Who Shot the Water Buffalo?

by Ken Babbs

  Cochran pops in a wad of gum and walks around the chopper. “You want some gum, Tomas? With enough chewing gum we can change the course of time.”

  “Knock it off,” Captain Beamus yells from the other chopper. “Let’s wrap it up and head out. Did you check the turn and bank indicator, Lieutenant Weems?”

  “Yes, sir, and it was straight and level, all the way.”

  “Gentlemen,” Cochran says, sticking his gum over a bullet hole in the side of the chopper, “Lapsong Chung says the secret of the indicator is to think of the soul and not the ego. It took the Vietnamese centuries to discover swallowing seadragons by the dozens does not make for effective contraceptives.”

  He kicks the tire.

  “Forget the tires and the wiseass,” Captain Beamus yells. “Get in and crank her up.”

  “A quick check of the oil, sir, it could probably stand a quart.”

  “Cochran, start that bird or you’re grounded for a week.”

  We spin up and lift off in a welter of spray. Forty-five minutes out, forty-five back. Time to kill. I fold the map so it shows the route we’ll be following. Piece of cake, long as the weather holds. We follow a river valley into the mountains, skirting the clouds and ridge lines. I fly while Cochran reads a book, but he can’t concentrate. He is too busy eyeing the mountains, the clouds and the altimeter, listening to the steady rumble of the engine, his ear attuned to the slightest wheeze, belch, fart, hiccup or other hint of internal disturbance, but the Wright engine churns steadily, oblivious to the weather, the proximity of the earth’s surface, the possibility of enemy fire and the necessity to complete the mission.

  I tune the AM radio to pick up Hanoi Hannah. She’s always good for some entertainment. “U. S. Marines, are you full of blood and death this morning after killing more of our freedom fighters and eating their livers raw for a satisfactory breakfast as befitting barbarians from the other side of the world? I see you are now in the air trying to hide from our eagle-eyed freedom fighters. They are excellent shooters you know.” Funny how she always knows when we’ve launched.

  “Turn back, turn back, let’s go home,” Cochran sings softly over the intercom, the altimeter needle locked on eight hundred feet, the cloud layer showing no sign of rising even though the ground slopes unrelentingly upward, toward the close finite point where earth and cloud meet, blocking our path.

  “Neither bullets nor clouds nor mountains shall stop the helicopter pilot on his appointed rounds,” says Cochran. “The pigs must get through.”

  He reaches over and sets the pressure altimeter needle on one thousand feet. That makes him feel better and he ignores the radio altimeter blatantly signaling “liar” at him, its needle now locked on seven hundred.

  Cochran goes back to his book and I stay close on Captain Beamus’s tail. We sneak up the valley and cross a ridge, sliding over the top in front of a cloud too old and too wispy to be a threat, then we fly up another valley where Cochran disturbs himself enough to say, “Keep track of the way out in case we lose him.”

  We arrive at an impasse. The valley peters out and we are walled in by hills. The outpost sits on a ridgeline dead ahead, a flat spot hacked out of the jungle. There’s only enough room on the pad for one chopper at a time. We tighten our shoulder straps and shut down the AM radio. No distractions now.

  “Keep circling,” Captain Beamus radios. “I’ll go in and land.

  ” He dips down and aims for the landing pad. We are in a hole with barely enough room to turn, hemmed in on the sides by mountains and on the top by clouds. Cochran takes the controls and puts us in a sharp bank to avoid a low cloud.

  “We made it in all right,” Captain Beamus crackles over the radio, “but the people down here are saying something about fire.”

  Cochran and I look at each other. Taking fire or is he on fire?

  “Say again,” Cochran transmits. “You’re breaking up.”

  “I said … urp … squawk … gurk … fire.”

  “That’s it,” Cochran says over the intercom. “He’s talking gibberish. We’ll have to play the tape backwards to figure out what he’s saying. Sergeant Soonto, check around and see if we’re on fire, will you?”

  Cochran heads into the dip between the ridges where the other chopper snuck through.

  “No smoke down here, sir,” Soonto says.

  “The trouble is,” Cochran says, tightening his circle, “the instant the tape runs backwards it explodes in negative time.”

  “Sir,” Sergeant Soonto calls over the intercom.

