Fanning Off a Quick Six

 

Like so much else, I’m not sure when the tradition began, but I do remember something we called, “Fanning off a quick six.”

First, a little history. While in flight school, in the couple of weeks prior to graduation, we were required to qualify with a pistol. We were shown how to break down, reassemble and then practiced with a .45 cal. ACP. Once we learned that, we were taken to the range and fired 21 rounds through them for qualification. We all knew that our next assignment, upon graduation, would be to Vietnam.

Upon arrival at the Hornets, I was issued… yes, a Smith and Wesson, .38 cal. revolver. So much for the training. I was also surprised to learn that the standard load for the .38 was 21 rounds. We could load it three and a half times. For those interested, that was based on the 21 rounds issued for the .45. Apparently, no one thought to adjust it for the .38.

This pretty much resembles my revolver in Vietnam.

The point here is that, while landing in an LZ with full suppression, we would sometimes fire the revolvers out the window, adding our rather anemic .38 cal. pistol rounds to the 7.62 of the door guns. Yes, the other pilot was flying at the time.

That was what we called, “Fanning off a quick six.” Six rounds in the pistol fired as quickly as we could pull the trigger.

Once, I fanned off a quick twelve. I was using the co-pilot’s revolver as well as my own.

And for those of you who worried that Clint Eastwood, while training the Recon Marines in Heartbreak Ridge (which was an Army battle), pointed out that the AK-47 made a distinctive sound, I note this. We, meaning some of the flight crews did carry captured AKs. As we were landing on a combat assault, one of the pilots, or possibly a door gunner, used his AK in a full suppression LZ. One of the gunship pilots wanted to know if anyone in the flight had an AK and was firing it.

The answer was no. It meant that there was someone on the ground firing at us. I don’t remember if that guy was spotted or not. I just know that the gunships were a little more enthusiastic in their suppressive fire.

Aircraft Commander

 

I don’t know if it was a unit policy or a local regulation, but a pilot was required to have 300 hundred hours of flight time in country before he could be considered for aircraft commander. That meant a pilot would have over 500 hours of total time when the flight school hours were considered.

At midday we had been released into the company area to stand by on the aircraft. We were told to head to the mess hall for lunch, but to return to the aircraft when we were finished eating. I walked to the helicopter and the aircraft commander, one of the senior pilots in the company which meant he’d been there for six or seven months, told me to grab my helmet and move to the left seat.

I will note here, and again I don’t know how wide spread it was or if it was something unique to our battalion, but the aircraft commander typically flew the left seat, though the helicopter was set up for the AC to be in the right seat. This was the opposite of the way airplanes were arranged. The AC took the left seat because the view from the left side was better than that on the right.

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but did as I was told. The AC, and I don’t remember who it was, told me to climb into the cockpit. He took the right seat and began to explain that the situation in the left seat was slightly different than what I was used to.

Notice the white cord around
my neck? This holds the SOI.
It became a status symbol for
some because the ACs were
the ones who normally wore
them.

In flight school, we switched seats depending on the training and who was with us, so I had experience flying in the left seat. But that was flight school and I had already learned that some of the truths we learned in flight school were not truths in country. This puzzled me because all the instructors were combat veterans who had recently returned from their tours in Vietnam.

As we sat there, he quizzed me on the various frequencies for the evac hospitals, for artillery clearances, where the hospitals were, and all sorts of things that I’d picked up flying around Vietnam for the last couple of months. He told me where we’d need to go for certain wounds, depending are where we happened to be. And then we went through some of the emergency procedures.

When we took off, I was the one who had to take care of everything. He just sat there, watching everything I did. Periodically, he would reach up and pull a circuit breaker that would cause an instrument to fail. He was making sure that I kept an eye on the instruments. Once I saw him reach up to do it and said, “Push in the circuit breaker.”

