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“The colonel will see you at zero eight hundred in his office,” he said, and that was that.
At 0800 hours, I was escorted into the colonel’s office, where I came to attention and saluted. “Sir, Warrant Officer Cory reporting.”
He returned my salute, told me to stand at ease, shook my hand, wished me luck and told me I was dismissed. I’d waited twenty-four hours for a less-than-two-minute “how do you do.” I guessed his time was more valuable than my time. I doubted I’d ever see him again.
When I came out, the captain was waiting for me. “I notified your unit that you’re here, and they’re sending an aircraft to get you. A jeep will take you back to the flight line. The aircraft will have a green triangle on the door with a lightning bolt through the triangle. That’s your ride. Good luck.”
What was with everyone wishing me good luck? The jeep deposited me back at the airfield at about 0900 hours, and I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally at around 1630 hours, a helicopter hovered in and lands. There was a green triangle with a lightn
ing bolt on the door. Crew chief came over and grabbed a bag as the engine was still running and told me to hurry. We got in and were out of there like a shot. I was glad to leave Phuoc Vinh.
Chapter 6
Settling In
The pilot who delivered me to this lush tropical rubber tree plantation said to wait and someone would come to get me. So, I waited and took in the surroundings. I was standing on the tarmac in the middle of a rubber tree plantation covered in red clay dust with everything the Army had issued me. My relatively clean jungle fatigues and steel pot with fresh new camouflage cover screamed new guy. No one else was wearing a steel pot. The flak jacket I was wearing might as well have been a sign around my neck. “Danger: New Guy. Beware.” No one else was wearing a flak jacket. The tarmac had revetments for about eighty helicopters to be parked. A few of the revetments had some holes in the sides. Each revetment was about six feet high, ten feet wide and twenty feet long, just big enough to slowly ease a hovering helicopter into place and be offered some protection from rocket or mortar attack. Some revetments were empty and some held a Bell UH-1 Iroquois “Huey” or a Bell AH-1G “Cobra” gunship.
A jeep came to a stop in front of me with a hatless captain driving. “You Mr. Cory?”
“Yes, sir.” I snapped to attention and saluted.
“Shit, you trying to get me shot? Damn sniper sees you doing that and I’m the one he’s going to shoot. I don’t have a hat on for a reason, so get your shit and let’s go,” he said with a disgusted tone.
“Sorry, sir.” I tossed my duffel bags into the jeep and climbed in.
He extended his hand and grinned. “There are no snipers here. Just thought I’d scare the crap out of you. I’m Captain Goodnight, the operations officer for our merry band. Welcome to the Chicken Coop. The Chicken Coop is the company location, and this here parking area is the Chicken Pen. Our call sign is Chicken-man.”
“Chicken-man! That’s our call sign?” I responded. That ought to instill courage in the hearts of our troops and fear in the minds of the enemy. Why couldn’t it be something bold and dynamic? I thought. Chicken-man?
“Sir, how did we come by that call sign?” I asked.
“The official call sign is Drumstick. There’s a popular radio show in the Chicago area, and now it’s on Armed Forces Radio in Vietnam, about a wicked white-winged warrior called Chicken-man. Some of the episodes are hilarious. When the unit first came to Nam, we were the Hoot Owls, and the name has changed several times over the years to Apache and Lucky Shot in 1966, Sidewinder and Swordfish in 1967 and Drumstick in 1968. Some of the warrant officers decided about six months ago to start using the Chicken-man call sign, and it’s pretty much stuck. So now it’s the unofficial official call sign for the unit.” I was starting to like this Chicken-man call sign now.
The ride was short, but I was thankful for it with all my gear. The Chicken Coop was located in a rubber tree plantation surrounded by the First Infantry Division and owned by the Michelin tire company of France, which owned all the rubber tree plantations in this part of Vietnam. Our parent organization, 227th Assault Helicopter Battalion, was located at Phuoc Vinh, but that place was overcrowded, so our company, along with Delta Company, was located at Lai Khe. Everything except the flight line was under rubber trees, which made it cooler here than at Phuoc Vinh, and no dust. I was starting to like this place already. The only downside was the fact that our company was living in General Purpose Medium tents with wooden floors, six men to a tent. Everything was under tents except the mess hall. There were no sandbags around anything for protection from mortars or rockets. For that, there was a bunker made out of four-by-four-inch timbers for framing and dirt-filled ammunition boxes for siding, all covered with sandbags. The roof was tin, with two layers of sandbags.
