On the hooch steps

PFC... new guy, new home. Camp Holloway, Vietnam.

Guess who

19 year old, Joe Cool in Viet Nam. A can of Coke in my hand even then, at least I quit smoking! (almost everyone smoked then) The runway at Camp Holloway is behind me and it looks like it was at the end of the day; still on the flight line. I found this picture on another veteran's site who was there part of the time I was. We all rotated in and out at different times, one reason keeping in contact with each other has been difficult.

Viet Nam Trivia

I recently did some on-line research of Viet Nam, in particular, Camp Holloway where I spent a year. I found a picture of the crashed CH47 helicopter that killed two crew members (Harold Lewis and Roy Davis) friends of mine, young like me, while I was enjoying my 7-day R & R in Sidney, Australia. Another crew member (can picture him but can't recall his name) was badly burned and last I heard was in a TX Army burn unit hospital. The two pilots were injured but survived. I came back from R & R and was assigned Harold's helicopter - for unknown reasons he was flying that day with another crew. I heard about it upon reporting back to duty from my R &R. The First Sgt said, "Welcome back, you're now a flight engineer." My time in country and rank qualified me for this minor promotion ~ no more guard duty every third night. (Guard duty was in sandbagged fox holes on the perimeter of camp in any weather, bugs, rain, cold and heat - sleep 3 hrs, watch one hour.) He told me the crash story. The Chinooks had a tendency to have the rotor blades go out of synch and cut into the helicopter. Such as what happened to the two who were killed; the blades took them out too fast for them to know what happened. My newly assigned chinook was to be my responsibility to ensure it was ready to fly everyday and to see that mandatory maintenance was performed at the end of the flight day(s). I had more than one 24 hour day. But, I was only 20 yrs old, too. I was immortal! I remember a partial tail number . . . . 049. (my birth year) I thought, "What an lucky number!" It must have been. The air medals and army commendation medals I earned mean so little to me now. During the long flight days, I ate C-rations - my favorite were Beans and Franks and cheese and crackers. I also, yuck, took up smoking Pall Malls that were free in each C-ration box. Wonderful government we had then, not counting Pres Lyndon Johnson and General Westmoreland (Democrats, by the way) who later admitting lying to the public about the war. I'm not bitter about it, glad I served, but I wouldn't do it again.

These two pictures represent fire-bases I flew into on a daily basis. These Chinooks were the work horse of the Army, supplying ammo, food, water and sometimes personnel, coming and going. We'd generally have a load slung under the helicopter as the pilots relied on the door gunner and crew chief to monitor distance of blades from objects while the flight engineer lay on his stomach, looking through an open trap door, to announce the distance the load was from the ground. None of it was precise, we worked in estimates, starting at "The load is 100 ft off the ground, 50, 25, 10 . . ." All on the intercom over the roar and whining of the noise inside. The fire-bases where manned by artillery units, stuck out in the middle of no where, sometimes on mountain tops surrounded by 100 ft tall trees, some barren hills, cleared for security reasons. Camping at its best 24/7.
Click on link - I can't copy & paste the picture, sorry for the inconvenience.

http://my.core.com/~campholloway/image16.htm

faith in airlines

This blog/web site will certainly make you wonder about our airlines and those we respect as pilots....and wonder about the maintenance on the planes. (A little higher level of the maintenance and pilots I was around in Army helicopters.)
http://www.gadling.com/cockpit-chronicles/ This will also take you to other blogs from stewardesses (is that politically correct?)

Words of Wisdom

Once in awhile we hear or read something worth repeating. As I heard this tonight, I knew I had to pass it on. The discussion was on young people's lives and what they do with them. "Don’t just count the years, make the years count." Lou Holtz, commentator during ESPN Kansas vs Louisville Wed night college football game. . . . I love football season! (Some of you may not know, Lou Holtz is one of the great past coaches for Notre Dame football.) See, football is educational. I wish I'd heard this quote when I was 25. :- /

Going back in time

I sat down at my computer this morning, and the word "patience" came to mind. Then I thought of all the times I needed patience and for some strange reason, my thoughts went to my first days in Viet Nam. I don't know why. I've highlighted a portion of my third day there.
________________________________________
I was one of three "FNG’s" riding in the back of the deuce and a half, the Army’s version of the multi use work truck. It was dirty, OD green, (as I’d seen in countless WWII movies) riding from the US Air Force’s airfield in Pleiku, Vietnam, to the US Army’s Camp Holloway, my assigned duty station several miles away. I was readily identifiable as an FNG because of the brand new jungle fatigues I was wearing. (I had to ask what FNG meant two days earlier after I landed at Saigon Airport and was teased by those already "in country" on my way to the temporary barracks.) There I saw sights I’d never seen before; water tanks on wheels with "potable water" stenciled on them, (I had to ask what that meant, too.) sandbags around Quonset hut type buildings and a momma-san walking into the large shower room I was using and nonchalantly squat a few feet away, hand-washing a basket of another GI’s dirty laundry. She was a ‘hootch maid', one we all had to hire for such tasks. I had quickly learned the faded fatigues are worn by seasoned troops or "short timers." I stood out in my new fatigues and felt very vulnerable. I wondered if I would live long enough to wear faded fatigues. A year is a long time for a 19 year old. Patience needed.

