One sunny day, Sergeant Iron Leg, who was now an E-5 Sergeant, said I should to take a walk down by the 93rd Evacuation Hospital to see a sight I wouldn’t believe. I wanted no part of seeing dead Marines wrapped in their ponchos with blood and flies, but Sergeant Iron Leg was a dead serious guy, so against my better judgment, I walked 500 yards down to see what was up.
As I approached the hospital, I saw only a CH-34 chopper sitting all by itself. There were no dead or wounded Marines, only a pile of web gear covered with blood. I walked closer to the CH-34, and saw one continuous line of bullet holes from the rear to the cargo area, up to and including the huge Pratt and Whitney engine. It was as if someone had taken a power drill and spent hours drilling hole after hole in the side of the aircraft. There were about three inches of blood on the floor with smudge marks from boots that had walked in it, and blood leaking out of the aircraft onto the tarmac. It looked like someone had spilled gallons of red paint all over the floor, walls and doors of the helicopter.
I never got the full story of what had happened, but the pilots were also hit. Only by the grace of God did they get the Marines back to the hospital. My mind took a picture of this bloody scene and never gave it up. It was total horror for a gunner to see. There must have been two or even three VCs to shoot this many bullets, and they must have been very, very close. We never got the word if the wounded Marines lived or died. I should have stayed up at the Sergeant’s hootch drinking beer and listening to music in my beach chair, but curiosity got the best of me and I had to take a look. As the word spread, everyone in my squadron walked down to see it, and they all came back sick to their stomachs.
Huey gunners knew they had a dangerous job. We put blood and death out of our minds and thought only happy thoughts. We all drank too much so we never came to the realization that we could be dead in a couple of minutes. We were rock-hard, emotionless professionals who enjoyed our careless, reckless way of life and denied in our minds that we could wind up dead. Everyone I knew who worried about getting shot, got shot. You simply couldn’t be a gunner if you thought about the unpleasant side of being a gladiator in the sky. “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die!” was our unwritten motto.
THE HIDDEN TRENCH
One rainy, sunless, damp, miserable monsoon day we got an urgent call from Land Shark Alpha that a grunt unit under heavy sniper fire was pinned down and hiding behind a small dike separating two huge rice paddies. What the hell a company of Marines was doing out in the open was a mystery to us.
Naturally Major Moose was bored shitless, so he volunteered to rescue them. We got soaking wet just walking out to our bird. We launched two gunbirds and off we flew 100 feet off the beach down the coast toward Quang Ngai City. We made a sharp right hand turn by a burned-out, shot-up village, and headed west to the foothills to the huge rice paddies.
We arrived on station and I saw the grunt unit hiding behind a very long dike wall. The Marines were firing their M-60s straight ahead, but I saw nothing. Every time the Marines tried to flank the VC position and move up, a sniper hit a Marine and pinned them down again. It was a no-win situation. We needed to bring in two CH-34 Med-Evac choppers to take out the wounded, but where were they? We flew 50 feet off the rice paddy with a red smoke grenade ready to throw—nothing! I looked through my field glasses and couldn’t even see muzzle flashes, yet every time a Marine moved he got shot.
In our third circle of the area, directly in front of the Marines, I saw a rushing, swollen stream or small river. I looked through my field glasses across the river and saw nothing. The weather got worse and visibility was down. We had a flight of two CH-34 Med-Evac choppers in a holding pattern waiting for us to neutralize the enemy. On our fourth time over the river, I spotted a shining object in the mud. I opened up on it and stirred up a hornet’s nest of VCs. They had dug a long trench next to the river with bushes over the top. How they kept the water from the river out of the trench was a mystery. We took small arms fire and one bullet hit our outside rocket pod mounting bracket pretty close to my right hand.
Major Moose went around again and let me blast them on my side. As I hit the trench, VCs actually hopped up in the air dead. I machine gunned down the complete trench line and hit gas or kerosene, causing a beautiful secondary explosion. I have no idea why the zips seemed to jump up when I blasted them. It was quite a moment—even Sergeant Cross was smiling. It was my call and my show. I wasted 15 to 20 VCs.