It was different sitting in the left seat. In flight school, our introduction to formation flying had been quite a bit looser than it was in country. Now the formations were tighter so that we would have better suppressive fire from the door guns. But the angles I had learned to watch for were different and it took a while to get used to that. It was almost as if I had just arrived in country and was learning formation flying all over again.

The learning curve was gentler and I picked it up quickly. I held our place in the formation, though I was a little bit farther back than I would have been in the right seat. The AC just sat there, watching everything, making a comment or two, or asking a question but mostly just along for the ride.

This went on for several days, until I had flown with each of the ACs at least once. They were all evaluating my abilities so they could determine if I was ready to be an aircraft commander. I figured they discussed it at the AC’s meetings that were held now and then.

Finally, I was told that I was ready for my AC check ride. First, in a single ship, we flew around the local area. I was responsible for all the radio calls… to Hornet Operations to let them know we were taking off, to the tower for clearance and to Cu Chi Arty to be sure we were clear of the gun target lines. We were making the round robin flight that required us to visit several outlying bases in what was known as Combat Support.

Along the way, the AC chopped the throttle to simulate an engine failure. I entered autorotation and said that if the engine failure was real that I would be making a mayday call, giving my location. As I flared out for touch down, he rolled the throttle back on was we ended that exercise at a hover. I began a climb, back to 1500 feet which was out of effective small arms range.

All that was only part one of the check ride. The next day was part two, which was in the flight. Same deal, the AC just watching everything but saying very little about how I was doing. Looking back on it, I know that had I screwed anything up, he would have taken control and let me know what I had done wrong.

When the flight was released for the day, the AC didn’t say much. Just told me to fill out the book and take the SOI (signal operation instruction which held the codes and frequencies for everything, which made it a classified document and required it by turned into operations at the end of the day) back to operations.

I didn’t ask how I’d done because, at the moment, even if I had failed, I wouldn’t know it. The chance was still alive that I had passed.

In the officer’s club, someone asked how I had done. I said that I hadn’t asked, and he couldn’t believe it. He didn’t subscribe to my philosophy. Of course, the determination hadn’t been made yet because the ACs had to get together to decide my fate.

I learned the answer after dinner that night, at the briefing in the club. The company commander said (more or less), “Randle has to buy the bar.”

For an instant I didn’t know what he meant, but then it became clear. I had been elevated to aircraft commander and because of that, I owed everyone a drink. One of the other ACs whispered to me, “Just give the bartender twenty bucks and let it go at that.”

As I did that, I realized something else. Suddenly, there was no one else to blame if there was a mistake in the aircraft. I was now the senior officer on board, and everything was my responsibility, from dealing with the emergencies, from ensuring that everyone on board was safe and to get to the proper place, if I was flying the round robin. I would have to navigate and I would have to make all the decisions.

Of course, it wasn’t all that bad. Because I was the junior AC, I was assigned to a position in the center of the flight. I wouldn’t be given the round robin or any single ship missions until I had a little more experience. Everything would be a learning situation.

Oddly, one of those first lessons came from a friend. He said that my voice sounded too high on the radio. He suggested that I take a breath before making a radio call. It would make me sound calmer.

But here I was, just 19. I still had friends in high school, and others were freshmen in college. While they were still kids in the eyes of many, having fun, I was in a combat environment with the lives of those on my aircraft my responsibility. Of course, I didn’t have such deep thoughts at the time. I was just annoyed that becoming an AC had cost me twenty bucks.

Hot LZ

 

Sometimes we were told that an LZ or PZ would hot when it was not. Sometimes we were told it would be cold when it was not. Sometimes, given the circumstances, we knew what we were flying into and sometimes we didn’t.

It was early in the afternoon, and we were tasked with moving a company from one location to another. We landed in the PZ, the soldiers were arranged in loads of seven or eight soldiers and spread out in a staggered trail so that we could land near those we were to pick up. Smoke was thrown, and Lead identified the color, and while this was routine, that is IDing the smoke, here it wasn’t necessary. We could see the soldiers and they had secured the PZ. We weren’t worried about the VC or the NVA trying to trick us by throwing a smoke grenade to divert us.

