Not Your Ordinary Vietnam War Stories

By Jim Pepper

After graduating from the University of Missouri in 1969 I was commissioned as an officer in the Marines. I served an interesting tour of duty in Southeast Asia in 1972, during which time I was in and out of six different countriesincluding Vietnam. A greenhorn lieutenant when I landed, I was eventually promoted to captain. Because of my God given take charge personality and a few very junior officer notable accomplishments I found myself frequently being handpicked for special assignments. I saw action with seven different unitssome good some badsome ugly. I saw men die. I saw capable men withered by fatigue, brave men crippled by fear. Since I served, more than forty years ago now, I have had the pleasure and privilege of meeting and getting to know hundreds of fellow-Vietnam Vets; short term acquaintances, professional colleagues, neighbors, close friends, family members. Although our individual Vietnam stories are unique and intensely personal, I have come to realize that a common thread runs through most of them. For more than twenty-five years I have been asked to formally speak to sundry civic organizations, history classes, and social gatherings. As a result of fielding thousands of audience questions and listening to their spontaneous reactions to my talks I have learned what people are interesting in hearing. I have seen their reactions to my version of Americas Vietnam experience. I know whats interesting and whats not; whats important to those who werent there, ordinary people who merely wonder what it was like. I have enjoyed two successful careers and am currently embarked upon my third. I have fired most of lifes best bullets, emptied most of my chosen weapons most precious magazines, drained my fullest canteens, exhausted most of my allotted time on this fair planet we call earth. I want to share a few of the stories of men I served with, men I came to know later in life, men I loved as brothers-in-arms surviving in harms way; or men who were simply Crazy Vietnam Vets (like me) with a special story to tell. Men JUST like meonly different! Ours are interesting up and down tales of wonder and weird, of good times and bad. I am happily married to a seasoned school nurse, am the father of three college educated sons, and have two fine grandsons. I live in Blanco, Texas about forty miles due west of Austin. I have always viewed lifes glass as half full; hope you enjoy our Not Ordinary war stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481729918

Jim Pepper

“I served a year in SE Asia. Saw action in six different countries…saw men die…saw men crippled by fear and withered by fatigue. Although intensely personal…we veteran’s stories are colored by common threads. After formally speaking about America’s ‘Vietnam Experience’ for more than 25 years I’ve learned what’s important to audiences…and what’s not. People most want to know…What was it like over there.” “I dedicate this book to my older and bigger brother Ben…First Sergeant B.A. ‘Ben’ Pepper. Son, brother, husband, father, grandfather, friend and companion to those of us who know him best…the man I often refer to as…the REAL Marine in our family.”

Book preview

‘Three Helicopter Rides’

Were the diver to dwell on the jaws of the shark…he would never lay his hands on the precious pearl. (Sadi Gulistan-1258)

Background

V IETNAM WAS AMERICA’S FIRST WAR DURING which tactical use of helicopters played a significant role. The Korean War saw a smattering of helicopters used by U.S. forces, but only a few and mostly in life saving or rescue situations. A decade later in Vietnam… Things was different Jody* .

[Footnote*: "Throughout the Vietnam War…Jody…was a generic name fabricated by bored GIs…and hung on perpetrators of bad deeds done back home…in The World. (i.e. I hear Jody is doin (having sex with) your girl back home! Or, It was Jody who knocked up (impregnated) your ‘lil sister! Or, It was Jody who……… (fill in the blank) ……?")]

"Jody misadventures aside…fact is…Things WAS different!"

"Different? How? How…Was things different?"

Vietnam was unique in American history, in many ways; "for reasons besides the one most frequently sited…the war’s final outcome." Antagonistic, uninformed, uncaring, lazy, or callously flippant journalists or wanttabe contemporary historians attempted to pigeonhole their negative personal feelings regarding the war, or define atrocities or ugliness associated with the war, by tossing around shallow clichés. ‘America lost’ is but one example of many inaccurate clichés used to describe Vietnam; clichés that have virtually become history.

