LBJ's Hired Gun

by John J. Gebhart

  Enlisted personnel can think, reason, deduct and even understand a bad situation, as amazing as it seems! Not all are mindless idiots incapable of original thought! God actually issued some of us brains too!

  MY R&R TRIP TO HONG KONG

  After what seemed like a very long time in ’Nam, I was finally scheduled for an R&R (Rest and Relaxation) trip. I picked Hong Kong and got the name of a white Russian whore named Latasha. I was told what Mama San and bar to go to, where I could order Latasha for five days.

  Hong Kong was a British colony with Kowloon on the China side. The harbor was filled with a million junks (Chinese boats). Some people never left their junks, and you could walk across from boat to boat for almost a whole city block. The city was filled with modern skyscrapers and had a million fine restaurants and bars. American firms were not allowed to deal with Communist countries or sell them anything, but in real life there were a lot of offices and trading companies dealing in anything you needed. If you knew the right people, you could buy an engine for an F-4 jet fighter or a shipload of .50-caliber machine gun ammo. The Mama San could supply you with British officers’ wives, American airline stewardesses, white Russians, half-Chinese, plain Chinese or half-Russians. Whatever type of woman you wanted was available if you had the money.

  My white Russian cost $350 for five days, and was guaranteed to please the most discriminating taste. Hong Kong also had the latest movies from the USA. They had a first-class movie house and, guess what, I went to see a great war movie, “Zulu,” in which a bunch of Brits with guns killed about 3,000 spear-chucking kaffirs. I then took Latasha to a ritzy steak house that was filled with rich American businessmen. We both ate very well for $25.00 in US dollars. In fact, every time I went back to Hong Kong I revisited this Chicago-style steak house. We visited Victoria Peak, the highest point on the island, from where we could see Red China. I purchased $800 worth of hand-tailored suits and sport coats, paying half down and the other half when they were delivered to my father COD. The tailoring was first-class. I wore those custom tailored clothes for years after I got out of the service.

  Latasha was half-Russian and half-Chinese. She had red hair and white skin. She showed me things about lovemaking that were unique, to say the least. I learned how to please a woman a million different ways. Back in ’Nam we often talked about our R&R whores. Some officers went back a couple of times for her female charms. She was a pro!

  Latasha had use of Mama San’s Rolls Royce limousine, and we even had a driver. As we traveled about shopping and sightseeing, I came across the most beautiful hotel I had ever seen, with the best-groomed trees and hedges surrounding it. People in white clothing were hitting small balls around the luscious front lawn, and Jaguars, MGs and exotic cars of every description parked out front. We rolled up in the vintage Rolls and I got out with beautiful Latasha and headed into the Big Game Hunter’s lounge. There I ordered a glass of red wine for Latasha and I had a shot of Jack Daniels and a Schlitz. A country club type came over and asked if I was a citizen from England’s rebellious colony in America.

  I set this rich asshole straight. I told him I was a US Marine stationed in ’Nam who killed gooks from the door of a UH-IE helicopter for a living. I said my family had been in America since 1730 and had fought with the British in the French and Indian War. We’d also fought against the British in the War of Independence and the War of 1812. I related how two of my great-great uncles were part of the rear guard in the battle of Germantown, and how they’d held off the British at Clividen Mansion. Both died heroes. They were wounded but continued to shoot out of the second floor windows until they were overrun and bayoneted to death. Their gallant action gave General Washington time to march his Continental Army up Germantown Pike to Valley Forge. I told him there was no love lost in my family for brutal British Redcoats who showed no mercy to wounded American soldiers.

  This shut his fat, overfed face up. He ordered us a set of drinks, which I refused to accept, and this pissed him off. I then asked why our friendly ally Britain hadn’t sent any troops to ’Nam to fight with us. He mentioned the Australian units, which I said I was very aware of, but why hadn’t the mother country sent men? Then I really pissed him off big-time and said, “I guess the British Army is too busy messing with the IRA in Northern Ireland, shooting innocent kids throwing rocks at armored cars to fight a real enemy.”