ID Red. Landing in the PZ. Note the soldiers lined up on opposite sides of
the PZ as the flight lands in a Staggered Trail. Photo copyright by Kevin Randle.

Once on the ground, the soldiers scrambled into the cargo compartment and the crew chief used the intercom to tell us that we were loaded. Trail, watching the entire flight, saw the soldiers climb into all nine of the aircraft in front of him. He said, “You’re down and loaded.”

Lead said, “On the go.” He pulled pitch and lifted off.

We followed suit and the flight quickly joined. Trail said, “You’re joined.”

Lead said, “Rolling over.” It meant that he would increase his speed to 80 knots, which was the standard for us.

Command and control, orbiting in the area of the next LZ, had provided the information to Lead, adding that we had negative suppression. That meant we weren’t supposed to shoot unless the target could be identified.

There was an RP, which was the rally point, and there was an IP, known as the initial point, where we would be met by a gunship to lead us to the LZ.

This time, because no one expected any trouble, there was no arty prep. We hit the IP and the call was made, “IP inbound.”

We could see the landing zone ahead, in this case, a huge area of rice paddies with a tree line along one side. There was no one visible. No farmers in their paddies. No water buffalo. In the far distance was a clump of trees that shaded several hootchs where the Vietnamese lived.

The gunship dropped from the sky, flying low, over the paddies. The crew chief tossed a smoke grenade. It was green smoke… that did not signal a thing. It was just the color of the grenade he’d grabbed at random.

C&C said, “Lead, land fifty yards beyond the smoke.”

There was nothing said for a moment and then, “Chalk four is taking fire on the right.”

That meant it was coming from the tree line to the right of the flight.

“Trail is taking fire on the right.”

One of the gunships rolled in, flying along the tree line, looking for the enemy. I could see a couple of tracers flash by, nowhere near any of the aircraft. In front of me, one of the door guns opened fire. The rounds were hitting near the base of the trees.

At that moment, almost as if the door gunner had marked the enemy location, one of the gunships fired a pair of rockets. They flashed down, exploding in the trees. More firing erupted, as the enemy engaged and it was clear that there were several of the enemy in the trees.

We touched down and there was more firing. I saw a number of rounds hit the water in the paddy in front of us. The soldiers almost dived from the aircraft. As they did, they opened fire and our door guns fell silent.

“Lead, you’re down with ten. Fire on the right.”

The gunships were now working over the tree line, one of them using the minigun, that is, the gatling gun that put out 3000 rounds a minute; 6000 from both guns. The bursts were short and it sounded like a buzz saw rather than the stoccado firing of a machine gun so common in the movies.

Firing from the trees began to taper. It might be that the threat had been partially neutralized, or it could be that the enemy was withdrawing.

“Lead’s on the go. Firing on the right.”

Almost as one, the flight lifted, staying low until clear of the area and then began to climb out.

“Flight, say hits.”

“Chalk two, rounds through the tail boom. Instruments in the green.”

“Eight. Couple of hits.”

“Lead, head for Cu Chi.”

“Roger.”

We had been engaged for about two minutes, from the time of the first shots until we were clear of the area. I was astonished that we had taken so few hits. Only a few of the aircraft had sustained any damage and it was superficial.

I was also somewhat surprised by my reaction. I sat there, looking at the tree line. I saw a couple of the muzzle flashes, but the firing was so wild that it didn’t seem dangerous. Later I would realize that my training had taken over. I was thinking of what had to be done based on what was happening. A need to head to the evac hospital. A need to get to Cu Chi. What radio frequencies would come into play. I wasn’t worried about getting hit, or a need to get out of there, only what my job was, especially if the aircraft commander was wounded.

These were the thoughts I would have at other times in other situations. Training took over. We had practiced this in flight school and we had been doing this for weeks.

