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With a bacon sandwich in hand, Dorsey found himself trying to keep up with Jonesy as they headed for the Chicken Pen by way of their hooch to grab their flight gear. They arrived at a CONEX container encased in sandbags except for the front double doors, where a sergeant was passing out M60 machine guns to crew members.
Jonesy stepped up. “Sergeant Stevens, this is Dorsey, my new gunner. He don’t know shit.”
“Well, I suggest you get him trained. He’s your problem, not mine. Hi, Dorsey, sign here for two M60 machine guns. Fail to bring them back and you pay for them. Ammo is over in that CONEX over there. You don’t have to sign for that, so use all you want. I recommend at least three thousand rounds per gun per day. Load them on the mule and we’ll deliver to your aircraft.”
“Yes, Sergeant” was all Dorsey could say. Things were just moving too fast for him.
“Come on, Dorsey. You load the ammo on the mule and meet me at the aircraft,” Jonesy instructed him.
“Wait one, where’s the aircraft at, and what’s a mule?” Dorsey pleaded. “This is all too confusing for the first day.”
“Shit, you see that cart-looking thing over there? Four tires, seat in the left front with a steering wheel?” Jonesy pointed out.
“Yeah.”
“That’s a mule. It has a VW engine and hauls stuff around the flight line. Grab two ammo cans and load them quickly. Now move it.” Jonesy was getting a bit testy. Probably should have walked Dorsey through this last night.
Grabbing an ammo can, Dorsey quickly realized that they weighed in the neighborhood of fifty pounds. One at a time he loaded them onto the mule and then chased after Jonesy. Catching up, he took one of the guns from Jonesy.
“Tomorrow morning, this is all on you, understand?” Jonesy stated. Dorsey said nothing. I’m not so sure about this flying stuff, he was thinking.
Arriving at the aircraft, Jonesy showed Dorsey how to mount the guns, which was a no-brainer. However, Dorsey looked confused by the C-ration can that was mounted to the feed side of the gun. “What is this for?” he asked.
“That’s so your ammo will feed properly. Without that can there to straighten out the ammo and feed it to the gun, you would be having a lot of jams. You don’t have an assistant gunner to help feed the weapon, so that C-ration can takes the place.”
“Who dreamed this up?” Dorsey asked.
“Some guy named Schlaudraff back in sixty-five. He should have patented it—he would have made a fortune. The entire Army uses it today.” As Jonesy continued briefing Dorsey on his duties as a door gunner, Mr. Fairweather approached the aircraft with his copilot for the day. First Lieutenant Alston Gore had been in the unit for a month, so he was pretty much up to speed on what his duties and responsibilities were. Lieutenant Gore was the Distinguished ROTC Graduate of Clemson University for 1969. Hailing from Columbia, South Carolina, he was a typical young officer, being twenty-three and single, doing his time and looking forward to returning home.
“Good morning, ladies. How y’all doing this fine day?” Mr. Fairweather asked in his Southern drawl.
“Good morning, sir,” Dorsey responded, not yet sure how to act around an officer.
“Doin’ good, sir, and you?” Jonesy came back.
“I’m doin’ mighty fine this day, Jonesy. I didn’t see my name in any obituaries this morning, so it must be a fine day,” Mr. Fairweather joked as he examined the rotor head from the ground before he started climbing up top. Damn, the Stars and Stripes has guys’ names in the obituaries, Dorsey was thinking. That’s cold.11 The crew continued with the preflight of the aircraft, each crew member covering specific tasks. First Lieutenant Gore conducted a walk-around inspection of the body while Fairweather took a hard look at the rotor head. Those that had flown with Lieutenant Gore were impressed with his ability as a pilot. When everyone was satisfied the aircraft was ready, they began donning their flight gear. The pilots climbed into their seats and fastened seat belts over their chicken plate chest protectors. Dorsey took note that the pilots’ seats were armor-plated, but his was not. What the…? he was thinking.
As the pilots completed their preflight checks, Alston called out, “Clear,” and engaged the turbine engine. The engine began to turn over slowly and rapidly built up revolutions. When it hit so many revolutions, Alston rolled the throttle, slowly opening the engine and increasing the fuel flow. The main rotor, which had started to turn slowly, was now turning at three hundred and twenty-four revolutions per minute and was just a blur above the aircraft. The tail rotor was turning so fast it was no longer visible.
Dorsey and Jonesy moved up on opposite sides of the aircraft, placed the fire extinguishers in their proper holders and slid the armor slide panels next to the pilots into place before closing and securing the pilots’ doors. Both returned to their respective seats, Dorsey on the right side, Jonesy on the left. As Dorsey climbed into his seat, he noticed there was no seat belt. What the—first no armored seat and now no seat belt?
“Excuse me, but where are the seat belts for back here?” Dorsey asked on the intercom, which Jonesy had just shown him how to operate. Unfortunately, instead of being on the intercom switch, Dorsey was transmitting on FM radio 1, the company operations frequency.
“Ah, someone has a hot mike” came across the radio.
“Oh, we must have a newbie in the back,” someone stated.
“Who has the newbie door gunner?” another asked.
“Jonesy, get him off the radio,” Mr. Fairweather said with a bit of annoyance. Jonesy quickly moved from his position across the cargo area to Dorsey’s control box and switched it to intercom. “We went over this already. You only talk when this dial is on INT. Understood? You listen to everything when these little tiny toggle switches are in the up position. Number 1 is FM 1, number 2 is FM 2, number 3 is VHF, number 4 is UHF, and this last one is to listen to AFN radio. But you do not do anything with
the dial. Only INT. Got it?”
“Got it. Sorry, Mr. Fairweather.”
“Hey, Dorsey, learn from mistakes. We all make them—that’s called learning. All is forgiven, this time.” Dorsey got the message—Don’t let it happen again. Forget about asking about the seat belt.
“Are we cleared up?” asked Fairweather.