Glib or insincere journalists and pseudo chroniclers of contemporary events tended to gloss over defining aspects of this homely piece of American history by simplistically saying Vietnam was an unconventional war. Journalists called Vietnam a new kind of war. A war featuring newly coined linguistic beauties such as tour of duty (versus enlisting for the duration like ever body did during WW II). Terms like indecisive outcome (versus decisive victories used when referring to easy-to-understand WW II battles…as well as WW II’s final outcome). Phrases like unclear military objectives (used for want of more recognizable objectives such as conquering entire European countries or major cities…or strategically located identifiable Pacific atolls and islands…what America experienced in WW II). Journalists found it difficult to define America’s current war in terms of last war’s catch phrases and workable one-liners; forward transfer of last war’s terminologies never really worked.

There were many legitimate differences. The Vietnam War’s interminable length was a biggy. Another; the war lacked definable frontlines. A huge difference from conventional wars like WW I and II! Unprecedented TV coverage was even HUGER! Body counts, rubber body bags, odd sounding names attached to important people and places, diverse terrain and geography, odd sounding native languages, betel leaf chewing native populations, rampant diseases, widespread crippling poverty, unfamiliar national traditions and familial relationships, self-serving politics, and polarization of public opinion for the sake of winning the torrid national debate regarding the war. Take your pick, the list of real bummers associated with America’s involvement in Vietnam went on and on…and on and on!

And then there was the popular war versus unpopular war factor. FDR going to war against Japan on December 8th, 1941 is a great example of a magnificently popular war. President Herbert Walker Bush going to war against Iraq to ‘free Kuwait’ a good example of a "not quite so popular but OK war; remaining in Vietnam more than a decade while NEVER attaining quantifiable results the antithesis of a popular war".

Once the wheels began falling off the bandwagon of ‘automatic national support’ traditionally granted America in its previous wars, a long and growing list of pin-point-able reasons cited by our rapier tongued national press helped account for America’s deep rooted, widespread, and rapidly expanding disenchantment with the lingering war in Vietnam. Reaching a tipping point for reasons cited above, anti-war piling on was as inevitable as it was popular.

"Yadda! Yadda! Yadda! Anything about the Vietnam War that contemporary journalists couldn’t easily understand or explain they instead clichéd to death…until everyone was either sick and tired of hearing about the war…or no longer gave a shit…or were soooooooo pissed off they insisted…to the point of rioting in the streets…that the war end. Exploitatively graphic news footage of wounded or dying American GIs…shown night after night by all three of America’s nightly TV news broadcasts…did little for the sagging morale of us greasy-assed grunts over there fighting the damned war. And wreaked psychological hell on good folks back home forced to watch such gruesome images OF the war………ever frickin night…JODY!"

All the while…from start to finish…the fundamental reason for going to war remained ambiguous and impossible to define…UN-inspiring to those of us fighting the war.

"As a surviving veteran of that inglorious war…I have this to say about ALL that unhappy horseshit…it boils down to…Much has been written…little has been said."

"Nothing has been said that that really matters. Not to us Vets. Nothing said that bears repeating here. Nothing I care to explain here. No sir! No way! Not in this story. Not in this book. Nope! This is a simple story about riding in helicopters…three helicopters."

"And while this is neither a dissertation about history…nor an explanation of the sorry politics that triggered America’s longest ever military conflict…I WILL say this! A few of our nation’s more knowledgeable and enlightened military archivists DID correctly describe the war…in part…by referring to it as a helicopter war. Accurate! Descriptive of the facts! Fair! America’s nonstop…daylight to dark use of helicopters…for hauling troops…our gear…our weapons…our supplies…INTO battle…and for hauling our tired…broken…torn…and far too often dead bodies…AWAY from battle…being one of the war’s MOST significant historical differences. Yes! No doubt about it. Helicopters WERE part of what made Vietnam different from previous American wars."