At Cu Chi, we all examined the aircraft. We’d taken a single hit in the tail boom. It was a small hole and I had felt nothing. The AC said that he thought we’d taken a hit or two but he hadn’t been sure. Said that he had felt the round strike through the controls.

That night, at the evening briefing, we learned that there had been only about a dozen guys involved. As the gunships rolled in, they had tried to flee, but the ground on the other side of the tree line was wide open and they had nowhere to go. Instead, they had been captured. We were called back out to recover the company, along with their prisoners an hour or two later.

It was a small, unimportant engagement with a couple of thousand rounds expended, maybe a dozen rockets, and no one hurt on either side. Sort of a routine mission with a little bit of excitement thrown in.

Given what would happen in the future, this was a mild experience… it was a lull that wouldn’t last all that much longer.

The Real, True Story of My Thanksgiving Dinner

For a very long time I believed that I had left my Thanksgiving dinner in the serving line at the mess hall because the flight had been scrambled. I remembered being in the line, had been served part of the meal on the metal trays as the loud speaker announced, “Scramble all flight crews. Scramble all flight crews.”

Like the other flight crew, I left the tray on the rails in front of the servers, and headed for the door. We ran across the road that separated the company area from the Nest where the aircraft were parked. We had what was called the assault strip, which was a blacktop length of “road” parallel to the runway. We climbed into the helicopters and cranked the engine, reporting that we were up and ready to go. Once everyone had reported, Lead said that he was on the go and we lifted off in chalk order.

One the ground maneuvers in preparation for take off. Photo copyright by Kevin Randle.

And while that memory is true. It happened more than once. Sometimes we left the trays on the table or we left the line and headed out. Sometimes we weren’t in the mess hall, but just hanging out in the company area. In fact, one afternoon, as we stood by in the company area, four of us were sitting around a table in the dayroom area of one of the hoochs, playing cards. We had set our revolvers (yes, we had been issued .38s) on the table with the cylinders open. The platoon leader came in and asked about the revolvers. I said, “We’re making sure that no one cheats.” We were scrambled not long after that. The point is that more than once, we had been scrambled for any one of a number of missions.

However, on December 4, 1968, I wrote home about our Thanksgiving in Vietnam. I wrote, “Thanksgiving we spent on an airstrip near Tay Ninh. Third Brigade [I believe that would have been the 3d Brigade of the 25^th ID] said the dinner was on them. It was pretty bad. What made it worst, they made us pay for it. How’s that for the holiday spirit.”

I simply do not remember this mission. I do remember that we spent Christmas shut down in another area, along a road, waiting for a prisoner exchange that never happened. No one volunteered to provide us with a Christmas dinner. We were left with C-Ratios. We used to make little stoves by filling a used ration can, a little larger than those Tuna cans we have today, with JP-4, or using a little bit of C-4, to heat the food. One of our guys accidently kicked one of the cans, momentarily setting his boot on fire.

I do remember reading or hearing about how the Army worked to make sure that every soldier had a good holiday meal at Christmas and Thanksgiving. I also wondered who all those soldiers were because it seemed to have by-passed us… more than once.

I guess the point here is that we were frequently scrambled as there were follow on missions or something went south for a unit in the field and we were the closest aviation company. It was just that we weren’t scrambled during the Thanksgiving meal because we were elsewhere. We were already on a mission. 

Letters to Home: Part One

 

I had planned, because I have all the letters that I sent home, to publish them periodically here. I have watched those documentaries in which the letters of the soldiers from the Civil War, World War I and World War II give such a nice feel for what was happening. Unfortunately, the letters I sent home were not great slices of history as seen through the eyes of a nineteen-year-old soldier. They are, well, to be blunt, pretty awful.

There are a few paragraphs here and there that do make up for the lack of anything substantial. On September 30, 1968, I wrote:

I arrived safely in Vietnam. As you can see by the return address, I have been assigned to the 116 Assault Helicopter Company. We are known as the Hornets. Our base is Cu Chi, near Saigon.

