What’s the difference between a fairy tale and a war story? A fair tail
starts with once upon a time and a war story starts with. This is no shit.
Jane Fonda the traitorous bitch and her cowardly friends (Cowards
hiding in colleges and various a sundry exempt positions) had protested
the bombing of North Vietnam, all military targets and with the help of
the liberal press halted the bombing. Thus the North was now free to
concentrate on killing American soldiers. Jane didn’t mind that a bit.
It was some time in late 1969, or early 70, I’m not sure. Our company
commander Ltc. Jarvus, was on R&R in Vung Tao, with a cute little
prostitute that was more, or less his girl friend.
The day started out normal. Re-supply the troops in the field. If there
are any combat assaults - break in time, to pick up the troops -
insert them in the Landing Zone (LZ) and then go back to re-supplying the
troops in the field. Our lives revolved around the troops in the field.
They were our mission, our reason for existing and we took great pride in
caring for them. They were our family.
The word came in late. It was, I believe, the screaming eagles, or some
such unit. They were new in country and all of them lacked the survival
skills of the seasoned Big Red 1 (Remember if your going
to be 1 you might as well be a Big Red 1). They had loggered in just
North of Phuc Vinh. Evidently there were holes in the defensive perimeter
and /or their noise discipline sucked. Who knows? What we do know is Chuck
slipped into their lines during the night - slit numerous throats and then
began ripping the unit to shreds.
When I arrived, they had broken contact and were pulling themselves
back together. The Commander stood by the aircraft. His job to identify
each of his fallen children, his charges, his men, his friends. A young
man who was aged by the agony of his command and loss. A two, or three day’s
growth of beard. His eyes drained of tears from grief still left with the
task at hand. Body bags were a luxury we did not have. The men were
stacked on the floor like cords of wood. We had to get them out and
prepare to help the living. Their waxen bodies drained of life and blood
took on a yellowish tinge. Their eyes seemed to speak of knowledge that
only they could know; only they who had paid the price of passage. I see
and respect them to this day. I grieve for their commander, a good man. A
sad man. May God give him peace. He deserves it.
We spent most of the morning in this field of brush. The sun burning
down on us more like the fields I use to play in as a child. It was hard
to imagine so many died in this sun lit space.
As with most days the pace quickened. The battle was a foot and we were
scrambling to bring reinforcements to our embattled troops. The radios
crackled with orders. The units were forming at numerous pickup zones. We
in turn would snatch them up and deliver them to harms way. Ourselves,
primary targets in and out of the zones. No big deal. Corny but true.
As we arrived at the landing zone on final approach, I could see a
horseshoe wall of smoke, as artillery pounded two, almost three sides of
the area and the Air Force strafed and bombed the remaining side, leaving
a narrow slot for us to enter. Quite impressive. I felt pride as we
entered doing our part. As we cleared the wall of smoke it was suddenly
clear. Clean green grass. The pot holes from shelling were not visible,
but then laid out neatly in a row, were soldiers, fallen soldiers,
patiently waiting their turn to be corded up and shipped to the rear.
There to be cleaned, boxed and sent home, only to be berated by Jane and
her friends.
As we touched down our troops cleared the chopper and raced to the line
forming into their unit as they charged. It suddenly dawned on me. There
was no rifle fire. There was no assault. Only mortar rounds and rockets
from the enemy. We were dumping more victims into their kill zone. What
the hell.
Suddenly a soldier leaped into the aircraft. No. No it was a reporter.
Hurry hurry we’ve got to get out of here, were his words.
I barked, Get out of here. My hatred for the news media who painted us
as baby killers and murders swelling inside of me. I wanted him to resist
I really did.
“I’ve got my story. I’ve got to get back” was his plea. As he
said this I glanced at the soldiers patiently waiting their turn. No one
likes a line jumper.
“McDonald shoot him. If he doesn’t get off shoot him. That’s
an order.” That was my reply the anger swelling, knowing that this
would not have been happening if not for Jane and the liberal news media
that courted her every move. Never showing the good we did. Hiding the
fact that we risked our lives daily to keep children from harms way and
here he stood fleeing from harms way instead of tending to the troops,
recording their courage. No he had to get back to Saigon to the club and
brag of his courageous deeds. But not on my chopper, not mine and not
today.
He looked. He turned and looked at the gunner and then at me. I glimmer
of dismay and then he was gone.
We made many more trips into the zone - the mortars ceased. The rockets
were expended. Our friends were well dug in prepared for the night. The
patient soldiers would get their ride tomorrow in the back of a Chinook
encased in the heavy black body bags. We exhausted, formed up in flights
of five and flew home as the sun disappeared, leaving a reddish glow on
the jungle below. The gunner and crew chief would spend their evening
tending to the needs of their aircraft - their lady. Making sure she was
clean and ready to do battle in the morrow. A bland meal at the late mess
and maybe three, or four hours in bed, before they rose to fight again.
Later. How much later, I could not tell, only later. There were awards
handed out. One of our pilots got a Silver Star, as did Ltc. Jarvis, who
as you recall was in Vung Tao with his girl friend. What the hell.
And then there was tomorrow…… |
