Robert Mason - Chickenhawk

One morning we drew the assignment of flying to la Drang as a courier ship. We carried the courier, who carried a pouch containing important messages being sent to various field commanders. It was the kind of job I loved best. No formations, no hot LZs, no screaming grunts, and no red tracers.

After crossing the Mang Yang pass, we flew to a small LZ somewhere south of Pleiku. The courier hopped out and asked us to shut down. We did, then wandered over to a group of brass who were interrogating an NVA. The man’s arms were bound behind him. He shook his head quickly when the interpreter shouted sharp questions. A heavy-set colonel reacted angrily and asked again. A major stood behind the prisoner with a .45 drawn but held by his side.

“Tell him to talk or we will kill him,” the colonel said. The ARVN translator grinned. “Tell him!” The interpreter switched his face to stern severity and wheeled around and yelled piercing Vietnamese accented with gestures. The prisoner flinched at the words but resolutely shook his head.

“Did you tell him we’d kill him?”

“Yes. I say you talk now. If no talk now we kill now. Boom.” He smashed his fist into his hand.

“Good. Tell him again.”

He did, but the prisoner stubbornly refused to talk.

“Goddamn it!” the colonel shouted. “Major, put your automatic to the back of his head,” he said quietly, so as to not tip his hand. “When Nguyen here asks him again, push the barrel against his head.”

“Yes, sir.” The major raised the weapon.

The interpreter pounced upon the man, unleashing a torrent of threats, and the major prodded the back of his skull with the muzzle of the gun. The man flinched at the gun stabs and closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion. When the interpreter stopped screaming, he shook his head. No.

The colonel brushed the interpreter aside and put his face in front of the prisoner’s. “Listen, you slimy little gook. You talk. Now.” He glared. “I’ll blow your slimy brains all over this goddamn jungle.” He moved his face closer to the prisoner’s. “Cock that gun, Major!”

“Huh?”

“Cock the goddamn gun and let him hear it. I don’t think he believes we’ll kill his ass.”

“But we can‘t, sir.”

The colonel wheeled to the major. “I know that and you know that, but he doesn’t. Cock it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The major sheepishly pulled the slide back and let it snap. The loud click-clack made the prisoner flinch. He seemed to brace himself for death. He lowered his head. The major kept the gun at the base of his skull. Before the interpreter even asked the question, he began to shake his head slowly. No.

“Okay, okay. Let’s take a break,” said the colonel. “God damn gooks!” He looked around to see the courier and Gary and me. “What do you want?”

“Dispatches from division, sir.” The courier handed the colonel a fat envelope and saluted.

“Right.” The colonel nodded. “The fucking paperwork can find you no matter where you are.”

“Yes, sir,” said the courier.

The colonel looked up from the papers. “Well?”

“I have to get a signature on the cover sheet, sir.”

“You’ll get it. You’ll get it.” While he patted his fatigues for a pen, he noticed the prisoner staring at him.

“Major, I want you to blindfold that slope. And I want you to tell him that I’ve decided to execute him.”

“Sir?”

“That’s right. Tell him. Tell him.” The colonel shook his head wearily. “Jesus, Major, this is basic stuff. I’m going away for a while, and I want the interpreter to talk nice and friendly to the gook and tell him that maybe he can save his miserable skin. Like if he decides to talk. Get it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here’s your cover sheet.” The colonel handed the paper to the courier. “Nice day for flying.” The colonel looked at me.

“Yes, sir, it is,” I said.

He nodded over and over as if agreeing to several things, then stopped suddenly and looked at me sternly.

“Well?”

“Yes, sir,” I said quickly, “we’re going.”

I spit out blood. I had quit smoking and was taking it out on the inside of my cheeks. I sat behind a table in the mess tent trying to figure out how to make sense of a tall pile of papers that made up an accident report. My job, since I had caught a bad cold, was to be the scribe on the accident board. The company was out working the local area, but the word was in that we were going to go to the Turkey Farm in a few days.

I had mixed feelings. The job kept me behind in the safety of the camp, but being left behind for any reason was hard to bear. What a stupid emotion! I’d rather do a mountain of paperwork than be out flying. So why did I feel so rotten? What am I? A lemming? Relax and take it easy while you’ve got the chance.

“Aircraft commander says he did not realize that the LZ was filled with hidden stumps,” the report read. “Aircraft was pinned to a large sharpened stump, causing the aircraft to be abandoned.” Who cares? Why do we have to document every accident in this goddamn war? How can a pilot be expected to know everything? What do they expect, X-ray vision?

“Can I sit here, sir?” Sergeant Riles sauntered to my table.

“Sure.”

He pushed a file folder aside and put his canteen cup on the spot. “Got to take a break from the fuckin’ supply tent,” announced Riles.

“Yeah. Gets tough in there.” I hated myself for being cynical with one of the stay-behinds. And this one was the company’s genuine loser. Riles kept himself drunk by stealing whiskey from the crews’ stashes while they were out. He had been a master sergeant once, but because of his drinking he was now a pfc. We called him “Sergeant” because he grew very depressed with the word “Private.”

“Well, not that tough.” He laughed.

If Riles is a stay-behind and a loser, what does that make me? A feeling of revulsion came over me.

“Like to talk, Sergeant, but I got all this shit to do.”

“Right. Don’t mind me. Gotta get back anyway. Got this order today that we got to get ready for an IG inspection.”

“Uh-huh.” I barely glanced over a form.

“Hate that shit. Ever do an IG?”

“Never. Never will, either.”

Riles stood up and waited for me to say something. The silence spoke and he finally slumped off. I wanted to call him back and apologize for my thoughts. But I didn’t.

While the convoy crawled along Route 19, I thought about the British marching resolutely into American ambushes. The cook had lent me his M-16, which now lay across my lap as I sat in the Jeep. I thought of my rank insignia as the equivalent to the British Redcoat, and turned my collar under. By virtue of my being grounded, I was the officer in charge of our first road convoy to Pleiku.

“Group Mobile 100 ran from An Khe to Pleiku once,” said Wendall.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“They were French equivalent to the First Cav,” said Wendall. “They ran around these same roads in long caravans trying to beat the Vietminh. Group 100 was wiped out near the Mang Yang pass.”

“Thanks, Wendall. Great news.”

“Well, it’s history. You can learn from history, you know.”

“How’s that supposed to help me now?”

“Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t go to sleep on the trip. Have fun.”

The big difference, of course, was that we had patrols along the entire route. Knowing this did not suppress my fears. I had become very skeptical of secure LZs, roads, bridges, and camps. During the entire fifty-mile drive I watched the elephant grass along the road, braced for explosions at every narrow pass, and sat lightly on the seat when we crossed each bridge. When we drove into the Turkey Farm, I immediately found the flight surgeon and asked to get back on flight status.