Chickenhawk Page 5

  “You flew in Korea, too?”

  “Yeah. Tactical air squadron.”

  “Did you like that?”

  “It was okay. As long as it has an engine, I like to fly it.”

  “Why did you quit your job to come into the Cav?”

  “I dunno, exactly. I guess I just like to fly too much. In combat. Combat flying is… a challenge. It scares the shit out of me every time I do it, but I think about it a lot. Getting into the Cav was good for me, I think. That desk looked more and more like a coffin every day. You know what I mean?”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t sure.

  “Yeah. At least in combat, it’s quick.” He grinned.

  “Are you betting on the anchor drop?” I asked Kaiser.

  “Fuck no. That’s strictly amateur crap,” he replied as he puffed into some dice in the break room. “Anyone who’d waste a bet to guess the exact time we drop anchor is an asshole,” he added.

  “I put a buck on 9:37,” said Connors.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “No wonder my mother was so disappointed.”

  I had put in a buck, but I didn’t tell Kaiser.

  Within a day of landing, the ship became a hive of activity. We received unofficial encouragement to “find usable surplus equipment” from the boat for our new camp. Ensign Wall agreed that certain “musty old mattresses” could be removed from the ship, and he went on a tour with Colonel Dogwell to discuss what specifically we could remove to our Hueys.

  While hundreds of men scavenged stuff from every compartment of the ship, others were in the process of getting the Hueys ready. The vinyl coating on the flight-deck Hueys was peeled off and thrown overboard. A few days of sea air would not hurt them. Boxes of rotor blades were brought up to the deck to be sorted out and attached to their original mountings, so the Hueys on the flight deck would be ready to fly almost immediately upon arrival at Qui Nhon. The rest, including the one Leese and I would fly, would be brought up on the hangar-deck elevator when the deck was clear. It was supposed to take three days to get the Hueys assembled, checked, loaded, and off the ship.

  Gear from the scavenger hunt was stashed on the helicopters. Work crews of enlisted men, warrant officers, and lieutenants carried stacks of mattresses, coils of rope, wire, yards of canvas, tools, and even lumber to the hangar deck and concealed the stuff in the Hueys. This wasn’t junk we were taking. The mattresses were new, and so were the ropes and tools. Obviously we were cleaning up.

  The ship was going back to the States after it dropped us off, and they could get more gear there. We were going to live in the middle of the jungle somewhere and felt that we needed all the help we could get. I more or less agreed with this attitude, but I did have some pangs when I saw just how much we were packing into the helicopters.

  Before we landed, I got the boatswain’s mate to make me a holster for my derringer. He wanted me to get him a couple dozen folding P-38 can openers from our C rations. During the confusion of this last day at sea, he came to our quarters and handed me the finished holster. A leather ring fitted over each shoulder, with an elastic band stretched between them across my back. The leather ring on my left shoulder had the holster sewn on near the bottom. I slipped the heavy derringer into the holster while the mate watched proudly. With the weight of the gun, the holster slid comfortably and invisibly under my arm. Maybe it would save my life; maybe I would use it to kill myself if I was captured. I really didn’t know why I wanted it.

  When I climbed out of the hatch and looked beyond the rail, there was something to see, distant and gray, but unmistakably land. Two hours later we were in Lang Mai Bay, south of Qui Nhon, ready to drop anchor. The marine helicopter carrier Iwo Jima was on our right, and ten military-contracted freighters from the Lykes line were on our left. The anchor hit the water at a little after 11 a.m. on the thirteenth of September. It had taken us thirty-one days to get here from Mobile. The rest of our division had left a week after we had and arrived a week before.

  While our helicopters were being readied for flight, the pilots hung around above decks, watching the doings of the other carrier.

  Marine pilots flew their big H-34s off the rolling deck of their carrier to the hazy coastline and then returned. The marines’ concept of using helicopters was not the same as ours. We would live with our troops in the field. They returned to the safety and comfort of their ship each day. Knowing that made us feel tough.

  The Iwo Jima was one of the ships that supported the recent battle of Chu Lai, which had occurred while we were en route. It was reported as the first regimental-size battle since Korea, involving more than five thousand American ground troops, ARVNs, and navy artillery. The final score was seven hundred VC killed and fifty U.S. Marines. No one seemed to care how many ARVNs were killed.

