This is the page reserved for your true action Vietnam war stories.
"There I was in my B model Huey gunship at 30,000 feet running out of collective, breathable air and ideas......"
Joe Galloway Speech at the
Vietnam Helicopter Pilots Association 2011 Convention
"Thanks to all of you for giving me the honor of speaking to you. I have got to tell you that looking out across this assemblage I must confess: I haven't seen this many bad boys collected in one location since the last time I visited Leavenworth Prison.
When I first learned that I would be doing this gig I asked an aviator buddy of mine what else I needed to know......and he said, well, most of you would be bringing your wives along.......that half of you were so deaf that you couldn't hear a word of what I was saying.....the other half would be so drunk you couldn't understand what I was saying..... so I might just as well talk to the ladies......
I have waited years to be able to share this story with so august a group of aviator veterans as this: A few years ago I was at a large official dinner and I was seated next to a nice lady who was the wife of a two-star general. I knew the lady had two college-age daughters and I also knew that one of them had been dating a Cavalry lieutenant.......so I thought to make some polite conversation and I offered her my condolences at her daughter's choice of companionship. "Oh No!" the general's wife said. "He is a fine young man. Nothing wrong with him......and at least he isn't a xzxzxxzx aviator!"
I just wanted you to know that your successors in the business continue to win friends and influence people in high places. Before I go along any further in this thing I need to ask you some questions: --Is there anyone here who flew with the 1st Cavalry Division? The 229th? The 227th? How about the old 119th out of Holloway? Any Marine pilots who flew them old CH-34 Shuddering xxxxhouses??? Now I know I am among close friends......I know that old Ray Burns from Ganado, Texas, is here.....and I have got to tell you a story about me and Ray that goes back to October of 1965. Plei Me SF Camp was under siege by a regiment of North Vietnamese regulars. I was trying to get in there.....like a fool......but after an A1E and a B57 Canberra and one Huey had been shot down they declared it a No-Fly Zone. So I was stomping up and down the flight line at Holloway cussing......when I ran across Ray. He asked what the problem was and I told him. He allowed as how he had been wanting to get a look at that situation and would give me a ride......
I still have a picture I shot out the open door of Ray's Huey. We are doing a kind of corkscrew descent and the triangular berms and wire of the camp below fill that doorway.....along with the puffs of smoke from the impacting mortar rounds inside the camp. .....I can scare myself bad just looking at that photo.
Well old Ray drops on in and I jump out....and the Yards boil out of the trenches and toss a bunch of wounded in the door and Ray is pulling pitch.....grinning......and giving me the bird. When the noise is gone this sergeant major runs up: Sir, I don't know who you are but Major Beckwith wants to see you right away. I ask which one is the major and I am informed he is the very big guy over there jumping up and down on his hat. I go over slowly. The dialogue goes something like this: Who the hell are you? A reporter. Son, I need everything in the world from food and ammo to water....to medevac......to reinforcements.....and I wouldn't mind a bottle of Jim Beam.......but what I do not need is a xxxx reporter.
And what has the Army in its wisdom delivered to me? Well....I got news for you.....you ain't a reporter no more; you are my new corner machine gunner." Ray.....I want to thank you for that ride.......wasn't for you and Chuck Oualline I wouldn't have had half as much fun in Vietnam. .....every story anyone has about Vietnam starts and ends with a helicopter......you guys were simply fantastic. Thank you all. Thank you for every thing....large and small.
Now I guess I got to get down to business. All of you know that I have spent most of the last forty years hanging out with the Infantry.....a choice some folks view as perverse if not totally insane. But there was always method in my madness: With the Infantry things happen close enough that I can see what's happening.....and slowly enough most times that even I can understand what I'm seeing. There's just this one little downside to my long experience with the Infantry:
During that time I have personally been bombed.....rocketed.....strafed..... and napalmed by the U.S. Air Force.....U.S. Navy......U.S. Marines.....and U.S. Army Aviation......as well as by the air forces of South Vietnam.....Laos......Sri Lanka......India......and Pakistan. Now I don't consider myself an inconsiderable target.....and wasn't even back when I could fit comfortably behind a palm tree......but here I am....running my mouth.....nothing hurt beyond my dignity. Don't get me wrong; I don't hold any grudges against those gallant winged warriors. But ever since the first time they attacked me and missed.....I have never ever used the words "surgical bombing strike" in any story I ever wrote.
I had the chance to say some good things about all of you at the Memorial Service at The Wall on Sunday. I meant every word of that..... and more. You chopper guys were our heroes in Vietnam. You were our rides....but you were much much more than that. We were always either cussing you for hauling our butts into deep kimchi.....or ready to kiss you for hauling us out of it. I have a feeling that without you and your birds that would have been a much shorter and far more brutish war.
You were our heroes, though, first last and always. You saved us from having to walk to work every day. You brought in our food and ammo and water.....and sometimes even a marmite can full of hot chow. To this day I think the finest meal I ever ate was a canteen cup full of hot split pea soup that a Huey delivered to a hilltop in the dry paddies of the Bong Son Plain in January of 1966. For a moment there I thought if the Army could get a hot meal out to an Infantry company on patrol maybe.....just maybe.....we could win the damn war. Oh well.
I think often of all that you did for us.....all that you meant to us: You came for our wounded. You came to get our dead brothers. You came....when the fight was over.....to give us a ride home from hell. There isn't a former Grunt alive who doesn't freeze for a moment and feel the hair rise on the back of his neck when he hears the whup whup whup of those helicopter blades.
What I want to say now is just between us.....because America still doesn't get it.....still doesn't know the truth, and the truth is: You are the cream of the crop of our generation.....the best and finest of an entire generation of Americans. You are the ones who answered when you were called to serve.....You are the ones who fought bravely and endured a terrible war in a terrible place. You are the ones for whom the words duty. .honor. country have real meaning because you have lived those words and the meaning behind those words.
You are my brothers in arms....and I am not ashamed to say that I love you, would not trade one of you for a whole trainload of instant Canadians.....or a whole boatload of Rhodes Scholars bound for England......or a whole campus full of guys who turned up for their draft physicals wearing panty hose. On behalf of a country that too easily forgets the true cost of war.....and who pays that price....I say Thank you for your service! On behalf of the people of our country who didn't have good sense enough to separate the war they hated from the young warriors they sent to fight that war.....I say we are sorry. We owe you all a very large apology.....and a debt of gratitude that we can never adequately repay.
