The Athabaskan

by: Author Unknown,

H.M.C.S. ATHABASKAN

There is a little story

That I wish to tell Of the last time we left Plymouth For the unknown waiting Hell

It was early in the Springtime Just a couple of days before We had returned to our welcome haven Feeling proud, having boasted our score We slipped slowly away in the evening Heading straight for the old French coast And little was thought that in the morning Twoud be Hitler's turn to boast The boys never thought or worried Of the "runs" we were doing of late But little we knew of this one Was shrouded and guided by fate There was no mistaking the orders "Attack enemy shipping ahead" So through these cold Channel waters At thirty-five knots we sped The enemy shipping was sighted Destroyers, but that wasn't all For Crazy and mad as Hitler may seem He had more than that on the ball Behind some nearby Islands Lay E-Boats quite unseen Which the Radar Operator Could not see upon the screen The star shell found our target The Destroyers not far away And at this Crucial Moment The E-Boats made there play From behind their protecting Islands these E-Boats made there dash Firing their torpedoes Which hit us with a crash Just aft of the torpedoe tubes The first one found its mark Exploded with a muffled roar And flames broke through the dark "X" and "Y" guns were no more Destroyed just like there crew The Pom-Pom was a crumpled wreck And it was also through Just after the break of morning The second "fish" hit true Finding one of the boiler rooms And immediately it blew The shower of sparks and shrap that flew Through the early morning air Found a resting place in many a man Told the rest of us "BEWARE" We crouched in any protected spot With a prayer upon our lips And when the din was over We're forced to leave the ship Some were badly injured Others terribly burned And as we hit the water Our attention to them was turned Some wanted to give up the fight To sleep forever more We did our best to give them strength Till we hit the distant shore They seemed to die all around us It was pitiful to see How can others calmly say "Tis the price of VICTORY" A few got back to England About forty-six in all While those who hadn't perished Went behind the Atlantic Wall Now we are "gerfangeners" In a German prison camp And as we think of loved ones Sometimes our eyes are damp We feel that in the battle His life our skipper lost A finer man I never knew It was a hellish cost So please do not forget those boys Who dressed in NAVY BLUE And fought on the "ATHABASKAN" And gave there all for you

Note: Captain John Stubbs and 128 men were lost, 83 taken prisoner and 44 rescued by HAIDA

A P-51 Remembered

by: Author Unknown,

Old aviators and old airplanes never die. They just fly off into eternity. This is a good little story about a vivid memory of a P-51 and its pilot by a fellow who was 12 years old in Canada in 1967. You may know a few others who would appreciate it. It was noon on a Sunday as I recall, the day a Mustang P-51 was to take to the air. They said it had flown in during the night from some US airport, the pilot had been tired. I marveled at the size of the plane dwarfing the Pipers and Canucks tied down by her. It was much larger than in the movies. She glistened in the sun like a bulwark of security from days gone by. The pilot arrived by cab, paid the driver, and then stepped into the flight lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair was gray and tossed. Looked like it might have been combed, say, around the turn of the century. His flight jacket was checked, creased and worn - it smelled old and genuine. Old Glory was prominently sewn to its shoulders. He projected a quiet air of proficiency and pride devoid of arrogance. He filed a quick flight plan to Montreal (Expo-67, Air Show) then walked across the tarmac. After taking several minutes to perform his walk-around check the pilot returned to the flight lounge to ask if anyone would be available to stand by with fire extinguishers while he "flashed the old bird up. Just to be safe." Though only 12 at the time I was allowed to stand by with an extinguisher after brief instruction on its use -- "If you see a fire, point, then pull this lever!" I later became a firefighter, but that's another story. The air around the exhaust manifolds shimmered like a mirror from fuel fumes as the huge prop started to rotate. One manifold, then another, and yet another barked -- I stepped back with the others. In moments the Packard-built Merlin engine came to life with a thunderous roar, blue flames knifed from her manifolds. I looked at the others' faces, there was no concern. I lowered the bell of my extinguisher. One of the guys signaled to walk back to the lounge. We did. Several minutes later we could hear the pilot doing his pre flight run-up. He'd taxied to the end of runway 19, out of sight. All went quiet for several seconds; we raced from the lounge to the second story deck to see if we could catch a glimpse of the P-51 as she started down the runway. We could not. There we stood, eyes fixed to a spot half way down 19. Then a roar ripped across the field, much louder than before, like a furious hell spawn set loose---something mighty this way was coming. "Listen to that thing!" Said the controller. In seconds the Mustang burst into our line of sight. Its tail was already off and it was moving faster than anything I'd ever seen by that point on 19. Two-thirds the way down 19 the Mustang was airborne with her gear going up. The prop tips were supersonic; we clasped our ears as the Mustang climbed hellish fast into the circuit to be eaten up by the dog-day haze. We stood for a few moments in stunned silence trying to digest what we'd just seen. The radio controller rushed by me to the radio. " Kingston tower calling Mustang?" He looked back to us as he waited for an acknowledgment. The radio crackled, "Go ahead Kingston ." "Roger Mustang. Kingston tower would like to advise the circuit is clear for a low level pass." I stood in shock because the controller had, more or less, just asked the pilot to return for an impromptu air show! The controller looked at us. "What?" He asked. "I can't let that guy go without asking. I couldn't forgive myself!" The radio crackled once again, " Kingston, do I have permission for a low level pass, east to west, across the field?" "Roger Mustang, the circuit is clear for an east to west pass." "Roger, Kingston, I'm coming out of 3000 feet, stand by." We rushed back onto the second-story deck, eyes fixed toward the eastern haze. The sound was subtle at first, a high-pitched whine, a muffled screech, a distant scream. Moments later the P-51 burst through the haze. Her airframe straining against positive Gs and gravity, wing tips spilling contrails of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic as the burnished bird blasted across the eastern margin of the field shredding and tearing the air. At about 400 mph and 150 yards from where we stood she passed with the old American pilot saluting. Imagine. A salute! I felt like laughing, I felt like crying, she glistened, she screamed, the building shook, my heart pounded. Then the old pilot pulled her up. and rolled, and rolled, and rolled out of sight into the broken clouds and indelibly into my memory. I've never wanted to be an American more than on that day. It was a time when many nations in the world looked to Americas their big brother, a steady and even-handed beacon of security who navigated difficult political water with grace and style; not unlike the pilot who'd just flown into my memory. He was proud, not arrogant, humble, not a braggart, old and honest, projecting an aura of America at its best. That America will return one day, I know it will.Until that time, I'll just send off this story; call it a reciprocal salute, to the old American pilot who wove a memory for a young Canadian that's lasted a lifetime.

