by Robert Mason
VC bodies were piled near a bunker. Some were missing limbs and heads. Others were burnt, facial skin drawn back into fierce, grotesque screams. A VC gunner was lying below his antiaircraft gun with one arm raised, chained to his weapon. American soldiers were policing the dead for weapons and piling what they found in a growing heap. Most were smiling with victory. Wood-smoke from the hooches mixed with the stench of burnt hair and flesh. The sun was hot and the air was muggy.
At the river’s edge, some grunts were playing with basket boats: woven boats six feet in diameter. The men kicked and splashed like kids. The villagers had used the boats for fishing. Now, of course, there were no villagers.
Across the river a giant waterwheel still turned. It was about twenty-five feet in diameter, five feet wide, and built entirely of bamboo. Around the edge of the wheel, arranged so that they were always horizontal, long tubes of bamboo, closed at one end, filled with water at the bottom of the wheel and emptied at the top into a trough that carried the water to the fields. The total rise of the water was over twenty feet, and it splashed steadily into the trough, oblivious of the fate of its builders. A grunt in the river grabbed it, trying to stop it. It pulled him out of the water. He let go ten feet up. Immediately, another grunt grabbed the wheel and hung on tight. He was carried slowly up and over the top and back to the river. Two grunts tried it simultaneously, and the wheel slowed, almost stopped, but carried them up and over. When three guys tried it, the wheel pulled them all out of the water before it stopped. They cheered. Victory!
I examined one of the basket boats. The weave was so tight and precise that it stopped water. There was no calking between the flat strands, yet the boat did not leak. Both basket and wheel were built from material found growing around the village. I wondered how our technology was going to help the Vietnamese. Maybe after we had killed off the people—like these villagers, who knew how to live so elegantly in this country—the survivors would have to have our technology. That waterwheel was as efficient as any device our engineers could produce. The knowledge that built it was being systematically destroyed.
We stayed at Bird for an hour. I stared at the wheel and the men playing with it, wondering who the barbarians were.
When we left, I could see where the water was being pumped. No humans walked the field that it irrigated. No crops grew. The water was filling bomb craters.
Instead of going out on the assaults the next day, Gary and I were assigned to fly a special team of radio-intelligence people to track down the VC who were still broadcasting over our frequencies. Intelligence had determined that an NVA general was radioing messages to his men, uninhibited by our presence. The brass was determined to get this general. Special teams of troopers were on standby.
The four men in the team got in the back with their huge tracking antenna. We flew courses up and down the valleys at their direction. One of the men slapped another on the shoulder and called me on the intercom. “Okay, turn to course one-eight-zero. We’ve got the little fucker.”
Troopers were launched, encircling the triangulated location. They found burning campfires, some miscellaneous equipment and food, but no radio, no VC, and no general.
“Okay, come back to course two-seven-zero,” said the head of the radio-tracking team. Gary was flying, so I turned back around to watch them.
They looked pissed. “What’s up?” I asked.
“That gook general is broadcasting again, and he’s laughing.”
They swung the cross-shaped antenna back and forth. We changed course a number of times before they once again had the general’s location. While we went back for fuel, another team of troopers was sent in.
Back in the air, we learned that once again the site was found empty except for evidence of a hasty departure. The men in the back were shaking their heads. One of them said to me, “That’s fucking amazing. That gook is a fox.”
After another two hours of crisscrossing the valleys, the general allowed himself to be discovered again. What in hell was he doing it for? Again a team was sent in. Again it discovered a hastily abandoned campsite. The mission was canceled at dusk and rescheduled for the next morning.
The general played this game for two more days until it no longer mattered. A Cav infantry company captured an NVA colonel. He talked, revealing the location of the headquarters the general had been trying to save. The spot, called the Iron Triangle, was in the opposite direction. The general had been leading us away from the nest. He was never heard again. The Iron Triangle was taken after two days of fierce battles. Everyone thought that was it for Charlie in Bong Son valley. But the fighting continued.
