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“Command and Control. A battalion commander will jump aboard with his staff, usually a fire support officer, and you fly around in a circle over a unit in contact while the battalion commander directs artillery fire,” he explained. “Boring as hell for you, generally.”
“What’s a six-two?” I asked.
“A six-two is a flight of six Hueys and two Cobras. The Cobras will come from our Delta Company on the other side of the Chicken Pen. They refer to their area as the Snake Pit,” he added.
“And Night Hunter Killer?”
“That’s a fun one. Three aircraft: a Cobra flying at about a thousand feet, a Huey full of flares flying at a thousand feet, following the Cobra, and a Huey flying between the ground and five hundred feet, nice and slow with all his lights on so Charlie can see you easily and shoot at you. The low bird is equipped with a .50-caliber machine gun replacing one of the M60 machine guns, and a searchlight with a low-light-intensity night vision scope on top is mounted in the cargo door. If the low bird sees something or gets shot at, the Cobra rolls hot on it and the flare aircraft starts dropping flares so the Cobra can see the target. Want some more coffee?”
“Yeah, please. How do you get our missions?”
“During the night, and generally before twenty hundred hours, the maintenance officer will tell us how many birds we can put up for the next day. We pass that to Battalion. Sometime around zero two hundred, Battalion starts sending the missions to us. Captain Goodnight comes in about zero four hundred and assigns the pilots and the missions, and we start waking everyone up. Generally we get the birds in the air at first light. Most of the birds aren’t instrument-rated, so that can be a problem in the monsoon season, which will begin in about three months. I’ll let you put in your own canned milk.”
He then went on to explain how our flight hours were logged and maintained by the operations section, as well as the procedure for getting aircraft logbooks in the morning before we launched. “Once you’re cleared to fly, you’ll be picking up the logbooks and doing the preflight before the aircraft commander gets to the aircraft,” he added.
“When do I get to fly?”
“First you have to have an orientation ride with one of the instructor pilots here. Mr. Reynolds is on leave until next week, so that leaves only Mr. Baker. He’ll probably get to you in the next week.” Damn, I thought, it’s going to be a week before I even get in an aircraft.
“I know what you’re thinking, and that’s good. But enjoy sitting on the ground for as long as you can, because once you’re cleared, you’ll get all the flying you want and then some,” Pops said.
“Who’s the assistant ops officer?” I asked.
“Right now there is none. Captain Goodnight doesn’t feel he needs any help or advice. He’s new to the job. Our previous ops officer, Captain Burbank, just left to go up to Battalion. He will be missed.”
“Oh, I see.” I didn’t but thought that was a safe answer.
“We did have one, but he went home last month. And he was worthless. Every time he took a bird out, he’d be back in thirty minutes complaining about something being wrong with it. He’d only put himself on milk runs and never take a combat flight. Worthless! Back when he was Peter Pilot, he had no choice, but as soon as they made him an AC, he started that shit. I doubt if anyone will miss him. Most assistant ops officers fit that bill. I doubt if you’ll ever make it, being assistant ops officer, though.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, feeling a bit offended.
“You’re the first warrant that has come in here and asked what we do and how we do it. You don’t strike me as a shirker. And you haven’t asked the one question most new guys ask.”
Curious, I had to ask, “And what would that be?”
“When did we last lose a crew? It was January, last month. They were sling loading a teeter-totter to an orphanage up Highway 13, and it flew up into the tail rotor. They spun into the trees at the end of the runway.” I made a mental note to watch sling loads.
> I thanked Pops and returned to my tent with nothing to do at this point but wait for someone to tell me to do something. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Mr. Cory, report to the CO’s tent.”
I looked up from writing a letter, and there stood the company first sergeant. As a warrant officer aviator, I knew I would have few dealings with the man but was smart enough to know that he deserved a level of respect.
“Thank you, First Sergeant. Which tent is the CO’s?” I asked.
He pointed it out to me, and I headed that way. It was still early in the morning, and already the humidity was taking its effect. Warm, but not stifling, outside. However, as I approached the commander’s tent, I noticed that it was closed, with all the sidewalls and entrance down. I was taught that before you walk into someone’s room, you knock. How do you knock on a tent? I stopped short of the tent, looking for a front tentpole, but there was none. Okay.
“Knock, knock,” I called out.
“Who’s there?” came a reply from inside. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m in a combat zone playing ‘Knock Knock’ with the company commander.
“Sir, it’s Mr. Cory. I understand you want to see me.”
“Come in.”
I pulled the flap back and there sat Major Dickson, behind a field desk in a totally enclosed tent with a single lightbulb on. The major was in a T-shirt and fatigue pants. He was pale and thin, with a face that reminded me of a weasel. Something was not right here. I came to attention and reported as I was taught from day one in the Army. He just sat there looking at a piece of paper on his desk. Oh boy, power play going on here. Finally he looked up and returned my salute.
“At ease. Are you ready to start flying, Mr. Cory?”