  Latasha and I spent five wonderful days together and I learned to relax and enjoy life. Hong Kong is truly an international city where everything is available for the right price. People back home look down on whores, but I always felt that they were hard-working individuals who showed you a good time and treated you with respect and dignity. Like they said in the cowboy movie “Lonesome Dove,” “The town whore is the only honest woman in the whole freaking town.”

  At last, I sadly said goodbye to Latasha and headed back to Da Nang. The runway at Hong Kong ends at the water, and it is always quite hairy taking off because you know if you don’t make it to the sky, you’re headed for a crash in the water. My trip to Da Nang was on a commercial Pan Am jet that made it up into the air, but with a lot of shaking. Simply put, it lost an engine on take-off. The pilot was very professional about it all. He called the crash crew on the ground and they had foam and crash trucks ready. He then made the following address on the PA system: “I guess you realize by now that we lost the inboard engine on the left side. This is not a problem because this aircraft can fly on three engines. We will be circling the field dropping off fuel until we are almost empty. Then we will go in and land. Don’t worry. Pan-Am is opening their VIP lounge to R&R Marines while they change the engines.”

  I thought, “Here is where I die in the water and they never even find my body.” But the captain dumped the fuel and made a perfect landing. Pan-Am mechanics changed the engine and there was free booze and food in their VIP lounge. All the returning Vietnam vets had a four-hour nonstop party, completely free on Pan-Am. I’ll never forget how we were treated that day, and resolved to always book Pan-Am flights when I became a rich businessman.

  CHAPTER 6

  EARNING MY KEEP: More Adventures of a Huey Door Gunner

  CARRIER WARFARE

  The Marines decided to relieve the VC/NVA pressure in the northern area of I-Corps and go after the zips living along the coastal area. They got the battleship New Jersey that shot VW-size shells, and a converted World War II aircraft carrier named the Iwo Jima, together with some other support ships, and made a battle group. They loaded the Iwo Jima with 2,000 or so grunts and got a squadron of CH-34s to transport them ashore. Klondike sent six gunbirds to assist the Marine landings.

  The Iwo Jima was a very large ship, complete with elevators from topside to the next level. There were 20mm cannons and endless corridors where you could get lost in a matter of minutes. The top deck was so big the 2,000 Marines could run around and do all their calisthenics. The grunts sang their songs and generally made the Navy guys look on with envy. Our six gunbirds landed on the deck and were immediately the star attraction. This was the first time the grunts had been able to look inside a real gunbird loaded and armed to the hilt, and they regarded us as gladiators from the sky. We had switched from small rocket pods to the large 14-rocket pods, and thus had 28 rockets. The Navy guys asked us to take their cameras up and take pictures while we blew up VC villages, and we obliged them whenever possible.

  We lived on this carrier for two weeks or so. The food was very good but all the petty rules annoyed us. There were endless announcements—the plan of the day, who the Duty Officer was, the smoking lamp was lit, dump the refuse over the fantail, “sweepers, man your brooms.”

  The first day of the operation went smoothly. The Marines lined up in small groups of 8 or 10 men, loaded into the CH-34 choppers, and off we went to kill zips. We took off first and circled around the carrier until all the 34s were airborne. Our Colonel drove the lead gunbird and marked the LZ. Each gunbird then went into gun runs on the LZ to make sure th
ere were no zips alive to oppose the Marine landing. After we shot the shit out of the area, the CH-34s went in and landed. The Marines jumped out into the high green tiger grass, and spread out and secured the LZ.

  The landing went unopposed, with no VC/NVA fire. The gunbirds ran around the local area looking for suitable targets and generally shot up every tree line and bushy area. I didn’t see one VC/NVA; they must have been warned ahead of time. We were pretty disappointed with no zips to waste, only landscape. I saw some old World War II broken-up train cars, derailed and rusting next to blown-up railroad tracks, looking like a set for “Bridge On The River Kwai.” Corporal Cross and I shot them up for fun, pretending we were hitting German railroad convoys. Then the Major got into the game and launched rockets at them, and we all had a few mad minutes having target practice on the Lionel train set.

  We ran around with our six gunbirds till we got low on fuel and then headed back to the carrier. At 2,000 feet up, it looked like a giant toy boat in a big bathtub. We caught up with it and made an impressive landing of six gunbirds, one after the other. We stirred up a lot of wind and knocked off all the Navy guys’ silly white hats.