OPERATION IRAQI/ENDURING FREEDOM

by: Author Unknown,

Where do I start? How do I tell my adventures? How do I tell the way my heart pounded while in the streets of Baghdad? Lets start with October 1, 2002. That is the date we arrived Kuwait. The date we were attached to ARCENT-KUWAIT for support of Operation Enduring Freedom. Many of us went the notion of making some extra money in six months. Others, few, with the notion of getting a deployment under their belt. I went for the bragging rights to say I have been close to Iraq. Little did we know we would end up in the heart of Iraq.Kuwait, what can I say about a country that was liberated by us a few years ago? I’ll tell you the truth about it; I cannot say much because we were on lockdown when we got there. I spent about 5 months in Kuwait and never had the chance to see Kuwait City or any other major cities. I saw a lot of the ports though. We were at the brink of war with Iraq. Guess who had to guard ports when 3ID, 101st, 82nd, and whomever touched Kuwait soil? Those soldiers that arrived through the air arrived at what we called the APOD. They got on buses to reach their destinations. They probably never noticed the gun trucks securing their convoys on their way to their destinations. I can tell you that port missions were not very glamorous at all. Mainly because their was not much at the ports. Later, when we turned those missions to others they had heating tents, actual chow halls, and more medical support.The most action at the time was doing patrols on the outside of Camp Doha. Camp Doha was a small support base. Col. Ulysses Brown Jr. was the commander at the time. Camp Doha had your basic utilities. It had showers, mess hall, PX, movie theater, and a very good food court. We had all the support we needed being that we provided security for the base. The troop broke many records at the time because everyone was coming to Kuwait for a possible war with Iraq. In less than two months each gun truck had at least 10,000 miles on them. No one had that much sleep or rest during Dec 02-Feb 03. It was crazy in other words. I enjoyed Camp Doha even though it was a huge sitting target for scuds. I thought we would be home by the end of Mar 03. Mar 15 03 CPT Clark, L Troop 3/2 ACR Commander, gave us the news that we were being extended. For many it meant war with Iraq was inevitable, for others it meant more money. I still was optimistic that war would not break out. I was wrong.Mar 19 and 20 2003 would be the most memorable days of my life. We declared war against Iraq. Operation Iraqi Freedom would begin. The “shock and awe” would commence. I have never seen so much damage done by our arsenal. I thought the war would be over in no time. I would be wrong again.I heard the same sirens that I have heard for almost five months. The only difference this time was that the loud speaker was yelling “This is not a test”. My heart sank lower than the deepest ocean. I saw death coming for us and we could only sit and wait for it. I saw two Patriot missiles take off and that meant that the scuds were close. I heard and felt it hit outside of the base. I do not think I have ever put my protective suit that fast before. The “all clear” was given but two minutes later we heard another set of sirens. I lost count of how many scud alerts we heard. Some of us slept with our whole protective suit on at night because scuds did not sleep. Hell, one time they were replaying the scud alerts on the news and we thought it was another one coming and we suited up just to get the word that it as the TV. I think we had like four false alarms thanks to the TV. I think the TV was not allowed to be any louder than a whisper at night from that day on.Mar 26, 2003 would be another date that I will never forget, CPT Clark told the troop that we would be joining our comrades in arms. He told us that 3ID needed our help providing security for the supply convoys heading north into Iraq. I have never been more scared at the time. We had heard stories about these Fedayeen Saddam that attacked convoys between the border and Nasariyah. I wrote my letters to my loved ones letting them know that I might not return home in one peace. One thing I did know was that the great Lord was with us . I had the support of my family. My mother knew all about oppression and suffering. Coming from a third world country you know first hand that freedom is not free. I will never forget the morning of the 27th of Mar, we had so much ammunition that we could start our own war somewhere else. I took a picture as all the trucks were lined up ready for war. I had never seen so much firepower in front of me. Thanks to the dust of Iraq, my camera broke.While at the border of Iraq and Kuwait, we were attached to 220th MP BN out of Ft. Lewis, WA. We kept hearing of convoys being attacked but our convoys never got hit. Could it be because of the firepower they possessed or simply because? We will never know. 110 miles into Iraqi territory and no one of our convoys got attacked. Many Marine convoys were being hit left and right. Just like the changing wind we got word that we would be moving into Iraq to push supplies further in to Iraq. I guess 3ID had exceeded their supply lines. At the same time we would exceed ours as well. We ended up at a place we called LSA Cedar. I have never had hated a place so much till we got there. Let me tell you how the weather was at Cedar; take a hair dryer and sand then put the hair dryer on the hottest setting and blow the sand into your face while trying to breathe. That was all the time. Once again our mission changed like the wind.We were sent 60 miles south of Iraq to set up a Convoy Support Center (CSC),named LSA Scania, for all the supplies going to Baghdad. Were we lived was best described as a house for manure. It smelled bad and the that is were most of us got sick. I have never been more sick. It was so bad that I cannot even explain. I think we gave more than 20 IV in one day. We were invited to a small town well hidden in our area. They had a feast for us. They were extremely happy to have us around. I actually thought it would be an ambush. It was perfect for it. There were no exits. It was surrounded by a deep ditch. They had us go into a small tent and they were all around us. I was very nervous. To my surprise, nothing happened to us. The feast was incredible. I forgot to mention we had the best interpreter named AB. He was Kuwaiti and he was working for us for free. He did hate Iraqis because he was tortured by them in the first war. He always warned us about them.Well, I must innumerate that the feast was incredible until I saw an Iraqi grab a handful of rice to put in his mouth and he put the excess back on the tray. I don’t think I have ever vomited more times in my whole life a few days later. Something had a few of us sick. We had a Platoon Sergeant shit on his own seat. We had never given so many IVs since the beginning of the war. It helped some but some still had the “bug” of all bugs. Even I had it. I cannot ear the hamburger Meal Ready to Eat (MRE) anymore. I cannot even look at it or my stomach gets upset.A few days after we got better SGT Montalvo from 1st Platoon bought a goat from on of the locals for 35 dollars. I remember I had to look after him for a few hours till they got back from patrols. I had seen goats killed before but never with a dull knife. We had one guy start throwing up after he saw all the blood. It was good eating that night. I had not eaten for almost three days since I had the “bug”. I think I ate enough for three people that night.For the first time in almost six months I finally had a PA to work with. It was OK is she was from the California National Guard. I loved her because she was the one that gave me some medication for my “bug”. We saw some casualties there. The most memorable one was a young Private in Marine Corps who had the top cabin from a five ton land on one of her legs. She had a femur fracture to her left leg. We gave her morphine and splinted her leg. We finally had a “dustoff” coming our way. It was awesome. It landed in the middle of the highway. I think it was CH 46 from the Marines. It was nicely set up inside. We had a few other casualties come to us.I finally had the chance to call home to wish my mom a Happy Birthday. I was very excited to hear her voice for the first time in almost two months. She was very happy to hear from me. Everyone was doing OK. That was about to change in the months ahead.We finally got word that we were moving to Baghdad. I think my heart sank a little. We were safe there for almost two weeks but it was time to go. I had to go back to Camp Doha, Kuwait to close our accounts since our supply line still went to Kuwait. Our small group spent two days in Kuwait. When were coming back we ran into a small element of our Regiment. Our Regiment finally made it overseas. Things would change for the worst I thought. We drove all day to LSA Scania. We would spend the night there.We drove the last sixty miles to Baghdad. When we arrived to Baghdad it was like a scene from a movie. It was very crowded and it made me uneasy. All eyes were on us. People were selling everything on the streets. We were told to confiscate anything that had to do with weapons. Since Iraqis sold weapon parts in the “black market” we were forced to close it in the near future. We were staying at the War College. It looked more like an elementary school to me. The Marines had their way with a lot of the buildings. They broke some walls and burned a lot of documents that were in their library. It was a mess there.We were tasked to patrol Areas one, 23, and 49 for the time being. It happened to have the markets and “black markets” in those areas. In other words, they were the worst areas to have. We confiscated many weapons. We had a small chunk of the weapons. We had over 300 weapons of all kinds, many rounds from schools, and a lot of RPG weapons. Like I said, that was only a small portion. There were many more on the streets and we had to get them off the streets. That was a hard task if you ask me.

