“As far as I can see,” said Decker, “anybody’d be dumb enough to hang around during them battles deserves what happens to him.”
“Decker, they’re saying that they found ten-year-old kids shot in those villages. Do you think they’re VC?” objected Wendall.
“Maybe,” answered Decker, “and maybe not. But this is war. Everybody gets hurt in a war. Hell, we can’t go crying about the innocents that get killed. Innocents have been getting knocked off in wars since the beginning of time. If we want to win this thing for the Vietnamese we got to be ready to see it as it is: war, plain and simple and nasty.”
“That’s right,” said Connors, “either we’re fighting this war or we aren’t. The Cav is here now, and those gooks are going to shit when they see us in action. We’re beyond a reason to be here. We’re here.”
Captain Sherman and John Hall, a warrant from our advance party, had brought bags of mail that had accumulated while we were en route. I spent a long time reading the dozen or so letters Patience sent. Of those, I record this:
[August 25]
I miss you so much my darling dear husband. I took a nap on Suzi’s bed today and kept imagining that you were there next to me trying to comfort me (as if we’d had one of our dumb fights). I’m going to write Lois today to see if Jayne can come down here to Naples. I wish you could come. I bet it’s pretty dull on the ship. I’M MORE EXCITING! COME TO THE CASBAH WITH ME!!
Bobby, I miss you so much. I’ve been trying to be busy. Your dad stopped by and we got your film back from the Panama Canat—shall I send you the pictures or keep them? Only one was a little blurry. I like the one of you. You look more tanned already. After Dad left I pushed the stroller (AND JACK!) up to the Sunshine for some Coppertone and then down to the beach for a short swim. Now it’s two in the afternoon—thun derstorming outside and nothing to do except remember how we used to take showers together, and play Monopoly and kiss and make love and hold each other. I miss you so much I could die, but I won‘t, as long as you come back. And PLEASE HURRY! I wish it were next August.
Jack still misses you, I can tell—he is very attracted to men and he says “Da-da” when he’s very excited and happy. I love you! VERY MUCH!
It is so insane to me that such a short while ago we were living together, fooling around, laughing over Jack and the kitty. It’s inconceivable that you’re gone, but you obviously are. Please write me a lot. You know those old war flicks where the guy’s sitting in a foxhole up to his ankles in water while the mortars fall all around, writing a letter to his girl on toilet paper—well that’s what I expect!
Jack just said “Down” when he wanted to get out of his high chair! Last night at supper the kitty was me-owing under his chair and he looked down at her and said “Meow!”
I love to write you. It makes me feel more secure as well as giving me something to do. But I better end this.
“Well, we’re going right into the middle of it, men,” Major Fields announced. We were gathered in the break room for a briefing, and Fields pointed to the map he had taped on the bulkhead. “Our camp is just two miles north of this village.” He pointed. “It’s the village of An Khe, about halfway between Qui Nhon and Pleiku on this hundred-mile east-west stretch of road called Route 19. This whole area”—he gestured at the map—“is considered VC territory. The highway was just opened by the ARVNs in July. The Cav will be the first unit to locate right in the middle of VC-land, and the idea is to be right there in the middle of ‘em, to clean ’em out of here, pronto.” He smiled as his fingers tapped some papers on the table. “So when you fly in, your route will be the road. And stay high. All these little villages you’ll see on your way through the south end of the valley are VC-CONTROLLED, and some ships have reported sniper fire up at a thousand feet. About forty miles inland you’ll come to this pass, the An Khe pass, which marks the end of the valley and the beginning of the highlands. The division’s base camp is here, about ten miles beyond the pass in the high ground. They say we’ll have cool sleeping weather there. Our division takes up a big piece of real estate. It’s still being cleared. The heliport is 3000 by 4000 feet, and nearly twenty thousand men are camped all around that.” Fields took a sip of coffee. “When you get out there, you’ll be briefed in detail about the camp, our company area, and like that. I haven’t seen the place myself yet.
“Our company’s radio call sign will be ‘Preacher.’” Fields picked up a sheet of paper from his stack that had FM, UHF, and VHF written on it, with the appropriate frequencies printed carefully next to them. “Copy these numbers down. They’ll change when you get there, but this is what you should have on your radios for the flight in.” We hunched over our pocket notebooks and recorded the information.
“Now, about all this crap that’s being stuffed on the aircraft.” Fields paused as the men laughed knowingly. “I don’t know what exactly you’ve put in them, and I don’t want to know, either.” He smiled, shaking his head. “But I’m here to tell you that the navy—Ensign Wall—has complained that some supplies, unauthorized supplies, are missing. Now, I don’t think anyone in our company would be so greedy as to steal from this ship, but I do have to pass the complaint along.” The major beamed at his mischievous boys. “So, I don’t have much more to say except that we’ll be leaving at twenty-minute intervals starting today. The last Huey should be off the Croatan in two days. You’ve got your ship assignments, your maps, and your radio frequencies. Are there any questions?”
“Yessir,” Banjo called out. “Does the advance party have our tents set up yet?” Laughter.
“Yeah, I’m sure they do, Banjo. Complete with floors, featherbeds, and private baths.”
By eleven the next morning, Leese and I and the crew chief, SP-5 Don Reacher, were ready to go. Reacher had worked on the assembly team to get our Huey ready. Leese and I had done a very careful preflight. Underneath some shabby canvas tarps on the cargo deck were stacked a dozen bulky mattresses and twenty thick pine boards. Leese had decided to make the takeoff, which pleased me.
Connors and Banjo were running up their ship about seventy-five feet away. It was at full rpm, and I could see the disk tilt back and forth as Connors checked the controls. I stood at the nose of our Huey and watched. The first breeze came to me as Connors pulled in the collective. The disk coned as it began to pull the ship off the deck. He waited a few moments in a five-foot hover, and the full blast of the rotor wash hit me with the sweet, kerosene smell of warm turbine exhaust. He nosed over and left the carrier on his way to the airfield at Qui Nhon, to top off his tank. After thirty-two days of waiting, we were finally getting off the ship. Leese and I were next. I felt the breast pocket of my fatigues for my notebook and cigarettes. My army .45 was secure in its black leather holster over my concealed derringer. I gave myself the now automatic check down the front of my uniform. My belt buckle was covered with green tape. My fatigue pants were so baggy they almost concealed my combat boots. It felt strange to be dressed this way for flying. We’d always worn flight suits before.
Leese had been talking to someone at the edge of the flight deck while Connors took off. He walked toward the Huey. “Let’s go.”