For myself and all my buddies in the Infantry I say: Thanks for all the rides in and out....especially the rides out. It is great to see you all gathered here for this reunion. A friend of mine, Mike Norman, a former Marine grunt....wrote a wonderful book called "These Good Men" about his quest to find and reunite with all the survivors of his platoon from Vietnam. He thought long and deep about why we gather as we have done this evening and he explained it thusly:
I now know why men who have been to war yearn to reunite. Not to tell stories or look at old pictures. Not to laugh or weep. Comrades gather because they long to be with the men who once acted their best.....men who suffered and sacrificed.....who were stripped raw......right down to their humanity. I did not pick these men. They were delivered by fate and the military. But I know them in a way I know no other men. I have never given anyone such trust. They were willing to guard something more precious than my life. They would have carried my reputation.....the memory of me. It was part of the bargain we all made.....the reason we were so willing to die for one another.
As long as I have memory I will think of them all.....every day. I am sure that when I leave this world....my last thought will be of my family and my comrades.......such good men. I'm going to shut up now and let us all get down to the real business of drinking and lying.....er.....telling war stories.
Thank you. I salute you. I remember you. I will teach my sons the stories and legends about you. And I will warn my daughters never ever to go out with aviators......
Good evening. God bless..."
"Thanks to all of you for giving me the honor of speaking to you. I have got to tell you that looking out across this assemblage I must confess: I haven't seen this many bad boys collected in one location since the last time I visited Leavenworth Prison.
When I first learned that I would be doing this gig I asked an aviator buddy of mine what else I needed to know......and he said, well, most of you would be bringing your wives along.......that half of you were so deaf that you couldn't hear a word of what I was saying.....the other half would be so drunk you couldn't understand what I was saying..... so I might just as well talk to the ladies......
I have waited years to be able to share this story with so august a group of aviator veterans as this: A few years ago I was at a large official dinner and I was seated next to a nice lady who was the wife of a two-star general. I knew the lady had two college-age daughters and I also knew that one of them had been dating a Cavalry lieutenant.......so I thought to make some polite conversation and I offered her my condolences at her daughter's choice of companionship. "Oh No!" the general's wife said. "He is a fine young man. Nothing wrong with him......and at least he isn't a xzxzxxzx aviator!"
I just wanted you to know that your successors in the business continue to win friends and influence people in high places. Before I go along any further in this thing I need to ask you some questions: --Is there anyone here who flew with the 1st Cavalry Division? The 229th? The 227th? How about the old 119th out of Holloway? Any Marine pilots who flew them old CH-34 Shuddering xxxxhouses??? Now I know I am among close friends......I know that old Ray Burns from Ganado, Texas, is here.....and I have got to tell you a story about me and Ray that goes back to October of 1965. Plei Me SF Camp was under siege by a regiment of North Vietnamese regulars. I was trying to get in there.....like a fool......but after an A1E and a B57 Canberra and one Huey had been shot down they declared it a No-Fly Zone. So I was stomping up and down the flight line at Holloway cussing......when I ran across Ray. He asked what the problem was and I told him. He allowed as how he had been wanting to get a look at that situation and would give me a ride......
I still have a picture I shot out the open door of Ray's Huey. We are doing a kind of corkscrew descent and the triangular berms and wire of the camp below fill that doorway.....along with the puffs of smoke from the impacting mortar rounds inside the camp. .....I can scare myself bad just looking at that photo.
Well old Ray drops on in and I jump out....and the Yards boil out of the trenches and toss a bunch of wounded in the door and Ray is pulling pitch.....grinning......and giving me the bird. When the noise is gone this sergeant major runs up: Sir, I don't know who you are but Major Beckwith wants to see you right away. I ask which one is the major and I am informed he is the very big guy over there jumping up and down on his hat. I go over slowly. The dialogue goes something like this: Who the hell are you? A reporter. Son, I need everything in the world from food and ammo to water....to medevac......to reinforcements.....and I wouldn't mind a bottle of Jim Beam.......but what I do not need is a xxxx reporter.
And what has the Army in its wisdom delivered to me? Well....I got news for you.....you ain't a reporter no more; you are my new corner machine gunner." Ray.....I want to thank you for that ride.......wasn't for you and Chuck Oualline I wouldn't have had half as much fun in Vietnam. .....every story anyone has about Vietnam starts and ends with a helicopter......you guys were simply fantastic. Thank you all. Thank you for every thing....large and small.
Now I guess I got to get down to business. All of you know that I have spent most of the last forty years hanging out with the Infantry.....a choice some folks view as perverse if not totally insane. But there was always method in my madness: With the Infantry things happen close enough that I can see what's happening.....and slowly enough most times that even I can understand what I'm seeing. There's just this one little downside to my long experience with the Infantry:
During that time I have personally been bombed.....rocketed.....strafed..... and napalmed by the U.S. Air Force.....U.S. Navy......U.S. Marines.....and U.S. Army Aviation......as well as by the air forces of South Vietnam.....Laos......Sri Lanka......India......and Pakistan. Now I don't consider myself an inconsiderable target.....and wasn't even back when I could fit comfortably behind a palm tree......but here I am....running my mouth.....nothing hurt beyond my dignity. Don't get me wrong; I don't hold any grudges against those gallant winged warriors. But ever since the first time they attacked me and missed.....I have never ever used the words "surgical bombing strike" in any story I ever wrote.
I had the chance to say some good things about all of you at the Memorial Service at The Wall on Sunday. I meant every word of that..... and more. You chopper guys were our heroes in Vietnam. You were our rides....but you were much much more than that. We were always either cussing you for hauling our butts into deep kimchi.....or ready to kiss you for hauling us out of it. I have a feeling that without you and your birds that would have been a much shorter and far more brutish war.
You were our heroes, though, first last and always. You saved us from having to walk to work every day. You brought in our food and ammo and water.....and sometimes even a marmite can full of hot chow. To this day I think the finest meal I ever ate was a canteen cup full of hot split pea soup that a Huey delivered to a hilltop in the dry paddies of the Bong Son Plain in January of 1966. For a moment there I thought if the Army could get a hot meal out to an Infantry company on patrol maybe.....just maybe.....we could win the damn war. Oh well.
I think often of all that you did for us.....all that you meant to us: You came for our wounded. You came to get our dead brothers. You came....when the fight was over.....to give us a ride home from hell. There isn't a former Grunt alive who doesn't freeze for a moment and feel the hair rise on the back of his neck when he hears the whup whup whup of those helicopter blades.