There are five of us here from the 2 WOC [Warrant Officer Candidate Company, which was my flight school class], Overholt, Plunkett, Anderson, Barr and myself. At least I know a couple of people here…

Saturday night there was a party at the Officer’s Club. They had a rock band and even some girls [I suspect these were nurses from the 12^th Evac Hospital that was not all that far from our company area]. Hard to believe we’re in a combat zone.

Not much happening here. I’m supposed to be home 22 Sept next year. See you then.

Then it what was apparently the second letter that wrote home, I mentioned the trip from my home in Denver, telling about the time in San Francisco. I wrote:

I left Oakland Sunday. I was only officer in my group. We spent Sunday afternoon [when we returned to the Bachelor Officer Quarters and I was notified that I was on a late night flight] on Haight-Ashbury. You should have seen all the hippies…

My stick buddy from Rucker [meaning the other warrant officer candidate that often flew with me during training] has been killed. He’s the first and only one to have gotten zapped. [Later I wrote it was Ed Weiman who was killed.]

Rainwater [Preston B. a good friend from flight school] went to the 145 [assault helicopter company, but in reality, he went to the 334^th and he and I would fly together once much later in our tour]. That’s supposedly the best assignment.

We fly between 5 and 10 hours a day on combat support and direct combat support. Don’t let the names fool you, it means that we pick up troops and land them. I’ve only been shot at once…

On October 18, 1968, I wrote:

Yesterday we were released at 3:00 [p.m.] and I almost got to the company area before they found us another mission. We waited on the flight line for 3 hours before they cancelled it.

The war isn’t doing much. The other day we captured 25 VC [which is to say that the Infantry soldiers captured them]. We were hauling them in to be questioned. One of them took off his blindfold and the crew chief nearly shot himself trying to load a weapon…

I almost got a Purple Heart yesterday. Fell off the stinger on the helicopter while making a pre-flight. Hurt me foot… [This, of course, would not have made me eligible for the Purple Heart.]

[To my sister, in a PS, I wrote] – All tapes by the Association, Stones, Cream, Deep Purple, etc. will do.

For those interested, during the pre-flight, you climb up on the stinger, which is a rod on the rear of the aircraft, designed to prevent you from sticking the tail rotor into the ground as you flare out for landing. It’s something like four or five feet off the ground, and you climb up on it to check the gear box and the linkage to make sure that nothing has come loose or has broken.

The stinger is that rod sticking out under the tail of the aircraft, designed to prevent
damage to the tail rotor as the helicopter flares out on landing.

Two days later, on October 20, 1968 (thank goodness that I dated the letters) I sent a short letter to my sister. I wrote:

Everything in Vietnam is awful. It has rained all day. Tomorrow it will probably be so dusty no one will be able to see. All in all, this is a miserable place…

Boy, have some neat stuff for your morbid book. I’ll tell you about it when I get home.

Although it has nothing to do with Vietnam, my sister, for a time and probably inadvertently, was collecting some “morbid” stuff. One of the things she had was a hotel receipt signed by Bobby Kennedy when he was in Denver, not long before he was assassinated in California. She doesn’t remember the morbid book, but here is documentation that it existed at one point.

Then, just four days later, I wrote home again:

I have Bruce’s story about shooting down the B-29 beat. [This was my stepfather who was a World War II Navy vet. He told of those on his ship firing at a high-flying aircraft while serving in the Mediterranean Sea, shooting down a B-29.] Today American Artillery shot me down. The Artillery shell went off at 2500’ and wiped out the tail boom, both rotors and nearly hit the fuel cells. No one was hurt [and yes, I count this as being shot down].

There’s an article about us in this month’s Aviation Digest. It’s about the 269^th Battalion (The Black Barons). We are, of course, in the Battalion.