"Portrait of an Infantryman"

by: Author Unknown,

In World War I he was called a "Doughboy." In World War II he was "GI." Now, in Vietnam, he's called a "Grunt." It's not a pretty name, but then neither is an infantryman's lot. It is a twenty-four hour a day working,
sweating, grunting job. But believe it or not, he's sort of proud of the name ---"Grunt."
True, at the end of any given day the Grunt would never be chosen for an honor guard on appearance alone. Because of the work he must do, it is inevitable that his hair be mussed up and maybe a little sun-bleached; his face grimy from mud and dust; and his uniform dirty, wrinkled and torn. He's no glamor boy. Those boots, a trademark of sorts, are brown, not black, and scratched from scrambling in and out of choppers. The dirt is unavoidable, and though he doesn't like it, he learns to live with it as an irrevocable part of this war.
He works hard. On a sweep, he walks over rock-hard dikes into knee-deep mud of rice paddies, through stinking, leech-filled canals and then claws his way through hedgerows and undergrowth alive with biting, burning red ants or bloodthirsty stinging mosquitoes. Sometimes these prove to be more of a challenge even, than the enemy. Certainly they are more plentiful.
When he gets a chance, he stops and grabs that worn-out, dirty, lonesome sock, and from it, takes some C-ration cans. Washing down that food with ample gulps of warm canteen water, he may think about home, his wife or girl, or flying that beautiful "Freedom Bird" to the land where times were better.
Now that he has that rare spare moment to rest, he cleans his M-16 and maybe scrawls an answer to one of those crumpled, stained and soggy letters he's been carrying in his breast pocket. But there are hours of lost sleep and a body aching for rest. If only for a moment, he dozes into a sleep so deep that only those who have worked to near-exhaustion can understand.
In a fire fight, the Grunt's display of guts and courage is common --- but never commonplace. Sure he's scared, like any other human being. He has no time to think of being scared, though, and the difference is self-control. He knows what to do and he does it. Many times he does much more than what is expected of him ... then he is called a hero. Perhaps later that Grunt will say, "Man, I never thought I'd do some of the things I did today." But he did them because his life or the life of his buddy depended on it.
Because of what he does in his job and the hardships he endures, the Grunt is a special kind of man. He has lived in a way that most people can neither comprehend nor imagine. The CIB, that blue and silver symbol, identifies this different kind of man who has lived in hell, who has known that glorious feeling of coming out of a situation alive when he could have been killed, and who has died a little each time a buddy was wounded or killed.
Yes, he even calls himself a Grunt. And he's kind of proud of it because it's more than a name --- it's a title.
Friendship and bonds were forged between us all through the fires of war. When one of us was lost the hurt was felt by all. Sometimes the hurt was more than with others only because we each hung out with certain people. In a company, you know everyone, but only a few do you ever get so close too that the hurt becomes unbearable.

TET 68 Mind Pictures

by: Author Unknown,

Incoming in Saigon, my sleepy brain never really sleeps. My bed is on the first floor, I am instantly awake, I can tell the difference between incoming and outgoing in my sleep. That was definitely incoming.
I had just transferred to the 120th Assault Helicopter Company, flying out of Hotel-3 in Saigon from a serious kick ass line outfit, the Blackhawks or 187th Assault Helicopter Company in Tay Ninh, we got rocketed all the time there. I knew the drill. Get as many of the helicopters in the air as you can, and if you can scrounge a crew take a gunship. Warrant Officer helicopter pilots can and will fly just about anything that has rotor blades on it and I was running full speed through the confusion to the heliport to get at least one helicopter out of harms way.
Captain Payne is waving both arms over his head standing in front of his Razorback C model gunship, she was running and I dove in and strapped the chopper to my ass and we pulled pitch off the Hog pad. We are into the inky dark in seconds looking for mortar tube flashes, but what we see is a sea of little lights showing thousands of NVA and Viet Cong heading for the airfield, the lights stretched out into the night. I don't scare easy. This sight was unnerving.
We can see a huge volume of fire concentrated on one of the gates and open fire on the human wave attack. We are expended in seconds. Flying low over the bunkers dropping hot brass on the MP's, cutting swaths in the wall of NVA. I finally get the MP's on the radio. They are pinned down fighting for their lives, we tell them we will be right back and make the two-second trip to rearm just across the runway.
We rearm as fast as the crew and the armors can lay the linked ammo in the trays. The rockets all have to be seated and extra M-60 barrels for the Crew Chief and Gunner, we are off.
We fight hard and the volume of fire from the NVA never lets up one bit. I am worried about the MP's, but I can see the tracers coming out of their positions. We covered a jeep full of ammo, so they could keep fighting.
As day was starting to make the sky pink in the East, we finally took so many hits to that helicopter that we could no longer keep oil in the engine and she started to burn on short final to Hotel-3. Now I am out of the
Gunship business, but still in the fight.
The 120th AHC flew most of the generals and dignitaries around Saigon and the South part of Vietnam, and so had some beautiful new UH-1 H Model C & C ships with center radio consoles and leather seats. So when the company ran out of Gunships, with the help of the Crew I took the center console out of
the C&C helicopter and made a ammo hauling monster out of that clean new ship. Now I needed a copilot, so I flew the helicopter down to the Long Binh area to look for Doc Warden. Doc was the Flight Surgeon for our aviation group, and had flown 500 plus hours with me at the 187th Assault. I hated to admit it but he was as good as any line pilot in Vietnam, and better than most, Doc had never been to flight school. Major David Royal Warden Jr. MC was sitting in his ambulance on the Black Jack Pad, I had him strapped in and on the intercom in seconds. Doc, we are out of pilots again. Can you fly today? Doc looks over and smiles, when the chips are down, Airborne Ranger Doc will pull you through, I was already pulling pitch.
I knew the men in the BOQ were almost surrounded and trapped inside with no weapons, (a ruling coming from drunken fights in the back area) I could hear them on the radio, so we loaded cases of pistols, clips, rifles, and ammo. We had to hover over the roof and drop the heavy boxes, right through the roof to the trapped men below, while a Playboy Cobra gunship team flies cover for our exposed hovering helicopter. The NVA open up with a .51 cal and hit one of the cobras killing the pilot, one of my roommates from Flight
School Class 67-3, Roger Cameron. It is starting to be a long day.
The MP's have fought hard and are still holding the perimeter, there are bodies everywhere. We finally get a chance to pull the wounded back from the outer bunkers and move some larger machine guns out. Our usually spitshined MP's look like grunts in the field, and fight like grunts in the field. They made us proud. The NVA threw everything they had at the MP's and could not budge them. The fight was not over by far, but we knew we could handle anything they could throw at us and hold.
With the aid of Doc Warden, I flew 26 straight hours in a helicopter, got 4 hours of sleep on the floor of the helicopter and cranked it up for another 20 hours. I am sure I could have never survived with out the help of Doc Warden at the controls. We took hits on one helicopter until something vital was hit, then we would find a replacement and keep on flying. I knew from flying for the Blackhawks, the most important thing in a fire fight, is to keep the ammo coming to the men in contact.
I never looked at an MP the same the rest of the time I was in the military. The ones I knew held against impossible odds and a volume of fire unknown before the Tet offensive. If they had not have held, we would have been overrun no doubt about it. When you have seen a MP standing on a bunker radio in hand directing fire, like I have, not caring about his own safety, you know why they held.
Wayne R. "Crash" Coe
The C & C Helicopter was General Abrams bird, and he never complained.
Bunker mate's M16's bolt locks up,so he panicks give him a box of grenades,after along toss it goes off in front of the bunker,he threw it straight up in the air.No one was hurt was quite funny later.
Dale Fritts 25th Avn
Flying into Hotel 3, while 51 mm tracers are following you into down wind - gettin' closer.
Spending the night at Hotel 3, in a UH-1D, with two nurses, needing to go to Cu Chi. Tower won't clear us for departure due to excess ground fire.
Rob Amiot 25th avn
Returning from Hong Kong R&R 1700 hours 30JAN68
Planning to stay that night in Saigon with Jim Weeg at U-8 company BOQ,but saw Little Bear courier bird landing at Hotel 3 and decided to catch a ride to Cu Chi instead
Mortars and rockets every 45 minutes after midnight
After first couple of attacks, sleep in bunker
Flying 14 hours A/C time one day
Shut down at infantry bn CP one day; 5 days to DEROS. Sniper in tree starts firing at us; Carl Muckle and I unassed the ship in record time; paddy dike for Carl, nothing for me; new sprint record to nearest foxhole, rounds hitting dirt beside my feet, jumped in on top of the grunt; called in Diamondhead guns,they shot sniper out of tree
Zippo track hit by RPG near Trang Bang, exploded, top panel of track body up to our 1500 ft altitude
Jim Jaap lowering M-16s to people on roof of U-8 company BOQ in Saigon during night 31JAN68 because Victor Charlie occupied lower floor; glad I changed my mind about RON in Saigon
If I had been coming back from R&R one day later, I would have been stuck in Hong Kong another week (tough duty) before charter flights were allowed into Tan Son Nhut
Riding with the Old Man in his jeep from flight line to ops; C-130 landed and offloaded fuel blivets, the rockets came in to try to get the130; Old Man , driver and I lying in the ditch by the road 'til counterbattery fire started
Hugh Bell
We were refueling at DakTo right across the runway (a 9-iron shot) from the Ammo Dump when the NVA mortared two C-130's off-loading ammo. Both Herky Birds were hit in the process, stored ammo was cooking off and all Hell broke loose in a matter of seconds. I was monitoring both the IC and the FM tower freq.
We'd come in "dry" but had taken on about 1/2 a "tank" when the festivities began. I saw it and yelled at the CE and Gunner that we had "incoming, drop the hoses and cap it off, didi, didi", got them on board and called forward that the ramp was up ready for flight. We exited poste haste!
Meanwhile, from the the DakTo Tower, a Conex box on some telephone posts just to our west came:
"All fixed-wing aircraft cleared to the active. All rotary-winged aircraft cleared for flight. DakTo Tower is off the F**kin' air!" Followed by a blur leaping out the side of the Conex to the ground about 15-feet below. And, to the ATC's credit, he never broke stride betwixt the "tower" and a nearby bunker.
Point being: if MY pilots hadn't gotten out of there I'd have left them in the LZ:-))
Mac
Taking off from Tan Son Nute lying on a strecther on a C-141 and watching F-4's wag their wings as we left VN airspace and headed out over the South China Sea toward Japan.
Brian D Piggott x]:-})
C Trp 3/17 ACR
Scouts Charliehorse 16&17
Tay Ninh 67-68