  “By mid-afternoon of the second day, all Viet Cong re istance had ceased. Boots, equipment and weapons were scattered haphazardly across the fields, and great black scars in the earth still smoked from napalm. The bodies of the enemy hung in pieces from trees and hedgerows or lay charred in their tunnels and caves….” The battle, according to Time, had “proved that by combining accurate intelligence reports, fast planning, and careful selection of where and when to fight, the U.S. [could] more than hold its own in Vietnam.”

  The combination of U.S. Marine and ARVN ground troops and heavy fighter and artillery support had produced big numbers of dead Vietnamese. Time reported more than 2000 VC killed, but there was a controversy as to how many of those killed were actually innocent villagers trapped in the crossfire.

  “As far as I can see,” said Decker, “anybody’d be dumb enough to hang around during them battles deserves what happens to him.”

  “Decker, they’re saying that they found ten-year-old kids shot in those villages. Do you think they’re VC?” objected Wendall.

  “Maybe,” answered Decker, “and maybe not. But this is war. Everybody gets hurt in a war. Hell, we can’t go crying about the innocents that get killed. Innocents have been getting knocked off in wars since the beginning of time. If we want to win this thing for the Vietnamese we got to be ready to see it as it is: war, plain and simple and nasty.”

  “That’s right,” said Connors, “either we’re fighting this war or we aren’t. The Cav is here now, and those gooks are going to shit when they see us in action. We’re beyond a reason to be here. We’re here.”

  Captain Sherman and John Hall, a warrant from our advance party, had brought bags of mail that had accumulated while we were en route. I spent a long time reading the dozen or so letters Patience sent. Of those, I record this:

  [August 25]

  I miss you so much my darling dear husband. I took a nap on Suzi’s bed today and kept imagining that you were there next to me trying to comfort me (as if we’d had one of our dumb fights). I’m going to write Lois today to see if Jayne can come down here to Naples. I wish you could come. I bet it’s pretty dull on the ship. I’M MORE EXCITING! COME TO THE CASBAH WITH ME!!

  Bobby, I miss you so much. I’ve been trying to be busy. Your dad stopped by and we got your film back from the Panama Canat—shall I send you the pictures or keep them? Only one was a little blurry. I like the one of you. You look more tanned already. After Dad left I pushed the stroller (AND JACK!) up to the Sunshine for some Coppertone and then down to the beach for a short swim. Now it’s two in the afternoon—thun derstorming outside and nothing to do except remember how we used to take showers together, and play Monopoly and kiss and make love and hold each other. I miss you so much I could die, but I won‘t, as long as you come back. And PLEASE HURRY! I wish it were next August.

  Jack still misses you, I can tell—he is very attracted to men and he says “Da-da” when he’s very excited and happy. I love you! VERY MUCH!

  It is so insane to me that such a short while ago we were living together, fooling around, laughing over Jack and the kitty. It’s inconceivable that you’re gone, but you obviously are. Please write me a l
ot. You know those old war flicks where the guy’s sitting in a foxhole up to his ankles in water while the mortars fall all around, writing a letter to his girl on toilet paper—well that’s what I expect!

  Jack just said “Down” when he wanted to get out of his high chair! Last night at supper the kitty was me-owing under his chair and he looked down at her and said “Meow!”

  I love to write you. It makes me feel more secure as well as giving me something to do. But I better end this.