  The Navy Ordnance personnel were supposed to help us rearm our gunbirds. They brought out a wagon with 2.75 rockets and M-60 machine gun belts, and then sat down and watched the tired gunners put together rockets, which came in long black cardboard tubes that were taped closed. It was something like getting a new calendar in the mail. You had to take your K-bar knife, cut the tape, open up the tube, take out the rocket, then look for the warhead. (Warning: “Do not drop on metal deck or you are lunch meat!”) You then screwed the warhead onto the rocket body and gently pushed it into the rocket pod until you heard a click and it locked itself in. Twenty-eight rockets take quite a bit of time, which is why the Marines have an ordnance crew that meets gunbirds out on the fuel deck and rearms them in about five minutes. We didn’t have the luxury of our own ordnance crew, just the ordnance Gunny Sergeant to supervise our assembly and loading of rockets. Multiply this by six gunbirds, and everyone was working their butts off to get back in the air.

  Since the Marines didn’t run into any problems landing, we didn’t have to kill ourselves rearming, but we did rearm quickly, just in case we had to launch the birds again. Finally, after what seemed like hours but came down to 30 minutes, we were loaded for bear. An officer came over and invited our officers to the wardroom to eat lunch. The Navy had Filipino flunkies who signed up for the Navy to be food servers. The officers ate off china dishes and had real silverware. It was like a first-class banquet room, with Filipinos waiting on you hand and foot.

  We enlisted men ate in the mess hall, according to the compartment we lived in. Example: “Compartment 1 to 5 to chow! We were supposed to wait for our compartment announcement, but decided to screw that—the helicopter crews went to the head of the line. This pissed off the head mess hall NCOs, but we were armed with real pistols and K-bar knives and not in the mood to be played with. Plus, our two-week visit was getting more boring by the minute. There were too many silly rules, and the ground Marines hardly got to shoot their weapons. We spent a lot of time sitting next to our gunbirds, sunbathing and reading books.

  One day around 11:00 AM, the Navy had guys painting the ship in boatswain chairs, which was like sitting in a sling over the side of the ship. I thought they never, ever would stop painting the rust buckets—what a lousy waste of time. Suddenly, we heard a very loud noise. One of the sailors who was painting fell overboard and hit the water like a rock. The carrier was six to eight stories high, so it was a long way down. They sounded the alarm, but the ship did not make a U-turn or stop. This goes to show you how much the Navy thinks of its men.

  Immediately, without orders, we launched Lucky #7 gunbird. Corporal Cross got the hoist and collar ready for an emergency rescue, which was something we hadn’t done in some time. We spotted the sailor floating about a mile behind the ship and fished him out. The sailor was half in shock when we brought him back to the flight deck. By this time all the Marines aboard were yelling and cheering, and we were heroes. We had just put on a great exhibition of a helicopter rescue at sea. Everyone was taking our picture, and if we’d had booze we probably would have had a squadron party right on the spot. The sailor was still in a state of shock and couldn’t believe all the handshakes, pats on the back and “well dones!”

  I knew all this would be too much to take for the white uniform pricks that ran the ship. Sure as shit, out marched a First Lieutenant in his perfect uniform, complete with his spotless white shoes, accompanied by two Shore Patrol idiots wearing spats. The Shore Patrols were carrying out-of-date, spotless M-1 rifles and looked like a recruiting ad from World War II. The First Lieutenant put the sailor who fell overboard under arrest and marched him away to the brig. They should at least have taken him to sickbay to see if he was okay first.

  Major Moose went nuts on the First Lieutenant. We were told it was against the rules to fall overboard on a moving ship. How do you like that? All 2,000 Marines were in shock. We all yelled out at the Captain, who was overlooking all of this from his pilothouse, “You’re a fucking waste!” This really pissed off the Navy officers, who wanted to put the whole group of Marines in the brig! Fat chance.