What I want to say now is just between us.....because America still doesn't get it.....still doesn't know the truth, and the truth is: You are the cream of the crop of our generation.....the best and finest of an entire generation of Americans. You are the ones who answered when you were called to serve.....You are the ones who fought bravely and endured a terrible war in a terrible place. You are the ones for whom the words duty. .honor. country have real meaning because you have lived those words and the meaning behind those words.
You are my brothers in arms....and I am not ashamed to say that I love you, would not trade one of you for a whole trainload of instant Canadians.....or a whole boatload of Rhodes Scholars bound for England......or a whole campus full of guys who turned up for their draft physicals wearing panty hose. On behalf of a country that too easily forgets the true cost of war.....and who pays that price....I say Thank you for your service! On behalf of the people of our country who didn't have good sense enough to separate the war they hated from the young warriors they sent to fight that war.....I say we are sorry. We owe you all a very large apology.....and a debt of gratitude that we can never adequately repay.
For myself and all my buddies in the Infantry I say: Thanks for all the rides in and out....especially the rides out. It is great to see you all gathered here for this reunion. A friend of mine, Mike Norman, a former Marine grunt....wrote a wonderful book called "These Good Men" about his quest to find and reunite with all the survivors of his platoon from Vietnam. He thought long and deep about why we gather as we have done this evening and he explained it thusly:
I now know why men who have been to war yearn to reunite. Not to tell stories or look at old pictures. Not to laugh or weep. Comrades gather because they long to be with the men who once acted their best.....men who suffered and sacrificed.....who were stripped raw......right down to their humanity. I did not pick these men. They were delivered by fate and the military. But I know them in a way I know no other men. I have never given anyone such trust. They were willing to guard something more precious than my life. They would have carried my reputation.....the memory of me. It was part of the bargain we all made.....the reason we were so willing to die for one another.
As long as I have memory I will think of them all.....every day. I am sure that when I leave this world....my last thought will be of my family and my comrades.......such good men. I'm going to shut up now and let us all get down to the real business of drinking and lying.....er.....telling war stories.
Thank you. I salute you. I remember you. I will teach my sons the stories and legends about you. And I will warn my daughters never ever to go out with aviators......
Good evening. God bless..."
LOW FLIGHT
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And hovered out of ground effect on semi-rigid blades;
Earthward I've auto'ed,
and met the rising brush
Of non-paved terrain - and done a thousand things
You would never care to -
skidded and drooped and flared
Low in the heat-soaked roar.
Confined there,
I've chased the earthbound traffic, and lost
The race to insignificant headwinds.
Forward, and a little up, in ground effect
I've topped the General's hedge with drooping turns
Where never Skyhawk, or even Phantom flew.
And, shaking and pulling collective, I've lumbered
The low trespassed halls of Victor Airways,
Put out my hand, and touched a tree.
I recently received an anonymous email entitled "musings from a helicopter pilot." I believed it needed a little editing and additional material to complete the picture. My apologies to the original author.
Further Musings from a former Helicopter Pilot Anything that screws it's way into the sky flies according to unnatural principals. You never want to sneak up behind an old high-time helicopter pilot and clap your hands. He will instantly dive for cover and most likely whimper...then get up and kick your butt.
There are no old helicopters laying around airports like you see old Airplanes. There is a reason for this. Come to think of it, there are not many old high-time helicopter pilots hanging around airports either so the first issue is problematic.
You can always tell a helicopter pilot in anything moving, a train, an airplane, a car or a boat. They never smile, they are always listening to the machine and they always hear something they think is not right.
Helicopter pilots fly in a mode of intensity, actually more like "spring loaded", while waiting for pieces of their ship to fall off.
Flying a helicopter at any altitude over 500 feet is considered reckless and should be avoided. Flying a helicopter at any altitude or Condition that precludes a landing in less than 20 seconds is considered outright foolhardy.
Remember in a helicopter you have about 1 second to lower the collective in an engine failure before it becomes unrecoverable. Once you've failed this maneuver the machine flies about as well as a 20 case Coke machine. Even a perfectly executed autorotation only gives you a glide ratio slightly better than that of a brick. 180 degree autorotations are a violent and aerobatic maneuver in my opinion and should be avoided.
When your wings are leading, lagging, flapping, precessing and moving faster than your fuselage there's something unnatural going on. Is this the way men were meant to fly?
While hovering, if you start to sink a bit, you pull up on the collective while twisting the throttle, push with your left foot (more torque) and move the stick left (more translating tendency) to hold your spot. If you now need to stop rising, you do the opposite in that order. Sometimes in wind you do this many times each second. Don't you think that's a strange way to fly?
For Helicopters: You never want to feel a sinking feeling in your gut (low "g" pushover) while flying a two bladed under slung teetering rotor system. You are about to do a snap-roll to the right and crash. For that matter, any remotely aerobatic maneuver should be avoided in a Huey. Don't push your luck. It will run out soon enough anyway.
If everything is working fine on your helicopter consider yourself temporarily lucky. Something is about to break.
Way back in 1970 while I was flying Huey gunships in Vietnam Harry Reasoner wrote the following about helicopter pilots:
“The thing is, helicopters are different from planes. An airplane by it's nature wants to fly, and if not interfered with too strongly by unusual events or by a deliberately incompetent pilot, it will fly. A helicopter does not want to fly. It is maintained in the air by a variety of forces and controls working in opposition to each other, and if there is any disturbance in this delicate balance the helicopter stops flying; immediately and disastrously. There is no such thing as a gliding helicopter.
"This is why being a helicopter pilot is so different from being an airplane pilot, and why in generality, airplane pilots are open, clear-eyed, buoyant extroverts and helicopter pilots are brooding introspective anticipators of trouble. They know if something bad has not happened it is about to."
Having said all this, I will also tell you that flying a helicopter is one of the most satisfying and exhilarating experiences I have ever enjoyed. I went on to fly over 11,000 hours in jets, props and helicopters before hanging up my wings. What I miss most is skimming over the trees at 100 knots + all by myself in a light observation helicopter.
When my brother heard that I was going to fly helicopters he related with all the superiority of a fighter pilot (who had never flown a helicopter) that " flying helicopters was similar to masturbating. Fun at the time but nothing to brag about."
Many years later I know that it was sometimes anything but fun, but now it ÍS something to brag about for those of us who survived the experience.
Semper Fi and keep the green side up.
