Chapter 7
What Am I to Do?
P eople shuffling around woke me, but it was still dark. A flashlight in the face got me to close my eyes again, and a voice asked, “Are you Mr. Runnels?”
“Not me. What are you doing?”
“Sorry, sir. I’m waking flight crews for their missions. Who are you?” the voice asked.
“Cory.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, go back to sleep. You’re not flying today,” he said, and I followed his order.
The sound of turbine engines and beating rotor blades finally woke me again. I needed coffee, a shower and a shitter and not in that order. Showers were a four-post frame about seven feet tall with plywood sides in the middle two-thirds for privacy. The showers were mounted on wood pallets to keep your feet out of the mud that was created by the water flowing on the ground, and to keep you from stepping on a pit viper snake that liked to hang out under the showers looking for small frogs. Step lightly, my friend. Water was contained on top in a black-painted container that the maintenance shop made out of sheet metal or an old engine container box. Black absorbs heat, so during the day, the water would heat up, never hot enough to scald one, but warm enough to take a shower in the evening. Morning showers were just cold water, if there was any water. A soldier on work detail would fill the five-hundred-gallon water truck from the base water point and deliver it to the showers and mess hall. There was also a wash area for doing laundry and getting water to take back to our tents.
We also had three-hole latrines—shitters—that were designed by the Department for Defense in World War I and hadn’t changed in fifty years. These were also made out of plywood, with a door positioned in front of the center hole. The top half of the sides was screened in and the roof was tin. Each hole had a toilet seat covering it. Underneath each hole was a quarter to a half of a fifty-five-gallon drum. The drum was lined with back issues of the Stars and Stripes newspaper, and about three inches of diesel fuel was added and then placed under the hole. Each morning, whatever soldier was on the first sergeant’s shit detail removed each can and burned the contents, which would require him to stir it with a large stick as it burned. There was no escaping the smoke or the odor. Then the can was lined with paper, filled with more diesel and placed back under the hole. The odor was permanently imprinted in every soldier’s senses, for their lifetime.
Breakfast proved to be rather uninviting. Powdered eggs, undercooked bacon, roast beef, bread that I had never seen before and coffee. Milk, cereal and pancakes were also offered. I started making a list of what I wanted family to send from home. Real white bread or rye was high on the list, along with a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly. Naturally, my Aunt Joanie’s pound cake was at the top of the list. With nothing to do after breakfast, I wandered over to Flight Operations to see what I was supposed to do. During the day, one of the pilots might be there acting as the assistant operations officer. Today it was just Sergeant First Class Robertson. His nickname was “Pops” as he took care of all the pilots.
“Good morning, Mr. Cory. What can I do you for?” he asked.
“Nothing, really. I just want to see what operations does and what our missions are.” I noticed that there was no assistant operations officer present.
“Well, come on back here and I’ll give you a briefing. Want some decent coffee?” he asked, holding up a coffeepot. This man knew the way to my heart.
“As long as it’s not from the mess hall, yes, please,” I answered. As he poured me a cup, I was taking in the activity or lack thereof at this time of the morning.
“We don’t have any cream, but we do have this if you want it.” He raised a can of Carnation condensed milk. I loved that stuff.
“Oh yeah,” I said too loud with a smile on my face.
“Boy, you must like it.”
“Before my dad was commissioned, he was a chief petty officer and would stand weekend watch aboard ship. He’d take me with him on Saturdays and let me drink coffee, and he always put some of that in my coffee,” I explained to him.
“So your dad’s a Mustang. Where’s he stationed now?”
“Morocco,” I replied. “He left Japan about the time I joined the Army. Mom wasn’t too happy that I quit college after two and a half worthless years, but Dad supported me on that move. Before you ask, I didn’t join the Navy because the Navy isn’t really in this fight unless you’re a pilot, and I wanted to do more than just sit on a ship. Did that already as a merchant sailor. Here I might be able to make a difference.”
For a moment, he just stared at me like maybe I was nuts. “Well, this here is Flight Ops,” he said as he waved his arms around, forgetting that he had given me a brief the day before of our area of operations. He went over it again.
“What’s to the northeast of us?” I asked.
“That’s War Zone C, and the only people there are not friendly. Don’t fly over there unless you must,” warned Pops. “Now here at Quan Loi is the First Brigade; Second Brigade is here at Long Binh, and Third Brigade is at Phuoc Vinh along with Division HQ. Right now, most of our missions are between Phuoc Vinh and Bien Hoa, especially as the Vietnamese holiday of Tet is in a week or so and they’re expecting it may be like last year. Bien Hoa would be the target, most likely. The Fifth NVA Division is operating around there.”
“What are most of our missions that we fly?” I asked.
“Sir, it’s a bit of everything. You may start the day off flying ash and trash, resupply, for a battalion, followed by being part of a six-two combat assault, followed by flying Night Hunter Killer or Chuck Chuck.”
“Chuck Chuck?” I asked.