Soon afterward, Gary and I heard the familiar sing-song message from our old friend: “FuckyouGIfuckyouGI…” It was like trying to eradicate crabgrass.
Kaiser stared ahead, his shoulders sagging. He could’ve been a player on a losing football team, but he was a tired pilot flying a helicopter.
I smoked a Pall Mall and leaned against the door to rest my aching back. We had been flying assaults for more than eight hours, no breaks, and were headed back to the Rifle Range.
“Yellow Two, Preacher Six.”
“Roger, Preacher Six. Go ahead.”
“Roger. Come up on two-six-niner and do whatever you can for the man.”
“Roger,” I replied. Kaiser shook his head while I tuned in the grunts.
“Yellow Two, Wolverine One-Six. We’re under heavy mortar attack and we’ve got some serious wounded to get out.”
“Roger, we’ll be there soon. What’re the coordinates?” The lieutenant read off six digits, and I plotted him on my map. He was only two miles away. I pointed to the map, and Kaiser changed course without saying a word. I leaned against the door and flipped my cigarette out the window. Maybe it would clear the jungle.
It was easy to find the guy for all the smoke that filled his clearing. Other than the smoke, I couldn’t see any action.
“Yellow Two, we are clear. I repeat, we are clear. The mortars have stopped.”
“Roger, we’re coming in.”
Just like that. Neither of us thought about the fact that the unit was trapped, encircled. The mortars could start again any time. Neither of us cared.
We approached the clearing in the shadows and pall, with the setting sun ahead of us. Even while Kaiser brought us over the tall trees, I felt no adrenaline. I sat up and squared my shoulders, put my hands on the controls, but I felt no anxiety.
Rubenski fired suddenly into the trees to our right.
“Get him?” I asked.
“I don’t know for sure.”
“That’s nice.”
Kaiser brought us to the ground with scarcely a bounce. The clearing was a miniature meadow surrounded by tall trees. The grass was short—like it had been mowed. I stared out the canopy. Across the lawn, ten men lay dead in a neat line. One man’s abdominal cavity was emptied around him, his remaining arm buried under his own guts. Another man seemed to be sleeping unscathed in the shady meadow. I stared at him while the grunts scurried toward us carrying five men. Ah, I thought, as I noticed the pale gore behind his head. Not sleeping. Brains blown out.
Two torn men were loaded on the back before the mortars returned. As the mortars struck, the grunts hit the dirt, carrying their wounded with them. Aw shit, I thought, another delay.
I noticed that there was a lot of orange light inside the explosions, silhouetting clumps of black dirt at the bottom of the funnel of expanding gases and shrapnel as mortars exploded a hundred feet away.
The grunts must have been as tired as we were. After the first few rounds, they got up and loaded the three other wounded while the mortars continued bursting ahead of us.
I looked back as the last man was lifted onto the deck. He was missing a leg below his knee. A tourniquet kept the blood mostly stanched. Rubenski blasted the tree line on our right flank. How long had he been doing that?
“That’s it, Yellow Two. Watch out for a machine gun ahead of yo
u.”
Kaiser lifted the collective. I radioed, “Roger.”
A mortar exploded at two o‘clock, fifty feet away.
Kaiser pulled the ship’s guts so hard that the rpm warning siren screamed in our ears. He let off enough pressure to silence the alarm and turned left to avoid a machine gun the grunts had warned us about.
As we crossed the edge of the meadow, I heard Rubenski’s gun blasting away, and then tick-tick-tick. Ah, must be another machine gun. I nodded to myself. Three rounds passed harmlessly through the sheet aluminum and lodged in the hell hole.
It was peaceful again. I lit another cigarette and watched the sunset.
“You guys really impressed that grunt commander,” said Nate, back at the Rifle Range. “I heard he’s putting you in for a DFC.”
“Wrong medal,” said Kaiser, already drunk. “It should be the ‘I Don’t Give a Crap’ medal with a V device for valor.”