  “What is it?”

  “There was a pig got loose down here.”

  “He’s running around?”

  “He was, but when you broke off like that he went out the door.”

  “Food for the tigers,” Cochran says.

  “I’m on my way out,” Captain Beamus radios. “Do you have me in sight?”

  A green shape zips past. “Roger that.” Cochran turns the bird on its side and angles in.

  “Time,” Cochran growls, boring through the edge of the clouds, “it can’t go nowhere without you, jes’ sets there and twiddles its thumbs.”

  He lines up on a red scar showing between the trees.

  “Landing zone in sight,” Cochran radios. We continue along the tree tops and flare for a landing. Beneath us three figures scurry on the packed-dirt pad, waving their arms and signaling us not to land. They point to a hill farther ahead. Cochran pours on the coals and we pass over the clearing.

  “They’re waving us off,” he radios Captain Beamus. “Did you take fire in the zone?”

  “Negative on that.”

  “There’s another pad on top of that hill,” I tell Cochran. “I think they want us to land up there.”

  “For Christ’s sakes. They must be crazy.”

  The top is only fifty feet above the other pad but it is in the clouds. Cochran wraps on the turns, pulls in fifty inches of manifold pressure and we creep up the side of the slope, wheels brushing the trees and bushes. He flies along the branches and leaves until the pad is under our wheels and then eases the chopper down. Cochran sets the brakes and pulls the mixture handle back to normal. A fire smolders in a fifty-five gallon drum next to the pad.

  “There’s your fire,” I tell Cochran. “I bet they were trying to tell Captain Beamus the fire marked the zone. He must have landed on the lower pad.”

  Beyond the drum, wooden hooches sit next to reinforced bunkers. We slow the blades but don’t shut down.

  “Kick the cargo out and let’s get going. Hey! Make them wait till we unload, goddamnit.”

  I peer between my legs into the belly. ARVNs have mobbed the helicopter. Thirty or forty, each carrying a pack full of bedding and mess gear and clothing. Lowland soldiers, they hate the mountains and can’t wait to go home. They smother Soonto before he has a chance to unload the cargo.

  Cochran waves out the window. “Get away, you bastards! Damn them! YOU ABOARD, SOONTO?”

  He rams the mixture forward to full rich, intending to take off before the Vietnamese can overload us. I pull the handle back and hang on tight. Cochran sits astonished, red knob immobile in his great hairy fist like a wild rose plucked from an amazed bush.

  “GODDAMN,” he yells, turns loose of the handle, pulls off his shoulder straps and jumps out of the cockpit. He leaps into the mass of soldiers, rice, chickens and back packs, beats on the soldiers with his fence post arms, throws them aside like wheat shocks ripped by a tornado. The ARVNs run from the helicopter like a rack of pool balls blasted by the cue.

  Two are trapped in the belly. Cochran reaches in and tosses one out by the seat of his pants. The soldier lands on his head, rolls to his feet and comes up running. Soonto throws the other soldier out. Cochran belts him on the side of the head as he flies by. The ARVN stumbles like a man coming to grips with the land after a wild ride on a centrifuge. Soonto starts throwing out the supplies.

  Cochran walks over to the soldiers and smiles, intent on settlin
g the ARVNs down. He points to one wearing sergeant stripes. “All right now, we do it my way, hieu bit, get it?” He motions him toward the chopper. The soldier approaches warily but Cochran is still all smiles and he personally ushers the sergeant in and points to the bulkhead.

  “Sit him down, Soonto.”

  He points to another soldier.

  “You. Hai. Number two. Come here.” He helps the soldier in. He pats another on the shoulder and begins pushing them forward, one at a time. “Seven, ocho, nine, diez, ‘leven, muroi hai.” Stops and holds up his hands.

  “That’s it. No more. Muroi hai. Twelve only. You get it?”

  The remaining soldiers look on impassively.

  “You wait here,” Cochran points. “I’ll take this load out.” Motions and whirls his fingers put put put. “Another chopper will come in and get the rest of you,” flutter flutter flutter. They nod solemnly. “Get it? Hieu bit? Sure you do.”

  Cochran climbs into the cockpit. “Just hope those fuckers don’t know there’s no more choppers up there. All set, Soonto?”