“Command and Control. A battalion commander will jump aboard with his staff, usually a fire support officer, and you fly around in a circle over a unit in contact while the battalion commander directs artillery fire,” he explained. “Boring as hell for you, generally.”
“What’s a six-two?” I asked.
“A six-two is a flight of six Hueys and two Cobras. The Cobras will come from our Delta Company on the other side of the Chicken Pen. They refer to their area as the Snake Pit,” he added.
“And Night Hunter Killer?”
“That’s a fun one. Three aircraft: a Cobra flying at about a thousand feet, a Huey full of flares flying at a thousand feet, following the Cobra, and a Huey flying between the ground and five hundred feet, nice and slow with all his lights on so Charlie can see you easily and shoot at you. The low bird is equipped with a .50-caliber machine gun replacing one of the M60 machine guns, and a searchlight with a low-light-intensity night vision scope on top is mounted in the cargo door. If the low bird sees something or gets shot at, the Cobra rolls hot on it and the flare aircraft starts dropping flares so the Cobra can see the target. Want some more coffee?”
“Yeah, please. How do you get our missions?”
“During the night, and generally before twenty hundred hours, the maintenance officer will tell us how many birds we can put up for the next day. We pass that to Battalion. Sometime around zero two hundred, Battalion starts sending the missions to us. Captain Goodnight comes in about zero four hundred and assigns the pilots and the missions, and we start waking everyone up. Generally we get the birds in the air at first light. Most of the birds aren’t instrument-rated, so that can be a problem in the monsoon season, which will begin in about three months. I’ll let you put in your own canned milk.”
He then went on to explain how our flight hours were logged and maintained by the operations section, as well as the procedure for getting aircraft logbooks in the morning before we launched. “Once you’re cleared to fly, you’ll be picking up the logbooks and doing the preflight before the aircraft commander gets to the aircraft,” he added.
“When do I get to fly?”
“First you have to have an orientation ride with one of the instructor pilots here. Mr. Reynolds is on leave until next week, so that leaves only Mr. Baker. He’ll probably get to you in the next week.” Damn , I thought, it’s going to be a week before I even get in an aircraft.
“I know what you’re thinking, and that’s good. But enjoy sitting on the ground for as long as you can, because once you’re cleared, you’ll get all the flying you want and then some,” Pops said.
“Who’s the assistant ops officer?” I asked.
“Right now there is none. Captain Goodnight doesn’t feel he needs any help or advice. He’s new to the job. Our previous ops officer, Captain Burbank, just left to go up to Battalion. He will be missed.”
“Oh, I see.” I didn’t but thought that was a safe answer.
“We did have one, but he went home last month. And he was worthless. Every time he took a bird out, he’d be back in thirty minutes complaining about something being wrong with it. He’d only put himself on milk runs and never take a combat flight. Worthless! Back when he was Peter Pilot, he had no choice, but as soon as they made him an AC, he started that shit. I doubt if anyone will miss him. Most assistant ops officers fit that bill. I doubt if you’ll ever make it, being assistant ops officer, though.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, feeling a bit offended.
“You’re the first warrant that has come in here and asked what we do and how we do it. You don’t strike me as a shirker. And you haven’t asked the one question most new guys ask.”
Curious, I had to ask, “And what would that be?”
“When did we last lose a crew? It was January, last month. They were sling loading a teeter-totter to an orphanage up Highway 13, and it flew up into the tail rotor. They spun into the trees at the end of the runway.” I made a mental note to watch sling loads.
I thanked Pops and returned to my tent with nothing to do at this point but wait for someone to tell me to do something. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Mr. Cory, report to the CO’s tent.”
I looked up from writing a letter, and there stood the company first sergeant. As a warrant officer aviator, I knew I would have few dealings with the man but was smart enough to know that he deserved a level of respect.
“Thank you, First Sergeant. Which tent is the CO’s?” I asked.
He pointed it out to me, and I headed that way. It was still early in the morning, and already the humidity was taking its effect. Warm, but not stifling, outside. However, as I approached the commander’s tent, I noticed that it was closed, with all the sidewalls and entrance down. I was taught that before you walk into someone’s room, you knock. How do you knock on a tent? I stopped short of the tent, looking for a front tentpole, but there was none. Okay.
“Knock, knock,” I called out.
“Who’s there?” came a reply from inside. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m in a combat zone playing ‘Knock Knock’ with the company commander.
“Sir, it’s Mr. Cory. I understand you want to see me.”
“Come in.”
I pulled the flap back and there sat Major Dickson, behind a field desk in a totally enclosed tent with a single lightbulb on. The major was in a T-shirt and fatigue pants. He was pale and thin, with a face that reminded me of a weasel. Something was not right here. I came to attention and reported as I was taught from day one in the Army. He just sat there looking at a piece of paper on his desk. Oh boy, power play going on here . Finally he looked up and returned my salute.
“At ease. Are you ready to start flying, Mr. Cory?”
