Chapter One

Pop Smoke

By the end of January 1969, I’d been in Vietnam three months. I was a Marine Corps helicopter pilot attached to HMM362, a helicopter squadron known as the “Ugly Angels.” Some days were routine, and others were anything but.

I’d been assigned, along with three other pilots and copilots, to resupply and medevac operations in support of 3/2, a battalion of marines operating just south of the demilitarized zone, or DMZ, which separated North and South Vietnam. The 3/2 signified the 3rd Battalion of the 2nd Regiment in the 1st Marine Division. The division was assigned to combat operations in I Corps, which covered the area from the DMZ south to Da Nang.

We flew the Sikorsky H-34, the first model of helicopter to see duty in Vietnam. In 1962, HMM-362 became the first helicopter squadron to serve in Vietnam. It provided support to the South Vietnamese army in its fight against the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese regulars. The squadron was called “Archie’s Angels” after its commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Archie Clapp. A veteran of World War II and Korea, Colonel Clapp was a fearless and innovative leader. He developed tactics and support procedures that would set the standard for helicopter operations throughout the Vietnam War.

After Colonel Clapp retired, the squadron was renamed the “Ugly Angels” due to the H34’s ungainly appearance and its role as an angel of mercy for saving hundreds of lives over years of harrowing medevac missions. It became the primary support aircraft for the Marines when they entered the war as a fully operational combat force in 1965.

The bad news was that by 1969, the H-34 was an older and underpowered aircraft. It had some serious limitations, especially in the high humidity and altitude of the mountainous areas in western Vietnam and the DMZ. The good news was that it could take some significant damage and keep flying. The pilot and copilot sat side by side in the cockpit, situated above a big Wright radial 1820-84 Cyclone reciprocating engine, which was encased by clamshell doors at the front of the aircraft. Since most ground fire came from below, the engine frequently acted as a huge bullet bouncer. Most other helicopters in the war by then had overhead jet engines and nothing more than plexiglass between the pilots and whatever fire came from below.

On rare occasions we’d land at Quang Tri for lunch. Walking to the mess hall from the flight line, we always passed a long line of combat-damaged H-46s. The plexiglass on many was damaged so badly, we knew the pilots would have been lucky to survive. I remember thinking, Thank God I’m flying the 34, and not one of those 46s.

It was eight-thirty on a Monday morning in February, and the operations shack was crammed with pilots and copilots awaiting their orders. The building, like all buildings at Phu Bai, was a simple rectangle with wooden walls rising three feet from a concrete pad and screening covering the rest of the expanse to the low metal roof overhead. The screening allowed for some air circulation to combat the insufferable heat of Vietnam, but that day there wasn’t a whisper of a breeze. The room smelled like a gym full of old sneakers.

My copilot that day was Dave Evans, a big blond farm boy from Nebraska who had a slow and easy way about him. He’d played linebacker at the University of Nebraska and was named All-American his senior year. Square-jawed, with a generous smile and a gentle disposition, he was as nice a guy as I ever met. Dave had been in the squadron five months, and while he’d been in-country longer than I, it was my turn as pilot. At that point in the war, there were no more H-34 pilots being assigned to the squadron; the H-34 was being replaced by the newer H-46s. With no new copilots to train, we just rotated back and forth between pilot and copilot duties. Dave’s experience was a plus and having him as my copilot was reassuring. Having a calm and steady presence in the cockpit is a must in combat.

The second aircraft on our flight of two was piloted by Skeeter Dubois. Skeeter always wore a mischievous smile, had a heavy Cajun accent, and was never at a loss for words no matter what the topic, especially if that topic was his hometown of New Orleans. “Y’all think I’m jokin’ when I tell ya that Nawlens is tha best city in tha country, but I can garrontee that we got tha finest-lookin’ women in tha world dare. And ain’t no better food than down-home Cajun cookin’. Tha’s fo’ shore.”

