My War - Installment 15

Jack and I worked diligently to finish our humble abode. We carefully carved our bed shelves deeper into the soft brown earth inside the tent. With the dirt that we were removing, we quickly filled sandbags to use on our new project, our bunker. The center trench in the tent became deeper. We angled a tunnel from the entrance down toward a hole which would become our bunker.




"First class, eh Jeff?" I said. "This is really neat! We'll be protected on all sides except from above, by a direct hit. I feel the chances for that are nominal. Then if there is a hell-banging mortar attack we can easily slip through the tunnel and into our bunker."



"Yea, I think you covered it all," replied Jack.



The weather had started to turn cool during mid October. During the day the temperature was damn hot, but then as evening came upon us it would start to cool down. What relief. I felt I was enjoying one advantage of warring in the Central Highlands.



We had just about finished everything by mess call that evening. We felt satisfied with our accomplishments of the day.



As the multicolored glow of another sunset spread over the camp, we finished our task and crawled through the entrance and up the center trench to our bunks.



"Hot dang, this is first class Jack," I said. "All the proverbial comforts of a building with the added protection of the sand bagged walls, Home Sweet Home."



"Not to mention the bunker in case of attack," said Jeff.



After the OPs meeting I fell asleep quickly on my rocket box bed. I had dozed off with a warm feeling of accomplishment and contentment flooding over me. I felt at home there in that simple tent house. In fact, I suppose I felt that way because it was something I had partaken of. It was my handiwork and I felt secure in it. Maybe growing up in and around my father's construction company had something to do with the feeling of pleasure from working with one’s hands.



"I'll have to take a picture of this to send to the folks," I said to myself.



I wondered if any of the film I was sending home was turning out. I had brought a miniature Minolta 16mm still camera with me to Viet Nam and had never seen a picture that I had taken with it. I was carefully choosing my pictures. A full year would give me plenty of time to record images for posterity and I wanted them, the pictures, to be good. I wanted to pick and choose my shots carefully.



Things had settled down quite a bit over those past few days. I could not say that we luxuriated, because there was no luxury to luxuriate in. The days were still miserably hot. We had no electricity, so we had no fans or any of what most people would consider being the "simple comforts.” We did play some cards while waiting for orders to fly. The Scout ships were still as busy as ever, leaving at daybreak and seeming to fly constantly.



SCOUTING AROUND



I had begun to make friends with some of the Scout pilots and during that dry spell and was invited, by CWO John Talbot, to sit in as an observer on a late afternoon single ship recon mission.



John was four or five years older than me. His medium brown hair was cropped to a short, almost basic training style hair cut with the exception of a crude flattop. He stood about five feet nine or ten inches tall, slightly shorter than me and stockily built. He had a full round face and a rather ruddy complexion. We seemed to hit it off right away.



We chatted briefly as we walked from the Scout's lounge tent to his aircraft for the afternoon mission. The ship he was flying that day was called "Birth Control," it had a picture of a tiger painted on the front of the bubble. It was an H-13 helicopter made by Bell Helicopter. We climbed aboard after a thorough preflight check and cranked her up. The time was around 1500 hours. John did a quick mag (magneto) check then we lifted off and headed up the valley toward, where else, Bong Son.



It felt great to be in that small familiar ship. I had taken my instrument training in an H-13 model. Yes, it felt good, but then again it felt very strange, strange because the OH-13's had only one set of controls. I always felt safer when I had the controls in my hands, or at least access to a set of controls. My feelings about the flight fluctuated a little, but I was most certainly enjoying myself after my quick evaluation of John's flying skills.



It would be pure pleasure to cruise along just above the tree tops for the entire flight. We bobbed along following the contour of the tree tops. We flew up the valley heading east, then we turned northeast and headed up the "506" Valley, toward, where else, the area around Bong Son.



John joked around a bit as we flew, making light of the Scout's reputation for being crazy and for also having the highest kill ratio in the Cav.



"John, why is this ship called 'Birth Control?’



"Because it has so many kills, it's that simple."



John manipulated the small helicopter toward the bay just south of the village where we had worked a few days before. We skirted the western edge of the bay for a few kilometers before we noticed a small boat some distance offshore and moving toward the village. John veered away from the shoreline and headed straight for the small craft. He kept the helicopter just inches above the water. We had come within fifty meters when he pulled up and came to a hover over top of the boat. The two occupants of the boat were hurriedly trying to cover something with some rice straw.



Unfortunately, for them, they did a poor job of covering whatever it was. With the rotor wash blowing away the straw, their job was next to impossible. I was instructed, over the intercom, to use the machine gun on the boat. I hesitated for a fraction of a second. During that second John swung the helicopter around and dropped a grenade into the opening between the two men in the boat just as I had opened fire. Almost before I could finish a burst from the machine gun, the boat lay in pieces on the water beneath us.



We came in close over the debris. There was no sign of life remaining. All but some splinters of wood had quickly sunk to the bottom of the bay. All was silent again except for the popping of the rotor blades and the roar of the Lycoming aircraft engine.



It seemed rather strange to me then. I had just had my first active encounter with the destruction of human life. There was a strange closeness to the killing at that short distance. I was not attuned to observation and identification like Smith was. Although I did not see the weapons clearly, he claimed that he did, and I was sure that he was right. I guess I was more the passenger than the active observer. I had been enjoying the ride, taking in the magnificent scenery and so forth. Killing, that was what I was there for, wasn't it? Wasn't that how you won a war?



That was definitely the kind of flying I enjoyed, flying which honed the senses, flying that took advantage of the training, both mental and physical, which I had. Crazy or not I thought that I would volunteer for the Scout section the first bloody chance that I would get. So what if they had the highest rate of pilots killed in the Cavalry? We were here to fight. Weren't we?