It was a muggy day in mid April, 1968. Humidity I had never experienced before. It was a time in my life I later tried hard to put behind me, now trying to recall long-ago details, some not hard to remember, others successfully forgotten. The back of the truck was open, no canvas cover, making us feel exposed to all but able to witness the passing countryside, but it was no doubt cooler this way. We sat on the wooden bench seating, stoic and looking at each other, the countryside, our shiny boots and the duffle bags with our only possessions of individuality as we bounced and swayed with the motion of the truck. (One of those other two guys came home in a coffin. I can't remember his name; frustrating.) The truck had terrible shock absorbers, if any at all. It was as if the truck driver was inaugurating us to Viet Nam in his own, demonic way.

Within minutes, us three strangers had formed a bond as we introduced ourselves the way all military personnel do – with your name and home town. I was sharing the truck with a guy from "up-state" New York and the other from Michigan. (I’d never been to either, they’d never been to Vegas.) I noticed how green the country was with a mixture of red dirt, patchy grass fields, paved narrow, litter-lined roads leading over distant hills, an occasional building and sporadic trees. Heavier forests were nearby. Hiding places for the Viet Cong Guerrillas? Very simple buildings made of concrete walls and metal corrugated roofing. Wooden doors and window frames that all looked in need of repair. Some walls had numerous chunks of concrete missing – evidence of prior bullets or bomb fragments? I was in a war zone after all. But none of us had any weapons - except the driver. He told us we’d get one issued later at Holloway. (Issued. Everything was army "issue" with strange nomenclatures: blanket, one each, wool, green; underwear, briefs, OD green, men’s, size 28-30 waist, etc.) His rifle rested upright from the floorboard, leaning against his right leg, barrel pointed up. Was he expecting to use it as he transported us FNG’s to Camp Holloway? One M-14 rifle for all four of us? I was uncomfortable in many ways.

Driving through the town of Pleiku, the truck slowed and I took in the sights. Not anything like I’d seen back in America, "The World" I soon learned it is called. More simple buildings posing as markets, recognizable Coca Cola signs, bars, shacks, road-side carts/vendors selling food and drink, small motor scooters, rows of concrete buildings lining the red dirt sidewalks, various colors all in need of paint, all connecting somehow as if holding each other up, a few parked 50's American made cars, infants on backs of women, small children walking alongside wearing only shirts and sandals, old men hunched over hand carts, and everyone in the same baggy, black pajama-type pants and wide, coned straw hats strapped under their chins. A pungent odor hung in the air. I saw a woman squat on the side of the road, pull up one baggy pants leg, defecate and get up and walk away. A dog ran over and had its dinner. The heat, sights, smells and ride was making me sick. I wanted to be back home in the worst way. But I got what I had asked for. Rather than be drafted, I volunteered, enlisted, in the US Army. I had arrived at what my ignorant bravado had gotten me to: I was in Viet Nam to kill the enemy. It’s what John Wayne, Audie Murphy, Lee Marvin and countless others had done in WWII movies I'd seen growing up. Its what Dad had done. It's what I thought was the right thing to do. College deferment wasn't for me.

Then the truck pulled into Camp Holloway, the gate guards saluting us through, and I saw the CH-47 helicopters I'd initially perform maintenance on and later fly in. My stomach flipped: they were all much dirtier and more oil stained than those I trained on in Ft. Eustis, VA. What have I gotten myself into? I was on my mission. . . right? I'm lucky to be here.

Back in my days as a patrolman

The day started out as usual for me working swing shift patrol out of south sub-station. August 12, 1982. It was 112 degrees in the shade and over 140 in the patrol car as I first get in and start it up. The steering wheel burnt my hands, the seat burnt my rear and the sweat was already running down my chest under the bullet proof vest I wore as I started the engine and put the a/c on high. I took my time checking it out, making sure the shotgun is loaded and looking for left over contraband from a prior cop's prisoner, etc and found a $100 bill stuffed in the front passenger seat between the seat and the back cushion. I checked my pockets, I had $3.50 for dinner and any breaks I needed that night. I thought "Internal Affairs set up" and scanned the lot for an unmarked van that may be video taping me. I see none. I impounded the money in the evidence vault and went back to my hot car, starting out my shift with a sense of clear conscience and wondering how I'd get a good meal that night. It was one reason I took up mowing lawns for side money. As I recall, I ate dinner half-priced later that night at El Jardine Mexican Restaurant and made a few arrests. I loved my job.

McCain/Pallin choice

Having just watched Sarah Palin speak at the RNC, I'm convinced that this election, although the usual 'lesser of two evils' that McCain is my choice. I know, I know, politics are a difficult subject to discuss but as Palin slammed Harry Reid and pointed out the blatant glib speeches of Obama, I knew I was in favor of her. (I hope my Democratic ancestors aren't turning over in their graves.)

short story

Back in 1898 when I was a bar-keep in the old west, a three-legged dog came hopping upto the bar. He told me he needed help. Told him I'd do what I could, I like dogs. He said, "I'm looking for the guy who shot my paw." (I thought this is better than telling you about what I did at work today.)

Carol decided I needed my own blog....she's so good to me; she choose the picture of me, one of those at-home-before-the-prom one's we all have. (not telling you what year but you can see it's black & white) I need to look for a replacement. This could be fun.