He was thin-framed and had a gait not unlike a chicken, his head bobbing along atop a long, skinny neck as he regaled anyone who’d listen with his impressive collection of jokes. I never saw a man who could drink as much as Skeeter. I always felt Skeeter had joined the Marines to get away from trouble at home. Men joined the Marines for a lot of reasons. Some were running to something, while others were running away from something.

His copilot that day was Ian Kelly, a stocky, freckled-faced, red-haired Irishman who had distinguished himself as captain of the boxing team before graduating from Notre Dame, and had the nose to prove it. By contrast, Ian had a wonderful tenor voice and would from time-to-time grace us with a beautiful rendition of “Danny Boy.” Being an Irishman myself, I always felt moved by it. Ian was expected to join his father’s law firm upon his graduation, but to his father’s dismay, he’d joined the Marines to fly. His father was furious, but most people could never understand what it was that made us want to fly so much, especially combat missions. I’m not sure we really knew why either, but it was a passionate force within each of us.

By nine o’clock, we were bathed in sweat and wishing we were flying and not sitting in a sauna. At least there would be a breeze through the cockpit. Be careful what you wish for.

The orders came at nine-fifteen. Both A and C companies in the battalion were in serious contact and needed fresh troops, ammo, and medical evacuations. Dave grabbed the paperwork from the operations officer, and we headed out to our aircraft, followed by Skeeter and Ian.

I looked at Dave as we walked to our aircraft and smiled. “At least we aren’t frying in that miserable sweatbox.”

“Amen to that,” Dave replied, as he strode along beside me in his usual farm-boy manner. He ran a hand through his damp blond hair.

The H-34s were parked in a revetment area atop what was called Marston Matting. The perforated metal plates could be linked together to form parking areas for aircraft, and in some cases runways. By 9:20, you could fry an egg on them. The 34s had been sitting there all morning, and by the time we climbed into the cockpit, it was like an oven.

Dave looked over from the copilot’s seat and grinned. “What was that about not frying in a miserable sweatbox?”

Adrenaline began coursing through my veins as we went through our preflight checklist. I turned on the ignition. The first cough of that big radial engine is a sound unlike any other. The only comparison I can think of is four or five Harley-Davidsons starting up together. A big plume of smoke belched from the exhaust pipe just below the cockpit. The cabin filled with smoke and the unmistakable smell of fuel and oil. The combination of sounds and smells as the 34 rocked a bit side to side is a moment when a pilot becomes one with the aircraft.

The engine roared, and the old 34 shuttered and vibrated as it came to life. Once the RPMs (engine revolutions per minute) were up to speed, I engaged the rotor head, and the air filled with the high whine of the four rotor blades as they sliced through the hot morning haze. The rotor blades picked up speed, and the H-34 continued shuddering, straining to lift itself into the sky. I raised the collective lever with my left hand and stabilized us into a three-foot hover, checking our RPMs. I pressed forward slightly with my right hand on the cyclic stick between my legs, and we moved slowly forward to begin our ascent.

Helicopter pilots always like to explain that helicopters don’t really fly—they just keep from crashing. Whatever the case, there’s nothing more exhilarating than flying one, especially when you’re headed into combat.

The adrenaline continued coursing through me, and every sensory fiber in my body was on full alert. This was where the rubber met the road. Every bit of training and experience came into play, and I focused on what lay ahead.

In addition to the pilot and copilot, the H-34 carried a crew chief and a door gunner. Both sat in the belly of the aircraft, with its single-entry door on the right side, where the M60 machine gun was mounted. All loading and unloading happened through that right-side door, unlike the well-known Huey helicopter, which was open on both the right and left sides. The one-door configuration of the H-34 made for some significant restrictions when loading, unloading, and returning fire with the M60.

I had an experienced crew in the belly of the H-34 that day. My crew chief, already on his second tour, was Stacy Brinkman. Solid and fearless, he oversaw the mechanical integrity of the aircraft as well as all the loading and unloading on each mission. “Keg” Johnson—I never did know his real first name—was the door gunner, and I’m fairly sure his nickname came from his beer-drinking prowess. Keg was a “short-timer,” near the end of his first tour.

