“He went fucking nuts,” said Connors.
“I can see. But why?” I asked back in our tent, watching Banjo heat some coffee water next to his cot.
“Fucking Owens and White.” Connors sat on his cot. “Fontaine says he found out that those two have been faking their flight records. They’ve been logging a lot of combat time when everybody knows they don’t fly at all. Anyway, he got into it with Owens. Owens told him he was just jealous! That cocksucker! He thinks everybody is as much an asshole as he is.”
“Why do they want the time?”
“Well, you figure a guy like Owens, coming up soon for major. He needs the combat time on his records. He might even try to get some medals with it.”
“Coffee time. Sorry guys, there’s only enough for me.” Banjo laughed.
“So why say anything?”
“I’m not sure. I think it makes me feel better when I think I’m living better than you.” Banjo laughed. “How ‘bout a cookie?”
“You’re so generous, Mr. Bates.”
“Not at all, Mr. Connors.” Banjo bowed, smiling. “Mason?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m going to bed.”
When you put your mosquito netting down around you, you felt isolated, even in the crowded tent. You were still in plain view of everyone, but the feeling was that you now were private, separated. I settled into my poncho liner to sleep.
Blackness surrounded me and something formless pursued me. A presence dove into my mind and flooded my heart with overwhelming fear. I snapped awake, raised on my elbows. Through the gauze of the netting, I saw Connors looking over from the other side of the tent. I tried to remember what scared me, but I could not. Nothing was happening in the camp. I eased myself back down, feeling tired, and watched the top of my mosquito netting.
The next day, Gary and I flew attached to Major Astor’s platoon on his first mission as leader. Most of the day was spent flying C rations out to resupply the various patrols beating the bushes for Charlie. So far, no Charlie. Occasional sniper hits were reported. Old campsites. New campsites. Even a few captives. But for all practical purposes, the jungle and bush we scoured was uninhabited.
Astor did pretty well at the beginning of the mission. He had the eight ships assigned to him split up, each one resupplying an area of its own. This made the work go faster. Resupply was considered tedious by most pilots, but Gary and I took these delightfully boring occasions to play with the machine while we did the job. Nothing malicious, like buzzing MPs, but the kind of play that challenged our skills.
It could be something like ticking a tree limb with the rotor in an LZ just to see if you could pull it that close. That would be considered foolish back in the States. Here, that kind of judgment could save your life.
I experimented with the Huey tuck that day. If the Huey was nosed over too far on takeoff, the wind resistance on top of the flat roof would force the nose even lower. The ship would then try to dive into the ground as it accelerated. If this happened over level ground, you were trapped in a vicious circle. Pulling the cyclic back would not overcome the wind pressure on the roof. Pulling up on the collective to stay away from the ground only added power to the system, causing you to crash at a higher speed. If you didn’t do anything but curse, you hit the ground at a lower speed. Either way, you lost.
I almost got caught in a Huey tuck once, and I wanted to know just how far over was too far. I found out by simulating a level takeoff from a pinnacle.
I nosed over very hard and pulled enough pitch to keep the ship flying horizontal to the ground. I tested the cyclic, and the ship would not respond. I could feel it happening. Adding power only made it worse. When I could feel the trap and feel how I got into it, I knew I could never get into it by accident. I was experimenting with this over a valley, so all I had to do to recover was dive.
Near the end of the day, Charlie decided to try to wipe out a platoon or two before dark.
We were at a field command post where our ships were being loaded when the grunt commander called Astor over to his command tent.
There were six Hueys in the laager. When Astor came out minutes later, he signaled for a crank-up, then walked over to Gary and me.
“There’s a platoon coming under attack just a few klicks from here. We only need five ships to get them out.” Astor zipped up his flak vest. “I want you to stay here and monitor our frequency in case we need you.” He trotted to his ship, which was already running.
“Pretty tough assignment,” said Gary. We both climbed into the cockpit. Gary started up so that we could monitor the radios without draining the battery. Having to get a jump start in the middle of nowhere was something neither of us wanted to experiment with.
I tuned the radios.
“Charlie One-Six, Preacher Yellow One,” Astor called.
No answer.
“Roger, Charlie One-Six. We are inbound. Throw smoke.”
No answer. On the ground we could hear only Astor’s side of the radio conversation. He sounded just like he knew what he was doing.
“Yellow One, they are on the other side of the tree line.” That was John Hall’s voice.
“Negative, Yellow Four. I see the smoke,” said Astor.
I started to fasten my straps. If they were that close to pickup, we would be in the air in minutes.
“Negative, Yellow One. The target is upwind of that smoke,” said Hall.
“Yellow Four, I am in charge here,” said Astor.
“Roger.”
“Do you think we should get into the air?” asked Gary.
“Naw, not yet. Wait for Astor to give us the word.”
“Yellow Four is taking heavy fire from the tree line!” yelled Hall.
Astor, possibly already on the ground, did not answer.
“Yellow One, we are aborting. My crew chief has been hit.” We could hear the machine guns on Hall’s ship chatter while he talked.
“We’d better go,” I said.
“Right.” Gary brought the Huey up to rpm and made a quick takeoff.
“Yellow One, Charlie One-Six. I have you in sight. You’re about five hundred meters downwind of us.”
It was clear to Gary and me that Astor had really blown it. He had landed downwind of the grunts’ secure position, following the drifting smoke, even though Hall had seen the correct position. I saw the flight and called Astor to say we were joining up. He radioed a curt “Roger.” We joined up and made the landing to the grunts’ clearing without incident.
As the crews mingled after the mission, back at the Golf Course, Astor separated himself and walked away quickly.
“That guy is an accident looking for a place to happen,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s a disaster all right…. Hey. Major Disaster!” said Gary. Everybody laughed. He was christened.
Hall met us at the tent. His crew chief, Collins, was dead. The ship had taken more than twenty rounds. Hall was shaking with anger. He had been right. Disaster had ignored his warnings.
“I’m going to kill him,” said Hall.
“I know how you feel,” I said.
“No, I mean that I will actually kill him. You know, dead.” Hall unsnapped his revolver holster and walked off toward Disaster’s hooch. I thought he was just acting tough, but when I got to the mess line fifteen minutes later, I heard Disaster calling for help from inside his hooch.
Hall stood tall and silent, his pistol at the ready, a can of beer in his left hand. He had taken a position midway between Disaster’s hooch and the mess tent. About thirty men, getting their evening chow, looked on with interest.
“Hall, if you don’t put that gun away immediately, I’ll have you court-martialed.” The voice came from behind the hooch door.