Chapter 29
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L anding at McCord Air Force Base outside of Seattle in January was a major change from the ninety-degree days in Vietnam. It was forty degrees when I stepped out of the plane to the awaiting bus. An overcast sky and light drizzle were present, as always in Seattle. I was in jungle fatigues that had the red clay dirt of Vietnam clinging to them, and I didn’t care. I was back in the States.

The bus ride to a reception station was short. Most of the guys on the flight with me would remain at Fort Lewis, which was adjacent to McCord Air Force Base, and out-process from the Army as their enlistments were completed. Some would go on to assignments in Germany or the States, but most were being discharged. I figured I was going to be stuck waiting around for hours to get released. Was I in for a surprise.

As I walked into the reception station, a staff sergeant approached me and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Mr. Cory, welcome home.” It was none other than a former classmate from primary flight school, almost two years ago. He had fallen down a flight of stairs one morning and dislocated his knee. They had taken him to the hospital, and we had never seen him again.

“What the—how the hell are you, Brad?”

“Fine, sir. I’m the NCOIC of this facility now.”

“What happened to you? We lost track of you once they took you away.”

As we walked to his office for a pot of fresh coffee, he explained.

“I got to the hospital and it was bad. They had to do surgery on my knee and put some pins in it. Told me it would be six months before I could get back in the flight program. We were already E-5s, and now I was a holdover. In the hospital, I got tired of sitting around and asked if I could do something. They had me help out in administration, and after waiting the six months, they said I wouldn’t get back into flying because of the knee. I have limited range of motion. I couldn’t go into the infantry, so they put me in administration, and since I already had the experience, they let me keep my E-5 rank. I made E-6 a few months ago and only have two more years to go before I can get out. I’ll stay right here.”

“That’s great.” And we swapped stories about who had and hadn’t made it through flight school and who he had seen pass through his reception station. I mentioned a few that I had seen in the back of my helicopter. It was really good seeing him.

“But, sir, I’m sure you want to get going,” he finally said. “Where’s your next assignment?”

“Hell, my next assignment is right back to my old unit. I extended and am home on thirty days’ leave.”

“In that case, sir, you don’t want to waste it sitting here talking to me. Where do you need to go?”

“I need to get to the Greyhound bus station in Seattle, where a friend’s father is going to pick me up. I’m going to spend a couple of days with them in Monroe, Washington.”

“Not a problem. I have a bus going there in about thirty minutes. You have a reserved seat on it. Let’s get your stuff loaded.”

Sitting in the front seat of a Greyhound bus moving down the interstate to Seattle was relaxing. Brought back memories of when I’d spent five days and nights on one going from Key West, Florida, to Coos Bay, Oregon, before starting my freshman year of high school. It was almost surreal watching cars going past us with civilians stressing out over traffic, or schoolwork, or fixing dinner. These people thought they had stressful, busy lives. The phrase that was engraved on my Zippo lighter came to mind: “Life has a flavor the protected will never know.” They don’t and won’t.

Arriving at the Greyhound bus depot, I called Bill Michel’s parents, and his dad said he would be there in an hour to get me. Mom and Pop Michel became like second parents to me. Bill’s younger brother, Norm, was a senior in high school and one sharp young man. He was also a character. When we’d left to go to Vietnam, I had stayed with the Michels and had left my dress blue uniform and my class A greens with them. I needed to get my class A cleaned and the patches sewn on. I also needed to purchase some civilian clothes, since I had none. Norm took me clothes shopping. The clothing styles had changed dramatically in the two years that had passed since the last time I had gone shopping, from straight-leg pants and button-down collars to bell bottoms, wide collars and baggy sleeves. I wasn’t impressed with the new fashions, nor was Norm. I settled on a few conservative items to get me going, as well as a warm jacket. I was freezing! After two days, Pop drove me over to SeaTac and I boarded a flight to Baltimore.