Mind Pictures of Vietnam

by: Author Unknown,

This is not a story. These are lists of thoughts that we remember. The thoughts that show up in our dreams. The thoughts that made us laugh. The thoughts that make us cry. The thoughts that generate flashbacks. The thoughts about our friends from so many years ago. To a Vietnam Veteran, these mind pictures need no explaination.
The sound of main rotor blades beating the sky into submission
The thump of out going mortar fire
The whistle, thump of incoming mortar fire
The smell of rice patties in the heat
The feel of rain so heavy you think you're going to drown.
The taste of ice cold "33"
Or luke-warm "33"
Heating C-Rations with C-4
The ever-present smell of hot JP-4
The scream of 30 turbo-shaft engines under load
The beautiful dark green of the mountains
The smell of burning diesel fuel and shit
Flying lazy circles at 10,000 ft to cool off the beer
The sight of unfamiliar constellations viewed from the top of a sandbagged bunker on a pitch-black night
The chatter of an M-60
The smell of hot gun oil, burning gun powder and overheated metal
The sight of green tracers reaching up
The feeling in the pit of your stomach when you look around and realize that all the civilian workers have disappeared into the bunkers for no apparent reason
R & R in Vung Tao
R & R any place
The whistle a main rotor blade makes when it has a bullet hole through it
The call of a "fuckyou" lizard in the middle of the night
The breath taking beauty of the country from 5000 ft.
Waking up in a panic in the middle of the night because the Artillery at the end of the field isn't firing and it's to quiet.
The scream of the scramble siren in the middle of the night
The feel of your M-14 on full automatic
Drinking Jim Beam straight up and chasing it with warm black cherry soda because that's all you've got
A kidney busting full throttle run down thunder road in a sandbagged duce and a half
The feeling when fewer ships come home than left that morning
The mind numbing sight and sound when Puff lights up the night and saves your sorry ass
The absolute silence when Puff is done
Mike Rollins
Flying over the mountains and seeing a high valley still covered in the early morning fog. And the fog spilling out of a high pass, like cream out of a cup.
High "pucker facter" while hovering up a road into 200&1/4 rain and fog Over the high plateau during the monsoon, cruising along a road in 200 & 1/4 (or less maybe?) and having to pull collective to miss a deuce truck coming at you and going IFR. Never forget the look on that driver's face when we came face to face" for an instant.
Foggy days at Bao Loc. Lining up, one by one, between the revetments and taking off into the fog at 30 sec intervals. Breaking out at 4000 msl, PZ was at 5000 msl and the LZ was still higher.
Skiba
Sliding down to the ridge lines in my Loach and pretending to do a recon while riding the updrafts like I was in a sail plane as the fog starts burning off. In my mind sailing a small "cat" in Cape Cod bay.
Cloud skiing :-)) Get to the top of a puffy cumulus over the coast during the rainy season. Get right on top and dump collective. Try to keep just the skids in the cloud while following the contours.
Cool night air at one mile high and one mile out over the coast.
High "pucker facter" while hovering up a road into rain and fog.
The smell of human blood.
What a hard sideways flare feels like when started at 120 kts and 30 feet AGL.
Jerry Ewen
Sitting on the ground, looking up at a clear blue sky through whispers of ground fog; then flying over that same fog bank towards Dak To, finding only one FSB poking up through the fog. Then sitting on that FSB,
drinking varnish removing coffee made in an aluminum pot over a Mo-gas powered squad stove, waiting for the fog to lift.
Westbrook
Running thru the rounds to get the team airborne when it was your turn on counter-mortar standby.
Doc Dougherty
You notice how small trees look when you had a blade strike at 2000 feet.
You notice how many lights are not lit up on a master control panel.
The beautiful curving red lines of tracers at midnight.
The rice in the rocket pods.
The blood on the windshield.
The basketball size green tracers going upward in slow motion at midnight looking for you.
The eerie light of a parachute flare.
The true beauty of a mini-gun when you are down in the rice.and your wing ship is above covering your sorry ass.
The sight of Nui Ba Den as dawn breaks the horizon.
The mosquitoes that carry harpoons
The sting of a rocket cap hitting your shins.
The taste of crushed cookies.
Pinto Beans cooked on a popcorn popper.
Measuring the grease in C-rat beef stew.
Finding a use for powdered eggs.
Watching momma son pop the heads off those big roaches in the mess hall and eat them.
The whistle of a 122mm rocket inbound...right in the middle of "The Good The Bad The Ugly"
Taking a shower at the edge of the roof during monsoon season.
Missing the submerged boardwalk during the monsoon on the way to the club and find the 6' deep green ditch instead.
Naming all the rats.
Roach races as a sporting event.
Playing Lambretta chicken on Hwy 1
Scrounging missions just for the hell of it.
The white cranes that are bullet proof
The humidity in August.
Finding the true meaning of rocket city first hand.
Rockets in the Mess hall....With me in it
Plugging hydraulic leaks with bubble gum just to get home
The smell of Napalm.
The smell of rocket fuel
The smell of burnt JP-4
The smell of a drunk Bear
The cherry glow of a red hot M-60 barrel.
The pop of a .51 as it flys by to close
The nurses at the Medi-vac pad.
The connex box of the dead
The incessant dust of Cu Chi
The sucking mud
Honolulu looks clean enough to eat off the street from the air.
The ring of the telephone that sends you to action station.
The ring of the phone at 2 am in Hawaii that almost sent you off the 17th floor balcony.
The backfire of a car..the embarrassment..of being face down in a ditch.
The joy of DEROS Day
The loneliness the days after Travis..and ETS
The confusion that followed
Ron Leonard
Wondering why the grunts dont shoot your hook after it blows the air mattress out of their poncho tent and onto the concertina wire at LZ Leslie
Watching the rotor wash of your hook dismantle a hooch and not even care
watching the water buffalo drag the farmer and plow across several dikes cause the boo doesn't like hooks
St Elmo's fire on the rotor blades
Wondering why the marines at Phu Bai don't have counter mortar anything
Listening to 2/20 ARA birds salvo doing counter mortar in Cav controlled area (THANKS!)
Swimming with sea snakes at Wonder beach
Watching how high a blivet can bounce when punched off (50 feet)
Being damn glad to be in Hooks when the last flight of the day you sling back a dead Huey and you can see the pilots helmet rolling around in there. He wouldn't have left it if he were okay............
Wade Kane, Hook Crewchief
The sound of armed forces Radio at 0600...Goooooood Morining Viet Naaaaaammm!
The click as a round went past...
The sounds of the "Mama's and the Papa's" Monday Monday...and you start another day, another one down and ??? to go...
The quite voice of the FDC..."One on the way, wait...." and you wait for the bright flash of the parachute flare to see if you can see Charlie...and you can't.
The voice from the GCA controller, Hey are you hovering up there???
The whispers of the FO..."The Fuckers are close, be careful"...
Ya OK down there?...chick, chick....sigh of relief
The crew chief..."I think we took some on that last pass!"
Jerry Barnes
Baron 67
The taste of a grimy tear in the hollow darkness.
Greg Bucy 25th Avn
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUNDS OF THOSE ROTOR BLADES AS THE "BIRDS" CAME TO TAKE YOU OUT OF PLACES TOO BAD TO REMEMBER!
Andrew Alday 3/22 Infantry
The joy of finding that the spice in the noodles are tiny insects.
Hitting the sack after a 14-hour day, waking up to CS two hours later from those 116th SOB's.
Flying in the middle of nowhere during a rainstorm and having the caution panel light up like a Christmas tree.
Seeing your friend passed out in the "green ditch" and thanking God it's him and not you.
Wondering why a baby's rattle is on a battle field. (VC grenade)
Why is everyone hiding on the ground?
Hearing "Radar service terminated" while night IFR on the downwind into TayNinh and the beacons OTS.
Analyzing the proximity of the AK-47 firing while in the club at Dao Chang.
Your last flight from Chu Chi.
Your first flight into Chu Chi.
Being a FNG
Picking up the FNG at hotel 6.
A box of cookies from home.
Running to a magnesium 229 gal. JP-4 container, in the middle of an open field while incoming falls all around you, then trying to start it.
