Robert Mason - Chickenhawk

“Guess it’s not going to burn off for a while.”

“Guess not,” I said.

“Wanna go for it?”

“Yeah.” I looked at the mortar round. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

I stared at the round as Gary cranked up. Would it be sensitive to the rotors when they started to thud? I guessed I’d never know if it was. “Top-notch demolition crew them ARVNs have….”

“You see ‘em coming?”

“No.”

“Oh. Yeah. Top-notch.”

Gary set the artificial horizon low for the takeoff. “Okay, Bob, you double-check me on the way out.”

“Right.”

“Everybody on board?”

“Roger,” answered the crew chief. “Sir, you sure we shouldn’t wait a little longer?”

“Relax, Sergeant. We got this thing under control.”

“Roger.” He didn’t sound convinced. Gary looked over at me and smiled. I nodded.

When he pulled in the power, I glanced at the round. The grass around it was pressing down in the rotor wash. Did it just move? The ship drifted off the ground. The round disappeared along with everything else.

There was no sensation of movement. The artificial horizon was right where it was supposed to be, and the airspeed was picking up. Gary let it accelerate to about 40 knots and held it there. Turn and bank was fine. “Needle, ball, airspeed” was the slogan we learned in flight school. I checked the instruments in that order. Gary was right on the money. White nothingness extended in all directions. The ship hummed, the instruments said we were moving, but the senses said we were parked in some strange void.

“So far, you’ve got a double-A ride,” I said, referring to the grading on the check-ride sheets our instructors used to carry with them. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“No sweat,” said Gary.

The whiteness grew brighter. It blazed. But still you could see nothing. Without reference to the inside of the cockpit, you would swear you were blind. The bright white grew bluish, and we saw a dark-green peak off to our right. “Yea,” I said, cheering.

“Great flying, sir!” The crew chief was now a believer.

I looked back. The misty sea beneath us hid the valley where midnight mortars lurked. The mountaintops were bright islands at the surface. I felt a shudder of relief and smiled to myself. It had been a bad night, but the sky was bright ahead.

May 1966

Riker and I sat together in the sling seat of the C-123 as it droned to Saigon. My feet rested on the flight bag that contained everything I owned. I was not coming back. Riker was on his way to an R&R flight to Hong Kong. Since I volunteered to transfer out, I wondered why I already felt homesick for the Cav.

“You see Resler break Eight-eighty-one?” Riker said.

“He didn’t break it; the new guy did.”

“Yeah, but it was Resler’s ship.”

I’d said good-bye to Gary as he walked out to the flight line with the new guy, Swain, in tow. Gary was checking him out, to see how well he flew.

“Probably won’t see you again,” said Gary.

“Probably not. At least not if I see you first.”

He laughed. “Yeah. Well, it was fun, even if we did argue a lot.”

“No problem. I always won anyway.”

He grinned and extended his hand. “Gotta go check this new guy out. I’ve got your home address. I’ll write you after our tours are up.” We shook hands.

“Yeah, do that. Let’s keep in touch.” I nodded and let go of his hand.

“See you.” He smiled and turned toward the ships.

“See you.” I watched him walk away.

I decided to watch him take off, so I sat on some sandbags in front of the operations tent.

“Where they sending you, Mason?” Captain Owens came out and pushed his cap back.

“A place called Phan Rang, Forty-ninth Aviation Company.”

Owens nodded. “Never heard of ‘em.”

“Neither have I, but they’re not the Cav.” Gary and Swain climbed into their ship, 881, the oldest Huey in the company.

“Ha. ‘Not the Cav’ is right.” Owens grinned. “Nobody’s the Cav.”

Gary’s ship was running now, so I got up to leave.

“Well, good luck in your new company,” said Owens.

“Thanks.”

They were in a hover, backing out of the slot, when everything came unglued. The ship vaulted backward over its own tail. The rotors hit the ground, and the transmission and drive shaft came off. The fuselage slammed into the ground. Pieces flew everywhere.

“Jesus!” I yelled and ran down the path. The fuselage was crumpled, lying on its back. I saw the crew chief scrambling out of the wreckage, pale and wide-eyed. I humped to get there, visualizing Resler as crumpled as his ship. Then I saw him squirming out through some twisted metal. He was scared but smiling.

“You all right?” I yelled.

Gary brushed himself off and began laughing. Swain was out walking around in circles. The crew chief was on his knees, trying to pull the gunner out of the pocket. Jet fuel dripped in puddles near him. “Come on!” the crew chief yelled, pulling.

Freed, the gunner, was bleeding from a gash on his temple. Gary was wandering dumbly toward the operations tent. Then he stopped and came back to the wreckage.

“You okay?” I ran over to him.

“Sure.” He laughed. “Sure, I’m okay. Why’d you ask?”

“Why’d I ask? Look at the ship!”

He laughed again, a giggle from a pale and confused face. “Bad landing!”

Some people walked the gunner up to the med tent. He was the only injury. I relaxed. “It’s only a bad landing if you don’t walk away from it.”

“What happened?” Gary’s question was broken by spasms of laughter.

“You don’t know?”

“Shit, the last thing I knew I was locking my belts, then wham!”

“Swain was flying?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think he could fuck it up getting out of the slot, you know.”

“Hey, Mason, the Jeep’s waiting to take us to the airfield,” Riker yelled from the tent.

“Shit. Hey, I gotta go. Again. You’re okay?”

“Sure. Why’d you ask?”

Riker dug around in his bag looking for something. The vibrations from the cargo ship were putting my ass to sleep.

“You know, Riker, every time I go to Saigon, you’re with me.”

“That’s right, you lucky fuck. I’ve got to get a room tonight ‘cause my R&R plane’s not leaving until tomorrow. Want to share a room?”

“Why not? I’ve got two days to get to my new assignment,” I said. Riker nodded in the loud droning. I looked across the deck, through a window, and saw the plane was banking. Probably getting close. Then we hit some bumpy air. It reminded me of the fly-by for the general.

We had practiced for two days, and the weather couldn’t have been smoother. A line of Hueys, Chinooks, Caribous, and Mohawks, even some little H-13s stretched for two miles, looped to the An Khe pass and back toward the Golf Course. “Keep ‘em tight,” said the Colonel. We did. Resler sat copilot and I flew because our position put my side closest to the ship we were flying on.

“You don’t have to go that close, you know,” Resler said.

“These guys know what they’re doing,” I said, referring to Connors and Banjo in the ship we followed. “I’d feel okay overlapping blades with them.”

“Fucking daredevil.”

I grinned, liking the label, and moved closer. “I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut,” said Gary.