We made two more machine gun runs down the trench with Sergeant Cross shooting. He shot one of my zips, who was trying to crawl to the river and get away. I yelled, “Don’t shoot my zips!” and Major Moose was laughing at the whole show. Our second gunbird escorted the CH-34 in and they picked up the wounded, wet, muddy Marines. We all headed straight out to the ruined village, made a hard left turn up the beach at 90 MPH and went home. The wounded got lucky: the Army Evacuation Hospital had been having a slow day, so there was no waiting to be repaired.
We taxied up and landed, tied down the main rotor blade, and rode in a jeep back to the ready room. I marked down 40 dead VCs and Major Moose just smiled and sent up for a dry flight suit and underwear. Sergeant Cross and I went back to playing dominos and waiting for our next death-defying mission. We drip-dried, drinking coffee. This time I saved the day and we soon forgot the mission ever existed. We both thanked God we weren’t the 5th-Marine grunts out in the miserable muddy monsoon rain fighting VCs we couldn’t even see. God bless the 5th Marines!
MY LAST MISSION
Major Moose had decided to take a long-overdue R&R to Hawaii with his wife. At this point, I had 239 missions and needed one more to complete my 12 air medals. Major Moose said his goodbyes, gave me a bottle of Southern Comfort, and told me that with a little tutoring he could teach me how to become a southern gentleman and annoy Major Misery even more. He then shook my hand and gave me a bear hug, and said to remember all the good times we’d had together wasting zips and redeveloping their villages. He said if there was a heaven, he hoped to get there 15 minutes ahead of me and leave the door open. I had to laugh because even though he was a Major, he was still a Lance Corporal at heart. I found out from Corporal Wiseass that the Major had made special arrangements for me to have a convoy escort mission as my last mission. Colonel Nellie knew I wouldn’t ask for an easy mission, and both officers wanted to see me leave in one piece.
Thus I was assigned an extremely boring and harmless milk run for my last mission. Our Captain, Captain Kay Dee, was as fearless as Major Moose, a flyer who loved to get down and dirty with Victor Charlie. I had been in a lot of shoot-’em-ups with him when Lucky #7 was down for repair and maintenance. We both knew and respected one another—it always was a pleasure to be a gunner for the Captain. I think Colonel Nellie put him on this milk run mission to save him from getting himself killed.
Our copilot was a pompous asshole from Radnor, Pennsylvania named Captain Charles Pennypacker. He was in the same league as Major Misery, but not southern—a ball-breaking northern aristocrat from a family that went way back. Fifty-six Pennypackers had been Union officers during the Civil War, one of whom was a General. There was a statue of him riding his horse in Philadelphia. How do I know this? Because he told us so as he was pre-flighting Gunbird #5.
Sergeant Cross was also off on leave. I was with Sergeant Iron Leg, who was still pissed at Union soldiers for shooting his distant relatives. I had a giant hangover and had only had about two hours sleep, so I just sat back and listened to this gadfly tell us his family history, and how a Pennypacker had been killed in every war since the War of Independence. I had had enough at this stage to say that my family had been in the New World since 1730 and lost members in the French and Indian War. That shut him up for a while, until he asked what side my family fought on in the Civil War. I said some joined the Union and got wasted at Gettysburg, and some were in the Confederate Cavalry in Virginia and Texas. He then asked me how fellow Pennsylvanians could have left their homeland to fight for the
South. I said I guess they didn’t all agree on which side was right or wrong.
We hopped to the end of the runway, armed our rocket pods and outboard M-60s, and off we went. I had been on endless convoy escorts where Major Moose would take side trips away from Route 1 to go skunk hunting to liven up the day. Captain Kay Dee was also known for great side trips, but Colonel Nellie told him to make sure Sergeant Gebhart got his last mission with no gunplay. By that time, I was sort of a legend—Marines would say to upstarts, “Sergeant Gebhart has more time on the shitter in ’Nam than you have days to go home.”
I had partied all night at my going-away party, so I leaned back, put down the visor on my helmet, and relaxed. The gentle popping of our Huey rotor blades and the gunship vibrations put me to sleep. I must have dozed off for a half hour to 45 minutes, when all of a sudden I heard the voice of Captain Pennypacker over the intercom in my helmet telling me to wake up. Thus I got a rude awakening. The Captain told Sergeant Iron Leg to lift up the visor on my helmet and be sure I was awake. I was amazed that he was awake himself, since he had also been at my going-away party.