"During my year of service in The War…during my tour of duty…I rode aboard that noisy hoard of locusts. One apprehensive soul among many…one wide-eyed and wild-eyed passenger resolutely cowering in defiance of bad odds…hitching rides aboard the millions of helicopters sent there. A fragile hitchhiker aboard America’s whop-whop-whop…whop-whop-whop…sky train for democracy…one avenging warrior ominously hovering in the tropical skies over Vietnam. Part of America’s airlifted invading masses. A willing participant aboard an endless wave of odd appearing…low flying…death dealing…flying machines the likes of which …the incredible numbers of which…no one had ever before seen…in ANY war! Part of America’s airborne flying circus…part of the airborne rape of Vietnam’s landscape and of every living creature that dared trod upon it. Lending more than reasonable credibility to the media’s popular and vogue moniker of…helicopter war. A justifiable name…affixed to an ugly Tar Baby war. A war many of us Vets simply and affectionately referred to as…The Nam."

"Stating the simple facts…I rode on lots of helicopters. Big ones…little ones…blue ones …green ones…fast and slow ones…high flying…low flying…and on a couple of occasions… NON flying ones! Heading TO or returning FROM lots of different and interesting destinations. Yessir! I flew all over Greater SE Asia…doing a lot of different and interesting things. BUT! From a potential list of hundreds of helicopter rides…I want to describe just THREE! One ride was scary…one was short…and one was a brave fellow-warrior’s last.

************************

Fear is an instructor of great sagacity……… (Emerson-1841)

Last Ride

During the intervening forty years since my service in WESPAC, I have sporadically but routinely been asked to speak to high school history classes, Rotarians, Lions Clubs, ladies clubs and sundry gatherings of other Fine Folks.

"Good intentioned people who invite me to speak as a living resource…what the HELL ever that means? How do my hosts suppose I could possibly speak if I was a DEAD resource?"

Typically I’m invited by people I know; folks who gain some sort of undefined perverse pleasure from telling their friends and acquaintances that THEY know a real live Crazy Vietnam Vet. OBTW…Crazy Vietnam Vet qualifies…for me and for most Vietnam Vets…as our least favorite of ALL threadbare clichés referencing our service in our war. However! I DO enjoy the low-key downhome speaking engagements…and when invited…I do it. And when I do…I am nearly always asked some version of the following question. Sir…Were you ever afraid…Was it scary…Were you EVER scared?"

The answer in a word: YES!"

We were riding on a CH-53 (big helicopter); six of us glommed together, tagging along as passengers on a big chopper that more typically would have been busy hauling heavier strategic loads of supplies and ammunition for combat units. A gigantic CH-53 certainly was NOT the Marine Corp’s ‘helicopter of choice’ for routinely transporting a gaggle of troops. My tactical unit’s logistics officer had made spur-of-the-moment arrangements for me to join five other Marines hitching a ride back to the rear; about fifteen clicks (miles) to the rear. I was glad for our big bird’s brief delay before getting airborne, thankful for the opportunity to sit and relax. Sitting down, anywhere, for even five minutes, had recently become a luxury.

As I recall, no one had been sitting anywhere. We were up to our ‘round eyes’ (what our South Vietnamese allies called us) in a concerted effort to beat back the ‘Gooks’ (what most Americans routinely called the really bad guys…the enemy…the insurgent Viet Cong…allies of the North Vietnamese Army or NVA). Remnant American forces still ‘In Country’ and our less than stellar South Vietnamese allies were thrashing around all over South Vietnam, using all kinds of thrown together combat units and patchwork organizations, fighting it out tooth and nail to beat back a massive enemy onslaught. We were mere days into what turned out to be the second biggest enemy offensive of the entire war*.

[Footnote*: "The Tet Offensive of 1968 being number one…our offensive…the Easter Offensive of 1972…being number two…both enemy offensives named for the holiday and calendar year on which each historically significant enemy attack was commenced."]

I was making what I presumed would be a quick run back to ‘the rear’ to our Task Force (several thousand Marines) HQ; departing from our company’s (two hundred Marines) far more advanced CP (Command Post) out near the radically changing and difficult to define, undulating, volatile, official line of debarkation. An imaginary penciled-in line drawn on our every battle map; a line we officially called the FEBA. A mind numbing military acronym that stood for even worse jargonized military terminology Forward Edge of the Battle Area. In common sense civilian language meaning "the frontline…where all the action was"!

