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“Yellow One is on the go,” he heard on the radio.
“Coming up,” Lieutenant Gore announced.
“Clear,” Jonesy said. Dorsey said nothing. For him, this was too much, too fast. He was about to have seconds on his breakfast. Again the guns on the other aircraft began to fire, as did Jonesy. Finally the shooting stopped and only the roar of the engine and the popping of the rotor blade could be heard.
“Dorsey, are you all right?” asked Mr. Fairweather, looking over his right shoulder at him. His tone was one of concern and not anger. Dorsey’s hands were on his gun, which was now in the stowed position, pointing down, and his head rested on his hands.
“Sir, I think I pissed in my pants.”
“Hey, look at me,” Mr. Fairweather directed. Dorsey looked up. His face told the entire story. He was embarrassed and scared.
“We’ve all been there at some point. For your first mission, this is as bad as they will ever get, so you get through this day without coming apart, you’ll be good to go. We’ll help you through this. Nothing will be said about pissing in your pants—nothing, by no one. Do I make myself clear?” That last comment was for the crew and specifically Jonesy.
Everyone responded, “Clear.”
“Okay, we’re going to be picking up the next lift, so everyone be on your toes. Clear the aircra
ft for landing. Make sure there are no stumps or saplings to hit the tail rotor. There will be no shooting in the LZ this time, so do not shoot unless we’re shot at going in, and then be damn sure of your target. There will be no artillery or Cobras engaging this time either, so it should be a nice easy ride in. Any questions?” After a pause, he asked, “You good, Dorsey?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look at me,” Mr. Fairweather demanded. Dorsey did, and the look of embarrassment and fear had been replaced with a look of determination. Mr. Fairweather knew he would be okay.
Chapter 8
Negotiations
Dan stepped off the plane at the same airport he’d left from four months ago. The heat, the smell and the sounds hadn’t changed. Bien Hoa was still a shit-hole. Just like the times before, the first thing he had to do was brush his teeth. Some things just don’t change. He knew what would be next—a bus ride to someplace to sleep for the rest of the night, and in-processing in the morning.
Morning came at 0600 hours, and Dan was up and dressed when an NCO arrived at the officers’ quarters to start their day. The NCO was a bit surprised that Dan was already dressed in worn jungle fatigues with a First Cav patch on each shoulder.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant, but your current unit patch only goes on the right shoulder, not both,” the NCO pointed out to what he thought was a dumbass junior officer.
“Excuse me, Staff Sergeant, but when one returns to his former unit, he gets to wear the patch on both shoulders. Now where is officer in-processing located?” Dan asked.
“Sir, we aren’t scheduled to begin in-processing until oh nine hundred hours,” he replied.
“Sergeant, are you in-processing too? I didn’t ask what time we in-process. I asked where it’s located. Do you know?” Dan was reaching his limit of dealing with this rear-echelon staff sergeant.
Taken aback that a junior officer would stand his ground, the NCO responded, “Yes, sir, officer in-processing is located in building 2340.”
“And where is building 2340?” Dan asked as he picked up his duffle bag and hat.
“Sir, it’s straight down this road about a half mile, but no one’s there yet. They aren’t expecting us until oh nine hundred hours,” the NCO said with resignation.
Heading out the door, Dan said over his shoulder, “Sergeant, they have their schedule and I have mine. I’ll get a ride. Thank you.” And Dan was gone. The air was still on the cool side for Vietnam, so at 0630 hours the walk wasn’t bad. Dan’s duffle bag was only half-full of clothes he’d brought back to Vietnam from his last tour, which had ended in August 1970. A bit of leave, eight weeks at the Infantry Officers’ Basic Course at Fort Benning and he was back in-country. He wanted that infantry assignment and knew that time was running out with the president’s program of Vietnamization. Since the Cambodia Incursion, US forces were pulling out of Vietnam, letting the Vietnamese Army take over the fight.
Arriving at building 2340, Dan noted that someone was inside. He also smelled coffee. Knowing the doors were never locked and couldn’t be, Dan walked in and set his duffle bag down. The building was a typical hooch, fifty feet long, twenty-five feet wide, tin roof, screened sides for the top half, wood planking for the bottom half with sandbags up the sides to the screens. Concrete pad for a floor. A single door was at each end of the building. About fifteen feet in was a railing with a swinging gate to keep customers on one side and worker bees on the other.
As the door closed behind Dan, a voice called out, “We’re closed until oh nine hundred hours.”
“I know, but I smelled coffee and was wondering if you could spare a cup,” Dan said.
Coming around a wall of filing cabinets, a master sergeant appeared. For a minute he looked Dan over, noting that Dan wasn’t wearing brand-new jungle fatigues. “Hey, sir, I guess I can do that. Come on back,” the master sergeant replied.
Walking back to the rear, Dan approached the master sergeant, who was also wearing a Cav patch on each shoulder. “Master Sergeant Jackson,” he said, extending his hand. Master Sergeant Jackson was a bear of a man, towering over Dan. This guy could play middle linebacker on any pro football team, Dan was thinking. The master sergeant was wearing a combat infantry badge and airborne wings on his chest. It was obvious he wasn’t an armchair commando.
“Lieutenant Dan Cory. Glad to meet you, Master Sergeant, especially if you’ll share some coffee.” Dan’s hand felt small in the paw of Master Sergeant Jackson.