Things changed at some point after those first letters. On November 24, 1968, I wrote home:

Well, I guess someone decided to start a war over here. We’ve been on standby alert for about the past week. Nothing’s happened, but its hard to sleep in a cold helicopter

Would you believe it actually gets cold here? I almost froze the other night. Sure am glad I brought my flight jacket. … The days are hot. Like in burning.

There are two other Coloradans [here]. One other officer and an enlisted man. The EM is from Colorado Springs. There is a nurse at the 12^th Evac also from Colorado Springs…

Tell Roquel or Kay that Robert [Roquel’s brother] couldn’t have been in the Green Hats and the 4^th WOC. Kay said that he was in the 4^th. The 2^nd is Green and the 4^th is brown.

Sadly, Roquel’s brother was killed in a traffic accident shortly after he returned from Vietnam.

These are pretty routine letters*. I suspect I didn’t put anything in them that was too bad. I found nothing, for example, about my arrival at Ton Son Nhut. As I have mentioned, we got off the airplane and were nearly overwhelmed by the heat, humidity and smells. We were taken to a bus that had these screens over them with huge squares that wouldn’t keep out the insects. Someone said it was to keep out the grenades.

And I found nothing about the first mortar attack that wounded five officers, one critically. He was eventually evac’ed to the US for treatment of a neck wound. He never returned, but we did learn that he had recovered.

I thought these provided a glimpse into the boring times among the periods of high tension. I found one letter that explained that the enemy used green tracers and we had just recently seen a lot of them. I’ll get to that later. For now, these are some samples of the boring stuff between missions.

*For those interested, there are some very disturbing things in these letters that I had not thought about or remembered until I began going through them. Many of the things in the letters refer to managing my bank accounts in the US, giving instructions about what to do with my pay. There are also suggestions for things that would make life a little easier. At one point, we hadn’t seen any Coca Cola for weeks… just beer and this really lousy Kool-Aid type drink.

Bunker Duty - The Final

This, of course, presented a real problem. I needed to be able to communicate with all the bunkers along our section of the line. I picked up the PRC-25. The jeep was gone on another mission which meant we’d have to walk to his bunker. I told the sergeant where I would be and told the guy to lead the way.

When we got to his bunker, we stopped and he said, “We traced it there, in front but we didn’t want to walk around out there.”

I said, “Seems like a silly place to put the wire.” But then I realized it actually made sense. Just in front of the bunker was a place that the GIs wouldn’t be walking around which meant they couldn’t accidentally cut the line. And if Charlie got that close to the bunker to cut the line, they were already in deep trouble. They should see him long before he could reach that point.

We checked the field phone to be sure that it was working properly. It wasn’t. That finished, the only conclusion we could draw was that the break was in front of the bunker and the sandbag walls that flanked it on both sides. It meant that we were going to have to crawl around out there. I was going to tell the senior sergeant present to deactivate the claymores, but we wouldn’t be in front of them.

Instead, I used the PRC-25 to talk to the sergeant of the guard, telling him that I, with a couple of soldiers, would be out in front of the bunkers. No one was to shoot unless I gave the order. With that order given, I looked at the field in front of us, not sure that I wanted to do it.

It was just flat land with all the bushes and tall grass cut down. There were, at least, six strands of concertina, the last one about a hundred yards away. There was nothing moving, that I could see even though it was now close to twilight, I could see well enough.

Without thinking about it, I drew my pistol and looking at the men coming with me, hopped over the sandbag wall. I crouched there and attempted to not silhouette myself against the lights on the airfield and the final rays of the sun. The others joined me and we just waited for a moment, though I’m not sure what I was looking for.

One of the soldiers, the commo specialist, said, “Come with me.”

As we moved along the edge of the sandbags, first those of the wall and later directly in front of the bunker. We worked our way forward, the specialist running the commo wire through his hand. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and said, “I found the break.”

He knelt and began to spice the wires together. I was watching out, across the countryside and thought I saw a flash of light. I moment later something dropped into the wire about fifty yards away. When it detonated, I knew immediately that it was a mortar round that had fallen short. I knew the sound they made when they exploded.