Our two aircraft headed to the north end of the base, where the reinforcements and supplies were staged for our mission to the embattled elements of Alpha and Charlie companies.

Due to the heat and the limitations of the H-34, we could only carry four combat-ready marines. They loaded into each of our aircraft along with medical supplies and ammo boxes. Two other 34s already had loaded and were waiting for us. We’d form two flights of two aircraft each in the support mission.

Once loaded, our two aircraft took off into the haze and heat, headed west toward the rice paddies and jungles of Vietnam. Every man has his own thoughts in these moments. I just tried to focus on the flying and what I’d need to do when we reached the LZ. A cockpit is no place for bad thoughts or uncertainty.

The whump-whump-whump of the helicopter rotor blades was so familiar to us by now that it was almost soothing. That sound would define the Vietnam War forever. It was as much a part of our being as our heartbeats and would remain a part of our souls forever.

As we headed west, the checkerboard of rice paddies and bordering dikes reflected the morning sun like a thousand mirrors flashing back at us. Just to the left, a lone farmer was plowing his rice field behind a big water buffalo, while several large white herons circled overhead. Next to a grove of palm trees, a small village appeared. Children played in the square as men wheeled bags of rice on bicycles to market.  Minutes away was a world of chaos and death. I never was good at processing these surreal moments of contradiction. The quick change was like something out of The Twilight Zone. And we were about to enter that zone.

As we got within a few miles, we switched our radios over to the ground frequency to contact the company radioman and get some information on the situation. I was quickly in contact with Alpha Company 2/5, call sign Hammer.

I punched the comm key to the ground unit. “Hammer, this is Yankee Lima 13,” I said, using my own call sign—military alphabet for the letters and numbers on the side of my aircraft. “We are inbound with four birds. What’s your sitrep?”

The radioman’s voice answered my call for a situation report. “We are in contact from the tree lines west and northwest.” His voice crackled. “We have ten wounded, four severe.”

“Roger that.” I felt sweat running down my spine. Here we go, baby! I thought to myself. Pucker factor ten!

Both companies were pinned behind a rice paddy dike with fire coming from the trees that lined both sides. It was a deadly crossfire. The enemy had prepared the trap with precision. The situation wasn’t good.

I decided the best approach would be to autorotate (drop in) from 2,500 feet rather than come in low and fast. Fast wasn’t really very fast due to our limitations of weight and power. Coming in low and fast would have made us more vulnerable to the ground fire ahead.

Dropping in is always an attention-getter, even for the most experienced pilot. Basically, the pilot uses a technique that mechanically disengages the engine from the rotor head. Next, he pushes the nose of the aircraft straight down, and it drops like a rock until about three hundred feet above the ground. He then reengages the engine and makes what’s hopefully a smooth power-on transition to a normal landing. Making the transition too soon or too late can mean disaster, but if it works, it’s an effective way to get into a hot zone quickly and minimize your exposure to ground fire.

I keyed the comm mic to the other aircraft. “This is Yankee Lima 13. We’re gonna auto-in from 2,500, and Yankee Lima 23 will follow. Yankee Lima 23, wait fifteen seconds before you initiate your descent behind me. Second flight, wait until we’re out before you make your descent. I’ll relay the sitrep once we’re out.”

“Roger that, 13,” replied Skeeter in Yankee Lima 23.

“Yankee Lima 18, roger,” said the second flight leader, big Lou Stephens from the Bronx.

Lou was about six-foot-four with a quiet demeanor and a big smile hidden behind a huge handlebar mustache. Getting into the H-34 cockpit wasn’t easy, given it was ten feet off the ground. How Lou ever climbed up and squeezed that big frame of his into that cockpit, I’ll never know. But he’d been in-country for eight months and was a well-seasoned pilot with exceptional skills. He’d need them today.

Finally, the last reply came from the second pilot in the second flight. “Yankee Lima 27, roger,” John Reynolds said. John was from Las Vegas, and this was his first mission as a pilot rather than a copilot. He always taped a picture of his wife and baby daughter to the inside of the cockpit when he flew. He’d been a copilot for four months, and this was his check ride to become a certified HAC, or Helicopter Aircraft Commander. Nice first day.