Finally we saw Chu Lai. The convoy went to the Army end of the base, and we headed up to Ky Ha and landed. After Captain Kay Dee parked the bird and turned it off, Captain Pennypacker took out his little black fuck-you book and wanted my full name, rank and serial number. He said I was the worst gunner he had ever seen, and he would see that I got office hours for falling asleep. I was thinking, “How could I be the worst gunner you ever saw? This is your first flight in Vietnam.”
Captain Kay Dee didn’t want to hear this motor mouth chewing me out, so he got in a jeep and left with a big smile on his face, just shaking his head. During the tirade, I went about unhooking my M-60 and really didn’t pay any attention. This blew the Captain’s Main Line, blue blood mind out, and he brought up Article 134. This is a general article that means you are screwed, blued and tattooed.
I arrived back at the base at 2:00 PM while Captain Pennypacker was writing up my court-martial papers. I decided to make an example out of this loud-mouthed northern gentleman. My first stop was disbursement, where I gave Corporal Checkwriter $10.00 NPC scrip money to shred Captain Pennypacker’s pay records. My next stop was sickbay, where I took Corpsman Cure-All aside and said, “Lose all of Captain Pennypacker’s medical records, his current flight physical and his shot card.” Corpsman Cure-All smiled and said he would enjoy giving Captain Pennypacker all his Vietnam shots with his new power-driven arm needle—you needed six to ten shots for ’Nam. My next stop was S-3 Operations, where I threw Captain Pennypacker’s flight book in a can of shit that was being burned by our honey-bucket warriors. He no longer existed as a Klondike pilot. Finally, my last ace was to go into the mail room and tell them to stamp his mail “Return to Sender.”
With all these good deeds done, I headed for the Sergeants’ Club to celebrate my 240th mission and leaving ’Nam in one piece. Corporal Wiseass came running into the club with his cover on, and the bartender rang the bell. He had to buy everyone a drink. I laughed my ass off and paid for them. Corporal Wiseass said Captain Pennypacker had just typed up my Article 134 court-martial papers and given them to Colonel Nellie. He promptly threw them in the trash, laughed, and said, “If only we had ten more Gebbies to replace him.”
He told Corporal Wiseass to tell Captain Pennypacker that the papers had been sent up to Wing Headquarters. I thought for a minute and told Corporal Wiseass to send Captain Pennypacker’s SRB to the 3rd Marine Division. He could be a new air liaison officer out in the boondocks with the grunts. I then went into the ready room and called one last favor in to Gunnery Sergeant Woods—to please reassign Captain Pennypacker as a forward air controller with the 5th Marines out in the middle of nowhere.
The moral of the story is: “Don’t screw with a reckless, wiseass, stone-cold killer who doesn’t have time to play games with a nobody, rich, chickenshit Captain from the Philadelphia Main Line!”
CHAPTER 10
HAPPY TRAILS: Good Luck and Goodbye
GOING HOME, SEPTEMBER 1967
Finally it was time to go home! Like I said, I partied to the last night. The metalsmiths who patched all the bullet holes in Lucky #7 presented me with the tail rotor of the chopper from when it had been shot down. They all came over to the Sergeant’s hootch and said they were happy I was leaving because I always came back with too many bullet holes for the night shift to fix. We drank, sang, and told outrageous war stories. Sergeant Cross could not be there, but he shook my hand before he went on R&R and gave me his home address outside Camp LeJeune. We had saved each other’s ass so many times that we knew what to do by instinct. He was the brother that I had never had. I was starting to miss him already.
The day before I left, I walked up to the post office and mailed a duffel bag home, so I had only a small flight bag to carry. Walking back to my outfit, I encountered a new First Lieutenant. He had both of his hands full with his luggage, so I figured if I saluted him he would be inconvenienced and have to drop his bag to salute back. Thus I said, “Hello Lieutenant, how you doing today?” This was the wrong thing to say. He dropped his luggage and asked why I hadn’t saluted him. I replied that I didn’t want to inconvenience him. He said it was never an inconvenience to salute a superior officer. I laughed and gave him my typical Chu Lai half-assed salute. He yelled out, “How long have you been in ’Nam?” I yelled out Parris Island style, “Two years, Sir!” Then he yelled at me, “Why don’t you learn to salute an officer properly?” I yelled out, “I was too busy killing VCs and NVAs for LBJ, Sir!” This really pissed him off, and he said if he had his black book he would write me up. I replied that he better find a good hootch with a well-made sandbag bunker, because we got hit with 102mm rockets and 81mm mortars just about every night. Happy Dreams.