I said, “You want to hurry up.”

“Done.”

“Then let’s go.”

Now I thought I heard the sound of the mortar firing and knew another round was on the way. I crouched down, leaning against the sandbag wall. The round flew over us and landed about a hundred yards behind the bunker line. It didn’t seem they were targeting us, but were aiming for something deeper, inside the camp.

As soon as the round detonated, I leaped up and jumped over the sandbag wall. The others followed and we scrambled around, diving into the bunker. The bunkers were designed to detonate the mortar rounds over us but not penetrate into the bunker. A 105 artillery round make take out the bunker, but a mortar wouldn’t.

We were relatively safe inside, or that was what I told myself. By this time, I had been through enough mortar attacks to know what to expect. Although the rounds had landed in direct line with our section of the bunker line, they were now walking away from us.

On the airfield, I heard the whine of a Huey turbine and knew that counter mortar was launching. These were gunships with the mission of finding and destroying the mortar tubes. The muzzle flash would give them away, not to mention the line of rounds as they detonated. The gunships flashed overhead, heading out, toward the single clump of trees about a klick away.

I said, “Well, that was fun.”

“We have commo reestablished, sir.”

“Then I’ll head back to the command bunker.”

“Yes, sir.”

When I was sure that there would be no more mortar rounds falling around us, at least for a while, I crawled out of the bunker. I could see the gunships in the distance and the flashes of their rockets as they hit the ground. That was a somewhat comforting thought.

About the time I got back to the command bunker, the operations officer, or his designated representative, had driven up. He asked, rather nastily, “Where have you been?”

I told him about the severed commo wire and that we’d repaired it. He seemed annoyed that we hadn’t cleared this mission with him, especially since I was away from the command bunker during a mortar attack. Made no difference that I was on the line and that we’d fixed the problem. I should have alerted them to what was happening. That was probably true, but then I was a pilot and not an infantry officer.

It was now sometime after midnight, but I wasn’t sleepy even though I’d been awake for about twenty hours, that I had put in a full day with the flight, and hadn’t even had any dinner because of the late hour of our return. I’d offended another officer at battalion (which wouldn’t be the last time I did that during my tour).

The night passed slowly and about three, I felt myself beginning to doze off, so that I climbed out of the bunker, walked around behind it, and stretched. I watched some of the aircraft operating around the airfield, and looked toward the east, hoping that the sun would appear there soon.

About six, after the sun was up and the landscape rather bright, we were relieved. I looked around quickly, saw that everything seemed to be in its place, and the rest of the guards were folding their lawn chairs and climbing into the truck that would take them back to the company area. I called battalion and told them that we had secured the area and I was going back to the company, hoping that I hadn’t been assigned to fly again that day.

I hadn’t been asleep very long before one of the sergeants from the orderly room awakened me. He had a message from battalion. Apparently, one of the officers had been out to our section of the bunker line and wasn’t happy. There were Coke cans and cigarette butts all over the place. I was to round up the soldiers and we were to head out there to police up our mess.

I could see no point in that. Instead, I just climbed into a jeep, after telling the first sergeant I was taking it out to the bunker line. He just nodded sagely, as if he knew what the problem was.

Short final into Cu Chi, flying over the bunker line. Photo copyright by Randle.

Out there, I did find two Coke cans on the ground and one setting on top of a sandbag wall. There were half a dozen cigarette butts that I could find and half of them looked as if they had been there for a while. Satisfied that I had fulfilled that part of my duties, I drove back to the company area, and then went back to sleep.

Now, if this had been fiction, I’m sure that one of the battalion officers would have found some other discrepancy somewhere and summoned me again. But that didn’t happen. No one else bothered me, and although this was Vietnam, and it was hot and humid and we didn’t have air conditioning, I did have a big fan that blew the air over me. I slept to the middle of the afternoon, and awaked in time for the AFVN weather report.