After we dropped off four wounded men at LZ Dog, Banjo and I, Daisy, and Gillette found ourselves returning to the Rifle Range at night. Daisy led the flight and decided to climb to about 2500 feet and have the radar at Dog vector us back to the Rifle Range.
I had used radar vectoring only once or twice during the instrument-training phase of flight school. I wasn’t familiar enough with it to want to use it. It wouldn’t even have occurred to me to do anything but fly a compass course back. Daisy was nervous about flying into a mountain, but if we stayed away from the ridge to the west, we were well clear of the mountains.
So Banjo flew in formation with Daisy as he climbed up in a spiral above Dog.
“Preacher flight, take up a heading of one-seven-zero degrees,” said the radar station. This station was a four-by-four-foot box on the back of a trailer. It was olive drab.
Daisy turned to the heading, and Banjo skillfully turned with him. We found it easier to fly very close, so close that we could see the red cockpit lights of the other ship. At this distance you can hear the buzz of the tail rotor beside you.
“Preacher flight,” called the radar guy, “I have lost you.”
Lost us? We had been on course for all of two minutes.
At the same moment, we lost sight of Daisy’s ship as we flew into the clouds. It really was dark—no up, no down. Which way was Daisy flying? Left? Right? Up?
“Yellow Two, I’m breaking off to the left,” called Daisy.
“Roger,” Banjo said. He turned to the right. I watched the compass. We were turning right on around to the north, then to the west. West was where the mountains were.
“Hey, Banjo, we don’t want to go west,” I said.
“I know.”
“Okay.” I waited for him to change course, but he didn’t. Instead he was diving. The airspeed indicator was up past 120 knots. The vertical-speed indicator (VSI) showed we were going down at over 1000 feet a minute.
“Banjo, we’re diving.”
“I feel fine.”
“Look at the airspeed.” He did, and the ship slowed back to 90 knots, normal cruise. The VSI was showing a slight climb.
Where was Daisy?
“Yellow Two, Yellow One. We are descending to get out of the clouds. Recommend you do the same.”
I could just see it, Daisy wallowing around in the muck, trying to find the bottom of the cloud bank that ends right where a mountain begins. I could see the two of us trying to do this together and colliding before we hit the mountain.
“Banjo, don’t do it. Keep climbing. We’ll pop out at the top and shoot for Qui Nhon.”
“Daisy says to descend.”
“Daisy doesn’t know shit. Descend into what? Where exactly are we right now? Over the valley? Or are we over the mountains?”
“Okay, we’ll climb.”
“Do you want me to fly?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Then could you come back to a south heading?”
Banjo began a turn in our featureless world. You can feel changes while flying in the blind, as when Banjo started his turn, but after the bank is established, you can’t tell it from straight and level flying. Banjo was staring straight ahead into nothingness, and the ship was diving again.
“Banjo, the VSI.”
He said nothing, but he stopped the dive and began a climb again.
I watched my set of instruments, monitoring Banjo. I wished that Gary was flying, or that I was. Banjo had gone through flight school years earlier, when helicopter instrument flying was not taught. Gary and I had completed instrument training at Fort Rucker, in the Huey. Banjo was an old salt with lots of time. In his mind I was still the rookie.
We were diving again.
“Banjo, if you keep diving like this, we’ll get into a world of shit.” The ship rocked back as he stopped the dive, but he was now turning to the west. “Compass,” I said, sounding like my old instrument instructor. “Compass.” He stopped the turn but started to dive again. “Airspeed.” The airspeed indicator will tell you immediately if you’re climbing or diving: If the airspeed increases, you are diving. Obviously Banjo was too proud to say he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, especially to me. I had to talk him through this.
“Ninety knots,” I said. That airspeed would keep us in a climb.
Now he was turning again! “Compass.” He corrected. It’s true, I thought. The FAA had tested experienced pilots in flight simulators to see if they could somehow fly seat of the pants, with no visibility. A hundred percent of them crashed.