“I will be watching out for you,” he said as he was leaving. I replied, “A ewe is a female sheep. My name is Sergeant Gebhart of Klondike fame!” He looked around and saw a group of enlisted men laughing at him and wishing him good luck in our next night attack. He looked like the scared Fairfax asshole that he was, and he left. The rest of the Marines wished me well. I was well known by all the different squadrons, because of all of my confirmed kills from the air, and the seven confirmed ground kills at Marble Mountain. I was Wild Bill Hickock to the new people at Ky Ha.
I checked out with S-1 and said goodbye to Corporal Wiseass. Major Misery was his usual irascible self and said he hoped I would serve under him again. I said, “Sir, you’re a hard man to deal with, but you are one hell of a pilot.” Colonel Nellie came out of his office and shook my hand, and I saluted him and said I hoped he made General and it was a pleasure to serve under him.
We had finally got a new Gunny Sergeant to run S-3 Operations—Gunny Sergeant Paul. He had known me for about two months, and gave me 5.0 proficiency marks, the highest marks he could. Two months after I left Klondike, he received the Navy Cross for a point-blank shoot-out with a company of VC while one of our UH-IEs tried to rescue the crew of a shot-down CH-46. Gunny Paul had to use his pistol in the rescue. The crew chief also received a Navy Cross, as did the co-pilot. This was the most daring mission Klondike had ever had. Captain Pleasure received the Congressional Medal of Honor for hovering his Huey ten feet off the ground and wiping out a complete VC company. When I read about it I was super proud, for I knew all four people plus my boss Gunny Paul, who had never flown as a gunner before.
I bummed a ride on a test hop up to Da Nang, where I boarded a C-130 for the short trip to the Rock. We all were put in a transit barracks. We got the night off and I headed out with a couple other Marine grunts who had never been stationed on the Rock before. We went to my favorite bar, the Club Black Cat in New Cosa Doza, where two years earlier I had signed my name, PFC Gebbie, on the ceiling with 49 other guys. We had packed this bar with MAG-16 rear guard personnel for four months until we left for ’Nam. It was my home away from home.
I walked in and Mama San cam
e running over to me yelling, “You be alive! They said you die in Marble Mountain attack!” I got a big hug, and any girl I wanted for free. I looked at our names on the ceiling and got depressed when I realized how many of the guys had been killed or maimed.
The two grunts liked the way we were treated like VIP guests. Once again Mama San sent out for food and we all had an exotic banquet. If you treated the whores like ladies, paid for your pleasure and respected Mama San, she in turn took good care of you. I missed all the wild parties at this bar and how we conned Mama San into believing that a new young Marine was a virgin. I used to say, “Mama San, I have cherry son, you fix real good with best #1 bum-bum girl you have.” I would tell the young Marine to act scared and shy, and he would get laid for free.
The next day, we were up and fed at 7:00 AM at the mess hall, then taken to a huge warehouse that contained every Marine’s extra gear in storage. They found my bag in five minutes. I thought of all the bags that lay unclaimed, their owners dead. It sent a chill through my body. We then had to lay all our gear out on huge tables for a final inspection. The NCOs searched for photographs that showed things like Marines posing with fixed bayonets on dead zips, and for hand grenades, explosives, dope, and who knows what else. Luckily for me, I had already sent my pictures home. After this waste of time, I went back to the transit barracks to get my going-home summer service tropical uniform cleaned and pressed and my dress shoes shined, and everyone had to get a haircut and cleaned up.
The only problem was that the transit barracks contained about 20 Marines in Casualty Company awaiting court-martial proceedings, and they knew all the returning Marines had from $2,000 to $6,000 on them in $20 bills. Every homebound Marine did the buddy system and let another Marine hold his money. I had $2,000 that I asked a huge hillbilly Gunny Sergeant to hold while I shit, showered and shaved, and I then held his money while he did the same. It pissed me off that the Marine Corps would put us in the same barracks as these scumbags.
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