I punched the comm key to Alpha Company. “Hammer, this is Yankee Lima 13. We’re going to auto-in from 2,500. Pop smoke on my command. Pop the smoke behind your men. We’re gonna land with the smoke between us and your men to protect the off- and on-loading. I need room to get in there. Have the most severely wounded ready for the first aircraft.”

“Roger that, Yankee Lima 13!” he screamed. Heavy gunfire filled the background.

Popping smoke means setting off a smoke grenade, which gives the pilot the location of the LZ as well as a clue on wind direction. This is important for an approach into the wind. Unfortunately, it tends to alert the enemy that you’re coming, and where you’re going to land.

We were above the LZ. I keyed the intercom mic. “Keg, clear the M60.”

Two short bursts from the door gun shook the aircraft.

“Here we go, boys,” I said to my crew. “Once we’re in the LZ, get those men out, and get the wounded in as quickly as possible. Stay focused.” I knew I didn’t need to tell them any of that, but it’s critical for an aircraft commander to appear calm and in control in any situation. “Keg, when we exit the LZ, I’ll be turning the aircraft to the right, which will give you a good angle to the tree lines. You hose those bastards down as we get out of there.”

“Roger that, sir!”

I could tell his adrenaline was racing for a chance to fire that M60. Having the chance to return fire when you’re a sitting duck offered at least some degree of retribution. Marines refer to that as “gettin’ some.”

We were in position. A quick flip of my wrist, and the throttle was off. I jammed the collective down, punched the nose over, and put in a bit of right rudder. Then we were free-falling toward the ground. While the crew had experienced this and was ready for it, the troops in the belly hadn’t, and I could hear their shouts over the roar of the engine and the howl of the wind as we plummeted downward. I’m sure they thought we were all going to die. In training, it had been amusing. In combat, not so much. These guys were going into the shit. We were too, but we, God willing, would be flying out. They were going in for a while before they would have a chance to get out, and some wouldn’t . . . except in black bags.

The dial on the altimeter was spinning as we hurtled downward: 2,500, 2,000, 1,500 . . .

“Pop smoke!” I yelled into my headset, hoping the radioman on the ground could hear me.

“Popping smoke!” he yelled.

We were at one thousand feet and still dropping like a rock. I could see the yellow smoke ahead and to the right. As we passed three hundred feet, I snapped the throttle back to full power and lifted the nose of the aircraft while I raised the collective so the full pitch of the rotor blades could chew huge hunks of air and slow our descent. It must happen in a coordinated effort, and we’d trained for it over and over. But every load has a different weight, and even the different heat and humidity of each day could affect the speed of a descent.

The roar of the big 1820 radial engine straining with all its might to weather its load was deafening. I transitioned to a hover about ten feet off the ground and moved right to get behind the smoke. I set the 34 down, and Stacy pushed the troops out. I could see the wounded about thirty yards away, awaiting their chance to board. Some were sitting, and some were on stretchers with two Navy corpsmen tending to them.

Yankee Lima 17 landed behind and to the right of me just as the first rounds slammed into our bird. It’s a sickening sound, and a sickening feeling. I could tell the rounds had entered below and behind me into the belly of the aircraft.

“Stacy! You okay?”

“Yessir. Those bastards missed me!”

The last marine had debarked, and Stacy was signaling the corpsmen to bring the four critically wounded marines to the bird. I stared ahead and spotted the last marine who had exited the aircraft running toward the cover of the dike. He stopped all of a sudden and pitched forward into the rice paddy. Son of a bitch!

I radioed the second flight. “Yankee Lima 18 and 27, begin your descent. Be aware we are in heavy contact from the tree lines north and northwest. Good luck.”

They’d need it.