  “Roger.”

  “Take her away, Huckelbee.”

  I pour on the turns and lift out before he can strap in.

  “What the hell were you doing down there?” Captain Beamus radios.

  “Had to sort the wheat from the chaff,” Cochran answers.

  “Say again.”

  “Too many passengers, not enough space.”

  Captain Beamus lets it go. “Stick close,” he says. “We’ve got another stop.”

  Cochran looks at me. They didn’t say anything about that in the briefing. He clicks the intercom.

  “What’s going on, Soonto? You know about another stop?”

  “Scuttlebutt has it Captain Beamus made a deal with a Green Beret to trade a Marine K-bar knife for an Army Springfield aught-three rifle. The Green Beret told him there’s an outpost closer to the border that’s got hundreds of them.”

  “Whooee,” Cochran says. “Always a surprise. Okay, Huck, I’ve got it.”

  We enter the river valley and instead of turning right towards the coast, we turn left towards Laos. Cochran tucks in close on Captain Beamus’s port side. We’re flying up a ravine with steep tree-lined slopes on either side. The river below narrows as it rises to the top of the V where the ravine comes to a point. Winds gust, shaking the helicopter and a heavy rain sleets against the windscreen. A black cloud blocks our way.

  Captain Beamus turns away from the cloud, forcing us to turn with him. Cochran, flying in the right seat, eyes glued on the other chopper, can’t see what’s happening on our left side. A branch reaches out to grab us. A green-and-red parrot erupts from the tree, its bawking buried in the thump of the rotors. That’s demasiado proximo for my Texican skin and I do the unthinkable and take over the controls.

  “I’ve got it.” I yank the stick over, drop full collective, jam left rudder and key the radio: “Breaking off.” Autorotate in a spiral away from the other chopper, away from the tree-covered ravine, down to the river below.

  “Roger,” Captain Beamus calls. “I’m right behind you.”

  I ease the stick back, pull up the collective and add throttle, merging engine and rotor, then nose over and skim along the river. I pour on the turns, following Grandaddy Huckelbee’s hunting maxim: a moving target is hard to hit, adding little Tommy Huckelbee’s in-country corollary: a fast-moving target is even harder to hit.

  “No lower, please,” Cochran calls out over the intercom.

  The river widens, giving us more room.

  “Chopper two, this is chopper one,” Captain Beamus calls. “I’m taking the lead. I’ll pass on your right and climb.”

  I double click the radio button and ease off the throttle.

  “I’ve got it,” Cochran says, taking the controls and pulling into position on Captain Beamus’ flank. “Good work back there. That was a tough spot. I couldn’t see what was going on. If you hadn’t … ”

  “… I know, if I hadn’t, we’d be eating C-rats on the side of the mountain.”

  “Two,” Captain Beamus calls, “the mission is scrubbed. We’re going home.”

  “How’d those troopers do down there?” I ask sergeant Soonto.

  “They bounced around off the bulkheads a time or two but no one shit their pants.”

  The clouds are anvil-topped pillows, ranging high above us. The pointed mountains, once so close, are now round humps, and the tangled forest has given way to terraced fields. The sandy beach lies ahead, our landing field a thin black line.

  In a lot of ways, coming in is the most dangerous time; relax too soon and that’s when you prang—but Cochran stays on it all the way and we make a smooth landing and roll safely into the chocks. We shut down and lock the rotor. The ARVN troops bail out on the double and form up on the runway, then march away.

  A small crowd is gathered around the other chopper, pointing at the tail. We walk over and take a look. A bullet has punctured the tail cone. Captain Beamus is elated. Action. Just what he craves. He pokes his finger in the hole.

  “Seven-point-six-two, looks like to me,” he says.

  “At least,” Cochran says. We walk toward the line shack. “By supper time it will be the size of a rocket.” He shakes his head. “I guess I’m supposed to say I’m getting too old for this shit. I could pack it in and become a recruiter, suck in the hometown tough boys. Harps and halos standard issue. Pitchforks optional. Into the fray you go. Uh, sorry, lads, I can’t come along, but duty calls. Oval office. Rose Garden. Cabinet meetings. All that, you know. But carry on and God go with you. You’re going to need Him.”