  Until this day, I can’t figure out how anyone in his right mind would join the Navy as an enlisted man. The Navy didn’t give a shit if this man lived or died. I felt like throwing a couple of officers over the side to see how they liked it when the ship didn’t stop for them. In the Marines, if you are wounded or dead, a million other Marines will come to rescue you, save your ass, or bring back your body. We don’t leave our dead. Five, ten, fifteen Marines might get wounded getting another wounded Marine back. If it had been our ship, we would have made a U-turn and stopped and fished him out. “Semper Fi, Do or Die!” But the Navy never even slowed the boat down. It’s as if they thought there were VC submarines ready to torpedo it. It was total bullshit and total disregard for human life. In World War II, I understand that they couldn’t stop to pull up a guy who fell overboard, but in Vietnam they could have easily stopped without endangering anyone else.

  The next day we had a real tragedy. A CH-34 chopper was taking off on a resupply mission loaded with C-rations and water cans. It took off, disappeared below the deck, then gained altitude and looked okay, but suddenly the engine quit at about 100 feet in the air. The cargo door was open because of the heat, so the crew and the door gunner only had to unhook their belts and jump out the wide-open door, but the pilot and copilot sat way up in the air, so to speak, and had to climb up into their seats. You saw only the back of their ankles from the cargo level.

  The CH-34 was loaded down with a lot of heavy cargo, and the water rushed right in. The crew chief struggled to get the pilot and copilot down, but they were trapped in their bulletproof chairs. The helicopter sank quickly, and the crew chief was lucky to get out when it was already underwater and make it to the top. We were all in shock. We launched two choppers to see if the pilot and copilot had gotten out, but we were only able to get the gunner and the nearly drowned crew chief back alive. The Navy didn’t even have a moment of silence for the two brave pilots who had just been lost at sea. There was total indifference to our great loss. We also noticed that when wounded Marines came back or returned to the ship, they were treated like an extra burden rather than the wounded warriors that they were.

  On the second week of this boring cruise the ship ran out of water, so the Marines had to take showers using seawater. Try soaping yourself with seawater. You can’t rinse off, so you get dried-up soap on your skin and start to itch in the hot sun. We started taking birdbaths, cleaning only our balls, assholes and armpits with soap. As another annoyance, the air-conditioning unit broke in the Marine compartments. It was strange—first no clear water, then no air-conditioning. I believe this was the work of the Captain to screw us for calling him an asshole.

  Major Moose took all this in, and remembered
when he had been a PFC. One day when we returned late for lunch, a Navy officer came out with boxes of C-rations for the crew of two gunbirds. He invited our Major to the wardroom where they were holding a hot lunch. Major Moose said, “I’ll take my box of C-rations and eat with my men, thank you!” The young Lieutenant was in shock—eat with enlisted men? It was as if the Major might catch a disease. We all laughed at this pimple-faced rich kid as he walked away in disbelief.

  THE DYNAMIC DUO: CAPTAIN THRILL AND LIEUTENANT SEEKER

  Every outfit in the Air Wing had a Captain Thrill. Ours was a danger to the Free World who wanted all the medals, glory and praise that could be dished out. This selfish bastard came complete with a flunky: copilot Lieutenant Seeker. Together we called them “The Dynamic Duo.” Each enhanced the other’s tales, until everything they did sounded like the battle of the Alamo.

  Captain Thrill gave you no credit. It was always, “Gebhart, how the fuck did you miss that zip?” or “Cross, what the fuck are you doing back there, sightseeing?” We put up with this day in and day out. In shootouts he did wild rocket shots and sideways machine gun runs. It was a miracle he didn’t kill any good Marines.

  One particular day, we received an urgent call for assistance. A hill was being overrun with zips. We arrived on station and the ground Marines told us the zips were too close to them for a full attack. They marked the zips’ position with a 60mm Willie Peter round, and we could only shoot our inside machine guns one side at a time, because there were only 75 to 100 yards between the Marines and the zips. I started to open fire, but my M-60 would only fire single shots. The Captain went nuts on me, yelling that I was a stupid idiot who must have put the gas piston in backwards. I asked if I could take an outside barrel off our outside fixed machine guns and use it. He answered, “Absolutely not, we need the fixed machine guns working. Take the gas pistons out of the barrel.” Captain Thrill was driving this UH-IE like a Cobra attack helicopter, not a UH-IE gunbird. Just try taking a barrel apart with a maniac driving—we could barely hold on in the rear seat.