As the massive engines of our cavernous CH-53 revved to atrocious and the speed of its spinning rotors increased to a blur in preparation for liftoff, we six hitchhikers glanced around our noise drenched surroundings. One by one each of us realized that our big helicopter was going to depart the FEBA scantily loaded. Acting as one and without instruction, we half-dozen transferees to the rear immediately took advantage of vacant space aboard the BIG helicopter; each of us occupying TWO canvas seats instead of one. Having unfettered access to extra space on a helicopter was a luxury; akin to being bumped UP from noisy coach to First Class.

"That the odd looking chopper on which we sat could become airborne was something I considered black magic. We six interlopers…heading to the rear with our gear…WERE…in the colloquial vernacular of Jody…Shittin in tall cotton! Fact is we could NOT have…Given a shit less about no lift capacities or no aerodynamics…or any other happy horseshit them pogy bait eatin air wingers was always yakkin about. We was just happy to be goin flyin…Right Jody?"

With every combat flight crowded to the extreme, pre-counted ground pounders like me were typically forced to hold cumbersome hand-carried individual crap on our laps or sit on it; usually with our stinking asses crowded so close together we could feel the man next to us farting. Riding on ANY helicopter meant we couldn’t hear squat, conversation was next to impossible. We couldn’t smell much either; not even our seat mate’s un-showered greasy ass. But we DID retain our inherent ability to sense or feel things. Things like the unmistakable shudder of a helicopter being hit by ground fire.

"OBTW…We sat on Kevlar flak jackets or steel helmets. Hell! We sat on whatever we were carrying…including our backpacks…filled with all sorts of inconsequential bullshit…like comic books and soggy Oreos. Hoping that if our chopper WAS hit…our cookie cushions would somehow prevent THE most feared wound among all feared wounds…a sad wound every GI… at one time or another…imagined he might suffer……castration by an unlucky golden BB!"

The oversized chopper’s crew chief had arranged his six passengers (me included) three to a side facing inboard (facing one another) within the cavernous noisy bird. I was sitting at the aft (rear) end of our impromptu load’s starboard (right side when facing forward) trio of riders. About the time I began nodding off for a fitful nap* the helicopter’s engines roared to beyond loud and black magic was accomplished; we experienced liftoff.

[Footnote*: "One incongruity related to spending extended time in a combat zone included bone tired Marines being able to grab minutes-long catnaps in unlikely places…like onboard deafeningly loud helicopters."]

After rolling forward fifty yards or so, our helicopter took off straight up; then banked sharply to the right, shoving we starboard seated passengers hard against the bulkhead (inside wall) of the ascending chopper. All was well. At five hundred feet ‘UP’ our pilot leveled the bird and shoved it into overdrive for a quick flight to Task Force HQ.

Helicopter pilots generally preferred two basic flight patterns when flying over Vietnam’s undulating terrain; low or high. Individually tasked small helicopters like Hueys, capable of carrying six to ten combat-loaded Marines into tactical situations, generally flew in tight formations hugging the tree tops; low! Larger helicopters, like CH-53s, typically flying in looser formations, traveling to and from larger more stable LZs, tended to fly higher in order to more comfortably navigate irregular terrain; high! However! When feasible, ALL pilots preferred hugging terra firma. Why? Flying low was a matter of simple geometry and survival. They did it to avoid enemy ground fire!

Higher altitudes meant greater time required for flying through what pilots called the ‘cone of fire’. Enemy ground fire was typically delivered straight up, through openings in tall thick trees, creating an imaginary ‘cone of fire’ above bad guy positions. By hugging Mother Earth, pilots minimized their aircraft’s time of exposure to withering ground fire. Lower altitudes created smaller sized cones of fire.

"Simple huh…Simple geometry that is! Ever high school boy knows…The taller the cone…The wider the cone…The greater the volume of the frickin cone! Flyin lower meant smaller cones…less time needed for flying through the dreaded cone of fire. Like I said Jody …Simple stuff we learnt back in hi schoooo!"