Saying goodbye to mom and dad at the airport leaving for RVN.
Saying "I love you" to your wife as you depart for RVN.
Saying a last goodbye to a friend as he boards the freedom bird.
Saying The Last Goodbye to a friend at the base chapel.
Saying goodbye to all your friends as you board the freedom bird.
Saying nothing but a big hug and then, "I love you" to your wife at Travis upon returning.
Saying "it's great to see you" to your mom and dad at Travis.
Saying "I miss you" at The Wall in DC.
Saying "Freedom isn't free" to your kids.
Ed Mitchell-25th avn
Sitting on a hot refuel pad in the middle of monsoon at night waiting for the rain to let up so you could return to station or back to the flight line. With no doors.
Pulling bunker guard with your poncho liner over your head, and the mosquitoes sounding like Fox 4s over your head.
Coming in on a late night flight and the cooks ( Bless them! ) they always had something for you to eat! Our cooks were the best!
Yeah, its all coming back now, But they are good memories considering all that went on. You see, I've learned that with all the bad we went through...There were the good times too.
A oriental band at the club trying to sing " If your going to San Fransico" Hey? What a trip! Or playing Wipe out.
How about pulling a late night intermediate on your bird, and while getting oil samples, you look out over the wires and see our brothers working out with Sixties and mini guns a blazing? Then try finding a pilot to do a run up. Good luck! Many thanks to Parish for doing that for us.
Richard Muenz A 25th Avn
The pop of the hand held flares as they lightened the darkness of the midnight sky.
The carefully placed footstep of the one that went before you in the rice fields.
The fear of letting your brothers down as the radio message of a sit rep awakens you and your glad to be alive and now one noticed that you fell asleep on third watch. As the sun rises and it is the end of the A/P.
The deafening ringing in the ears of the APC Driver as he drives and the 50cal mussel blast is 11 inches over your head. Trying to hear the commands of your squad leaders orders in the head set.
The thought of the hot beer as you see the the slings dangling from the underside of the chopper
The cloud of smoke streaming from the rocket pods of those fire breathing Gun Ships as they streak over the top of us, terring the hell out of the rubber trees.
The visions of the carnage that such a air assault left behind. Thinking how glad that Sir Charlie that got his.
The feelling that GOD has been there as you were loaded in the Dust Off on you way to the 25med back in Cu Chi.
This is my way of letting all you Sky Warriors know. Thanks we depended on you more than you will ever know.
Mike Wager 4/23 Armor
Saying "I love you" to your wife as you depart for RVN. That one was a trip. Leaving for second tour with her standing there, eight months pregnant with our "first." She's trying to be brave, with trembling chin and I'm trying not to look like the "rat" I am for leaving her at a time like that. She's a keeper ... eight kids and going on 33 years.
Ed Gallagher
Listening in the morning for the original "Gooood Mornin Viet Naaam" Original now, not the wimpassed stuff later after he had rotated and gotten out. Somebody will remember his name.
Making a fresh pot of coffee at 5000' while going around in lazy circles over the Crows Foot area waiting for ground fog to burn off. Gunner Bill watching all the time, staying alert, looking over his M60, "just in case a
hole was to open up". I almost spilled the fresh made coffee LMAO.
Sling breaking, with large load of Arty rounds some armed or whatever it is they do with 105 Arty rounds when they need them in a hurry(hey, I used to be in the Air Defense Artillery and later self propelled stuff)Rounds impact partially in river partially next to village and some do blow. Save the dounut. THEY will not believe sling broke. Later, THEY inform us that there is residue on the sling where it broke and THEY think a lucky round caught the sling, cutting it. Whatever! Woke us all up with a big bang and several unplanned feet of altitude and do not want to do R&R in that village!
Night Arty resupply mission to Crows Foot area. Green balls coming up off the hills along Hwy one north of old Phu Cat before it was an AF base. Guys up front "Think they can see us up here?" Ship in trail, "Panther 140 if you shut off your rotating becons they probably would stop shooting at you." "Oh shit!" Bill Corbin our gunner opening up and them pretty red dots raining all down and around where the green dots were coming from. Green dots stop coming up. Guys up front felt a bit leftout of the loop since Bill hadn't asked their permission to return fire. Yeah, we had rules back in 66! Bills comment was something to the affect, "Bet they don't shot at anyone else tonight." Later that night I got hungrey thinking about green balls of fire.
Cooking some ham and limas on the one burner cookstove at a couple of thousand at night in the backend of the fat lady and the guys up front wondering "Chief, is there a fire back there?" in their whining voices,
afraid of what they might hear in return. "No, I am cooking some ham and limas on the one burner stove" Real quiet for a long time after that. Of course the big yellow flame lowered to a warm and toasty blue cooking flame soon. They never thought I was quite right after that. Smoking in flight was ok but starting a fire was something else to them.
Dragging the first piggy back load down the middle of an Arty base cause they had not told us something was hooked to the gun. People running for their lives down there. Fat Lady not doing so well handling that little old 105! And why is it hanging way back behind the hole? Then they get on the radio and tell us we are dragging the ammo net behind us. Whoa lady!
Bouncing a piggy back load off the edge of a bluff and hoping that the fat lady will recover RPMs and fly. She is still flying.
First night artillery lift and it is with piggy back loads. Approach LZ Foot or Italy to a black hat with a flashlight and feel things kind of tugging at the Fat Lady. Turn on flashlight and shine on the load and we
are dragging the ammo sling thru the tree tops. Wonder out loud if the stuff is armed.
Punching off two blivets because that damned #2 engine was doing compressor stalls again on approach and "the rpms are drooping and heat is going up and we are shutting 2 down." "Probably should release the...." Bam, I ain't waiting on you guys to debate the situation! All them Huey people running for cover on their piece of the Turkey Farm as the two blivets bounce towards the mess tent. Looked like Artillery guys running! A feeling of relief when blivets stop bouncing and come to rest on either corner of the mess tent without flattening it. "Oh you guys should have seen that shit!" Stopped eating breakfast with the Huey guys and stuck to our own piece of the Turkey Farm.
Damned #2 engine again, doing its galloping .50 cal thing just as we cross over the river on the left side where we ain't supposed to be. Did not pull the d ring that time. Let the guys in front go to jail. Fat lady held
together and we come back across the river still burping but on the good side of the river now.
Low leveling over the S. China Sea, south of Quin Nhon, glassy water, no wind, 130 knots, almost washing the wheels off, playing chicken with a inbound destroyer escort. I swear his mast leaned before we turned away! No shit!
Starting that damned #2 engine by winding her up with fuel and when evidence of fuel came out the back yell "ignition" into the mike and watch that big assed flame come whooshing out the back end.
Setting down in that small clearing in the middle of the bamboo thicket that looked big enough to get them guys out until the tops all leaned in and all we could do was come up out of it. What a mess, water and green stuff all over the place. Later...long dents in the bottoms of all the blades. Keep the blades, how are we going to get rid of that damned #2 engine.
Listening as the #2 engine transmission chewed up and swallowed the sprag clutch as we were flaring on a Arty resupply of 105 stuff slung under us.
Finally getting rid of #2 engine for one that started normal and did not go into hiccups at the worst of times.
Not having to blow up air mattress to sleep on when out with the fat lady. Could sleep 6 in comfort on the seats with the skeeter netting all tied up nice and neat. Then there was the fresh coffee!