When I arrived at BWI, it was after 9:00 p.m. Mom was there, all excited with a gentleman. Hmm. After hugs and kisses, she introduced him. “Dan, this is Father Bob. He’s a friend of mine.” Holy shit, she’s hanging with a priest . Mom was an attractive woman, along the lines of Sophia Loren: Italian, dark hair, slim figure. She also wrote letters to the Pope telling him how to run the Catholic church. When I was a kid, we lived in Naples for a time and Mom used to go to the horse racing track with Lucky Luciano, the mobster.

“How do you do, Father?” I extended my hand. He seemed nice enough, but what was going on? We went back to her three-bedroom apartment, and he excused himself and went home.

“So, Mom, what’s up with the priest?”

“Oh, we’re just good friends. He’s considering leaving the priesthood and becoming a psychologist. He’s studying at the university for his doctorate in psychology.”

“Really! And am I his first patient?” I asked.

“Well, if you need to talk to someone, he’d be a good listener. Your dad needed to talk to someone when he came home from the Pacific but never did. How is he doing now?”

“Dad is fine and safe. He has a desk job at a very well-protected compound and a really nice set of quarters in Saigon.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her he was probably getting laid once a week by his hooch maid.

“How long are you going to be here with me?” she asked. Boy, got off the Dad subject real quick, we did .

“My leave is for thirty days. I really don’t have any plans. Anything you want to do?”

“How about we take off after my last exam and run up to New York to see family? Your Aunt Joanie and Uncle Bill would love to see you, and so would your cousin Kathy. My last exam is the day after tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sounds good. I do want to get over to Warrant Officer Personnel Branch and sit down with an assignments officer, but that’s only one day.”

“Oh, do you remember the Simmons? You met them in Morocco. Their daughter is Mary. I was talking to Margie, and they would like to see you in Virginia Beach as well.”

“Yeah, that might be nice to get back to Virginia Beach, see if it’s changed any since we lived there in the fifties. Mary wrote to me a couple of times. I think she’s in New York City still.” I had met the Simmons when I’d visited my parents in Morocco, before I’d joined the Army and before I’d graduated from flight school. They had a daughter who was a senior in high school. I’d met her in church on my first trip to Morocco. We’d talked a bit, and I’d taken her for a ride in my parents’ MG sports car. That was it. When I came back from Morocco the second time, I had a layover in New York and she came out to the airport to see me. She had graduated and was working in New York City at an accounting firm. She wrote to me a couple of times in Nam, I guess at the urging of her mother, who talked frequently to my mother, both being of Italian descent and both from Queens, New York. See a connection here? Hmmm.

Grabbing my third beer since I’d walked into the apartment twenty minutes ago, I said, “Mom, there have to be a couple of ground rules with me staying here.”

“Okay, what are they?”

“First, I know how you are about waking me up. No coming up to me while I’m sleeping and kissing me. Stand at the foot of the bed and shake my foot, but otherwise no touching. Please.”

“Okay, what else?”

“Make sure we have beer. That’s it. Now I’m going to bed and sleeping for about twelve hours. Which room is mine?” And off to bed I went. Clean sheets, a flush toilet and hot showers. What more could a guy ask for from his mom? No, my mom wasn’t a great cook, so I didn’t ask for hot meals from her. She tried, but… Mom also couldn’t follow simple instructions.

The air was cool and I was snuggled in warmth. There was no sound. The night was still. The blackness was all around me. I felt a presence penetrating my world. I reached for my sidearm ever so slowly, but it wasn’t there under my pillow. God, they were coming closer. I could feel them. Strike—strike now before it’s too late! And I came out of the bed with a roundhouse punch, smashing my attacker to the floor. Except it wasn’t a VC sneaking up on me but my mother. She’d tried to kiss me good morning. She was lying on the floor and her cheek was starting to swell. Oh, someone was going to have a black eye.

“Damn, Mom, are you all right!” I asked as I finished getting out of bed and picking her up. “What the hell are you doing? I told you not to do that.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought—”

“Mom, I’m a light sleeper and always on guard for an intruder. Don’t sneak up on me. Damn, I could have really hurt you. Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine. Let me put some ice on it. Do you want some breakfast?”

