Chickenhawk: Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

CHAPTER 1

October 1966—The same old H-23 Hiller that had been here when I was a student, two years before, squatted on a brickwork pedestal on the left side of the gate at the U.S. Army Primary Helicopter School at Fort Wolters, Texas, so passersby would know this was not just an ordinary Army base. It sagged a little and its paint looked dull, but I’d trained in a Hiller and I liked it. Across the entrance, they’d dragged off the other Hiller and set up in its place the school’s new trainer, a little bitty Hughes TH-55A, which looked to me like it should be flown on the end of a string. “Above the Best’’ was the motto at Wolters, and these helicopters were the ones which aspiring Army aviators tried to fly.

A stringy swarm of skittering, buzzing, gnatlike machines—the first batch of Hughes TH-55’s, the smallest two-passenger helicopters in existence—had arrived during my last week as a student. I’d never flown one. The Hiller, a not-very-big three-passenger machine, looked enormous by contrast. The Hughes was cheaper than the Hiller and simpler to maintain. Of course it was cheaper. It used rubber belts in its transmission system. The Hiller was overbuilt, complicated, hard to fly, and practically indestructible—perfect for instruction. I was relieved to learn I was assigned to a training flight that used Hillers.

Wolters seemed entirely different to me as I drove from the main gate to the flight line. For one thing, I was no longer a subhuman warrant officer candidate—known as a WOC. I was a warrant officer pilot now. People, at least enlisted people, weren’t fucking with me. Real officers believed warrants were kind of half-assed officers and allowed us our privileges because it was mandated. Any highest- ranking chief warrant officer, CW-4 (equivalent to a major), was outranked by any green second lieutenant. It’s a mysterious system. If I wasn’t a pilot, I wouldn’t be here.

A lot more people were bustling around than when I went through flight training in 1964. Because my Volvo had a blue officer’s parking sticker on the bumper, enlisted men and WOCs walking along the road saluted. The enlisted men’s salutes were grudging and slovenly, as was expected. The WOC salutes were snappy and sharp and made you wonder if they ever whacked their heads. They saluted like their lives depended on doing it right. They were correct. Doing everything right was a big concern for WOCs. Half of them wouldn’t make it through, and the prize for the runners-up was to be thrown out of flight school. They’d be sent to Vietnam as grunts, where they’d slog it out and get dirty, never mind killed. Dirty is bad; the Vietnam combat pilot’s motto was “Die clean.”

All this saluting was uncomfortable. In Vietnam anybody seen saluting in our aviation units was probably drunk or forced into it by a newbie field-grade officer trying to restore military discipline. I returned the salutes as I drove, feeling awkward.

I passed the post theater, the post library, the post craft shop, and the post commissary. As a WOC, I was only allowed in the commissary to buy necessities, like wax to shine my floor, my shoes, and my sink.

I barely knew the other places existed. Now that I was a human being I was interested in learning how to print photographs at the craft shop and build something at the wood shop. I’d done my war. As a stateside soldier, I wanted to coast, pursue mundane hobbies, and forget Vietnam. I still had some problems: I couldn’t sleep, had boils from some vicious jungle infection, and got profoundly depressed each night seeing the war reported on television in banal snippets of violence before the weatherman, while the center of national attention was the new pop series, Batman. I thought these problems would go away. Just needed a little time to readjust, was all.

Down the hill from the commissary I passed four new student dormitories. A platoon of candidates were doing push-ups out front while a TAC (short for tactical) sergeant harangued them. Thank God I wasn’t going to be a TAC officer. For a pilot, it was like a lobotomy. I was on the lookout for my old TAC sergeant, Wayne Malone, but hadn’t seen him. The day I graduated from flight school I wanted to come to Wolters, find Malone, and make him do eight hundred push-ups for harassing me unmercifully while I was a WOC. Now I just wanted to say hello.

I passed the WOC Club at the bend in the road, an old white wood-frame building in which the candidates were allowed to visit for a few hours on the weekends with their wives or girlfriends. They served beer inside, but the candidates were usually outside driving their ladies to deserted places on the immense post to get laid. Patience and I had a Volkswagen when I was a candidate. One of our fondest memories is the time we didn’t even make it to the car, stopping instead behind the big oak tree beside the club. It was the kind of scene in which you might imagine a large dog rushing up from nowhere to throw a bucket of water on us. I smiled when I drove past the tree.