Larry cranking the APU to charge up the little battery cause the lights were dimming while the die-hard cribbage fans played up front. Of course that happened just as you were about to drop off to sleep.
Sling breaking...dropping about 15 fuel blivets into the Cheo Reo River. Shucks, missed the sampan by several feet. Quick...save the do nut cause they will never believe the sling broke...THEY never do.
Hot resupply mission for Artillery guys. Pilots a bit under the weather. Been to the occifers club you know! Off we go towards Cheo Reo and along the way call for Arty Advisory and told there is negative Arty. Yeah,
sure, how come stuff is impacting in front of us. Go for altitude. We are first ship in, no lights cause of the bad guys around. Drop off ammo on the portable landing lights and 180 and we are out of there. Standing in the door and notice this big assed black shape go by heading the opposite direction. Tell guys up front. They call second ship and he says he is just approaching the LZ. Why are suddenly all sweating a bunch. Later we all smile and laugh about it over a beer.
Flare ship dropping flares out in the Crows Foot and the metal casing comes crashing down thru one of the aft blades on the ship next to us. Foot had seen that before at base camp and was hiding under his aft transmission next door telling all the guys to get some cover cause when that flare popped the can comes loose and it could kill you.
Oh you guys, get my mind to wandering over the good times or at least some of those we laughed about afterwards. I will try not to remember the other times that weren't so good. At least I will try not to remember.
Chris the Bigfoot
Busting rocket boxes and linking ammo
The metallic zip of a rocket being slid down the tube, and the click-snap as it locked in place
Free-for-all to see who got the pound cake and peaches
Watching the slicks go "covey" when a cold LZ suddenly went hot
Night missions- keeping one eye out for flare chutes
The absolute blackness after passing Phouc Vinh headed for Song Be
Warm French bread wrapped in newspaper and washed down with 33
Round wicker baskets full of chickens and ducks
Hauling marmite cans stacked to the ceiling, full of hot chow...while you ate C's
Arc lights
Cold showers from drop tanks that held the faint remnants of JP-4
Rats! BIG Rats.
Slogging thru knee deep runoff to get that shower
Watching for the team to get back on your day off
Getting dressed to go to bed
Ah yes...A CCN "Prairie Fire" some place west of the Ah Shau (where nobody ever went) in '71. It was dusk over the PZ and the ropes were coming straight up with little people hanging from them. Then the blade tips at 10 O'clock from a Snake giving cover. Oh yes, and the rubber knees that made those darn pedals turn mushy. What a rush. Couldn't see shit. Lots of noise and flashes from all directions. A near midair. Nothing like a low intensity twilight to carry through life.
Sprunger
The distinctive sound that rounds make as they "slap" into the sheet metal of the aircraft;
Sitting in the gunner's well while traveling 100 knots a. soaking wet and freezing b. with one's feet propped up on the ammo can enjoying a sunrise or sunset; being saturated with Agent orange and being told that this stuff won't hurt you; getting blood sprayed all over you and realizing it's not yours;
Cleaning up the aircraft after hauling KIAs or removing the remains of a fellow crewman and all evidence of his demise;
The smell of blood and zinc chromate paint;
Trying to replace an engine oil filter at 10 pm with your Zippo lighter after you have been flying since the crack of dawn;
The blessed feeling of being able to take any kind of shower after a long hot dirty day;
Heating C rations in the exhaust of the engine;
Mud, mildew and rot during monsoon season;
Dust sweat and jock itch during the dry season;
The empty feel of being left behind as you watch your unit fly off into a day of CAs when your bird is "down" for maintenance;
Flying into a hot area just ahead of a CA as you lay down a smoke screen...realizing that every gun is shooting at you;
Cooking a pizza at midnight in the mess hall with the night baker;
Fishing with hand grenades;
Eating fresh fish and being careful not to bite down too hard for fear of finding grenade remnants in your meal;
The smell of wood smoke in your clothing when the Vietnamese laundry has to dry your uniforms over an open fire during monsoon season;
Sneezing... and nearly losing your false teeth at 200 feet;
Trying to take a leak out the door at 200 feet;
Flying over the nurse's quarters at Cu Chi and hoping for a "cheap thrill";
Cooking Jiffy Pop on a Sterno stove;
Beer on your corn flakes.... beer and cookies.... brushing your teeth with beer... soaking your dentures in beer... warm beer.... cold beer... beer
Packages and letters from home;
Working in the "hell hole" of a UH-1 when the temperature is 120 degrees;
The Bob Hope Show!
Donut Dollies!
Party time!
Catch 22!
Tri Borders (Laos, DMZ and Vietnam)
FOB (Flight over the Border)
Frank Tijano-SOG
Standing on the helipad on Nui Ba Dinh enjoying the cool brisk breeze wash over you.
Balancing the stench of the "green ditch" vs. the value of the shower shoe you just lost in it.
Playing a weightless astronaut at the top of a cyclic climb.
The empty pit of the stomach feeling you get looking up through the greenhouse at the hole in the tree canopy, a hundred or so feet up, you just hovered down from
The excitement of stumbling across extension cords and light bulbs while scrounging.
Larry Carter-25th Avn
Not yet dawn, preflight done, walk to tail boom and fling blade strap from stinger. Remove blade hook and blade slowly inches it's way upward. Doors open awaiting arrival of pilots, sure hope we don't get????? For a Peter Pilot today. Gunner mounts 60's and ammo cans securely to gun posts. Pilots arrive, explains the days mission, which of course you already knew from talking to OPS specialist and who also switched the PP that you didn't want in the first place. AC and PP go through start-up, adjust radio freq. and then yells "clear' and igniters pop into action. Turbine slowly gains momentum and the bird begins to rock back and forth coming to life. You suit up, first the 'chicken plate' then the gloves. You swing yourself onto your
armor plated nylon seat, grab your helmet, plug in the mike cord and adjust the mike until it just makes contact with your lip. It was such a rush just getting suited up, you felt almost invincible, almost. AC checks to see if you and the gunner are ready, double click the mike is your reply and he gets clearance for liftoff. Blades turning ever faster, skids get light, a slight rock to the left then the right, then forward motion begins. Clear left, clear right, tail clear, a little transitional shudder, you're past the perimeter pull your 60 from it's clamp on the post and we're up. The day begins like almost every other day, but what will it hold. You fill in the'rest of the story'.
It was only yesterday, wasn't it? We ALL share the same emotion to this part of our lives. Thanks for providing this network of brother and sister hood that allows us to share those moments. IT REALLY MEANS SOMETHING!
A Rhoades, SP5, CE, C/229th AHB, 1st CAV, 6801-6902
Flying past the Batangan Peninsula late at night with no ground lights and no stars my first week in-country ( and first night mission) on the way to a Med-Evac pickup near Mai Lai. Seeing that little flash out of the corner of my eye every minute or so and finally startled when the Master Caution Light started to blink too.
I look closely at the instrument panel and the transmission indicators are almost inverted. Pressure going down. Master Caution light turns on solid.
AC (Aircraft Commander) apparently peeing his pants and no help, as he probably is thinking we are dead and what will happen to our main blade when the transmission freezes up, or when we set down and the bad guys come avisiting.
Dropping stupidly down below 500 feet because it feels safer.
I maintain control of the bird and fly to Quang Ngai MACV compound, all the while waiting for the transmission to freeze.
Landing in absolute blackness and having to use the main landing light to find the compound.
The feeling that I have used up one of my nine lives on shutdown when we check the transmission reservoir and find it empty. The knowledge that I was alive only because I was too stupid to give up, and had so very much to learn.
Finally, thanking God for the Training acquired at Fort Wolters and Fort Rucker, that made me keep control of the bird, rather then executing a forced night landing in Indian Country.
Wondering today where the Crew Chief and Gunner from that mission are...
Michael McCormick
Pelican 223