“Just coffee.” She can’t screw that up , I thought, and she didn’t. She got ready for school and left me in the apartment. Pretty nice setup. I turned on the TV, which was a two-year first. After coffee and watching The Dating Game , I decided to get out and walk some. Little did I realize that for the first couple of days, that would be my routine. Walking about in a college town was an experience in 1970.

Antiwar protesters were evident but not really antagonistic. I didn’t reveal I was a GI and kept to myself. I was uncomfortable in crowds and avoided large gatherings. Quite coffee shops were my speed in the morning, and a local bar in the afternoon. Again, I got my beer and found a quiet place to watch a game or whatever mindless thing was on TV at that time of day. It would be nice if there was a channel devoted to sports twenty-four hours a day.

Mom was telling me about different students that she knew and thought I should meet. They were all girls, which was fine by me, but I never took the initiative to call any of them. She even attempted to hook me up with a young lady standing in the grocery store checkout line.

“Excuse me,” she said to the girl’s mother, “but you have a very attractive daughter.” They both turned and looked at Mom. I grabbed the National Enquirer and kept my head down in embarrassment.

“Why, thank you,” the mother responded. “Is that your son?” I looked up. Way to go, Mom . The daughter was now grabbing the Reader’s Digest .

“Why, yes. He’s an Army helicopter pilot, home from Vietnam and going back in three weeks. He doesn’t have a girlfriend.” Crap, Mom, get your boyfriend over here and he can do the wedding right now here in the grocery store.

The young lady was as embarrassed at this point as I was and grabbed her mother by the arm, but she did look back at me with a smile. Wonder what she was thinking. When we got outside, she was pulling out of the parking lot and flashed another smile. Probably thinking, And with that for a mother, he isn’t going to get a girlfriend either.

Girls in the past had been trouble for me, and I really wasn’t interested at this point. Truth be told, I had been dating a girl in college who had trashed my heart, and I had sworn afterwards that I would never again let myself be that vulnerable. Someday, maybe, I thought I’d like to get married, but right now, no thanks, not interested. Drink my beer and fly my helicopter—that was all I needed at this point.

Finally, we drove up to New York and stayed with my aunt and uncle. My cousin Kathy was a senior in high school and as pretty as could be. We hung out together a lot and had some good laughs. Some might think it weird, since I wasn’t from the backwoods of Kentucky, where much older cousins could date much younger cousins, but I really liked Kathy. I would have liked to have dated her even, except for the fact that her dad scared the crap out of me. I didn’t know why, because he was a great guy. I’d had a crush on Kathy since we were little kids, but that couldn’t be, because they were from New York City and not someplace where cousins were allowed to date. Cousins weren’t allowed to date in New York City unless you were in the Corleone family, and then you had to have the Godfather’s blessing. Godfather Uncle Bill wouldn’t give it, I was sure. So I drank my beer instead, and he drank my beer too.

Back home, Mom brought up the subject of Virginia Beach. “Why don’t you get out of here and go down to Virginia Beach? The Simmons would love to see you,” she nagged.

“Yeah, I might do that.” Mom was starting to get on my nerves. I needed to get out. I was becoming very restless. It was only ten days into my thirty-day leave and I felt out of place, a boat without a rudder.

“I’ll call Margie and tell her you’ll fly down tomorrow. I can drive you to the airport.” And she was immediately on the phone. Something felt odd about this. I hardly knew these people, although the last time I had seen them, at a party at the officers’ club in Morocco, I was draped over the truck of my dad’s MG, drunk out of my mind, asking them how their daughter was. They thought that was funny, I was told. I was too drunk to remember. I didn’t have that much to drink that night, but the hundred-degree temperature had adversely affected me with what little alcohol I’d had. That was my story and I was sticking to it.

