Vietnam as a Helicopter Gunship Pilot

This book was both work and a labor of reflection on my experience in Vietnam as a helicopter gunship pilot. Twenty years prior to this book I was encouraged by my wife to write down my experiences before I forget the details. I did and then put the notes away and let them age so to speak before I decided to tackle this endeavor, which took three years.

How Many Times Could One Rewrite a Book?

I‘m pleased with the finished product; but when I began my editor told me I would re-write the book three times. I did it five times. Finally, I just told myself to stop as you can make changes every time you pick up the book.

It was a long eleven and a half months in Vietnam so I had plenty of material to be sorted out and put in a reasonable semblance of order. This means it looked doable but underneath there was no order. I had piles of notes on my desk that needed to be sorted into an outline. I began building on this and the words began to flow from my head to my fingers.

Where to start? I finally decided to start when I made up my mind to quit college and join the army. Flying seemed so thrilling and they would pay me as a bonus. My dad flew fighter planes in WW II in Europe and what little he spoke of seemed like one big rush.

My granddad and dad were in WW I and WW II. The wars to end all wars. Yea, right.

Patriotism

I also thought it was patriotic. I was a little naïve about politics back then. I thought it must be profitable for the entities supplying our troops because we kept making the same mistakes over and over. We would fight for a piece of real estate at the expense of young kids and then leave it for the enemy to return and reoccupy. We then in return would come back and repeat the same process of destroyed equipment and dead kids.

We did this in Korea as well. The only difference was this was our first helicopter war so we were essentially learning as went along. This made for some interesting situations. At times laughable, (which seems bizarre), but dark humor has a way of raising its ugly head in dark situations.

How to Douse the Pain of War

For example; when we could get our hands on some gin, (at $1.00 per bottle – we were told that was the good stuff) we would drink it out of an empty beer can, (if we didn’t have to fly the next day) with the top cut off with our survival knife and mix it with grape soda or with sprite. Hence the name purple mother fucker and a green mother fucker, (green was the color of the can). No ice mind you; but it got the job done. It was our unwinder. Just be careful of the razor-sharp edge where we cut off the top of the beer can. Helicopter pilots and crews had a very high mortality rate. When we got the next day we drank away the death and destruction as there was no other way. Occasionally we would swear never to get that drunk again as the day after was miserable. We were lucky to find our hootch, let alone our bed.
You’ve never known anyone until you sat with them in a four-hole latrine, (shit house shed with the bottom four feet of the walls comprised of wood and the top four feet were screens for ventilation). “Hey man, can you pass me the paper?” After a time or two in there, it was no problem. Really!

Nothing was greater than receiving a letter from the world, (the US). They would talk about nothing or forget and talk about protesters, which we didn’t care for. Guys had girlfriends, wives, and/or acquaintances that would send them a “dear John” letter. Which is military parlance for a breakup, or in the vernacular, “kiss my ass and goodbye, I found someone else.) This is the worst possible thing to happen to a kid 3000 miles away with no ability to try and make things right. They were devastated. We would take them off flight status for a few days until they got their heads on straight.

Such is war.