Taps

by: Author Unknown,

I too, have felt the chills while listening to "Taps" but I have never seen all the words to the song until now. I didn't even know there was more than one verse. I also never knew the story behind the song and I didn't know if you had either so I thought I'd pass it
along I now have an even deeper respect for the song than I did before.
We have all heard the haunting song, "Taps." It's the song that gives us that lump in our throats and usually creates tears in our eyes. But, do you know the story behind the song? If not, I think you will be delighted to find out about it's humble beginnings. It all began in 1862 during the Civil War, when Union Army Captain Robert Ellicombe was
with his men near Harrison's Landing in Virginia. The Confederate Army was on the other side of the narrow strip of land. During the night, Captain Ellicombe heard the
moans of a soldier who lay mortally wounded on the field.

Not knowing if it was a Union or Confederate soldier the Captain decided to risk his life to bring the stricken man
back for medical attention. Crawling on his stomach through the gunfire, the Captain reached the stricken soldier and began pulling him toward his encampment. When the Captain finally reached his own lines, he discovered it was actually a Confederate soldier. but the soldier was dead. The Captain lit a lantern and suddenly caught his breath and went numb with shock. In the dim light, he saw the face of the soldier. It was his own son.
The boy had been studying music in the South when the war broke out. Without telling his father, he enlisted in the Confederate Army. The following morning, heartbroken, the father asked permission of his superiors to give his son a full military burial despite his enemy status. His request was only partially granted. The Captain had asked if he could have a group of Army band members play a funeral dirge for his son at the funeral. The request was turned down since the soldier was a Confederate but, out of respect for the father, they did say they could give him only one musician. The Captain chose a bugler.
He asked the bugler to play a series of musical notes he had found on a piece of paper in the pocket of the dead youth's uniform. This wish was granted. The haunting melody we now know as "Taps" used at military funerals was born.
Day is done
Gone the sun
From the Lakes
From the hills
From the sky
All is well
safely rest
God is neigh.
Fading light
Dims the sight,
And a star
Gems the sky,
Gleaming bright
From afar,
Drawing nigh,
Falls the night.
Thanks and praise,
For our days,
Neath the sun,
Neath the stars,
Neath the sky,
As we go,
This we know,
God is nigh.

The Forgotten Mechanic

by: Author Unknown,

Through the history of world aviation
many names have come to the fore.
Great deeds of the past in our memory will last,
as they're joined by more and more.
When man first started his labor in the quest to conquer the sky
he was a designer, mechanic and pilot,
and he built a machine that would fly.
But somehow the order got twisted,
and then in the public eye.
The only man that could be seen
was the man who knew how to fly.
The pilot was everyone's hero,
he was brave, he was bold, he was grand,
as he stood by his battered old biplane
with his goggles and helmet in hand.
To be sure, these pilots all earned it,
to fly you have to have guts.
And they blazed their names in the hall of fame
on wings with bailing wire struts.
But for each of these flying heroes
there were thousands of little renown,
and these were the men who worked on the planes
but kept their feet on the ground.
We all know the name Lindbergh,
and we've read of his flight to fame.
But think, if you can, of his maintenance man,
can you remember his name?
And think of our wartime heroes, Gabreski, Jabara, and Scott.
Can you tell me the names of their crew chiefs?
A thousand to one you cannot.
Now pilots are highly trained people,
and wings are not easily won.
But without the work of the maintenance man
our pilots would march with a gun.
So when you see the mighty jet aircraft
as they mark their way through the air,
the grease stained man with the wrench in his hand
is the man who put them there.

