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“I don’t,” I said as I inhaled, “but I might just start.”
Inside the TOC, the S-3 air met us, and Roy briefed him on the location of the shooters. The infantry battalion we’d initially stopped at had heard the shooting and watched us limp off to Song Be. They’d called and told the TOC what had happened, and already a scout team from First Battalion, Ninth Cavalry was on station and looking for them. In hindsight, it was a well-planned trap, putting up the small campfire as they had known it would attract someone to investigate, be it us or a scout team. We’d just happened to get there first.
Back at Lai Khe, the maintenance officer was not a happy camper. He now had another aircraft in for some unscheduled maintenance. The first sergeant wasn’t happy as he had to get another door gunner. The only one happy was the CO, as I told him that Roy was more than ready to be an aircraft commander. Three days later, I left to come home.
Roy went on to be a fine aircraft commander and a bit of an icon in the company. A man of few words, he did make his presence known on one memorable mission. The mission was a combat assault that had turned to crap with both a hot LZ and a hot PZ. Aircraft were down in both, with the grunts pinned down in both. Our battalion commander, Lightning Bolt Six, was flying Chuck Chuck aircraft at twenty-five hundred feet, calling for more aircraft to support the lift. The infantry battalion commander was also up there with Lightning Bolt Six calling for more infantry and artillery support. Both were calling Yellow One with instructions that contradicted each other. To say the least, a lot of confusion was crossing the airwaves. Then the aviation brigade commander, Pouvoir Six, Colonel Merrill, suddenly came up on the radio and started giving instructions to Yellow One, in a panicked, almost screaming tone. Pouvoir Six seldom flew, had never flown in a combat assault, and did not know the first thing about being a flight leader. At his level, he managed assets and did not fight the battles. Yellow One was catching hell from everyone when the situation called for everyone to leave him alone and let him do his job. Suddenly everyone stopped talking for just a moment, except for this lone voice. “That’s it, Merrill, blow your cool.” You could
have heard a pin drop. The world became silent. We never heard another word from the brigade commander, ever again, and calm returned to the mission. Roy had said it all.
Chapter 29
Home
Landing at McCord Air Force Base outside of Seattle in January was a major change from the ninety-degree days in Vietnam. It was forty degrees when I stepped out of the plane to the awaiting bus. An overcast sky and light drizzle were present, as always in Seattle. I was in jungle fatigues that had the red clay dirt of Vietnam clinging to them, and I didn’t care. I was back in the States.
The bus ride to a reception station was short. Most of the guys on the flight with me would remain at Fort Lewis, which was adjacent to McCord Air Force Base, and out-process from the Army as their enlistments were completed. Some would go on to assignments in Germany or the States, but most were being discharged. I figured I was going to be stuck waiting around for hours to get released. Was I in for a surprise.
As I walked into the reception station, a staff sergeant approached me and tapped me on the shoulder.
“Mr. Cory, welcome home.” It was none other than a former classmate from primary flight school, almost two years ago. He had fallen down a flight of stairs one morning and dislocated his knee. They had taken him to the hospital, and we had never seen him again.
“What the—how the hell are you, Brad?”
“Fine, sir. I’m the NCOIC of this facility now.”
“What happened to you? We lost track of you once they took you away.”
As we walked to his office for a pot of fresh coffee, he explained.
“I got to the hospital and it was bad. They had to do surgery on my knee and put some pins in it. Told me it would be six months before I could get back in the flight program. We were already E-5s, and now I was a holdover. In the hospital, I got tired of sitting around and asked if I could do something. They had me help out in administration, and after waiting the six months, they said I wouldn’t get back into flying because of the knee. I have limited range of motion. I couldn’t go into the infantry, so they put me in administration, and since I already had the experience, they let me keep my E-5 rank. I made E-6 a few months ago and only have two more years to go before I can get out. I’ll stay right here.”
“That’s great.” And we swapped stories about who had and hadn’t made it through flight school and who he had seen pass through his reception station. I mentioned a few that I had seen in the back of my helicopter. It was really good seeing him.
“But, sir, I’m sure you want to get going,” he finally said. “Where’s your next assignment?”
“Hell, my next assignment is right back to my old unit. I extended and am home on thirty days’ leave.”
“In that case, sir, you don’t want to waste it sitting here talking to me. Where do you need to go?”
“I need to get to the Greyhound bus station in Seattle, where a friend’s father is going to pick me up. I’m going to spend a couple of days with them in Monroe, Washington.”
“Not a problem. I have a bus going there in about thirty minutes. You have a reserved seat on it. Let’s get your stuff loaded.”
Sitting in the front seat of a Greyhound bus moving down the interstate to Seattle was relaxing. Brought back memories of when I’d spent five days and nights on one going from Key West, Florida, to Coos Bay, Oregon, before starting my freshman year of high school. It was almost surreal watching cars going past us with civilians stressing out over traffic, or schoolwork, or fixing dinner. These people thought they had stressful, busy lives. The phrase that was engraved on my Zippo lighter came to mind: “Life has a flavor the protected will never know.” They don’t and won’t.
Arriving at the Greyhound bus depot, I called Bill Michel’s parents, and his dad said he would be there in an hour to get me. Mom and Pop Michel became like second parents to me. Bill’s younger brother, Norm, was a senior in high school and one sharp young man. He was also a character. When we’d left to go to Vietnam, I had stayed with the Michels and had left my dress blue uniform and my class A greens with them. I needed to get my class A cleaned and the patches sewn on. I also needed to purchase some civilian clothes, since I had none. Norm took me clothes shopping. The clothing styles had changed dramatically in the two years that had passed since the last time I had gone shopping, from straight-leg pants and button-down collars to bell bottoms, wide collars and baggy sleeves. I wasn’t impressed with the new fashions, nor was Norm. I settled on a few conservative items to get me going, as well as a warm jacket. I was freezing! After two days, Pop drove me over to SeaTac and I boarded a flight to Baltimore.
When I arrived at BWI, it was after 9:00 p.m. Mom was there, all excited with a gentleman. Hmm. After hugs and kisses, she introduced him. “Dan, this is Father Bob. He’s a friend of mine.” Holy shit, she’s hanging with a priest. Mom was an attractive woman, along the lines of Sophia Loren: Italian, dark hair, slim figure. She also wrote letters to the Pope telling him how to run the Catholic church. When I was a kid, we lived in Naples for a time and Mom used to go to the horse racing track with Lucky Luciano, the mobster.
“How do you do, Father?” I extended my hand. He seemed nice enough, but what was going on? We went back to her three-bedroom apartment, and he excused himself and went home.
“So, Mom, what’s up with the priest?”
“Oh, we’re just good friends. He’s considering leaving the priesthood and becoming a psychologist. He’s studying at the university for his doctorate in psychology.”
“Really! And am I his first patient?” I asked.
“Well, if you need to talk to someone, he’d be a good listener. Your dad needed to talk to someone when he came home from the Pacific but never did. How is he doing now?”