Rock Lyons (former helicopter pilot)
The Ugly Angels
Julie Jackson, American History, November 10, 1999
It was 1985 and a man named Gerald Hail searches through a metal graveyard in Tucson, Arizona for an aircraft he could use only for its valued parts. Mr. Hail already owned several UH-34Ds, which is a very rare machine, so when he came upon an old, frail, and beaten helicopter of the same make, he bought and had her shipped home -only to await the use of her once young limbs. It wasn't until years later while looking her over that he and some of his buddies discovered something once written on her tattered body, now covered with worn paint and age, the word- MARINES. Mr. Hail knew immediately that this was no ordinary aircraft. Yes, she had rotors and an engine, but she also had a story. A story she had kept locked away for nearly 30 years. See, she was YL (Yankee Lima) 37 and a treasured member of the Ugly Angels Squadron HMM-362.
The UH-34D was responsive, well powered, agile, and very forgiving; (she could sustain a lot of damage and still fly home). She was known for her reliability and performance, but most of all for bringing her boys back from the pits of Hell! She provided many lifesaving services for her Marines, even when the zones were hot. This helicopter was more than a machine; she was an angel, an Ugly Angel to be exact.
Many stories have been told through the years of how the squadron received the name Ugly Angels, but only a few have proven to be true. It is said that the helicopter herself was so ugly, yet she was called an angel because she descended from the heavens to save the souls of her war weary men. It has also been told that a Marine while being rescued made the statement: " You are the ugliest angel I have ever seen", and from there the name was adopted the "Ugly Angels". Before the squadron gained their well-known name they were referred to as Archie's Angels, after their first commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Archie Clapp. They arrived in Vietnam in April of 1962 and answered the prayers of many wounded Marines until August of 1969. The Ugly Angels were the longest serving squadron in Vietnam and during a seven-year service, 33 brave crewmen gave the ultimate sacrifice for their fellow Marines. For every one of the 33 men who lost their lives, a great number were saved. It is at this moment that we as a nation should realize that freedom is never free!
Discovering her unsung fame, Mr. Hail knew she was worth more than just scrap metal- she deserved to soar like the angel she once was. After a year of restoring, a call went out to all Ugly Angels to gather for her dedication as the first and only mobile memorial. As the doors to the hanger opened you could only hear the faint sound of beating wings- a sound that remained forever in the minds of those who knew her best. As YL 37 descended, the eyes of some of the world's strongest men started to water, and with the shifting of glasses and the wiping of noses they said hello to their long lost Angel. These Marines all have the ability to cry simply because they are human, but in an instant a manufactured helicopter became a living being- for she possessed gracefulness and beauty. From the eyes of a spectator she seemed to be saying more to her once young Marines, than they possibly could to her. Emotions were overtaking words and the prayers of the Ugly Angels had been answered!
It had been 30 years since her boys had stepped foot inside her. Only this time instead of young, energetic, muscular Marines jumping on board, these aged, gray headed men were having help climbing into the world they were never allowed to forget. As the rotors started to turn, so did the memories, for that particular sound made their palms sweat and the blood rush through their veins. By simply closing their eyes, the pictures they had tried so hard to shove to the back of their very being, were starting to rush to the surface. Seeing the long blades of grass beat against the ground as the choppers were coming in for a landing and hearing the bullets ricochet against the metal, some allowing light to penetrate into the dark belly. Realizing that with each hole was the entrance of death, in which someone barely missed. In fighting back these thoughts, the Marines open their eyes only to be embraced by the wings of a beautiful angel, which helped to bring them home.
Many stood around in amazement as some of her pilots had the opportunity to sit behind the controls and fly her into the blue realms of the universe once more. One particular helmsman took her where no man had taken her in nearly 30 years, on a mission to show what she was made of. She performed with such dignity, honor, and grace, that as we stood there under her spell, someone stated that "she looked like a pretty girl showing off', and that was exactly what she was. For she had returned from the lifeless somber in which she was laid-- as all true ANGELS do!
As the hours faded away, so did the laughter. For everyone began to realize that the time to say goodbye was fast approaching. These once rugged Marines were now hugging one another as tears of both joy and sorrow fell upon their wrinkled cheeks. Many unable to say a word, only embracing their brothers of war and their memories of those left behind. As YL 37 sat resting in the hanger, you could almost sense the sadness she bore, for these men brought her back to life. Upon leaving, a number of Ugly Angels gently and loving caressed what they thought to be the prettiest angel of all!
I want to thank Mr. Hail for allowing everyone the opportunity to fly on YL-37. That weekend was one I will treasure forever and I know my father will! For two days I was given one of the greatest gifts I could ever ask for- the chance to see it from my father's eyes and to meet the men I had only heard about growing up. These men were heroes to me and to be able to sit and hear their stories touched me deeply. I also want to thank the Ugly Angels for allowing me to share your memories. I want to say "THANK YOU"! Not only for the stories, but for risking your lives to give us what we take for granted everyday.
© Copyright 1997-2014 - USMC Combat Helicopter Association
Julie Jackson, American History, November 10, 1999
It was 1985 and a man named Gerald Hail searches through a metal graveyard in Tucson, Arizona for an aircraft he could use only for its valued parts. Mr. Hail already owned several UH-34Ds, which is a very rare machine, so when he came upon an old, frail, and beaten helicopter of the same make, he bought and had her shipped home -only to await the use of her once young limbs. It wasn't until years later while looking her over that he and some of his buddies discovered something once written on her tattered body, now covered with worn paint and age, the word- MARINES. Mr. Hail knew immediately that this was no ordinary aircraft. Yes, she had rotors and an engine, but she also had a story. A story she had kept locked away for nearly 30 years. See, she was YL (Yankee Lima) 37 and a treasured member of the Ugly Angels Squadron HMM-362.
The UH-34D was responsive, well powered, agile, and very forgiving; (she could sustain a lot of damage and still fly home). She was known for her reliability and performance, but most of all for bringing her boys back from the pits of Hell! She provided many lifesaving services for her Marines, even when the zones were hot. This helicopter was more than a machine; she was an angel, an Ugly Angel to be exact.
Many stories have been told through the years of how the squadron received the name Ugly Angels, but only a few have proven to be true. It is said that the helicopter herself was so ugly, yet she was called an angel because she descended from the heavens to save the souls of her war weary men. It has also been told that a Marine while being rescued made the statement: " You are the ugliest angel I have ever seen", and from there the name was adopted the "Ugly Angels". Before the squadron gained their well-known name they were referred to as Archie's Angels, after their first commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Archie Clapp. They arrived in Vietnam in April of 1962 and answered the prayers of many wounded Marines until August of 1969. The Ugly Angels were the longest serving squadron in Vietnam and during a seven-year service, 33 brave crewmen gave the ultimate sacrifice for their fellow Marines. For every one of the 33 men who lost their lives, a great number were saved. It is at this moment that we as a nation should realize that freedom is never free!