“This is the operations tent. Drop your gear and come inside. I’ll call your platoon leader,” Captain Goodnight said as he rolled out of the jeep. As I entered, he indicated a guy with what was probably the nicest, most well-groomed handlebar mustache I had ever seen. He appeared older than most, with gray invading his once very red hair. “This is Sergeant First Class Robinson, our operations NCO,” Captain Goodnight said.
“Welcome, Mr. Cory,” the sergeant first class said and extended his hand.
“Glad to meet you, Sergeant.” I was a bit unfamiliar with meeting NCOs in a casual manner. For the past year, sergeants had been taking bites out of my ass, and now they were so polite.
“I called your platoon leader, but he’s still out flying, so one of the pilots is coming over to get you and show you where you bunk. How about a beer?” he offered.
“Yeah, thanks,” I replied as I took in the operations setup. It had a counter with a map of the area under plexiglass. Behind that were a couple of folding tables and folding metal chairs. In the rear was another bench with three radios mounted and a clerk that monitored the calls, keeping a daily log of all calls coming in and going out as well as any significant events. There was a chart on an easel with aircraft numbers, call signs, pilots’ names and a mission number.
“Let me give you a quick orientation,” SFC Robinson offered while handing me a very cold tin can of Carling Black Label beer with rusted seams. He pointed at the map on the counter. “This is our area of operations. It’s commonly referred to as Three Corps of Vietnam, with Four Corps south of us in the Mekong Delta, and First Corps, or Eye Corps as we refer to it, along the DMZ with North Vietnam. Two Corps is between us and Eye Corps. Our actual operating area runs from Tay Ninh in the south to Song Be here in the north along the Cambodian border and back to Long Binh here to the southeast of us. Here’s Phuoc Vinh, Division HQ. Operating in the region besides the First Cav are the First and Twenty-Fifth Infantry Divisions, as well as a couple of separate brigades that we’ll fly for. There’s a Special Forces camp here, here and here,” he said, pointing at each location. “There was one here back in 1965, but it was overrun and abandoned back then. That’s Bu Gia Map. Another is here at Bu Dop and it was overrun at about the same time. Song Be is the closest we’ve gotten to the border since then. Right now most of the stuff we fly is between Phuoc Vinh and Long Binh. The generals are worried about a major attack on Long Binh with TET coming up again next month,” he added. The whole time he was talking, he was pointing at places on the map, and I still had no idea where everything was located.
“How much flying are we getting?” I asked.
“Every newbie asks that question,” Captain Goodnight chimed in. “You’ll get all the flying you want and more than you can handle. There’ll be days when you go to bed with your butt cheeks hurting and they’ll still be hurting when you wake up and you have another twelve-to-fifteen-hour day ahead of you. Some days you’ll get twenty hours in before you shut the engine down. Normally when you get a hundred and forty hours for the month, you get a two-day stand-down, if I don’t need you,” he explained as another individual walked in. “This is Lou Price, and he’s going to show you where you can set up housekeeping.”
Lou was a skinny guy from California, tall, but almost everyone was taller than me. He had long blond hair for a non-military look, a thin build, and an immature mustache. His military attire was a T-shirt, OD green jungle pants and flippy-flops. Not married and no kids, that he knew about.
“Come on, newbie, let’s get you settled. Where’s your crap?” he asked with a beer in one hand as he reached for one of my bags with the other. We walked over two rows of tents and into one.
“Hey, guys, we have a new guy,” Lou said as he tossed my bag on an empty bed.
Four other guys were present, and introductions were made, but as no one wore a shirt, I had no idea about rank or names. I could remember faces, but names were a challenge. The GP Medium tent was approximately sixteen feet by thirty feet with two fifteen-foot poles spaced twenty feet apart to hold the top up. These tents were on plywood floors that were positioned on wooden blocks. Six metal-frame beds with wafer-thin mattresses were positioned on the sid