  I LOVE YOU MADLY &

  THE MOST,

  Patience

  “Well, we’re going right into the middle of it, men,” Major Fields announced. We were gathered in the break room for a briefing, and Fields pointed to the map he had taped on the bulkhead. “Our camp is just two miles north of this village.” He pointed. “It’s the village of An Khe, about halfway between Qui Nhon and Pleiku on this hundred-mile east-west stretch of road called Route 19. This whole area”—he gestured at the map—“is considered VC territory. The highway was just opened by the ARVNs in July. The Cav will be the first unit to locate right in the middle of VC-land, and the idea is to be right there in the middle of ‘em, to clean ’em out of here, pronto.” He smiled as his fingers tapped some papers on the table. “So when you fly in, your route will be the road. And stay high. All these little villages you’ll see on your way through the south end of the valley are VC-CONTROLLED, and some ships have reported sniper fire up at a thousand feet. About forty miles inland you’ll come to this pass, the An Khe pass, which marks the end of the valley and the beginning of the highlands. The division’s base camp is here, about ten miles beyond the pass in the high ground. They say we’ll have cool sleeping weather there. Our division takes up a big piece of real estate. It’s still being cleared. The heliport is 3000 by 4000 feet, and nearly twenty thousand men are camped all around that.” Fields took a sip of coffee. “When you get out there, you’ll be briefed in detail about the camp, our company area, and like that. I haven’t seen the place myself yet.

  “Our company’s radio call sign will be ‘Preacher.’” Fields picked up a sheet of paper from his stack that had FM, UHF, and VHF written on it, with the appropriate frequencies printed carefully next to them. “Copy these numbers down. They’ll change when you get there, but this is what you should have on your radios for the flight in.” We hunched over our pocket notebooks and recorded the information.

  “Now, about all this crap that’s being stuffed on the aircraft.” Fields paused as the men laughed knowingly. “I don’t know what exactly you’ve put in them, and I don’t want to know, either.” He smiled, shaking his head. “But I’m here to tell you that the navy—Ensign Wall—has complained that some supplies, unauthorized supplies, are missing. Now, I don’t think anyone in our company would be so greedy as to steal from this ship, but I do have to pass the complaint along.” The major beamed at his mischievous boys. “So, I don’t have much more to say except that we’ll be leaving at twenty-minute intervals starting today. The last Huey should be off the Croatan in two days. You’ve got your ship assignments, your maps, and your radio frequencies. Are there any questions?”

  “Yessir,” Banjo called out. “Does the advance party have our tents set up yet?” Laughter.

  “Yeah, I’m sure they do, Banjo. Complete with floors, featherbeds, and private baths.”

  By eleven the next morning, Leese and I and the crew chief, SP-5 Don Reacher, were ready to go. Reacher had worked on the assembly team to get our Huey ready. Leese and I had done a very careful preflight. Underneath some shabby canvas tarps on the cargo deck were stacked a dozen bulky mattresses and twenty thick pine boards. Leese had decided to make the takeoff, which pleased me.

  Connors and Banjo were running up their ship about seventy-five feet away. It was at full rpm, and I could see the disk tilt back and forth as Connors checked the controls. I stood at the nose of our Huey and watched. The first breeze came to me as Connors pulled in the collective. The disk coned as it began to pull the ship off the deck. He waited a few moments in a five-foot hover, and the full blast of the rotor wash hit me with the sweet, kerosene smell of warm turbine exhaust. He nosed over and left the carrier on his way to the airfield at Qui Nhon, to top off his tank. After thirty-two days of waiting, we were finally getting off the ship. Leese and I were next. I felt the breast pocket of my fatigues for my notebook and cigarettes. My army .45 was secure in its black leather holster over my concealed derringer. I gave myself the now automatic check down the front of my uniform. My belt buckle was covered with green tape. My fatigue pants were so baggy they almost concealed my combat boots. It felt strange to be dressed this way for flying. We’d always worn flight suits before.

  Leese had been talking to someone at the edge of the flight deck while Connors took off. He walked toward the Huey. “Let’s go.”

  I opened the left door, put my foot on the skid, and leaned over to grab the far edge of the armored chair. Leese was getting in on the other side, and my cyclic stick moved as he bumped his with his leg. I slid my leg between the cyclic and the front of the seat and lowered myself onto the nylon mesh. Reacher stood outside next to me and handed me the shoulder straps and radio cord from behind the high-backed seat. I clicked the lever over to anchor the shoulder straps to the wide lap belt. Another crew chief from the ship behind us helped Leese with his straps. Strapped in, Leese released the inertial reel lock so that he could lean forward to do the cockpit check. Starting at the bottom of the center console beside his left foot, he moved his hand over the many switches and circuit breakers, checking their positions. His hand moved over the top of the console between us and checked that the radios were off. I followed him and clicked in the proper frequencies. I pulled on my brand-new leather flying gloves. They would last two weeks in this climate. Leese pushed in the igniter circuit breaker on the overhead console and announced, “Okay, we’re ready to crank.”