Discovering her unsung fame, Mr. Hail knew she was worth more than just scrap metal- she deserved to soar like the angel she once was. After a year of restoring, a call went out to all Ugly Angels to gather for her dedication as the first and only mobile memorial. As the doors to the hanger opened you could only hear the faint sound of beating wings- a sound that remained forever in the minds of those who knew her best. As YL 37 descended, the eyes of some of the world's strongest men started to water, and with the shifting of glasses and the wiping of noses they said hello to their long lost Angel. These Marines all have the ability to cry simply because they are human, but in an instant a manufactured helicopter became a living being- for she possessed gracefulness and beauty. From the eyes of a spectator she seemed to be saying more to her once young Marines, than they possibly could to her. Emotions were overtaking words and the prayers of the Ugly Angels had been answered!
It had been 30 years since her boys had stepped foot inside her. Only this time instead of young, energetic, muscular Marines jumping on board, these aged, gray headed men were having help climbing into the world they were never allowed to forget. As the rotors started to turn, so did the memories, for that particular sound made their palms sweat and the blood rush through their veins. By simply closing their eyes, the pictures they had tried so hard to shove to the back of their very being, were starting to rush to the surface. Seeing the long blades of grass beat against the ground as the choppers were coming in for a landing and hearing the bullets ricochet against the metal, some allowing light to penetrate into the dark belly. Realizing that with each hole was the entrance of death, in which someone barely missed. In fighting back these thoughts, the Marines open their eyes only to be embraced by the wings of a beautiful angel, which helped to bring them home.
Many stood around in amazement as some of her pilots had the opportunity to sit behind the controls and fly her into the blue realms of the universe once more. One particular helmsman took her where no man had taken her in nearly 30 years, on a mission to show what she was made of. She performed with such dignity, honor, and grace, that as we stood there under her spell, someone stated that "she looked like a pretty girl showing off', and that was exactly what she was. For she had returned from the lifeless somber in which she was laid-- as all true ANGELS do!
As the hours faded away, so did the laughter. For everyone began to realize that the time to say goodbye was fast approaching. These once rugged Marines were now hugging one another as tears of both joy and sorrow fell upon their wrinkled cheeks. Many unable to say a word, only embracing their brothers of war and their memories of those left behind. As YL 37 sat resting in the hanger, you could almost sense the sadness she bore, for these men brought her back to life. Upon leaving, a number of Ugly Angels gently and loving caressed what they thought to be the prettiest angel of all!
I want to thank Mr. Hail for allowing everyone the opportunity to fly on YL-37. That weekend was one I will treasure forever and I know my father will! For two days I was given one of the greatest gifts I could ever ask for- the chance to see it from my father's eyes and to meet the men I had only heard about growing up. These men were heroes to me and to be able to sit and hear their stories touched me deeply. I also want to thank the Ugly Angels for allowing me to share your memories. I want to say "THANK YOU"! Not only for the stories, but for risking your lives to give us what we take for granted everyday.
© Copyright 1997-2014 - USMC Combat Helicopter Association
Blame Blaire McClune for this story
The King and his Kelvinator
Singer songwriter Jackson Browne is one of my favorites. He has a clever way of examining both sides of a social issue or the human condition. I seldom agree wholeheartedly with Jackson’s whining politics, but songs like (Running on Empty) and (Take it Easy) make it hard to keep my foot still. In a taped interview he said he sometimes has editing help when writing songs. He says “I like words and I end up with lot more song than you really need”. I am going to attempt to tell a sad story and hope I don’t get so carried away painting word pictures that you loose the thread. I will try not to give you more story than you really need.
I served a tour of duty as an Army Helicopter Pilot in the Republic of Vietnam from October 1969 to October 1970. It was a dirty, hot, humid, rat infested place. I will say this, as tours went mine was a walk in the park compared to what it would have been as a grunt on the line sleeping in the swamps and in fear of booby traps and ambushes. Alongside the airstrip in Long Tan North We lived in a minimalist’s dream world. The buildings that made up the Officer’s Quarters (6 or 7 in all) were exactly alike and maybe 70’ long. I visited a WWII concentration camp in Germany set up much the same way. A single door led into what we called our “Hooch”. Our bunks were arranged under a tin roof with two and sometimes three pilots sharing a space (Hooch) 10’ wide by perhaps 14’ deep. Roof structure was 2x4 trusses strapped with 1x4 lathes and corrugated tin nailed directly to them. Floors were bare concrete textured with a broom. Walls (dividers) were 8’ tall with nothing to keep you from throwing a sweaty sock over to the next hooch. On one side wall you had plywood and the other 2x4s then plywood etc. The front and back walls were lap siding with a screen at the top for ventilation. As a college student in Arkansas I went home a couple spring weekends with a kid that lived on a Chicken farm. They raised 28,000 chickens every 10 weeks in 2 buildings wider and longer but with the exception of the concrete floor constructed the same way. The chickens had it a little better since a huge fan moved the air around and there was at least running water. The Hooch had a single outlet and a 4’ fluorescent light.
The walk ways between buildings were like pallets nailed together. I wondered about the pallets when I first got there and then it rained. In the Monsoon season it rains everyday. I’m not referring to a little Presbyterian sprinkle I’m talking about a no kidding Baptist deluge that might last an hour and the pallets kept our feet out of the ankle deep water. There was a series of drainage ditches full of weeds and water on three side of the billeting area. We’ll talk about the mosquitoes, malaria pills and spraying for insects in a later chapter. Flight School buddy Howard Manning and I started out in the middle of the northernmost building and within a week had a guy move in with us. His name was Russ Perkins, a pipe smoking third tour aviator with a New England accent. I think he said he was from New Hamshah. His neatly trimmed mustache twitched when he got excited. I was assigned to fly with him once and he showed me a dozen things that would save my life. He had been there for some ungodly fire fights and flew Gun Cover on hundreds of combat assaults. He had not been in III corps for years and yet he could plot artillery gun target lines on the fly with a glance at a map. He told me areas that were “good hunting”. We flew at night and saw some campfires. He warned me about fires in northern III corp. He said NVA or Cong that had the guts to build a cooking fire were in strong defensive positions and didn’t care who knew they were there. The Boogey Man walked among them down there and it was not a place to take your marshmallows.