The next day, Mom dropped me off at the airport and I went up to the ticket counter to get a ticket. Quantico must have graduated a bunch of new second lieutenant Marine officers, as they were in the airport with their Sam Brown belts. Full of bravado, they were letting the entire airport know that they were going to Vietnam and win the war. Good luck, guys. I was now a chief warrant officer, having been promoted in December. I had shaved off my immature mustache and still had a reasonable haircut. I didn’t stand out in a crowd, and I was in civilian clothes. They ignored me. Good.

The flight to Norfolk, Virginia, from Baltimore was a short hop. I got off the plane and walked into the terminal. The Simmons’ daughter was standing there with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing a blue pantsuit. Damn, I thought she was in New York.

“Hi, Mary!” No hug, no kissy.

“Hi, Dan, got any bags checked? How you been? You look good.” Small talk it was going to be.

“You do too.” And she did. We headed to her car, a Corvair Monza. The drive to her folks’ house was more small talk. She was no longer working in New York but at a local radio station in Virginia Beach and going to school. But I couldn’t figure out what kind of school it was. When we got to her house, her folks and one younger brother and sister were there. They were in high school. This was a big family. The oldest son lived in New York, having done four years in the Army and a long tour in Vietnam, Infantry. An older sister was in college at Shippensburg State. Her dad was a civil servant with the Navy but had served in the Army in World War II and seen plenty of action as a forward observer at North Africa, Sicily, Anzio and finally at Normandy, where he had been severely wounded, resulting in one leg being shorter than the other. He was a quiet man; it was his Italian wife who carried the conversations. He introduced me to whiskey sour cocktails, and I have never had a better one than the ones he made.

I spent a week there. Mary and I ran all over Virginia Beach, which had changed considerably since I was a kid when Dad was stationed aboard a submarine at the base. Back in the mid-1950s, the only hotel was the Cavalier Hotel, which sat about a half mile back from the beach. We would go to the beach in the winter and shoot .30-06 rifles at targets as the place was deserted. Now I was finding that from Fort Story along the entire beach was hotels and homes. At the very end was a restaurant called the Lighthouse, where all the tables were picnic tables, and for five dollars, you got all the boiled shrimp you could eat, poured out on butcher paper. Pitchers of beer were two dollars.

Grabbing a table and placing an order, Mary asked, “So why fly helicopters? Why not airplanes?”

“Since I saw my first helicopter, I’ve wanted to fly them. I was in the fourth grade, I think, or third, and thought it was so cool that they could hover and land about anywhere. I used to draw pictures of an OH-13 helicopter—you know, the one with the big glass bubble that the pilot sits in—landing on a lake next to a log cabin. That was my dream. I’d forgotten it until the chance to go to flight school came along,” I explained.

“But you were in college,” she stated with a puzzled look.

“Yeah, that was a worthless two years. I hated where I was going to school and really didn’t know what I wanted to study anyway. I had been accepted to the University of Kansas School of Architecture and was excited about going, but that fell through.”

“How come?” she asked.

“Seems that as I was getting ready to go, the principal of my high school told my parents that I would be lost at a big school like that and probably flunk out. So they stopped me and told me to go to Eastern Oregon. I hated it there.”

“Why?”

“First, it was a teacher’s college. I didn’t think I wanted to be a teacher, at least not as much as I wanted to be an architect. Second, it was up in the mountains of eastern Oregon, and once the snows came, you didn’t leave there, especially as I didn’t have a car. Third, the town is a one-horse town. It’s a wide spot in the road. The town really didn’t welcome the college students, but sure liked our money,” I explained.

“So why are you going back to Vietnam?” she asked.

“I can tell you I’m not going back to save the people of Vietnam. Those people could care less about us being there. They would be just as happy to see us get out. We, the South Koreans, and the Aussies are all there to help them, and what do we get in return? Rocketed, mortared and shot at. The Vietnamese will lie to your face and think nothing of it. It’s their culture to save face, even if it means lying to you. Americans are so damn eager to have everyone like us, we’ll believe anything and do anything for people. It’s gotten us in trouble in the past and it will get us in trouble in the future. As far as I’m concerned, trust no one and do only those things that are in our national interest. I’m going back because we’re running out of pilots, and the guy on the ground needs pilots willing to go the extra mile for him. He needs someone who will make sure to get the beer and mail in as well as the ammo. He needs someone that will put him first for a change and be there for him. Grunts have a shitty life, and doing anything I can do to ease it a bit for them is my intention.”