The enemy fire intensified as they poured everything into taking out our helicopters. The marines behind the dike poured it back in a deafening and surreal exchange. The corpsmen loaded four stretchers carrying the most severely wounded. The aircraft had no more room or power for more. Stacy and Keg stacked the stretchers in as best they could. The whole process of discharging the replacements and taking on the wounded took five minutes. It seemed like five hours. Rounds continued to chew through the air above us and the ground around us. The next salvo rocked the 34 again.

“Stacy?”

“Okay, sir. But one of the wounded took a round. He’s gone.”

Shit! “You secure down there?” I tried to sound calm.

“Ready.”

I checked to make sure the corpsmen were clear. I could see them loading the next four wounded into Skeeter’s bird behind me. “This is 13, exiting stage right,” I barked into the headset to let Skeeter know what I was doing. I picked the 34 up into a hover and pushed forward twenty feet to clear him behind me. Then I kicked in right rudder, spun the bird around, and headed to the river behind the paddies and out of the LZ.

As we got parallel to the tree line, Keg opened with the M60, spraying our right side. I gave it full power, nose down, and took it as low as we could go until we got enough speed to pop up over the tree line to our left and follow the riverbed until we could gain altitude.

I called to Skeeter over the radio. “Yankee Lima 23, check in.”

“Right behind you, 13. Got some holes and four wounded.”

I checked with the second flight. “Yankee Lima 18 and 27, check in.”

From Yankee Lima 18 came big Lou Stevens’s voice. “Yankee Lima 18. We are still in the zone. I can see 27 is down and on fire. They’re trying to get the crew out.”

Son of a bitch. “We’re proceeding to the field hospital, 18, and will be back. Hang in there, Lou.”

“Roger, 13,” he answered.

The flight back to the field hospital took twenty minutes but seemed like forever. The crew chiefs and gunners tended to the wounded as we flew. I radioed the hospital to alert them of our wounded. Out of radio range of the LZ, I had no idea how the other crews were doing.

We landed on the medical hospital pad at Phu Bai and unloaded the wounded. We had enough gas for one more trip out to the LZ before we’d have to take time to refuel. Stacy doused the floor of the aircraft with a bucket of water to wash away some of the blood. We took off, made a quick stop at the supply pad for more ammo, and headed back to the LZ.

Once in range, I was back on the radio to Alpha Company. “Hammer, this is Yankee Lima 13. What’s the sitrep?”

“We got the crew from your bird out,” he replied. “They’re alive and being treated. Your other aircraft is airborne.”

“Roger that,” I replied. “Wait one.” I wanted to check in with Lou. “Yankee Lima 18, this is 13. Come in.” I waited but didn’t hear an answer. “Yankee Lima 18, this is 13,” I repeated, my heart pounding.

I heard his faint reply. “This is 18, 13. Headed to the hospital with wounded. Yankee Lima 27’s crew is with the grunts but alive. Will return for more medevacs once we get these boys home.”

“Roger, 18. Well done. We are inbound to the LZ.” Round two, coming up, I thought.

About five minutes out, I radioed Skeeter in Yankee Lima 17. “Skeeter, everything okay?”

“Yeah, Rick, we’re good.”

I noted Skeeter’s serious attitude. No more joking around. We were all wired on adrenaline, getting ready for the next drop into the zone.

“Skeeter, we’re going to take the same approach as before. I’ll load the crew from Yankee Lima 27, and you grab some wounded.”

“Roger that, 13.”

I keyed the mic for Hammer. “Hammer, this is Yankee Lima 13. We are inbound to the LZ with ammo and will be on the ground shortly. Have the crew from Yankee Lima 27 ready to load onto my aircraft. Yankee Lima 17 will take on wounded. Copy?”

“Copy that, 13,” came the reply, the staccato of gunfire in the background.

Just as we were positioning over the LZ, we heard fixed-wing aircraft in communication with Hammer. “This is Iron Fist with two F-4s about three minutes out,” they reported. “Where do you want the ordnance?” While we’d been gone, the battalion apparently had called for air support from Chu Lai, which was only a short hop to the south.

“Iron Fist,” Hammer replied, “the tree line to our west is the first target. The tree line to our northwest is the second.”

