the motley collection of tents and buildings. Dust covered all structures and tents like a light layer of snow and, until the ships got above five hundred feet, the air over Radcliffe was saturated with dust that resembled a haze layer over Los Angeles.

When he leveled off at a thousand feet above the ground (AGL), Pops warned him. Increase your climb to fifteen hundred. We’re too vulnerable as a target this low.

The morning was bright and clear, though a few cumulus clouds hugged the low mountains near An Khe Pass fifteen miles ahead. The various shades of green from the jungle were broken here and there by brown craters, the result of shells and bombs. It was a perfect morning to fly, except for the heat that forced sweat from his arms and legs, but he tried to put the discomfort out of his mind and concentrate on flying.

In the back, Jones maintained a search pattern, staying ready, while Pittman admired the scenery, snapping a picture whenever something caught his fancy.

Jim turned his radio to the intercom channel so he could talk to Pops. Jones seems to be pretty intense. Is he always like that?

Pops answered without taking his eyes off the landscape. He’s on his third extension. No one has killed more VC in this company than Moke. He’s been in two crashes and gotten shot up once, but refuses to go home. He’s a tough cookie.

Jim whistled. Two and a half years over here? I was in college back then, worrying about cars and girls.

Memories of marching every Wednesday on the ROTC parade field and fretting about clean belt buckles and polished brass now seemed like a distant dream instead of a substantial memory.

And he plans to stay another year, Pops added. He wants to move his wife and two kids out of Detroit and buy a farm in Ohio, away from the big city. He claims it’s getting to be too dangerous to raise a family there.

Pops looked at Jim, though the features of his face were hidden behind the dark green visor that made it impossible to pick out his expression. Jones is deep down tough, the best crew chief we have. I’ve not seen anyone do a better job than he does. He’ll fly all day and go over the aircraft at night. In flight school there were mechanics who only maintained the aircraft, but here the crew chiefs and gunners fly in them and keep them in good shape. And they don’t come better in both departments than Moke Jones.

An Khe Pass was a series of hairpin turns that descended into a broad valley which ran east to Qui Nhon, twenty miles away. Ten miles north lay a small mountain perhaps five hundred feet tall and a mile long—a solitary nub in the center of a lush, green expanse of rice paddies and palm trees.

That’s Little Hon Kon, Pops pointed out, gesturing through his open side window. Charlie likes to use it as an observation point, just like we do.

He took the controls and climbed another thousand feet, calling out the names of LZs and LPs (listening posts), while Jim noted them on his map with colored grease pencils.

Each one is registered with division artillery out of Qui Nhon and at An Khe Pass, Pops added, indicating the locations with one finger as Jim held a small portion of the map in a flat position, stabilizing it on his thighs.

Looking up for other traffic, Jim pointed at two other Hueys heading toward An Khe.

Those are ARA (aerial rocket artillery) aircraft. They fly patrols and answer calls for help.

Jim wondered if Ted Marshall was on board. Although artillery was Ted’s branch, it was difficult to feature him dumping rockets on a target. He was quiet and studious, energized by the Beach Boys and sun tanning on the beach more than flying helicopters. But all anyone needed was a trigger finger, and Ted qualified. Glancing around the cockpit, Jim noticed three holes on his side that were filled with gray putty.

We have ten more in the tailboom, Pops explained, noting another one close to Jim’s armor seat. That one sent a guy home when he got hit a month ago near Pleiku.

Pops took Jim’s pistol and holster that hung from the back of his armor seat. Some guys put this between their legs and call it protection for momma, but no pistol or flak vest in the chin bubble will save you. If you’re unlucky, there’s nothing you can say. When your time has come, there’s damn little you can do.

Just the same, Jim vowed to secure another flak vest and put it in the chin bubble. A little extra bit of protection wouldn’t hurt.

Half an hour later, as they turned toward An Khe, the radio crackled. Mayday, Mayday. This is Viking Two-Zero. I’ve blown a jug and I’m putting down about five klicks (kilometers) north of Alpha Kilo Pass. I do not have a wingman. Can anyone help?

Pops signaled Carter, who clicked his mike two times, a signal that he understood, and Pops took the controls and went into a sharp bank toward the northeast. He can’t be more than five or six miles away, he guessed, pressing the floor switch. Viking Two-zero, this is Eagle One-Four. We’re in your vicinity. Give us a light.

Five seconds later Moke called out. There’s a light at one o’clock and six miles.

A Skyraider, Pops confirmed, going onto the air again. Viking Two-Zero, we have your light. We are two klicks to your south. We’re on our way toward you.

A nervous voice thanked them, which prompted a reaction from Pops. Those air force types don’t like to be lower than three thousand. He’s probably a Colorado Springs lieutenant, he guessed aloud, shaking his head. All those academics and no balls.

The Skyraider lined up with an open field that paralleled a shallow ditch and a treeline, its gear down, the wingtips wobbling as the pilot battled a crosswind. The plane bounced twice and then set down hard, and the pilot’s voice was a pitch higher when he called again.

I’ve just taken a hit in my tail.

Now he’s imagining things, Pops scowled.

The Skyraider skidded to one side, rolled to a stop, nearly ground looping, and the pilot scrambled out and flopped onto the left wing just as the two helicopters descended and passed on either side of the downed plane.

The engine’s smoking, Jim announced.

In a voice that sounded totally relaxed, Moke called out. I have two or three Dinks about a hundred yards behind the plane. They don’t look friendly.

Pops looked, but saw no one. You’re imagining things, Moke.

Pittman tried to stand and look out Moke’s side but sat back down when Pops tore into him. Man your own side. If we have VC down there, we may need your gun too. And tighten your seat belt. I could lay this ship over and send your ass flying down to them before you blink your eyes.

Pops maneuvered to give Moke another look. Do you see them now?

Moke studied the terrain for several seconds but didn’t give a reply one way or the other.

Pops then passed in front of the Skyraider, whose engine section was smoking furiously by now, and the pilot