gear and jungle utilities, their new jungle boots without a scuff, looked at each other with thinly veiled apprehension as the chopper shook and vibrated. Clumps of dirt danced around the riveted floor like the little plastic players on an electric football game. As the crew chief had demanded before takeoff, their M16s held no magazines and the chambers were cleared.
The door gunner leaned over with a toothy grin not meant to be comforting and shouted over the noise, “Stay away from the rear of the chopper. You can’t see the tail rotor spinning, and it will cut you in half. I don’t give a shit about you, but after it cuts you in half, we won’t be able to take off. So stay the hell away from the tail.”
Three rapid explosions jolted the ground, and shards of tree trunks shredded the surrounding foliage. Three trees hopped spasmodically in unison and collapsed with a crash into the grass. Before the branches stopped twitching Sergeant Blackwell was into the clearing with a detail involving half the platoon. They snatched up the trees and dragged them into the jungle, pulling and twisting until even the uppermost branches were manhandled clear of the LZ.
Even before the trees were completely concealed in the jungle, the 34’s tires were bouncing on their struts beside three splintered stumps. The huge rotors whipped the grass into a brown frenzy and tossed bits of tree trunk around like shrapnel. The crew chief was already pushing cases of C rations to the door. “Last stop, everybody out,” he yelled, pushing a carton into the arms of one of the passengers. “And don’t go empty-handed.”
The pilot lowered the collective and adjusted the engine’s rpms as a small group of Marines rushed the starboard side, stooping at the waist to avoid the deadly rotors. The two new guys hit the ground disoriented, each holding a case of C-rats under one arm. One of the approaching Marines pointed back to the edge of the clearing, and the replacements ducked down and headed to where the lieutenant and Bronsky stood watching.
The escort flew a wide arc above the clearing as cases of food and equipment were dragged through the cargo door of the supply helicopter and hauled away.
Standing next to Diehl, Strader watched the two new Marines approach. Their pants were bloused at the boot tops, and they wore their jungle utility shirts under their flak jackets, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. One set the C ration case at his feet and started to raise his right hand to the rim of his helmet.
“Don’t paint a target on me, Marine,” the lieutenant said. The new guy dropped his arm to his side. The other stood there, clutching his C rations.
Strader looked at the lieutenant with disbelief. “Two more FNGs, sir? I should stay to make sure—”
The lieutenant cut him short. He nodded at the grenade pouches on Strader’s belt. “Reach, give these two hard chargers your frags and smoke. You won’t need them.”
Strader dug the grenades out and handed them to the new guy without the C ration case.
All the gear was offloaded from the helicopter now, and the pilot was increasing the engine’s power. Lieutenant Diehl grabbed the radio handset. “Hold on, Highball. I’ve got one to go.” The pilot’s voice hissed through the speaker, and Diehl turned away and covered his other ear.
“Let’s move, Pounder. I don’t like your neighborhood.”
Strader wanted one last appeal. “But, sir,” he said.
“Chief, make sure the corporal gets on that chopper.”
The Chief took a menacing step forward.
“Okay, okay. I’m going. I don’t like it, but I’m going.”
The two Marines started across the clearing toward the helicopter as the rotors whipped the air impatiently.
Corporal Middleton ran in from the side and caught up. “Blackwell says you’re skying up, Reach. Is that true?”
“True enough, Carl. The lieutenant says I go or the Chief here will be wearing my hair on his belt. Right, Chief?”
“I’m not a chief, shitbird.”
Middleton slapped Strader on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in a couple days. Save me a beer.” He turned and jogged back toward his squad.
Strader tossed his pack through the helicopter door and started to climb on, then looked back. “You wouldn’t really shoot me would you, Chief?”
The Chief slung his rifle over his shoulder. “My name is Gonshayee, asshole.”
The door gunner extended a hand and dragged Strader in.
The pilot worked the collective, and the huge open exhaust roared, the rotors spinning until they were a translucent blur. He adjusted the pitch of the main rotor, simultaneously increasing the engine speed, and the Chief ran for cover, disappearing in a swirling hail of debris. The machine rattled and shook until it seemed to test all the rivets that held its form together. With one more throttle increase, the pounding rotor beat the law of gravity into submission and the big green grasshopper lifted into the air, raised its tail, and climbed out of the clearing.
Corporal Strader stood in the door and watched his Marine family fall away. Unexpected sadness and overwhelming guilt swept over him as the helicopter moved above the jungle canopy and the arboreal wilderness swallowed up Golf’s 1st Platoon.
The H-34 swung north with the escort close behind. The gunner sat by the door, casually holding the pistol grip on his M60 as it hung down in its mount. He whistled loudly to get Strader’s attention and pointed to one of the jump seats. Strader didn’t want to break his mental connection with his platoon. The crew chief cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Sit down.” Finally, Strader dropped into the seat. The air seemed cooler in the chopper. The rotor wash and speed whipped air currents about the interior, drying the sweat on his face. He noticed the crew chief pointing at him. He raised a defiant chin as if to say, “What the hell do you want now?” The Marine pointed at Strader’s rifle. “Clear that weapon,” he yelled.
Strader lay the M14 across his knees, released the magazine, and ejected the chambered cartridge. The jacketed 7.62-mm round gleamed in the shadowy interior of the helicopter, and he pushed it into the pocket of his flak jacket. The crew chief gave him a thumbs-up and turned back to his window.
In the last year Strader had been ferried about the northern provinces of I Corps many times in choppers like this one. He had flown from the top of the mountain outpost at Nong Son. His squad had dropped into the Phu Loc compound at Liberty Bridge to stop VC sappers from destroying the engineers’ newly completed work. And he went with Sparrow Hawk to Tam Ky when a North Vietnamese Army push overwhelmed Marine defenses there. He might even have flown in this very 34 before, though he didn’t recognize the crew.
The crew chief was sitting in shadow against the bulkhead, but the door gunner sat in a square of bright morning light. The green paint on his flight helmet was so scratched and worn that his name, stenciled in black letters, was illegible. His face seemed marked with acne, but on closer inspection Strader could see that the problem was caused by enthusiasm, not hormones or hygiene. The black spots were specks of cartridge powder burned into the skin, blowback from an overheated M60 barrel known as a cook off. Strader was sure the spots would have faded to mere shadows by the time the gunner was old enough to drink.
Strader leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to enjoy the ride.