However! As with many things in real life, there were exceptions. Our quickie flight back to HQ involved a real life exception. Theoretically we were flying FROM the frontline TO a secure area in the rear; flying back to where pogey bait munching REMFs (Rear Echelon Mother F–kers) earned their keep. Flying OVER timbered rolling terrain ‘secured’ days earlier by determined Marines rooting out less determined bad guys; at least that was the presumption under which our capable pilot was operating his chopper for that flight; "the givens in OUR geometry problem." The pilot, whose name I never learned, was doing absolutely nothing wrong. On any given day, on any given flight, under any given situation, it was the pilot’s prerogative to fly where he wanted. Our pilot was flying a good sortie (single flight) to accomplish his assigned mission; he was flying by the book.

Around three minutes into our flight a giant-sized staff sergeant (an E-6), whose name I also did not know when we boarded our flight but would come to know before the sun set on that sad day, began talking; to all of us in general, but to no one in particular.

Gathering what I could from bits and pieces I could hear, the taaaaallll staff sergeant was scheduled to depart on a well-earned R&R? In a ‘post-op’ great mood, he appeared thrilled to having been summoned from the frontlines. Sitting to my right in the middle of our starboard trio of happy-go-lucky relaxing Marines, the three of us intentionally sprawling across six seats, ‘Big Boy Staff Sergeant’ was laughing, gesturing wildly, and noticeably cutting up with the Marine to HIS immediate right. All was well, our short flight routine in every way; until it suddenly wasn’t.

Mid-sentence of the jolly staff sergeant’s verbose carrying-on, little of which I could fully hear; mid-word, the exact words I could only guess when later trying to recall exactly what the big staff sergeant had last been saying; our tightly-wound and bound-for-glory CH-53 helicopter began echoing with the unmistakable ‘clatter-clatter-clatter-ping-clatter’ of being impacted by numerous rounds of small arms fire. Most likely steel jacketed projectiles fired by automatic AK-47s; we will never know…but likely AK-47s?

Above the hailstone-like pinging and clattering, we suddenly silent six passengers heard the big chopper’s engines whine in loud protest. Sounding off; as an undetermined number of bad guy rounds continued impacting God alone knew what all vital parts of our gallantly struggling big green bird? One moment we six hitchhiking Marines were relaxing, trying our best to hear every word the oversized and particularly jovial staff sergeant was saying; the next moment there was nothing but roaring silence escaping six pairs of locked jaws.

"Deafening silence…except for the hail pelting a tin roof sound made by additional small arms rounds peppering our swooping aircraft…which our skilled pilot had instantly banked to the left and put into a steep descent…in an experience-driven effort to get DOWN…below the tree line…FAST…to avoid further pounding by unexpectedly loud and suddenly more intense ground fire coming UP at our swerving helicopter. And then…Well then…There was horror."

Each of us stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, not wanting to expose intensely tamped down personal fears. As a result, none among us, not at first, noticed what horrible catastrophe had come callin and befallen our brother Marine; had reached inside our wildly undulating flying green bird and horribly touched the happy-go-lucky staff sergeant. One second he was talking, poking fun at his nearest seatmate. Bellowing out what he, the giant jovial staff sergeant, believed were audaciously funny one-liners, in an overly flamboyant demonstration commensurate with the unbridled joy he was feeling in anticipation of his upcoming R&R. The next second, or the one right after the next second, the staff sergeant’s helmet flew from his left hand, where he had been casually holding it, and the majority of the contents of his handsome skull were splattered across the overhead compartment of the huge, diesel-smelling helicopter.

For our flight’s he-man-sized fellow passenger, a distinguished Marine Corps staff sergeant, one second there was ‘everything’ the next second ‘nothing’.

I did not see the tragic instant of impact. What I first noticed, what I most remember FIRST seeing, was the frozen face of a young enlisted Marine sitting across from me. The young PFC involuntarily winced, his animated face turning chalky-white and marble hard. The previously relaxing Marine’s suddenly distorted facial expression, now gripped with horror, pinpointing something? Looking to my right, following the young PFC’s frozen stare, I beheld gruesomeness. About which I shall only say this; Some sights are best left unseen.