“Roger, Hammer. Tell your boys to keep their heads down for a minute.”

I radioed Skeeter. “Yankee Lima 17, we’re going to hold our position at 2,500 until those F-4s do their thing. We’ll insert after the last pass.”

“Roger, 13,” Skeeter replied. “Hope they fry those bastards.”

A fully loaded F-4 is an awesome weapon. Just the sound of one streaking overhead at five hundred feet is enough to drop you to your knees. It’s like a cannon going off. On more than one occasion, I’d been on the ground when one of these aircraft was on a run. If you knew what direction they were coming from, you could, if you looked really hard, see a black dot approaching at a tremendous speed. Before you could focus, the dot became a baseball, and then boom, it was overhead and gone. And that was without dropping ordnance.

As we circled the LZ, I could just make out the silhouettes of the F-4s approaching from the south. The first F-4 dropped what appeared to be two five-hundred-pound bombs on the first tree line, obliterating everything in an avalanche of fire and smoke. Secondary explosions from the enemy ordnance added to the surreal destruction. As he pulled up sharply, the second F-4 pilot straddled the second tree line, dropping two large tanks of napalm. The fireball extended perhaps a quarter of a mile long and five hundred feet upward. Nothing could survive it. Both tree lines were engulfed in fire and smoke.

As the second F-4 pulled up, I radioed Skeeter. “Yankee Lima 17, we are dropping in.”

“Roger, 13.” Even Skeeter was at a loss for words at what we’d witnessed.

No need for popping smoke on this approach. The inferno below gave us all the wind direction we needed. Once again, I chopped the power, disengaged the rotor head, pushed the nose over, kicked in a little right rudder, and began the freefall. At about three hundred feet, I rapped back the power, raised the nose, and brought the big old beast into a hover. We set down almost exactly where we’d landed earlier.

This time, there was virtually no enemy fire. The heat from the burning tree lines was intense and sent heavy smoke over us. The rotor blades caused the smoke to swirl around in a blinding cloud so thick it was difficult to make out where the wounded were being staged. An intense orange glow from the fires pulsated through the swirling white cloud, carrying what I realized was the smell of burning flesh. The sights and smells of that moment are indelibly locked in my memory.

Skeeter’s voice jogged me back to reality. “Yankee Lima 17 is behind and to your right,” he called through the radio, knowing I might not be able to see him.

“Roger that, 17.” I keyed the intercom mic again. “Stacy, kick those ammo boxes out and look out for the crew from Yankee Lima 27.” Then I called the ground crew. “Hammer, this is Yankee Lima 13. Can’t see much, so get that flight crew onto my bird and any additional wounded onto the second aircraft.”

“Yessir,” came the reply.

Four figures in flight suits and flight helmets jogged out of the swirling orange cloud and clambered into the belly of the 34.

Stacy’s voice came over the intercom. “Loaded and ready, sir.”

“Hammer, we’re departing, and two more birds are inbound to receive wounded.”

“Yes, sir. And thank you, sir.”

I radioed the 34s still holding overhead to begin their descent. The wind shifted just enough to give me some bearings, and I radioed Skeeter. “Yankee Lima 13 is exiting stage right.”

“Right behind you, 13.”

I picked the 34 up into a hover, made sure we had enough power for a safe departure, pushed forward again to clear Skeeter, and turned the aircraft to the right to gain a few more RPMs. I pushed the heavily loaded bird forward, gaining a little speed and lift, and once again we headed for the cover of the riverbed to the east and back to the field hospital at Phu Bai.

We set down twenty minutes later. The crew from Yankee Lima 27 clambered out, turned, and gave me a thumbs-up and a salute. I’d learn later that evening they were battered and bruised, but otherwise not too bad. Good enough to fly the next day.

