Robert Mason - Chickenhawk

“You think I’m kidding?”

I laughed again.

“Wait, Mr. Mason. You’ll see. Rubenski and McElroy. That’s the names to look for, sir. The best.”

“I’ll be watching the papers, Rubenski.”

“Great. That’s all I ask. Watch the papers. Give us a chance.” Rubenski turned around and noticed that the grunts were getting organized. “Be right back.” He ran toward a group of soldiers.

The grunts were dressed in their new uniforms, back in business. They loaded the empty food containers on board along with two guys with minor wounds. When they moved away from our ship, I saw Rubenski hugging one of the grunts in farewell. He ran back to our ship as I cranked up.

As the VC were driven southward, they moved toward the crow‘s-foot in Kim Son valley. In that valley one of the serpentine turns of the river looped back almost upon itself. The piece of land within the loop was the site of a large village.

“This is LZ Bird.” Major Williams pointed at the map at our operations tent at the Rifle Range. “North Vietnamese and Vietcong units are holed up here, and in the jungles north of it. Our assault will be to the village itself. The approach path is across this high ground south of Bird, and there doesn’t seem to be any ground fire along that route. Antiaircraft emplacements are reported at Bird, but the LZ will be thoroughly prepped before we land. After the initial wave is on the ground, some of you will return to the staging area to pick up more troops and take them to the LZ. Good luck. Let’s go.”

As we left to walk to the aircraft, Resler said, “Jesus, sometimes I get the feeling I’m in the middle of a war!”

“What did you think? The war’d be over when you got back?”

“I was hoping. God, you should have seen Bangkok. Absolutely precious women, great food, strange sights, and, best of all, no shooting.” We approached our ship and threw our chest protectors and helmets up front on the seats. Gary did the preflight walk-around, and I climbed up top to check the rotor hub and mast. “Those girls look so cute and so shy, it’s really a shock to find out that they love to fuck,” he added.

“Give me a break,” I said. The rotors were clean, showing no delaminations.

“Really. They practically fell all over me.” Then I heard him tell the crew chief, “Missing a rivet here. Course, I don’t see how it matters, with that bullet hole next to it.”

The dampers were free and there were no cracks forming in the hub, the Jesus-nut safeties were in place, and there were no fractures visible. I climbed back down. “Did you get any sapphires?” I said.

“No. I can’t tell a good one when I see it. Got laid, though.”

“Gary, I will kill you if you don’t stop—”

“They’ve got the biggest eyes you’ve ever seen. Small, delicate features; small, firm breasts; and tight little pussies.”

“Tight?” I sighed.

“And juicy.” Gary cackled and began to walk around to get in.

“God, I need to go to Bangkok,” I muttered. “How much?” I called to Gary as he strapped in.

“Free.”

“Free?”

“Yep. And all you can handle. If you can walk when you leave, you weren’t trying.”

“Crank ‘em!” someone yelled.

I climbed into my seat and strapped in. “Tonight, Resler, I will strangle you.” He laughed so hard he cried.

The fifty-ship gaggle cruised in the cool air on the way to Bird. Gary and I were twentieth or so. We did little talking on the way. It wasn’t exactly fear that caused that tickling, queer feeling in my stomach at the beginning of the assaults. At least I wasn’t conscious of being afraid. Instead I concentrated on the radio chatter to see how it was going, shrugged now and then to relieve the stiffness in my neck and shoulders that always seemed to be there, and patted my pistol.

As we crossed the ridge, the LZ was visible at the bottom of the bowl. Streams of smoke from the prestrike drifted up to the top of the valley and blew away. The twenty ships in front of us formed a line descending steeply toward Bird, going down a staircase. Up through that line of Hueys, huge tracers from the anticraft guns streaked silently by. The only sounds of battle came through my earphones as pilots talked. I could hear the chatter of their own machine guns.

“Crew chief hit bad! I’m going back,” someone ahead of us radioed. Pfc. Miller had taken a direct hit in his chest protector, but the shrapnel from the bullet had ripped off his left arm. He would have bled to death if the pilot hadn’t aborted.

“Roger. Get him to the hospital pod.” A wounded air crewman or great structural damage were the only reasons you could abort. If a grunt was wounded, you kept going.

Gary flew. I chanced a few clicks on the camera around my neck while I lightly followed his movements on the controls. I didn’t look through the viewfinder; I just hit the shutter a couple of times, shooting blind.

I could never understand how tracers appeared to move so slowly. I knew they were going really fast, but they always seemed to be on a lazy flight. Unerringly straight, but lazy.

The guys up front did all the work, took the chances, and lost two ships. By the time we got closer, the heavy guns were knocked out by the grunts, leaving only one still blasting away.

We landed in somebody’s sandy vegetable patch, and the grunts were off, bounding toward the tree line. Gary nosed over and we were off. Gone. Away unscathed. Back to the beautiful sky where small clouds played in the cool air.

“You got it,” said Gary.

“I got it.”

We had to pick up some more troops and return. Gary flipped on the RDF (radio direction finder) and tuned in the station at Qui Nhon. Nancy Sinatra sang “These Boots Were Made for Walking.”

“Pretty good reception, high like this,” said Gary.

“FuckyouGIfuckyouGIfuckyouGI!” came over the radio.

“Hey, Charlie’s got our frequency,” I said.

“Say again, Charlie,” Gary broadcast back on the same channel.

“FuckyouGIfuckyouGI…”

“Who’s calling Charlie?” yelled the command ship.

“FuckyouGIfuckyouGI,” said the Oriental voice.

I spun the dial on the FM homer, and when the needle nulled, I had the general direction to the transmitter. “Coming from the south.”

Gary called the command ship. “We’re monitoring a Charlie broadcast from the south.”

“Roger.”

“FuckyouGI…” The high-pitched voice persisted, and then stopped as a Huey turned off in his direction.

“Little gook’s got some balls, don’t he?” said Gary.

“Yeah. I bet they’re bigger than he is.” If all the gooks were killed, I hoped that at least this guy survived. Every time I heard his emphatic staccato rendition of “Fuck you GI” I laughed my ass off. Somebody else pissing into the wind.

While the command ships tried to track down the VC radio broadcast, Gary and I flew back to the staging area and loaded more troops.

The second landing to the LZ was uneventful. We set down off to the right of the village compound in some gardens. We were told to shut down and wait to carry trophies captured in the battle.

Chinooks were slinging in artillery as we walked over to the newly captured/destroyed village. Once-swaying palm trees were now obscene sticks standing awkwardly above the pall that covered the craters and burnt hooches. I saw no living Vietnamese.

VC bodies were piled near a bunker. Some were missing limbs and heads. Others were burnt, facial skin drawn back into fierce, grotesque screams. A VC gunner was lying below his antiaircraft gun with one arm raised, chained to his weapon. American soldiers were policing the dead for weapons and piling what they found in a growing heap. Most were smiling with victory. Wood-smoke from the hooches mixed with the stench of burnt hair and flesh. The sun was hot and the air was muggy.