One day Russ got some lumber and built a slide in lock for the door to the hooch. I laughed and said “what is that for”?
He looked me in the eye and said “I’ve killed more people than you see in the average day, seventy percent of these folks all have the same last name and God almighty do they carry a grudge; the man that throws a grenade in this room will have to nawwk and ask my permission”. Manning and I found an abandoned hooch dead center in the complex and set up housekeeping to include a large red Arkansas Razorback hog on the door.
We painted the door Canary yellow for reasons I can’t remember..
At some point during the tour we saw a crane lift a dented 2500 gallon tanker without wheels up high on some bridge timbers. This plus gravity became the water supply for our latrine. The latrine was made from concrete blocks but the floor was once again bare concrete and slimy green in the corners. Someone found or stole 4 toilets, French in nature complete with pull chains. These were installed and a cesspool collected the waste water. In addition we were blessed with a urinal and some shower heads, 6 maybe, that also had pull chains. You could wet down, soap up and rinse the sweat from your body and feel halfway human for an hour. Such luxury was denied so many troops that we never thought to complain about the rest of the living conditions. Prior to this you took a Whore’s bath in a basin with a rag and a Gerry can full of water. The toilets in those days were “Burn Crappers” A crude shack was constructed with a plywood bench which had two holes cut in it. This bench sat above a 55 gallon drum cut in half with half under each hole. The drums contained diesel fuel and when full were dragged out, set afire and dumped to be stirred with a special hoe. Needless to say the flies and heat made for a real quick trip to the commode. Unpleasant fails to express the feeling of going into this place on a hot night with a flashlight, where mosquitoes swarmed and one might see half a dozen rats going and coming.
We had a constant source of Pilot labor in between missions. We dug a small swimming pool by hand using little more than a pick, shovel, and wheelbarrow. The pool was lined with fuel bladders cut and glued, and water was filtered by the circulating pump and filter from an Air Farce refueling tanker KC 94 or maybe 135. Life was getting better every day. Years earlier some one had built an Officer’s club and now we even had an air conditioner. Alcoholism? No way! The cost alone would keep you from problem drinking. Beer was a dime and mixed drinks were a quarter, except for Happy Hour when prices were far more reasonable. A carton of smokes was a buck and a magnum of Portuguese (Lancers) wine was 2 bucks. I can say truthfully that all the ingredients were in place for a horror show and regretfully the shameful behavior was not long in coming.
For lack of a better way of describing him we had a “tiny “oriental gentleman that worked as part of the indigenous personnel. He worked diligently at cleaning up the area to include the latrine. For a reason evident only to the man that gave him the moniker he was known to one and all as “Shit Can Man”. He spoke scarce few words of English but answered to his given name with a pretty much toothless grin. There was an unspoken bond between him and the fixed wing pilots. Maybe it had something to do with a latency period or some improper potty training.
A sad period has existed when for whatever reason the water truck failed to fill the 2500 gallon tank and there was no water for the latrine. At first there were excuses to be made for ignorance. Maybe the first college educated Commissioned Officer would drop an anchor in the latrine and discover to his chagrin that there was not enough water to flush properly. By the end of the day it was evident that nearly a hundred had questioned whether or not the previous 18 or so visitors had forgotten to flush. After it was obvious and since it was already hideously clogged one more couldn’t hurt. This went on to the point that a primitive pair of stirrups were nailed to the inside of the stalls to allow a resourceful pilot to raise himself perhaps 3 feet above grade and in a maneuver not unlike a Schnauzer in the front yard, find ultimate release.
Enter Shit Can Man. In a stream of Vietnamese expletives and a tantrum much the same as a cuckold might display at seeing a loved one making the beast of two backs, he threw himself to his knees and wept openly. One of the fixed wing guys would invariably come and counsel him and offer him a case of his favorite beverage in exchange for the tough morning ahead. In a display of courage that is a credit to Man’s survival skill he tackled the task at hand.
The fixed wing guys told him to “take frequent breaks, hydrate and pace himself”. The term “one turd at a time” was their watch word as he took his tiny fireplace shovel and set out on his “Journey of discovery”. A Colonel came by and shaking his head said “how can these people call themselves Officers?”. In an attempt to discourage this, boards were nailed across the entry to the stalls when water was not available. A Captain (L Graham) came by for morning coffee and Winstons. He had small lacerations on his Prefrontal area and another on his Occipital Lobe. Hey! are you all right we asked, he said “that number three crapper must be on the fritz again, I hit my head on a one by six getting in and getting out”.
I was and still am an observer of the remarkable variety of behavior exhibited when people are taken from what is normal and thrust into a preposterous situation. We as a species are very adaptable and can accept some very trying conditions when pressed by circumstance. I will now describe a Man who has risen to an exalted status without his even knowing of it for somewhat over 36 years. I tell this story because as a youth it made an impression on me and to this day it ranks as, dare I say; legend. In its telling a hundred or more pilots and others have sat at the feet of the Master in much the same way the Plebeians sat at the feet of philosophers like Soccer Tease and Play Dough. Characters in this story never fail to stir the emotions and touch the hearts of those that have heard it and yet cannot turn away as it is told once more. There are sound effects that may not be handled properly with mere words. I find onomatopoeic words don’t quite work in print. In a challenge situation some coworkers met my hooch mate Howard Manning in Las Vegas last year. They asked, had he known of this story? Could he tell it as he recalled it without any help from yours truly? He said he had indeed been present at the calamity himself and to a man they sat rapt as children might when hearing about the big bad Wolf. The story was the same without some of the exaggerated facial expressions need for the best impact, but a good listen none the less. Here we go
Stan King was as amiable a person as I have ever met. He had a disarming grin and mannerisms that made it hard not to like him from the get. He had a natural athletic look about him, although I don’t think he put much effort into his conditioning. Being raised on a working farm in the bucolic heart of Illinois had been enough to give him wide shoulders and just enough muscle for his frame. He may not recall it but I remember him saying that in High School Basketball a shot that was for sure going to be nothing but net was said to be “in the barn” since that was where they would practice year round. I can not say enough about how easy going and likeable he was. Stan was a fun lover and hell raiser. He had a quick wit and was never one to bypass a little mischievous fun. Unfortunately Stan fell in with a bad crowd and he was guilty by association with the likes of George Miller, Bruce (The Boy Whore) Lindsey, Larry (baby pig) Graham, and Mayo (NMI) Mims. On any given day these wretched slobs would drag poor Stan down to their level of depravity by forcing liquor on him. They might spend an entire day in their army green cotton boxers sipping various concoctions from a beer can with the top cut out and whatever ice they could scrounge. After the pool was finished they were insufferable in their demeanor. Were it not so tragic to see them languishing about, it might have been cute. Lindsey would sometimes resemble Cat Ballou’s horse as he leaned against the nearest thing that would support his dissipated body. For the most part they all could fly. Somehow they were all business when it came to the Trade. The time I got to go to Bangkok Stan flew me over. I could not have been in better hands. He was a solid stick and rudder guy and competent at what he did. We had another tenant activity at Long Than North called (CAC) Command Airplane Company. They were primarily People Haulers and had fancier paint on their Aircraft.
