Montagnard settlement up at Bon Hai, and we need to recruit some more men to replace the losses of the last two months. Take a couple of your officers and an escort of local Yards. Major Khai (who was our Army of South Vietnam counterpart) is giving the dead man a VN award for heroism during his last recon mission. Present it to the dead man’s family.”
The Iceman paused and lit one of his thin cigars. “Try to recruit a dozen new men if you can. See Captain Lopez, and get some piasters (Vietnamese currency) for bonus money for the village chief. Lopez’ll tell you what the going rate for a death benefit is. I’ll order a chopper to pick you up tomorrow morning. Get back by dark tomorrow night. Oh, yeah, tell Lopez to get you a couple of cows, too. The Yards will want to have a feast in honor of your visit and for the funeral. They make quite a party out of their funerals.”
Isler smiled at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Watch out for the drinks. The stuff they serve will cut varnish.”
I saluted and left the Old Man’s office. Back in the company area, I sent for First Sergeant Fischer. As soon as he settled down in the other chair in my little office, I told him about the escort duty and our recruiting assignment. “Who should I take with me?”
The old NCO didn’t hesitate a second. “Me and Ell-tee McMurray. The Yards all love Lieutenant Mac, and he’ll fit in real good. I’ll lay on some troops for the escort. Most of them are from Bon Hai, and will welcome a chance to visit their families.”
“Make Pham the NCOIC,” I said. “He’s a cousin to the dead man and besides, he can translate for us.”
“Hell, sir, all these Yards are kin. Just ask ’em.” The old NCO laughed.
We were all waiting on the macadam tarmac heliport at ten o’clock the next morning. The casket containing our dead striker was covered with the yellow-and-red-striped flag of South Vietnam. Pinned to it was a small medal dangling from a bright red ribbon. I remember thinking the little piece of metal wasn’t much of a trade for the dead man inside. For just an instant, I saw myself returning to my family the same way, but I swiftly pushed the morbid vision away. Death was the one thing you never wanted to dwell on around there. You simply trusted to fate and tried to do your job. What happened, happened.
The sacrificial cows were securely caged in their transport pens, mournfully mooing their displeasure at the tight confines. After we lifted off the tarmac, the pen would be slung beneath the chopper, and the doomed animals would ride the whole way like caged birds on a string. It would be uncomfortable, but a lot better than what was in store for them when they touched earth again.
I heard the
wop, wop, wop
of the Huey helicopter long before I saw it crossing the river from the Da Nang airfield. As we squinted against the sand kicked up by its whirling blades, the casket was loaded in, and we scrambled on board.In a few seconds, the chopper lifted off, and tilting the nose to pick up speed, we zipped over the junkyard across the road from camp and climbed into the warm air, our dinner dangling below.
The flight over the war-torn country was visually intriguing. The greens and browns of the low mountains seemed serene from where we were, yet I knew that down below, men were hunting other men. Their throats dry, their palms sweaty with fear and tension, they must envy us so remote above them. I loved flying up there, cool and safe, like an omnipotent overseer.
I envied the flyboys in the war; they flew above the dust and sweat of the ground, zooming along in their magnificent flying machines. But I also felt some disdain. Up there, they were beyond the ground pounder’s ever-present fear of meeting a bad guy around the next bend of the trail and the gut-wrenching sound of bullets cracking past your ear. Of course, I’m sure the flyboys would give me a passionate argument about the hazards they faced.
McMurray
The Iceman paused and lit one of his thin cigars. “Try to recruit a dozen new men if you can. See Captain Lopez, and get some piasters (Vietnamese currency) for bonus money for the village chief. Lopez’ll tell you what the going rate for a death benefit is. I’ll order a chopper to pick you up tomorrow morning. Get back by dark tomorrow night. Oh, yeah, tell Lopez to get you a couple of cows, too. The Yards will want to have a feast in honor of your visit and for the funeral. They make quite a party out of their funerals.”
Isler smiled at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Watch out for the drinks. The stuff they serve will cut varnish.”
I saluted and left the Old Man’s office. Back in the company area, I sent for First Sergeant Fischer. As soon as he settled down in the other chair in my little office, I told him about the escort duty and our recruiting assignment. “Who should I take with me?”
The old NCO didn’t hesitate a second. “Me and Ell-tee McMurray. The Yards all love Lieutenant Mac, and he’ll fit in real good. I’ll lay on some troops for the escort. Most of them are from Bon Hai, and will welcome a chance to visit their families.”
“Make Pham the NCOIC,” I said. “He’s a cousin to the dead man and besides, he can translate for us.”
“Hell, sir, all these Yards are kin. Just ask ’em.” The old NCO laughed.
We were all waiting on the macadam tarmac heliport at ten o’clock the next morning. The casket containing our dead striker was covered with the yellow-and-red-striped flag of South Vietnam. Pinned to it was a small medal dangling from a bright red ribbon. I remember thinking the little piece of metal wasn’t much of a trade for the dead man inside. For just an instant, I saw myself returning to my family the same way, but I swiftly pushed the morbid vision away. Death was the one thing you never wanted to dwell on around there. You simply trusted to fate and tried to do your job. What happened, happened.
The sacrificial cows were securely caged in their transport pens, mournfully mooing their displeasure at the tight confines. After we lifted off the tarmac, the pen would be slung beneath the chopper, and the doomed animals would ride the whole way like caged birds on a string. It would be uncomfortable, but a lot better than what was in store for them when they touched earth again.
I heard the
wop, wop, wop
of the Huey helicopter long before I saw it crossing the river from the Da Nang airfield. As we squinted against the sand kicked up by its whirling blades, the casket was loaded in, and we scrambled on board.In a few seconds, the chopper lifted off, and tilting the nose to pick up speed, we zipped over the junkyard across the road from camp and climbed into the warm air, our dinner dangling below.
The flight over the war-torn country was visually intriguing. The greens and browns of the low mountains seemed serene from where we were, yet I knew that down below, men were hunting other men. Their throats dry, their palms sweaty with fear and tension, they must envy us so remote above them. I loved flying up there, cool and safe, like an omnipotent overseer.
I envied the flyboys in the war; they flew above the dust and sweat of the ground, zooming along in their magnificent flying machines. But I also felt some disdain. Up there, they were beyond the ground pounder’s ever-present fear of meeting a bad guy around the next bend of the trail and the gut-wrenching sound of bullets cracking past your ear. Of course, I’m sure the flyboys would give me a passionate argument about the hazards they faced.
McMurray
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