Death for the Jolly Green Giant Staff Sergeant had been instantaneous, merciful. By the time I looked his way, a mere split second, another faithful U.S. Marine was on his way to meet Our Maker. The giant man’s final thoughts, his final WORD, cut short by a relatively small and randomly fired AK-47 round. An accomplished and treasured life snuffed out; horrifically cut short by a cheap bullet fired by a random enemy soldier quietly hiding in a randomly chosen dark place; a place far from home for the suddenly deceased staff sergeant; an obscure place on a random day, that mere hours later no one could precisely pinpoint or name. I shall never forget the sight. I shall never be able to erase the mental picture. I shall always recall my feeling of helplessness, my awareness of the utter randomness that so suddenly struck down the mighty staff sergeant; leaving the rest of us five randomly spared passengers stunned but physically unscathed. Six mortal Marines, hitching a random ride aboard a hapless helicopter; five returned, one did not.

Those of us who lived…owe it to the one who did NOT…to live well.

"So…in answer to THE question most often asked of THIS Crazy Vietnam Vet…Me? YES…While serving in The Nam…Fair to say I WAS scared…More than once mind you!"

************************

Short Ride

A good scare is worth more to a man than good advice. (Edgar Watson Howe - 1911)

As things turned out, my shocking "Last Ride"; during which the big staff sergeant’s sudden death occurred; was a one-way flight for me too. I had been summoned to the rear by higher authority where I was asked to volunteer for a tough mission described in another chapter of this book, "Courage Is In The Eyes of The Beholder".

Upon formally accepting my new assignment I was instructed to re-assemble all available personnel of a previously dispersed ‘special services’ platoon. I was told that our re-constituted platoon would then go TAD as a unit (Temporary Additional Duty) with a first cousin Marine air wing command. I was told to prepare members of our specialty platoon for an important mission, no further details given. Typical of the military way; I was asked to volunteer for and gather critical personnel for a mission, without knowing the mission.

As a result of being summoned to the rear…with the gear I would see no further action with my former infantry company; hard-pressed to maintain its portion of our battalion frontline.

The truth be known…I was exceedingly grateful and thankful.

Grateful to be spirited away from our company’s wildly undulating frontline; thankful to wash from the frontal lobe of my overcrowded and trivia-littered mind unsavory sights, sounds, and smells associated with the formerly jolly but now decidedly deceased staff sergeant. Leaping full throttle into reconstituting the ‘specialized service platoon’ for our important new mission would prove therapeutic.

"Being too busy to shit can be good for a troubled mind…help tamp down one’s imagination…lessen our tendency for dwelling on dark or unknown aspects of life…for fixating on the macabre reality and haphazard randomness of serving in a combat zone."

Carrying out our service platoon’s initial assignments required daily flights aboard many different helicopters, part of getting my new platoon and our gear ‘TO’ and ‘FROM’ an ungodly remote location. Our daily comings and goings required repetitive helicopter rides. A few of those rides took us out over the open South China Sea, to and from U.S. Navy ships supporting the seaborne delivery of our unit’s specialized equipment. During the initial stage of our unit’s emergency deployment it was routine for Marines from our platoon to hop aboard several different helicopters in a single day. From what turned into dozens of helicopter rides for me during that special assignment, noisy and boring accurately describes all but ONE; "most of those rides lackluster…just getting stuff done. For reasons described here, ONE flight stands out; a quick flight I often describe during my speaking engagements as a short ride…in a small helicopter…goin NO where"!

A ‘Short Ride’ that could have been my last had it not been for the quick thinking, bold actions, and selfless bravery of one very special wing wiper Marine; an exceptional sergeant E-5 helicopter crew chief.

"The sun was up…the nearby surf was roarin…our highly specialized gaggle of seven Marines considered ourselves lucky. We were headin for the beach to supervise Navy Seabees off-loading several pieces of our ship-to-shore-delivered high priority equipment!"

Hueys were THE workhorse helicopter of the war. Small helicopters pictured in EVERY movie clip and newsreel depicting Vietnam. Used for everything! And I do mean EVER THANG Jody! From ferrying daily mail, to shuttling tired Marines ever where, to flying in political dignitaries for perfunctory on-site inspections, to bringing in Hollywood celebrities for USO shows, to evacuating seriously wounded Marines whose survival depended on an expeditious flight to a source of better medical attention. And, to retrieving, for the first leg of their long and sad journey home, the crumpled bodies of our fallen brothers-in-arms who had paid the ultimate price fighting their country’s ugly little war in The Nam.