Three doors down in our building lived a CAC fixed wing pilots named Barnett. Barnett’s folks or someone had sent him a real live refrigerator, top of the line. How it got there is a mystery with all the corruption on the docks. Suffice it to say it was popular in a place where anything cold to drink was a luxury. He was up north a lot and his roommate did not seem to care if stuff was stored in there. The best thing in the world was to get a cold seven up, open it, drink half and fill it back up with a little blended whiskey. There were no aluminum cans or pop tops for us. We had steel cans rusted just enough to give that metallic taste and opened with whatever was handy. Another fan favorite was the “Combat Martini” Mims was often credited with the invention. This was an easy fast drink to prepare and enjoy. A bottle of Vodka and a bottle of Vermouth were placed near the imbiber. In one cheek was placed a cube of ice in the other an olive (optional) three hard pulls were taken from the Vodka while glancing in the direction of the Vermouth. The contents of the mouth were chewed up and swallowed; repeat as needed.
Our power came from a much larger Base Camp a few miles away called Bear Cat. One night they were attacked with rockets and it knocked out the power. Back up power at LTN came from a 10 kilowatt diesel generator. It is my recollection that any loss in power would cause the back up to spin up and kick in instantly. In this case it did with an abrupt spike or surge of current that burnt out a fusible link in the back of Barnett’s fridge. Next guy into the hooch yelled aloud that the Kelvinator was “TITS UP”. A stampede to save the cold beer ensued immediately. Barnett was up north for a while and well meaning folks would check the contents of the freezer in the 95 degree room temperature. . In preparation for the occasional party there would have been steak, hamburger, pork chops, shrimp, prawns, chicken wings, and fish fillets stored in the freezer section.
A fortnight went by before Barnett got back. The fridge sat fermenting to the peak of fecundity with 30 or so pounds of flotsam and jetsam loose in the freezer compartment. The moment he got back, he entered the room yelled” Jesus” and came out and bent over to make a sidewalk pizza. He found a hand truck and placed his beloved Kelvinator between the adjacent buildings where it sat for few more days.
Major Randall our commanding officer came by and asked if I would get all available officers together for an Ops meeting. I told him to wait one and ran over to open the freezer section. In seconds doors were kicked open a block away and pilots that had flown night shift and others not ready to get up at 7:15 AM were up and about. Many had sat bolt upright in bed, waken from sound sleep by the piquant odor. They pleaded with me to shut the F@#$%ing fridge. I said for them to grab their socks, the ole Man wanted to see us. At the meeting some claimed to still have the pungent aroma lingering in their reverie. At some point two new pilots showed up and walked by as we were sitting at the picnic table. One asked who owned the Kelvinator I said” you guys if you got 15 bucks apiece”. They couldn’t get the money out fast enough. I said we would put it in their room while they picked up supplies and got an” in brief”. We put it in their room and fixed cocktails waiting to see their reaction. One came out in a rush, spewing as his friend said “ok funny man gimme back the money”. We apologized and removed the fridge. A guy’s first night in country is not the time to jerk him around too much. Two spit and polish Mohawk (OV1) pilots from across the runway came by to visit a flight school buddy in CAC. Curiosity got the best of them and they opened the freezer section. In unison they had a fit of Technicolor yawning that stifled their desire to visit.
Stan King was a bit of a philosopher. He stated with some conviction” things can only stink so bad”. He said he would clean out the Kelvinator and fix it. His thinking was sound and logical and not without merit. If the temperature drops to -20 it is hard believe you would feel any worse if it was -25. Its cold or it stinks there is a limit out there somewhere. Stan said on a farm lots of things stink. A stillborn calf comes to mind or perhaps mucking a hog pen. Stan would attempt to clean out and fix the fridge.
As added insurance Stan took his issue Gas mask removed the filters and drenched them in Aqua Velva after shave. He was clad in a jock strap, some boots, lineman’s gloves, and of course the gas mask. He looked like a naked hairy Darth Vader. Stan opened the freezer compartment and took a quick look and gave us thumbs up. We watched from a distance and placed small wagers on the outcome. My money was on Stan and his “how bad can it stink” theory. He was rugged and in growing up in farm country had actually touched the dirty sphincter from which life first oozed. He picked up a puffy plastic bag full of what appeared to be either grey chicken wings or bloated shrimp floating in a gelatinous partly clarified mushroom soup fluid. The bag had glued itself to a pack of hamburger that had gone rancid and congealed some days before. Then it happened. The rubber band that held the bag shut shredded and allowed a burst of spores and fetid juices to escape, clinging to Stan’s gloves and hovering in a small nimbus cloud near the mask. Valiantly Stan went back to the task but in seconds he turned his head from side to side like Carl in Slingblade. He looked toward us and his eyes were wild and fully open. He bent at the waist and his sweaty legs buckled a little. Someone hollered what we already knew, Stan was in trouble. He uttered a plaintive somewhat muffled cry from under the mask and then a sound. Gack, GACK, gack, and finally GLURK as the lenses of the M17 protective mask half filled with what appeared to be Pet milk and Captain Crunch from a Kellogg’s variety pack. We raced to the scene but no one helped Stan we just went to the fridge to shut that door. Stan’s gloved hands were goopy and would not allow him to loosen the straps on the mask very well at all. Some one grabbed the back strap and freed Stan from the source of his strangling. A chunk of necrotic flesh was stuck to the toe of his boot and he trembled as we all lit a smoke and slowly walked away to where he could wash his hands. He said later that the smell was unholy and wrong. He said there was an acrid nasty stench in that box that took him by surprise. At first all he smelled was after shave and just a hint of road kill opossum. Then there came a smell so putrid and repugnant it caused him to forget what he was doing.
At the time I think a Super 8 movie camera may have been present and some footage taken. It could save me a lot of story telling. Unit veterans would pour over it like the Warren Commission doing the frame by frame on the Abraham Zapruder film.