Bury Me With Soldiers

by: Author Unknown,

I've played a lot of roles in life; I've met a lot of men,
I've done a lot of things I'd like to think I wouldn't do again.
And though I'm young, I'm old enough To know someday I'll die.
And to think about what lies beyond, Beside whom I would lie.
Perhaps it doesn't matter much; Still if I had my choice,
I'd want a grave 'mongst Soldiers when At last death quells my voice.
I'm sick of the hypocrisy Of lectures of the wise.
I'll take the man, with all the flaws, Who goes, though scared, and dies.
The troops I knew were commonplace They didn't want the war;
They fought because their fathers and Their fathers had before.
They cursed and killed and wept... God knows They're easy to deride...
But bury me with men like these; They faced the guns and died.
It's funny when you think of it, The way we got along.
We'd come from different worlds To live in one where no one belongs,
I didn't even like them all; I'm sure they'd all agree.
Yet I would give my life for them, I know some did for me..
So bury me with soldiers, please, Though much maligned they be.
Yes, bury me with soldiers, for I miss their company.
We'll not soon see their likes again; We've had our fill of war.
But bury me with men like them Till someone else does more.

One More Night

by: Author Unknown,

220 more days.
Remembering war, and women and drunken brawls,
As with drunken anger I smash the table top.
When do you end a day." I say.
"At sunset. at midnight.at dawn."
Came the answers.
No real discussion as the mood turned to silence,
Only to be broken by someone at the door, "D-Troop, saddle up!"
"The spirit of the cavalry." I thought.
220 more days.
"The worst thought of being drunk is that of being sober,"
Someone said as we loaded into the slick.
Twenty-five minutes in the air, then all night in the dirt.
"It's always the same." I thought.
220 more days
Chilled by the wind in the slicks,
As the heat on the ground is scarcely bearable.
Another mundane task.
Move out and stop, Move out and stop,
Until the repetition evolves into dusk.
Set up and go sit in your own personal hole,
Draw branches over your head and wait in silence.
It's dark now and you wait.
Let the ratios take over,
Everything, even your worth is in the count. and you wait in silence.
Damn mosquitoes.
220 more days.
You live through the days with inert insomnia,
Unconsciously you know better than to sleep.
Three, four days and more if you have to.
Even at night you sweat.
220 more days.
Listen, You hear nothing, but human movement.
It's a natural thing after a while.
Wait and listen, Wait and listen as the night grows deeper into darkness.
Hours pass - until - listen,
You can count the passing silhouettes,
One - two - three, There's one dude combing his hair,
Eleven - twelve - thirteen, they're there.
Someone's gonna die
With only 220 more days.
Along the path they move,
Like a low fog in the trees.
Then a deadening orange flash rips though the night.
Like a deafening silent dream
And nature and man is thrown through the darkness
And into your face.
Still they're there.
Not the same though.
They're dropping, confused and shattered they're running,
but they don't know where.
Like ants on a small limb,
How, when you spray them with insecticide
They twist and jerk and finally drop.
It's silent again,
But an inhuman knowing silence.
Everyone knows what's gonna happen,
Them - us - me. 220 fun filled days.
They come,
Running, they charge like a thin, pathetic wave.
and you sit and you fire and fire and fire and you know your killing and you fire.
And Kramer, Medic, Kramer. Kramer's dead.
He's dead and I know him.
and they're coming and you fire and you scream
Damn you LBJ !!
You killed him and you fire.
and they die and they come
and Carrol's jumps up and Topolewski's up
and I'm up and there is no more they're coming there here.
And you fire at the living and you bayonet the dead and shoot and stab the half dead, for they must know vengeance and they are gone.
You fall back in your hole, and midnight seems like noon.
You smoke a cigarette, almost laughingly,
Because you know it doesn't matter any more.
Wait, you can even sleep now,
In shifts. Hours till dawn.
The night turns to gray.
The stench of powder and blood and steel permeates the stillness of the rising sun.
219 more days

The Man In The Doorway

by: Author Unknown,
They came in low and hot, close to the trees
and dropped their tail in a flare,
rocked forward
and we raced for the open doorways.
This was always the worst for us;
we couldn't hear anything
and our backs were turned to the tree line.
The best you could hope for was a sign
on the face of the man in the doorway,
leaning out waiting to help with a tug
or to lay down some lead.
Sometimes you could glance quickly at his face
and pick up a clue
as to what was about to happen.
We would pitch ourselves in headfirst
and tumble against the scuffed riveted aluminum,
grab for a handhold
and will that son-of-a-bitch into the air.
Sometimes the deck was slick with blood or worse,
sometimes something had been left
in the shadows under the web seats,
and sometimes they landed in a shallow river
to wash them out.
Sometimes they were late,
sometimes...they were parked
in some other LZ
with their rotors turning a lazy arc,
a ghost crew strapped in once too often,
motionless,
waiting for their own lift,
their own bags,
once too often into the margins.
The getting on and the getting off
were the worst for us
but this was all he knew,
the man in the doorway,
he was always standing there in the noise,
watching, urging...swinging out with his gun,
grabbing the black plastic and heaving,
leaning out and spitting, spitting the taste away,
as though it would go away...
They came in low and hot,
close to the trees
and dropped their tail in a flare,
rocked forward
and began to kick the boxes out,
bouncing against the skids,
piling up on each other, food and water, and bullets...
a thousand pounds of C's, warm water and rounds,
7.62mm,
half a ton of life and death.
And when the deck was clear,
we would pile the bags,
swing them against their weight
and throw them through the doorway,
his doorway,
onto his deck
and nod
and he'd speak into that little mike
and they'd go nose down
and lift into their last flight,
their last extraction.
Sometimes he'd raise a thumb
or perhaps a fist
or sometimes just a sly, knowing smile,
knowing we were staying
and he was going
but also knowing he'd be back,
he'd be back in a blink,
standing in the swirling noise
and the rotor wash,
back to let us rush
through his door
and skid across his deck
and will that son-of-a-bitch into the air.
They came in low and hot,
close to the trees
and dropped their tail in a flare,
rocked forward,
kicked out the boxes
and slipped the litter
across the deck
and sometimes he'd lean down
and hold the IV
and brush the dirt off of a bloodless face,
or hold back the flailing arms
and the tears,
a thumbs-up to the right seat
and you're only minutes away
from the white sheets, the saws and the plasma.
They came in low and hot,
close to the trees
and dropped their tail in a flare,
rocked forward
and we'd never hear that sound again
without feeling our stomachs go just a bit weightless,
listen just a bit closer
for the gunfire
and look up
for the man in the doorway.

Fiddlers Green

by: Author Unknown

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.
Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen. Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.

God And The Soldier

by: Author Unknown,

God and the Soldier we adore,

In times of danger, but not before.

When the danger is past,

and all things are righted,

Then God is forgotten,

And the Soldier slighted.