"In addition to delivering every imaginable item we needed…Hueys also saved tens of thousands of lives…and salvaged the sacred remains of thousands more dead. Hueys hauled it all…from drinking water for thirsty Marines…to panties for USO performer Raquel Welch! Ironically…appropriately…considering the relative value of the two items…our dirty and HOT drinking water arrived in green five gallon cans and was funky tasting and foul smelling! Clean panties for Raquel arrived in air conditioned medical equipment containers and were sweet smelling and COOL…even though OUR Raquel was ALWAYS steamin hot on stage!"

We ground pounding humble grunts welcomed precious safe minutes aboard well-flown helicopters. We enjoyed our rides on nimble Marine Hueys or crisply flown Army helicopters. Once upon a time, for a few weeks, I even went TAD with an Air Force command. As a grateful passenger on Air Force helicopters I found myself admiring the cleanliness and new car smell of AF choppers. Their worst helicopters looked like showroom models out for a test flight. Not so with frontline workhorse Marine Hueys. There were battle scars on top of battle scars on our Marine Hueys; pieces noticeably missing or temporarily jury-rigged on most birds. And. Sad to say, the majority of our Marine helicopters reeked with the smell of stale urine and feces or blood. Even though scrubbed clean when possible, depending on the tactical situation and time available, the inside of many Marine Hueys offered grim testimony as to why the birds were In Country doing what helicopters do?

In case you were not previously aware…human blood in large undiluted quantities has a distinctive odor…one that most Vietnam Vets experienced firsthand…and few will ever forget.

"But…as many economically challenged (poor) single Moms can attest…having access to a working used car is much better than having NO car! Marines were GLAD to fly anywhere …anytime! Versus humpin it (walking)! Bad smells…patched exteriors…bent skids…and holed fuselages aside…if a helicopter’s engine fired and its door guns were manned…we were ready to hop on ANY passing bird that would haul our stinkin asses where we needed to go."

On the day of our ‘Short Flight’ I was dressed in our unit’s standard uniform of the day, camouflaged jungle utilities. We were anticipating a routine day. We were rendezvousing with a work party of rowdy Seabees on an unpopulated and incredibly gorgeous beach to retrieve more of our seaborne equipment. None of us were carrying live ammunition or explosives. All of us were wearing loose fitting, quick-drying, field uniforms outfitted with a dozen useful pockets. Later that morning, I was glad to NOT be burdened down with extra gear the likes of which we tried hard to never leave home without. What I WAS carrying was my canvas map case, a magnetic compass, and a short list of mandatory odds and ends strung on my utility belt; two canteens, a flashlight, a K-bar (knife), a First Aid pouch, and four empty ammo pouches. There was a much longer list of cumbersome items we routinely carried on patrols that I WAS NOT carrying. No food. No poncho or poncho liner. No tent. No backpack or survival gear. No mess kit. No flares. No grenades. No crumpled Playboy magazines. No extraneous overnight gear; including no condoms or KY jelly (just kidding). No personal tools like a machete or my handy E-tool (a small folding shovel like the one I used to kill a cobra…see chapter titled ‘Foxhole Faceoff’)! Turned out my lite load was a GOOD thing. GOOD that I wasn’t loaded down with essential non-essentials!

After gathering on the tarmac (runway), ours and other gaggles of unrelated-to-our-unit Marines were broken down into flight teams, six to seven Marines per helicopter. Hueys were capable of carrying more Marines per lift, but six was a comfortable number. As an aside, NOT as an intended goal, flying out that morning with a smallish sized load allowed every Marine an unobstructed view of our early morning flight to the beach. A rare luxury granted to grunt Marines when possible; except of course when death-wish-afflicted door gunners were manning their death dealing M-60 machineguns, covering our insertions or extractions from ‘cold’ or ‘hot’ LZs. But ours was a routine work flight; no door gunners, no loaded and locked rifles or heavy machineguns, just wide open doors featuring a cool tropical breeze and passing tropical scenery. Counting me, there were seven passenger Marines aboard my chopper that morning; including my joined at the hip PFC radioman. He was required to go absolutely everywhere I went; unless I ordered him to do otherwise.