  We slipped our flight helmets on. I grabbed the base of mine on both sides to spread it slightly and pulled it over my head. I forgot to pull the earphones back with the outside strings, so one of them lodged crookedly against my left ear. I pulled the string loop on that side to pull the rubber cup away and reseat it. The phones were dead until Leese flipped the master switch. He squeezed the radio trigger switch on his cyclic to the first click and said through my phones, “Ready?” I did a thumbs-up. He turned to look out his door window, to make sure someone was posted there with a fire extinguisher. Someone was. He nodded, and the man raised the red bottle to the ready. Leese rolled the throttle open to the indent starting position and squeezed the trigger switch on his collective. The electric starter motor whined shrilly. The rotors accelerated slowly. I was always amazed that any electric motor could turn the engine, transmission, and those big rotor blades. The rotor blades blinked. A loud hissing noise, audible over the moan of the starter, meant that the fire had caught in the turbine. Leese watched the exhaust-gas temperature gauge (EGT) carefully. The needle rushed past the red line, and the rotors spun to a blur. The EGT stayed pegged in the danger zone as usual for a couple of seconds before it moved back into the green, operating range. Leese did a thumbs-up to the watching fireman. The danger of a hot start had passed. The Huey had snapped into smooth operation after more than a month of storage.

  I tapped all the gauges on my side of the instrument panel. Everything was in the green. “Everything okay back there?” Leese called to Reacher on the intercom.

  “Yes, sir, everything is secure.” We carried no gunner on this trip.

  The deck rolled while the Croatan lay at anchor. Leese opened the throttle to the operating position and briefly checked the blurry edge of the rotor disk to see that it moved correctly as he pushed the cyclic around. As he slowly pulled the collective up, the nose of the Huey characteristically rose first, and he corrected for drift inclinations. When the helicopter was stable, he raised the collective and pulled us above the moving deck.

  I looked out at the cir
cle of spectators and saw their clothes flapping in our gale. Leese hovered for a few seconds at six feet, checking the gauges one last time before he nosed the ship forward with an imperceptible push of the cyclic. I watched the edge of the flight deck move under us through the chin bubble at my feet. The sea churned below us. We were on our way.

  3. Setting Up Camp

  In the final analysis the final outcome of the war will be decided by the sustained fighting of the ground forces, by the fighting at close quarters on battlefields, by the political consciousness of the men, by their courage and spirit of sacrifice.

  —Lin Piao, September 1965

  September 1965

  We landed at Qui Nhon to have our tank topped off to its 1200-pound, 200-gallon capacity before the flight to An Khe. Beneath the overcast sky the air was hot and moist. The smell of human waste drifted from the sand dunes beyond the concertina wire that bordered the runway, apparently part of the city’s latrine. I saw people squatting among the dunes and shreds of paper drifting in the breeze. We stared like tourists at the people we had come to save. A young boy wiped himself with a bare hand and then licked same.

  “Gawd.” Leese shook his head and turned away.

  Leese flew. I followed the map, keeping track of our position so I could radio in our coordinates if we went down. The VC-controlled valley between Qui Nhon and the An Khe pass was a vast swamp of rice paddies. The road we were following was considered partially safe. Leese climbed up to the cloud ceiling at 3000 feet.

  The map was dotted with names like An Dinh, Luat Chanh, Dai Tio, My Ngoc, and a hundred more, crowded around the outskirts of Qui Nhon. The valley stretched twenty miles north to Bong Son and stopped just a kilometer (or “klick”) south of us at the foothills. Fingers of high ground pushed nearer from the south along the road. These ridges were about 1500 feet high and completely covered with lush jungle. Occasionally I saw clearings on the sides of the hills where banana trees grew. While Leese flew, I conjured up grinning VC who sighted along the barrels of their guns as they stood concealed under the green canopy. It suddenly became obvious to me that I was completely exposed to any fire that came from the front. Chest protectors would be nice. Total armor with a slit to see through would be better. Flying back to the ship would be even smarter. I looked over at Leese. He smiled. The pass loomed ahead.