“Yes, sir, looking forward to it.” Just violated Dad’s advice and gave too much information.
“Oh, you are! What exactly are you looking forward to?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. His OD green T-shirt was wet in the arm pits, and he was wearing flippy-flops. Glad he had his pants on. Now this was getting awkward.
“Sir, I’m looking forward to getting in the air to do the job I’ve been trained to do rather than sitting on the ground. I look forward to learning how to fly as a combat pilot, conducting resupply missions, flying formations, and improving my ability. I’m looking forward to seeing the area from Tay Ninh to Song Be to Long Binh.” Thank God I had gone over to Ops and gotten a briefing from Pops. Major Dickson just glared at me. What the hell had I done?
“Mr. Cory, you are going to be the company training officer. See Mr. Leach and relieve him of those duties. See the XO when you have a plan. That is all.”
I rendered a salute, did an about-face and walked out.
“Shut the damn tent flap!” he called out. Oh, shit . I quickly closed it and moved out. Mr. Leach was flying, so no need to hunt him down. Little did I know that this would be the only time Major Dickson ever spoke to me even though he was around for another two months. Never saw him fly a mission and only occasionally saw him walking around the company area. Took his meals in his tent. Strange man. Some said he already had done two one-year tours in-country and was burned out. Maybe so.
No one had ever told me what a company training officer was supposed to do. I was thinking that I was responsible for training this company. Hell, I was a brand-new pilot. What could I teach anyone? And what was I supposed to be training them to do anyway? I hoped Mr. Leach had his ducks in a row. You could hope all you wanted, but it didn’t make it so. That evening I tracked down Mr. Leach at the Officers’ Club. A short, stocky man, he could have been a double for Frodo, Bilbo Baggins’s sidekick in The Hobbit .
“Bob, I was told by the CO to relieve you of your duties as training officer.”
The look on his face told me he wasn’t going to miss the extra duty. Jumping up, he motioned me to follow him to his tent and dragged a box from under his bed. Several files, a couple of regulations and lots of loose papers were in the box.
“New guy, it’s all yours with my blessing.” Holy shit, nothing was in order.
“Where do I start with this stuff?” I asked as I started pawing through it.
“Start with the regulations. This one. It outlines all the mandatory training that’s required each quarter, semiannual and annually by the US Army,” he said as he pulled out the regulation. “Then look at the division regulation and the USARV regulation. There’s some overlap. If you schedule anything, go to the first sergeant and clear it with him first. Any questions?”
“Not right now. Let me look this over and get it organized and I’ll get back to you,” I stammered.
I’d been handed a shit sandwich, but I wasn’t flying, so I might as well do something. The Department of the Army Regulation outlined what training must be done on a quarterly, semiannually and annual basis. Chaplain’s Call, quarterly; Weapons Inspection, monthly; Savings Bond Drive, annually; Hygiene Care, monthly . The list went on and on. My job, it appeared, was to make sure each class was scheduled, an instructor designated, a location secured, and a roster signed by all in attendance. It was up to the first sergeant and the NCOs to make sure everyone was in attendance. Only one problem: no one had asked them to do it in the past, and so there was some resistance, especially as I had no authority over them. When the chaplain came to visit monthly, he would usually eat dinner and head for the Officers’ Club for poker. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when I approached him about giving a class on moral conduct. Weapons inspections was easy; bring your weapon to the mess hall for chow and have the supply sergeant check the serial number. Eventually I was able to get it moving somewhat smoothly, and on paper it looked great. Maybe the next new guy could have this duty—and sure enough, he got it.
I spent the rest of the evening looking over what Bob had handed me, attempting to organize it. As my tent mates were all on the board for flying the next day, lights out was around 2100 hours, so I put everything away and lay down. Sleep came quick, and I dreamt of pleasant things as I hadn’t been in-country long enough to have bad dreams. As I slumbered, I began to dream about the jet I heard coming in for a landing on our airstrip. It was getting louder and… Holy shit, jets can’t land here!
I was on the floor of our tent with everyone else when the Katyusha rocket impacted behind our tent, followed by a second impacting the VIP landing pad behind the major’s tent.
“Incoming! ” I heard as I grabbed my flak jacket and my helmet. I was half running, half crawling to the bunker in my boxer shorts when another rocket impacted with a flash of spraying shrapnel. Diving through the door of the bunker, I plowed into someone in the total darkness of the bunker and got shoved to the other side.
“Hey, watch it, man!” someone said.
“Anyone seen the new guy?” I recognized Lou’s voice.
“Over here, Lou,” I answered.
“This your first rocket attack, New Guy?” he asked.
“Well, yeah, I’ve only been here two days. Is this common?” I asked.
“Yep, almost nightly, and since this is your first, you get to buy the beer. Be sure the refrigerator’s stocked tomorrow when we come back.”
In the darkness, the sounds of laughter could be heard over the sounds of impacting rockets and secondary explosions.