We took off again, headed for the fuel dump, where we took on a half tank. We never topped off the gas tanks in Vietnam because we couldn’t afford the extra weight. A helicopter’s performance is depleted by heat, humidity, and altitude. While we were at low altitude in the current situation, the heat and humidity were significant. The supply loads we carried were maxing out the old 34s. Each approach and departure meant basically flying on the edge of the flight envelope. Any small mistake could mean disaster. Thankfully, our pilots were terrific, and could handle whatever was required.

We loaded up with food, water, and medical supplies, and headed back to the LZ. Our earlier trips had evacuated all the wounded. Our next mission was to deliver supplies and then what was always a tough chore mentally—to return the bodies of the marines who’d lost their lives in battle. There are three classes of medevac missions: emergency, routine, and permanent routine. The last refers to the removal of those killed in action (KIA).

We came into the LZ on a normal approach pattern. The fighting was over. No need for subterfuge. As we approached, I radioed Hammer to pop a smoke grenade to verify the wind direction. Even though there was still smoke coming from the tree lines, I wanted to make sure the wind direction at the LZ was the same. All approaches must be made into the wind to achieve maximum lift. A downwind approach with weight is a recipe for disaster.

“Hammer, this is Yankee Lima 13. We’re approaching the LZ from the east. We’re carrying supplies and will onload the KIAs. Pop smoke.”

Yellow smoke curled up from the LZ. The wind direction hadn’t changed, and we made a smooth landing in the same spot as earlier. While the ground crew helped Stacy off-load the supplies, I looked around. To my right, through the dust and swirling yellow smoke, I could see marines carrying stretchers loaded with black body bags.

The moment they were loaded aboard was always tough. There wasn’t much time to think about it then, but later that night and for years afterward, the sight and the odor of those bodies still came to my mind. I’ll never, ever forget it.

Yankee Lima 27 had been replaced by another bird and crew. Our four aircraft performed the same mission. Altogether, we’d evacuated 18 dead and 45 wounded. It was a brutal day for the battalion. The enemy had suffered somewhere between 250 and 300 KIAs, and an unknown number of wounded.

The numbers might look good on the spreadsheets at headquarters, but they were little solace to the marines who had lost their friends, and the families who had lost their sons and brothers. Casualties are, of course, an inevitable cost of war. Those words, no matter how true, are always difficult to connect with the up-close-and-personal experience of the carnage of war, and the emotion of the losses endured.

Once back at Phu Bai, we parked our birds and climbed onto the blistering hot steel tarmac. We were bathed in sweat from the heat and the ordeals of the day. I took off my helmet, shook hands with my copilot, Dave Evans, and slapped his back. Dave had handled the flying to and from the LZ to give me a break from the intense moments of the mission.

“Great work today, pal,” I told him.

“No, the great work came from you, Rick. You’re one hell of a pilot. I’ll fly with you anytime.”

I walked around the aircraft and gave Stacy and Keg a snap salute and shook their hands. “Damn well done, boys,” I said. “Get some rest.” I knew full well they’d head to the NCO tent, slam a few beers, and return to the aircraft. They’d spend most of the night going over every inch, performing whatever maintenance necessary to make that 34 ready for the next day.

After debriefing in the operations shack, I made my way to my hooch. I stripped off my soaked flight suit and collapsed onto my cot. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. After a long moment, I wrapped myself in a towel and grabbed my toiletry kit.

The shower building was just down the path from my hooch. The building was the standard-size rectangle, fifty feet by twenty-two feet, with a concrete floor and walls, then the foot of screening at the top. Metal-encased lights dangled from the exposed wooden trusses that supported the tin roof. A line of simple showerheads protruded from the concrete wall on each side. A small wooden bench and towel hook separated each shower space.

I turned the cold-water valve, and the water rushed down from the large, raised water tank next to the building. Due to the heat, the water was never really cold. I placed my hands on the wall, leaned in, and let the water wash over me. Standing under the tepid water for the better part of a half hour, I reflected on how tough the day had been for everyone, and how so many of us had cheated death once again.

It had been only three months since I’d arrived in Vietnam, and I was coming to grips with the reality that I probably wouldn’t survive my full tour. Knowing the future might be short, my thoughts drifted to how I’d gotten there.