John told me about how involved the Scouts were in each operation. The Scouts had, not only the most dangerous job in the Cav., but also one broadest duty descriptions operationally, and most responsible. They would find the enemy. Then they had the option of calling in ground artillery, naval artillery (if close enough to the coast, 20 miles), Air Force or Naval air strikes or ground recon units or any combination thereof. If ground units were called in, the Scouts would give close in aerial weapons support (machine gun and grenade) and direct the entire operation from tree top level. They could also call in Smokey the Bear, Aerial Rocket Artillery and Guns-A- Go Go.



The Scouts would fly in pairs usually (not like John and I had just done), a leader and one wing man made up a Scout team. The Scout would be in contact by radio or intercom with his partner, his observer (an enlisted man), any ground units he was working with, any artillery or air units he was working with, plus command and control and so on. It all sounded a bit hectic to me, but it also sounded exciting and interesting compared to flying Lift ships.



We refueled at LZ Pony in the 506 valley, and then continued our recon and last light missions while we shot the bull.



As the afternoon light dwindled and the coconut palms became silhouetted against the crimson and purple sunset, we headed for base camp and home. It had been an interesting ride, to say the least. Many thoughts whirled through my mind as we approached the pad and a late supper. One thing was sure, these guys were informed. They knew what was going on. They didn't hear things last or get briefed in the air like the Lift ships. Just being informed was worth something. At least I thought so. The Lift section and everyone else were treated like mushrooms; they were kept in the dark and fed horse shit.



After leaving the mess tent I went to my tent looking for Jack. He was there busily strumming away on an old guitar that he had picked up someplace. Damn, it sounded nice. It was a welcome relief from Radio Hanoi and Hanoi Hanna (I assumed she was Tokyo Rose's next of kin). I had played the accordion as a kid; but was never really thrilled with it, like a lot of kids whose parents wanted them to play a musical instrument. The guitar, to me, had immediate appeal. I asked Jeff if it was hard to play.



"No," he replied. "Hey, I can get the guys that got me this one to pick one up for you if you are interested. They are going back into Phu Cat tomorrow. If you want one, we'll let 'em know.



"Shoot yea," I said, "why not. It'll give us something to do in the evenings, assuming you teach me how to play."



"Sure," he said. "I'll tell 'em, in the morning to pick one up for you. It'll cost you around twenty dollars in "Script,” which isn't a bad deal."



"Sounds great," I said. "Twenty in MPC Script isn't anything. Plus, there isn't anything else to spend money on here." Script was simply Military Payment Certificates, the physical money we were paid in. They looked like Monopoly money. They resemble miniature dollars with pictures of princesses and other pictures totally unrelated to the United States. We signed up to be paid a certain portion of our pay with that funny money; the remainder was sent or deposited where we wanted it.



We spent the evening relaxing in our tent. I lay on my bed and listened to Jeff strumming away on his guitar. Occasionally we would sing out some familiar lyrics to tunes he played. I drifted off to sleep easily after OPs, to the sounds of Jack's music running through my semiconscious mind.



I awoke early the next day ridiculously humming some half forgotten Simon and Garfunkle tune. Being up early, I was able to notice the Scouts moving not so quietly, about the camp. The thought crossed my mind that Jack had not even asked me about my ride with John Talbot. Curious, I thought. Maybe it didn't matter? We could always discuss it later some evening, or perhaps during the day if we were at some lager area. All I knew was that I had the best night sleep in a long time. Perhaps it was the music, the fun and the weather cooling off, but no matter I had enjoyed it all.



ANOTHER LAZY DAY



I stole out of the tent to find some water to wash and shave with. The cool water and the cool moist morning air shocked me awake and into reality. I finished my toilet and headed for the mess tent to hopefully, enjoy a leisurely breakfast. Our mess sergeant had been up for some time I supposed. The coffee was hot and stout and tasted exceptionally good that morning. Sarge made it by simply pouring coffee into a large open pot and then boiling it, until it smelled right to him. The only problem with his method was that there were always the inevitable coffee grounds in every cup and I no longer had my mustache to filter out the large bits and pieces. Damn CO. Well, no one could say that the coffee did not have substance. It reminded me of the Chinese term for drinking tea which in Chinese meant to eat your tea. They don’t use tea bags, just like Sarge not filtering the coffee, and they therefore eat the leaves as they come to the top while drinking. I ate my usual eggs, bacon and toast, then had a few extra cups of coffee before any of the other men straggled in to join me.



Sunlight was just coming up over the rim of the eastern horizon when I took notice to the sounds of the Scout ships lifting off into the dim light. I was wondering what they would find and what things we would be doing that day, when Jeff came up and sat down beside me.



"Well, how was your flight with Talbot last evening," Jack asked.



I began to relate my experience to Jack while he ate, babbling away while I rapidly consumed a few more cups of coffee.



Leaving Jack to finish his breakfast I headed for the "shitter" to take a load off my mind. Our Lift section leader Captain Richardson was already there using one of the two holes of our "two holer.”



"Hey Cap. How are you this fine morning?” I asked.



"Fine, Sam," he replied.



"Where are we headed today, Cap?" I asked.



"Well, it looks as if we're headed with the Recon platoon back to the lager area at Bong Son. Other than that I don't know. Appears to be like any other day, just another waiting game to me," he continued.



He looked at me rather strangely as I finished and pulled up my pants. I guess he was wondering why I wasn't wearing any underwear. Without him relating a question, I began to speak; “I’ve discovered, in the heat and humidity, that underwear is terribly uncomfortable.” Or, maybe he was wondering if I would volunteer for the Scouts, since I had flown with Talbot the previous evening. Either way he probably thought I was crazy.