That’s correct! Absent specific instructions from me, absent direct orders from me, such as ‘remain in place’ (meaning stay exactly where you are at this moment), my radioman literally shadowed my every move. If I placed my radioman in a certain spot, I wanted him to remain in and BE in THAT spot; whenever I needed to use his radio. He wasn’t allowed the luxury of wandering aimlessly from spot to spot.

Our old 1960s and ‘70s combat field radios were heavy. At that time in military history the Marine Corps was using PRC-25 radios, affectionately called Prick 25s. The cumbersome radios looked like a heavy green metal box the size of an old fashioned bread box and were worn as a backpack, a forty pound addendum to the radioman’s personal load; extra weight…in ADDITION to all the same gear carried on patrol by every other Marine!

And here’s a little known fact civilian readers may not realize. Helicopter lift capacity (the total weight a chopper could safely lift during takeoff) was greatly impacted by weather; affected by weather in general, by heat and humidity in particular. We would plan specific helicopter loads out in the morning and then be required to re-plan our loads for return flights during the heat of the afternoon or early evening. Depending on constantly changing weather conditions and our current combat situation, larger tactical units were broken into smaller sub-units to accommodate lift capacity. The morning of events described in this story, our Huey comfortably accommodated our gaggle of seven Marines; we had lift capacity to spare.

In the end, anytime muddy grunt boots were actually boarding vigorously vibrating and outrageously loud helicopters, salty-dog crew chiefs and pilots, constantly alert to changes in current flight conditions, had ABSOLUTE sway and say over how many and in what configuration we puffing grunts loaded our ‘Sad Sack’ tired asses aboard their holiest-of-holy aircraft. ‘Overprotective’ and ‘fussy’ are two words that come to mind regarding most crew chiefs and pilots with whom I had the pleasure of serving. Absolutely NO ONE got on board ANY helicopter without the specific say so of its vigilant crew. Neither Czarist authority figure that I’ve mentioned, not crew chiefs nor pilots, were about to risk their precious aircraft to accommodate whimsical wants, needs, or loco desires of grunts. No matter what WE said!

"Simple wants…needs…and desires. Like wanting to be lifted out of hopeless shit storms so we would survive. Like needing to get the HELL outta the area before a million Gooks mauled our green asses into oblivion. Like desiring to get away so we could live to fight another day…so we could see Raquel (Welch) perform just one more time. Helicopter pilots and crew chiefs cared about us and our wellbeing…often risked their lives to save ours…but cared MORE about their helicopters and crewmen. Just the way things was Jody!

Our helicopter lifted off first that morning. Then, within ninety seconds, six additional nearby birds roared up-up-and-away; seven total helicopters carrying dozens of Marines from our larger parent unit to a dozen different destinations. Aboard our helicopter, my six Marines and I had been non-strategically loaded; We just jumped on board…willy-nilly. Including my ever-present AND effervescent radioman, PFC Smuckatella; "NOT his real name…but PFC was his actual rank…and he WAS bubbly."

Extra stout, extra alert, intelligent, gifted when possible, emotionally qualified enlisted Marines LOVED being ‘Radioman’. That describes my PFC Smuckatella! Being Radioman afforded radiomen enormous additional status and recognition. It allowed radiomen to be in on hot scoops and the word coming down from above, as tactical situations evolved on the ground around their radio-bearing feet. However! And it was a huge however; being awarded the privilege of becoming a ‘real radioman’ carried with it the burden of extra training, serious responsibility, and unequivocal additional danger. Our old 1960s-70s radios were heavy, were inclined to NOT work when most needed, required constant attention and fussing-over to maintain any semblance of communication with similar cantankerous radios, and were forty extra pounds of steel and battery acid to pack around the hot sticky jungles of Nam. Not to mention that radiomen and their backpacked cargo attracted enemy fire like grape jelly