“Don’t you get scared? I mean, being shot at and possibly crashing or worse?” she asked.

“There are worse things than being shot. Fire is worse. The fear of all crew members. We’re supposed to be getting fire-retardant two-piece flight suits, but they’re only starting to arrive. That will help, but not prevent getting burned. Besides, you don’t think about it. If you did, you wouldn’t get in the bird. You think if something happens, it will happen to the other guy. You don’t wish it on them, but that’s the way you look at it. When the shit hits the fan, you’re too busy to be scared, you just do your job. When you get back to the Chicken Coop, you drown your fear in beer. And the next day you do it over again.”

Mary reached across the table and laid her hand on mine. “Just be careful,” she said in a soft, almost pleading voice. Her eyes were speaking as well.

Mary was a good listener. She never judged but would listen and ask simple questions that got me to open up like no one else ever could. After a week, I headed back to D.C. We said we would stay in touch and she would write to me if I wrote to her.

Once I got home, Mom started in about how I should speak to Father Bob. “He’s studying to be a psychologist,” she told me yet again, “and he might be able to help you.”

“Help me? What’s this about? I don’t need any help.”

“Your father said you should talk to someone. You know, about Dave and your crew.” Okay, the cat was out of the bag. Evidently I must have said something to Dad about the loss of Dave and the crew of my aircraft when the rotor head went to pieces. I hadn’t told him about the two recent incidents. He in turn must have written Mom and told her something.

“Mom, I’m fine. I don’t need to talk to anyone. I’m okay.” Joking, I added, “Ah, Mom, we’re out of beer.”

“You’re not fine! You’re drinking too much. And why are you going back there? You’ve done your time.”

“I’m going back because they need good pilots. We’re short pilots with experience that can teach the new guys. And the grunts need good pilots. Now drop it!” Holy shit, it was time to get back to Nam. This discussion went on for another hour. Finally she agreed to drop it or I was going out the door.

The next morning, I decided to head over and see the warrant officers’ personnel manager, located at Fort McNair. Before I got dressed in my Class A uniform, I grabbed a cup of coffee and started to read the newspaper. One particular headline caught my eye. “Helicopter shot down 100 miles northeast of Saigon.” Why would this be newsworthy when it happened every day in Vietnam? The article didn’t indicate who was on the aircraft or what unit it belonged to. I had a feeling that it might have been one of ours, as that was the area around Song Be.

At the entrance to the Warrant Officer Personnel Office, a receptionist greeted me.

“Good morning, sir, how can I help you?”

“I’d like to talk to an assignments officer, please. I don’t have an appointment.” I gave her my name.

“Have a seat and I’ll get someone. Appointments aren’t necessary.” And she headed off. Phones were ringing and old mechanical typewriters were clicking away. Around the corner she came with an officer in tow. I stood.

“Mr. Cory, this is Chief Warrant Officer Cummings,” she stated.

“Hi, Mr. Cory. I’m David Cummings, but call me Dave.” He extended his hand. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, so I didn’t know if he outranked me as a warrant officer, since all warrant officers were referred to as Chief after making W2.

“Morning, it’s Dan,” I responded. Little did I know at that moment that within the next hour, Dave Cummings would change my life forever. “Let’s go back to my office. Want some coffee?”

“Yes, sir—ah, Dave, that would be great. Black, please.”

“Black it is. Have a seat. Be right back.” I settled in his office. “So what can I do for you?” he asked a minute later, handing me a mug of coffee.

“Well, I’m back from Nam on my extension leave—”

“Wait, you’re still assigned to Nam and home on leave?”