As I drove along the road beside the main heliport, helicopters lurched into the air from the six takeoff pads and flew over me, flitting off in all directions over the central Texas hills. Twice a day, in the morning and afternoon training sessions, the school would put fifteen hundred aircraft in the air at the same time to crank out enough pilots to replace the ones getting killed in Vietnam. Wolters was dizzyingly crowded, and dangerous.

I had an eight o’clock aircraft orientation flight scheduled with Warrant Officer Gary Lineberry, a former classmate who had not yet gone to Vietnam. Actually, Lineberry hadn’t gone anywhere. They’d assigned him right back to flight school upon graduation from Fort Rucker, Alabama, the last stage of the Army’s helicopter course, because he was a superb pilot. While most of the rest of class 65-3 went to Vietnam, Lineberry became an instructor pilot (IP) and was now part of the Methods of Instruction (MOI) branch at Wolters that taught veteran pilots how to be IPs.

I pulled into a parking spot near the main hangar and got out, carrying my flight helmet—known also as a brain bucket—by its strap. It was the same one I’d used in Nam; still had the stupid picture of Snoopy I’d painted on the back. It was battered and chipped and looked awful. I had been told to exchange it for a new one, but I considered my helmet, my Zippo, my Nikonos camera, nearly all the objects I possessed in Vietnam, talismans that had helped keep me alive. A technician at the helmet shop, who seemed to understand my superstition—or was afraid to argue with a man with hollow eyes who spoke gravely of lucky helmets—had installed new earphones, new padding, a new microphone, and a new visor for me. I saw Lineberry putting his helmet inside the plastic bubble cockpit of a Hiller and walked over.

“Hey, Gary,” I said, reaching out my hand. “Been a while.”

Lineberry said hi, smiling as we shook hands. “Welcome back to the world.”

“Yeah. Good to be here. Really missed the place; even Wolters.” I smiled, looking around at the parched, paved-over central Texas wasteland called the main heliport. “Vietnam can do that to a person.”

“I’ve heard.” Lineberry shrugged. “But you got plenty of flying, right? Who were you with?”

“First Cav Division for eight months. Finished my tour with the Forty-eighth Aviation Company.”

Lineberry nodded—the First Air Cavalry was pretty famous, but the Forty-eighth wasn’t. “You got Huey time, too,” he said, looking envious. “How was it?”

I shrugged. Lineberry the IP would want to know about the flying and the helicopters, not about the war, not until he got there. He figured he was stuck flying these little pissant trainers while we lucky fuckers flew the big turbine-powered hot-shit Hueys. “Great. You know, great ship. Saved my ass a bunch of times.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Got shot down once—took some rounds through a fuel line. But I took hits in the rotors, fuel tank—you name it—for a year. No problem,” I said coolly, while my scrotum cinched itself tight at the memories.

“The armored seats work?”

“Well,” I said with a shrug, “if you get hit from the back, the sides, or from underneath, they work great. But there’s nothing up front, and that’s were we take a lot of hits. The Viet Cong learned the best way to shoot down Hueys is to kill the pilots.”

“Great to hear.” Lineberry scowled and shook his head. “I’m going over there next month.”

I nodded. What was there to say to that? Be careful? I pointed to the Hiller behind him. “That our ship?”

“Yeah.” Lineberry smiled suddenly. “Let’s go see if you remember how to fly one of these bone bruisers.”

The Huey I’d flown in Vietnam was turbine powered and had hydraulically assisted controls. The Huey was huge compared to the Hiller—it carried a crew of four and could fly with eight or ten fully equipped grunts—but controlling it was effortless. The Hiller, I was instantly reminded, was powered by a noisy six-cylinder engine and controlled with direct mechanical linkages between the flight controls and the rotors. The controls vibrated, shook, and resisted every move. When I pulled up the collective—the control that raises and lowers the helicopter—and brought the ship to a hover, the stick pushed itself up in my left hand. Right, I remember: you have to pop the collective to release the sticky control ballast system that is supposed to neutralize the collective stick forces. I popped the collective down. Now it pulled down. It would take me a...