  He opens the door to the line shack and we go in.

  “All hail, good warriors,” Cochran greets the pilots and crewmen. They turn and look, poker faced. “Come gather at the troughs, good friends. We need relief and relief is close at hand. No farther away than our well-stocked party hooch. There’s grog aplenty there. Enough grog for everyone. Grog all around. What do you say?”

  “Walked away from another one,” I reply.

  Cochran laughs. “I’ll drink to that.”

  He starts filling out the after-action report. The other men return to their paperwork. I lean on the counter. My flight suit is sweaty wet. The helmet has left a red line around my forehead. The flak vest on my shoulders feels like a fifty-pound weight. Soonto’s cur lies on a pile of rags in the corner. He snores softly and his eyelids quiver and his leg twitches, as he chases a rat in his sleep. Time for that grog. Let’s have it. Grog all around.

  17. Peer Out the Window

  Help me up, Doc … gotta see what’s going on … is it dawn yet … how’s that song go, Doc … up in the morning … out on the job … work like the devil for my pay … my great uncle Toby, Grandaddy’s brother, never did a lick of work he could get out of … he was too lazy to hunt his own meat … he ordered a Venus Fly Trap from some magazine after he read how the plant caught and ate its food simply by holding its mouth open and looking inviting … when the bug flew in, that sweet moist mouth closed gently around the dinner and digested it down … if it could do that to a bug, once that plant grew up to its full Texas size, it could trap all the meat Uncle Toby would ever want … rabbits, raccoons, squirrels … he jest had to sit and smoke his pipe and keep an eye on the plant … snatch the animal out before Venus shut her trap … whew, smell of that corncob pipe makes you think he reaped the bowl from behind the two-holer … ye reap what ye sow … and that lucky old sun got nothing to do but roll around heaven all day …

  Mother couldn’t stand it when Daddy went off to war and left her all alone with me and Grandaddy and mi abuela on an endless chunk of Texas scrubland that seemed ages away from her native Austin, so she left and Grandma took me over … over the border most of the time … she preferred living with her family rather than staying in Texas fetching for my rasty old grandpa … Daddy caught the malaria and was medically discharged from the Army with the shakes and fever so bad that when he came
home it scared me nearly to death until he ate a whole bottle of atabrine and it cured him … Mother never did come back, we got the divorce papers in the mail … a heartbreaking story, huh, Doc, for all the good it does … but, Doc, I implore you … do me some good, will you …

  Up in the morning to the sound of the wailing camp whistle and peer out the window. If it is clear, we fly. A short hop we’re back for lunch. A long hop, the healthy, not necessarily tasty, C-rats to tide us over. After supper, a drink, maybe a movie. If the movie is too old, or too bad, then it’s to bed. Up in the morning peer out the window. Grey, overcast, still too dark to tell.

  The duty clerk sticks his head in the door.

  “Lieutenant Benson, you’re on Tiger Flight. Get to the airstrip on the double.”

  Grousing, Ben-San grabs his gear and hustles out to the waiting jeep. Cochran turns on the radio. President Diem says the tide is turned, the government is on the offensive. The senior United States Army adviser agrees, the South Vietnamese are winning the war. The Commandant of the Marine Corps says another four or five months will show a marked improvement.

  “I don’t know what war they’re talking about,” says Cochran, “but if we don’t get those outposts resupplied before the rain socks us in, the heavies will be sucking rotten eggs out of the other sides of their mouths.”

  An explosion shakes the barracks. Rob Jacobs sticks his head out the door, turns back and yells, “MY GOD THIS IS IT, the VC are hitting the camp!”

  We grab our pistols. What was that defensive plan? Where the hell are we supposed to assemble? The sweet smell of an electrical fire wafts into the room. I’m about to break out the window screen and jump outside, when someone hollers that the junction box has shorted out and blown up.

  Cochran is poised at the door, ready to bolt. He hasn’t shaved and his stubble is a black mask. He won’t grow a mustache even though most of the pilots sport bushy hedges, thin slivers or waxed handlebars. It’s either his ordinary obstreperousness or his refusal to be a dues-paying member of the pack. Why should I cultivate something on my face that grows wild on my ass?