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“Chicken-man Yellow One, thank you for your support today. That’s all I have for you. You are released. Be safe. Crescent Six out.”
Mike breathed a sigh of relief. Switching to the company push, he said, “Hey, Three, we’re going to Song Be to refuel and then home.”
“Sounds good to me,” Fender came back.
“Smitty, Kelly, did you monitor?”
“Yes, sir,” they came back in unison.
“That cold free beer that Mr. Reid is buying tonight is sure going to taste good,” Kelly added. Reid and George looked at each other and just laughed.
Chapter 16
Barracks Chatter
Dorsey, Jonesy, Lovelace and Lockwood were sipping cold beer, engaged in a friendly poker game at the community table in their hooch. If they weren’t playing poker, they would be reading a well-worn novel or writing letters home. Those were about the only three activities to do besides sleeping and drinking beer. Of course, drinking beer could be done with the other activities, except sleeping. Television didn’t exist in the forward areas, such as Lai Khe.
“I’ll take two,” Lockwood said, tossing a pair out of his hand. He dealt two cards for himself.
“Has anyone seen the guard roster for tonight?” asked Mondie, looking over at the platoon bulletin board. He was not in the card game but working on some college correspondence course.
“I think the other sections are pulling it tonight, so Sergeant Evans didn’t post it here. Let those limp-dicks pull it tonight,” Lockwood added as he tossed a script dollar into the center of the table. “I raise you a dollar and call.”
“Ha—three of a kind. Read them and weep, ladies,” Dorsey said as he reached over to retrieve his winnings. Disgusting comments were made about Dorsey’s luck tonight. So far he was a whole ten dollars ahead, after an hour of playing. No one got rich or sent to the poor house in these games of chance.
Over in the EM club, the “brothers” were playing their boom box at max level and the music was pure Motown. With so much racial tension back home in the States, it was amazing that very little was evident here. What disagreements did occur were generally over simple things that would occur between two individuals in a stressful situation, regardless of the color of one’s skin. There just wasn’t any room for racial tension in the combat zone, and especially in units where your life might depend on the man next to you regardless of skin tone.
Francis, a door gunner and brother, came through the door, laughing his ass off. Francis was from LA and from the pictures, he had style and grace as well as a fine wardrobe and some very attractive playmates. Four or five constantly changing photos of attractive women graced the wall above his bed. The guy was smooth. Everyone turned to see what the commotion was about.
“Anyone seen my camera?” Francis asked, tossing his stuff around.
“Whatcha need it for?” asked Jonesy, looking over his shoulder while holding his cards close to his chest.
“Oh man, Mr. Ritchie and that new pilot, Reid, are over at the EM club and dancing. They heard the music and came over. Mr. Ritchie is half shit-faced and rotates home tomorrow, so he’s buying. Mr. Ritchie has them shit-kicker cowboy boots on and is really cutting up with some foot stomping. And that guy Reid, he ain’t got no rhythm, but he sure thinks he can dance. He’s funny as hell. Ah, there it is.” And with that, Francis was out the door.
“Okay, I got to see this,” said Lockwood, standing up and tossing his cards on the table.
“I might as well join you as I ain’t winning any money tonight. Just feeding Dorsey here.” With that, Jonesy, Lovelace and Lockwood got up and headed for the club. Dorsey pushed back and headed for the refrigerator. Mondie came over and took a seat.
Dorsey asked, “Want a beer?”
“Sure, why not? I got no desire to see two pilots make fools of themselves. They do that enough while flying.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Dorsey said as he handed a PBR to Mondie and sat back down.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Do you ever get scared in formation? I mean, they fly awfully close to each other. That rotor blade is like right in front of my face.”
“Yeah, they do fly close and it does look scary, but that’s a lot better than not being close. And watch what happens when things get hairy. Trust the pilots to not run into each other. They won’t, at least in formation and in the air. Sometimes they come close when hovering in a hot LZ, but it’s up to us to keep them from running into each other and other things when they’re in the LZ.”
Mike Patterson came through the door, having just finished working on his aircraft. Tossing his flight gear on this bed, he asked, “Any more beer left?”
“Yea, have this one I just opened and I’ll grab another,” Mondie offered.
“Thanks,” Mike responded and pulled a chair up to the poker table.
“Have you ever seen a midair?” Dorsey asked, looking first at Mondie and then Patterson. Patterson was from Gastonia, North Carolina, and had been single and fresh out of high school when he’d joined the Army. He’d gotten married between basic training and reporting to Fort Rucker for crew chief training. Not a lot of married guys volunteered for crew chief duty, or door gunner. At one hundred and thirty pounds and five foot nine inches, Mike didn’t relish the idea of carrying a rucksack that weighed sixty percent of his body weight through the jungle.