“Yeah, and I was wonder—”

“Wait one and let me get your file.” He stood and walked out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a file folder. He leafed through the pages.

“Give me a minute to look over your file.” I kept my mouth shut and drank my coffee. I didn’t know I had a file here. I thought all my records were in Nam, back at First Cav Division Rear in An Khe. He kept reading, finally looking up. “You have a pretty damn good file here, Dan.”

“What?”

“You have a letter of recommendation for a commission from flight school as you were the WOC battalion student commander. Your officer efficiency reports are some of the best I’ve ever seen. Your awards are impressive.”

“Dave, I’ve never seen that stuff. Officer efficiency reports—what do they say?”

“You signed them. You must have seen them.”

“When I got to my unit, the CO had me sign a bunch of blank forms, but I never saw them once they were filled in. Can I look at them?”

“Yeah, look them over. Want some more coffee?” He rose to get another cup, and I started reading. Damn, I guess my platoon leader and COs were happy with me after all. They’d said some nice stuff in there about me. This letter of recommendation from the school brigade commander from my time as the student battalion commander was pretty nice as well. Maybe the ass chewings were worth something after all. My awards were just the standard stuff every pilot got, except I did have that Air Medal with “V” for pulling the Cobra pilots out, and a second Air Medal with “V” for covering some grunts with artillery fire.

Coming back, he handed me my coffee. “So what can we do for you?”

“I don’t know. I was wondering what my options are.”

“Let me ask you, what are your plans for when you come back?”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably go back to college. I’m thinking about applying to Georgetown and getting a law degree.”

“Good option. How you going to pay for it?” he asked.

“I’ve saved, and I have the GI Bill.”

“Why not stay in, and we’ll send you to college? We’ll pay you your normal pay and allowances as well as flight pay and housing allowance, and you can use your GI Bill to pay the tuition,” he explained.

“Excuse me, you’ll do that?” A bit surprised, I was.

“Yeah, we assign you to the US Army Student Detachment, you choose a university you want to attend and you go to school. Going to school is your job. You don’t put on a uniform. And you still get all your pay and allowances. How does that sound?”

“I had no idea you would do that.”

“Look, Dan. You have a great file. You could have a great future staying in the Army. We can send you to college. I can get you a fixed-wing transition. I could send you to the Aviation Safety Program, or the flight instructor program. You could even get a commission with this file if you wanted to become an RLO.”

We talked for another thirty minutes. In closing, Dave said, “Look, when you have one hundred days left in-country, send me a letter and tell me what you intend to do. If you decide that you’re staying in, I’ll work with you to get to college or whatever you want to do, wherever you want to get stationed. Fair enough?”

I thanked him and told him he had certainly given me something to think about. As I walked out, I was pretty sure I had decided that I was going to be making the Army a career. Doing what, I didn’t know, but getting them to send me to college was the first goal and then we would see from there.

After another day of sitting around the house with nothing to do, I thought I would see the sights in D.C. Wonder if Mary Simmons would want to come up for the weekend and tour D.C. with me? Couldn’t hurt to ask. So I called her. It was Wednesday morning, and I figured she could come up on Friday night. I would get her a plane ticket.

“Hey, Mary, it’s Dan. How would you like to come up and tour D.C. with me?”

“Yeah, I could come up on Friday for the weekend,” she indicated.

“Great, I’ll have a plane ticket at the counter waiting for you.”

“It would be easier and cheaper for me to catch a bus. I’ll call you before I leave and tell you our arrival time. This will be fun. Thanks.”

She arrived on Friday, and a weekend turned into five days in the city taking in the sights. Mary stayed at my mother’s apartment. Mom was suffering with a horrible cold that kept her up all night coughing and sneezing with frequent trips to the one bathroom down the hall. I loved my mother, but she could be the most conniving, interfering, snooping Italian mother you had ever met. When Mary left, her departure at the airport was more than a kiss on the cheek. She promised to write, and she did, almost every day for the next six months. After a couple of more days, it was time to head back to Seattle for the flight.