God, I would love to see something. What if the cloud goes to twenty thousand feet? Can’t go higher than ten or twelve thousand without oxygen. Probably it’s clear over the ocean. Yeah, go over the ocean and come back under the stuff. “Banjo, head farther east.”
The altimeter read 4000 feet. Jesus, it’s got to end soon.
“Mason, what if this shit doesn’t end?” said Banjo. “I think we should drop back down like Daisy.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? I’m the aircraft commander.”
“No, don’t let down; you don’t know where you are. Just a few hundred feet to go. I’m sure of it. Airspeed!” We had lost 500 feet while we talked.
Banjo wrestled with the Huey for a minute while I coached. Soon we were back in the climb, passing 4000 feet for the second time.
“I’ll take it to five thousand. If it’s not clear by then, I’m heading back down.”
I said nothing. The idea of letting down blind over mountainous terrain put me into a panic. It is correct to climb, I told myself.
“Airspeed!” I shrieked, letting some of the panic come through. “Damnit, Banjo, watch the airspeed. Keep us climbing.” Then I calmed myself and said, “Banjo, you sure you don’t want me to fly this last little bit?”
“No, I’ll fly. You just watch the instruments.”
“Okay. I’ll watch the instruments.”
Five thousand feet and more nothing.
“I’m going back down,” he said.
“Wait!” I yelled. “Keep climbing. We’re almost there. Besides, we’re heading for the sea, and the clouds end there, so we can’t lose by climbing, but we can lose by descending. You understand?”
“Goddamnit!” said Banjo. He maintained the climb.
I blinked. Spots before my eyes? Stars? Yes, stars! At nearly 6000 feet, we broke through. The crew chief and gunner cheered. We all cheered, even Banjo. The universe was back, warm and twinkling. We could make out the jewels of light from Qui Nhon.
By the time we landed, we were very angry at Daisy. He was the one who’d got us into that shit. Had we just flown a normal contact path back to the Rifle Range, we would never have been put into instrument flight. Banjo would not have been found lacking. I wouldn’t have had to talk him through the weather.
We saw Daisy as we walked in from the flight line. He had a sandwich from the mess tent. Banjo walked up to him.
“You dumb shit!” he yelled. Daisy jumped back. “You almost got us killed.”
; Captain attacked by chief warrant officer. He backed away.
“Look, Banjo, all you had to do was descend to the valley like I did.”
“Brilliant, Daisy. No one ever descends over mountains in weather. You dumb shit.”
“I knew where the valley was all the time,” said Daisy.
“You liar.”
I walked past them into the tent. Farris wanted to know what all the excitement was about.
“Daisy decided to have the radar at Dog vector us back and led us into a cloud bank.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The radar lost us in the clouds and Daisy told us to descend.”
“So?”
“So, neither of us knew where we were—over a valley or a mountain.”
“So what did you do?” asked Farris.
“Banjo and I climbed until we broke through at six thousand.”
“So why are you mad?”
“I’m mad because if we had followed Daisy’s orders, we could’ve bought it. It pisses me off to have leaders like him running loose.”
“So, you found out that even leaders make mistakes.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s it—if you classify Daisy as a leader. I’m more inclined to call him a moron that happens to be a captain.”
Farris nodded and gave me an understanding smile. “Well, I’m going to finish this letter. See you in the morning.”
As I tried to sleep, I kept wondering why I felt so miserable. I kept jerking suddenly awake for no apparent reason. It seemed like I did that all night.
I kept hearing ricochets and ducked every time I did. Farris saw this and smiled. Farris did not duck.
“What the fuck is that?” I said.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
Nothing doesn’t ricochet. I wasn’t exactly worried. I was mostly irritated. We were in the middle of another long laager in another ruined garden. Twenty bored helicopter crews sprawled, hunkered, or wandered around the machines, sweating their brains out. When the whining bullets sounded overhead, faces tracked them across the sky.