Robert Mason - Chickenhawk

“Please be careful,” she said.

A nearly hysterical feeling of fear hit me as I stepped off the plane at An Khe. The fear welled within me, changing to a prickly, cold terror in the moist heat. I shivered slightly and forced the demons to the background while I looked for a field phone. I shivered in the dark tent while I waited to be connected to my company.

“Welcome back, Mr. Mason,” said Sergeant Bailey. I calmed immediately at Bailey’s voice. “We’ll send a Jeep over right away.”

It was gray outside, overcast, humid, incredibly hot. I fired up another Pall Mall and waited.

In a few days I succeeded in almost totally suppressing my fear. We were not taking many hits out in the mountains where the Cav was currently fishing. The closest thing to real action was when one of our gunships shot down a slick.

Major Astor, the replacement for Captain Morris, was a tall, sturdily built man with short blond hair, more like the stereotypical marine than an army pilot. He joined us right after Bong Son valley. He saw only our pleasantly boring missions in the local boonies, which led him to erroneous conclusions.

“They let us go pretty much where we want to go,” Major Astor said to John Hall. “How much longer can the VC last if we’ve got control of the air like we do?”

“We don’t have control; they do,” said John.

“Yéah. I’ve seen how tough they are. Actually, though, what could you expect them to do against our helicopters?” Astor grinned.

“You’ve got it wrong, Major. The little people have just decided to take a small break for a while.” John was drinking whiskey; the major beer; and I was listening. We were at the bar of our soon-to-be-opened-built-by-our-own-hands officers’ club. There was no bartender yet; people just brought their own bottles.

“You call them ‘little people’?”

“Sometimes.”

“Makes them sound like elves.”

“Well, sometimes you’d think the little bastards were carrying around some fairy dust or something, the way they can be exactly where you don’t want them to be.”

Connors and Banjo walked in. Connors’s shirt was stuck to his sweaty body, and sweat ran down his face. Banjo looked dry in comparison.

“Bartender!” Connors yelled. “Beer! Give me beer!”

“There is no bartender,” Banjo said.

“I know that; I’m just practicing.” Connors looked

around and nodded to the new major. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Mr. Connors. I just found out that you’re the company’s IP.”

“Yes, that is true. I am an ace with a helicopter.”

“Just don’t get near him when he tries to tie one down,” said Banjo.

“Fuck off, Banjo.”

“Ever teach at flight school?” Astor said to Connors.

“Not yet. That’s probably where they’ll send me after this bullshit, though. Why? Are you an IP?”

“No,” said Astor. “I just graduated. I was impressed by the training program at Rucker.”

“Army helicopter training is the best there is. When you leave, you’re almost safe.”

“Almost safe?” Astor laughed.

“That’s right. Any new pilot is still dangerous. They know just enough to get themselves in trouble. After another five hundred hours of practical flying, learning how to use the aircraft, I’d say they were pretty safe. If you’re still alive at a thousand hours, you must have it down pretty good. That’s stateside time. Over here you pick things up quicker ‘cause of the pressure of being shot at.” Connors grabbed the beer that Banjo put in front of him.

“Well, I thought it was a damn good program,” said Astor. “And after flying over here awhile, I’m even more impressed at how good the training is.”

“Yeah, it is good. But don’t judge the action here by what you’ve been seeing since you’ve been here. When you start making your approaches to that tight LZ, in formation, with the VC shooting at your ass, then it starts to get tough.”

“Even so, if you fly like they taught you, and don’t panic, you ought to do okay,” said Astor.

“What can I tell you? You got the big picture for sure.” Connors turned to me and Hall and rolled his eyes.

“Here’s to army aviation.” Astor raised his beer.

“Huh?” said Connors..

I left the club to write my daily letter home, mentally totaling my flight time. By Connors’s definition I was a little better than pretty safe, with seven hundred hours. Connors himself had nearly three thousand hours, almost all in Hueys. All of this proved to me that I was becoming a professional—a helicopter pilot. When I got back home, I could start my own helicopter company. All I had to do was get back home.

Later that night, I heard the shrill screaming of a man gone crazy. I ran outside, goose flesh rising on my skin.

“God damn them! God damn them!” the voice shrieked.

Near the club, I saw four men carrying one of our pilots, a screaming, twisting, fighting Captain Fontaine. Fontaine hated Owens and White.

“I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them!”

“Calm down…”

“I will kill themmmm!” Fontaine’s voice trailed into a high-pitched scream. He was a struggling pig going to slaughter, but the four men, one of whom was Connors, held him tightly and carried the writhing man up the short stairs to his hooch. And Fontaine was such a calm guy, too.

“He went fucking nuts,” said Connors.

“I can see. But why?” I asked back in our tent, watching Banjo heat some coffee water next to his cot.

“Fucking Owens and White.” Connors sat on his cot. “Fontaine says he found out that those two have been faking their flight records. They’ve been logging a lot of combat time when everybody knows they don’t fly at all. Anyway, he got into it with Owens. Owens told him he was just jealous! That cocksucker! He thinks everybody is as much an asshole as he is.”

“Why do they want the time?”

“Well, you figure a guy like Owens, coming up soon for major. He needs the combat time on his records. He might even try to get some medals with it.”

“Coffee time. Sorry guys, there’s only enough for me.” Banjo laughed.

“So why say anything?”

“I’m not sure. I think it makes me feel better when I think I’m living better than you.” Banjo laughed. “How ‘bout a cookie?”

“You’re so generous, Mr. Bates.”

“Not at all, Mr. Connors.” Banjo bowed, smiling. “Mason?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m going to bed.”

When you put your mosquito netting down around you, you felt isolated, even in the crowded tent. You were still in plain view of everyone, but the feeling was that you now were private, separated. I settled into my poncho liner to sleep.

Blackness surrounded me and something formless pursued me. A presence dove into my mind and flooded my heart with overwhelming fear. I snapped awake, raised on my elbows. Through the gauze of the netting, I saw Connors looking over from the other side of the tent. I tried to remember what scared me, but I could not. Nothing was happening in the camp. I eased myself back down, feeling tired, and watched the top of my mosquito netting.

The next day, Gary and I flew attached to Major Astor’s platoon on his first mission as leader. Most of the day was spent flying C rations out to resupply the various patrols beating the bushes for Charlie. So far, no Charlie. Occasional sniper hits were reported. Old campsites. New campsites. Even a few captives. But for all practical purposes, the jungle and bush we scoured was uninhabited.

Astor did pretty well at the beginning of the mission. He had the eight ships assigned to him split up, each one resupplying an area of its own. This made the work go faster. Resupply was considered tedious by most pilots, but Gary and I took these delightfully boring occasions to play with the machine while we did the job. Nothing malicious, like buzzing MPs, but the kind of play that challenged our skills.