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“Yeah, why?”
“Your papers have you being assigned to an aviation unit as a 67A1F, door gunner. Someone screwed up. Let me talk to the NCOIC and get this straight.”
With that, the clerk got up and walked over to an office at the other end of the building. A few minutes later, he came back, scratching his head.
“Dorsey, get over here. Look these forms over, and if the information is correct, give it to the guy at the end of the building as you’re leaving,” he said as he handed the clipboard to Dorsey.
“Well, where am I going?” Dorsey asked.
“You’re assigned to an aviation company as a door gunner. Company A, 227th Aviation Battalion. Good luck.”
“What? I really don’t want to be a door gunner. I’m infantry. This has to be a mistake. I don’t really care for flying.”
“Look, be happy you’re going to be a door gunner. You get three hots and a cot to sleep in each day, a shower each night, and an extra sixty dollars a month for flight pay,” an NCO stated, coming up behind Dorsey.
“But, Sergeant, it’s dangerous being a door gunner in a helicopter. I’d really rather be in an infantry assignment.”
“Being a door gunner isn’t dangerous, and almost any other guy here would be jumping on this, so take it and be thankful,” the NCO explained.
“If it’s not dangerous, then why am I getting paid an extra sixty dollars each month?” Dorsey was beginning to see that he was
losing the argument.
“The extra sixty each month is flight pay, so enjoy it and get moving.” The NCO pointed at the exit door.3
Outside, Avanti and Thomas were waiting for him. Both were going to infantry battalions. When he told them where he was going, they were astonished.
“How the hell did you pull that duty? Damn your ass. We’ll be humping our asses off and you’ll be sitting pretty. Lucky bastard,” Avanti cried.
The next four days were a boring blur of being treated like a trainee again. At the end of the fourth day, the NCO that had been shepherding them told them that in the morning, they would board a C-7 Caribou airplane and fly to Phuoc Vinh to join their units—only now they had two duffle bags to carry instead of one because of the additional uniforms and equipment they had been issued at Supply, to include steel pot helmet, flak jacket, web belt with suspenders, canteen and cup, ammo pouches, poncho liner, and poncho.
Arriving at Phuoc Vinh the next morning, Dorsey quickly determined that he didn’t want to stay in this place. Phuoc Vinh consisted of one runway of corrugated metal about four thousand feet long, so it could accommodate small fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters but nothing else. There were no trees anywhere. Even outside the perimeter, the place was devoid of any trees, with only low vegetation for about a half mile. A fine red clay dust covered the single-story hooches like those they’d slept in at Long Binh. And it was hot and humid to boot. As they left the C-7 Caribou, a bus arrived and Dorsey was told to get on along with everyone else.
“Listen up, people. I will be dropping you off at your respective units. At each stop, I will call out the unit, so grab your crap and get out,” instructed the driver, a specialist. As the bus left the tarmac, the driver hollered out, “First stop, 227th Aviation. Anyone?”
“Yeah,” said Dorsey.
“Me as well,” a baby-faced warrant officer spoke up. The driver looked up at the inside mirror, recognizing the two responses and noting one was from an officer.
“Yes, sir” was the driver’s less-than-professional response as he made sure to lurch the bus to a stop, enjoying the opportunity to watch an officer being pitched forward. He did not particularly like officers. “Your battalion headquarters is through that door there,” he added, pointing at a hooch. Over the door was the unit’s crest, indicating HQ, 227th AHB.
Grabbing his bags, Dorsey followed the warrant officer off the bus and into the building.
A sergeant first class was seated behind a counter along with a clerk pounding away on a manual typewriter.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked the sergeant, standing up and approaching the counter that separated the work area from a foyer of sorts.
“Yes, Sergeant. I’m Warrant Officer Roger Reid, reporting in. Here are my orders,” the officer responded, handing a packet to the sergeant, which he accepted. Reid was like almost every other new warrant officer as height and weight standards for pilots put the average pilot at five foot eight and one hundred and fifty pounds. His baby face also reflected the youth of warrant officer pilots as most were recent high school graduates or college drop outs. Roger was from the island of Jamaica and the humid heat of Vietnam did not affect him much.
“Private, have a seat over there. I will be with you in a minute. Give me your packet.” Dorsey handed over the packet and took a seat as directed. Another exercise in hurry up and wait, he thought. Taking Dorsey’s packet, the NCO handed it to the clerk and told him to start processing Dorsey into the unit while he opened Warrant Officer Reid’s packet.
“Hey, Sarge, this guy is a grunt assigned to A company as a door gunner,” the clerk said with a question mark expression as he read Dorsey’s personnel file.
The sergeant looked up and eyeballed Dorsey. “You extend to be a door gunner, Private?”
“No, Sergeant. I just arrived in-country,” Dorsey answered.
“Well, how the hell did you get door gunner duty?”