I know the 26’ Python we had was the most photographed snake on the planet. Somewhere there is footage of that snake eating a young pig. We would momentarily petrify a pet monkey named Charlie by periodically showing him a stuffed and mounted Cobra someone had brought back from Thailand. These were mundane day to day things. Yet to a boy from Pennsylvania, by way of Arkadelphia, Arkansas, they made an impression that cannot be erased.
Looking back I think Stan may have devoted this event perhaps a minute and a half of his time and forgotten the entire incident a few days later. I often think about the Gang of Four and their antics. Thanks for letting me share these recollections. I seem to remember that Shit Can Man took the Kelvinator away and left it open till in dried out. Next he scrubbed it out and took the back off, removed the insulation washed it, dried it and put the thing back together to include a fabricated fuse. It was eventually returned to service. Nash Kelvinator Company founded in Detroit Mi. 1914 is no longer in business. Kelvinator got its name from Baron Kelvin that defined absolute Zero as something like minus 273 degrees centigrade. Molecular motion stops along in there somewhere. Some of us in spite of being absolute Zeroes back in 1969 have done OK for ourselves.
The King and his Kelvinator
Singer songwriter Jackson Browne is one of my favorites. He has a clever way of examining both sides of a social issue or the human condition. I seldom agree wholeheartedly with Jackson’s whining politics, but songs like (Running on Empty) and (Take it Easy) make it hard to keep my foot still. In a taped interview he said he sometimes has editing help when writing songs. He says “I like words and I end up with lot more song than you really need”. I am going to attempt to tell a sad story and hope I don’t get so carried away painting word pictures that you loose the thread. I will try not to give you more story than you really need.
I served a tour of duty as an Army Helicopter Pilot in the Republic of Vietnam from October 1969 to October 1970. It was a dirty, hot, humid, rat infested place. I will say this, as tours went mine was a walk in the park compared to what it would have been as a grunt on the line sleeping in the swamps and in fear of booby traps and ambushes. Alongside the airstrip in Long Tan North We lived in a minimalist’s dream world. The buildings that made up the Officer’s Quarters (6 or 7 in all) were exactly alike and maybe 70’ long. I visited a WWII concentration camp in Germany set up much the same way. A single door led into what we called our “Hooch”. Our bunks were arranged under a tin roof with two and sometimes three pilots sharing a space (Hooch) 10’ wide by perhaps 14’ deep. Roof structure was 2x4 trusses strapped with 1x4 lathes and corrugated tin nailed directly to them. Floors were bare concrete textured with a broom. Walls (dividers) were 8’ tall with nothing to keep you from throwing a sweaty sock over to the next hooch. On one side wall you had plywood and the other 2x4s then plywood etc. The front and back walls were lap siding with a screen at the top for ventilation. As a college student in Arkansas I went home a couple spring weekends with a kid that lived on a Chicken farm. They raised 28,000 chickens every 10 weeks in 2 buildings wider and longer but with the exception of the concrete floor constructed the same way. The chickens had it a little better since a huge fan moved the air around and there was at least running water. The Hooch had a single outlet and a 4’ fluorescent light.
The walk ways between buildings were like pallets nailed together. I wondered about the pallets when I first got there and then it rained. In the Monsoon season it rains everyday. I’m not referring to a little Presbyterian sprinkle I’m talking about a no kidding Baptist deluge that might last an hour and the pallets kept our feet out of the ankle deep water. There was a series of drainage ditches full of weeds and water on three side of the billeting area. We’ll talk about the mosquitoes, malaria pills and spraying for insects in a later chapter. Flight School buddy Howard Manning and I started out in the middle of the northernmost building and within a week had a guy move in with us. His name was Russ Perkins, a pipe smoking third tour aviator with a New England accent. I think he said he was from New Hamshah. His neatly trimmed mustache twitched when he got excited. I was assigned to fly with him once and he showed me a dozen things that would save my life. He had been there for some ungodly fire fights and flew Gun Cover on hundreds of combat assaults. He had not been in III corps for years and yet he could plot artillery gun target lines on the fly with a glance at a map. He told me areas that were “good hunting”. We flew at night and saw some campfires. He warned me about fires in northern III corp. He said NVA or Cong that had the guts to build a cooking fire were in strong defensive positions and didn’t care who knew they were there. The Boogey Man walked among them down there and it was not a place to take your marshmallows.
One day Russ got some lumber and built a slide in lock for the door to the hooch. I laughed and said “what is that for”?
He looked me in the eye and said “I’ve killed more people than you see in the average day, seventy percent of these folks all have the same last name and God almighty do they carry a grudge; the man that throws a grenade in this room will have to nawwk and ask my permission”. Manning and I found an abandoned hooch dead center in the complex and set up housekeeping to include a large red Arkansas Razorback hog on the door.
We painted the door Canary yellow for reasons I can’t remember..
At some point during the tour we saw a crane lift a dented 2500 gallon tanker without wheels up high on some bridge timbers. This plus gravity became the water supply for our latrine. The latrine was made from concrete blocks but the floor was once again bare concrete and slimy green in the corners. Someone found or stole 4 toilets, French in nature complete with pull chains. These were installed and a cesspool collected the waste water. In addition we were blessed with a urinal and some shower heads, 6 maybe, that also had pull chains. You could wet down, soap up and rinse the sweat from your body and feel halfway human for an hour. Such luxury was denied so many troops that we never thought to complain about the rest of the living conditions. Prior to this you took a Whore’s bath in a basin with a rag and a Gerry can full of water. The toilets in those days were “Burn Crappers” A crude shack was constructed with a plywood bench which had two holes cut in it. This bench sat above a 55 gallon drum cut in half with half under each hole. The drums contained diesel fuel and when full were dragged out, set afire and dumped to be stirred with a special hoe. Needless to say the flies and heat made for a real quick trip to the commode. Unpleasant fails to express the feeling of going into this place on a hot night with a flashlight, where mosquitoes swarmed and one might see half a dozen rats going and coming.
We had a constant source of Pilot labor in between missions. We dug a small swimming pool by hand using little more than a pick, shovel, and wheelbarrow. The pool was lined with fuel bladders cut and glued, and water was filtered by the circulating pump and filter from an Air Farce refueling tanker KC 94 or maybe 135. Life was getting better every day. Years earlier some one had built an Officer’s club and now we even had an air conditioner. Alcoholism? No way! The cost alone would keep you from problem drinking. Beer was a dime and mixed drinks were a quarter, except for Happy Hour when prices were far more reasonable. A carton of smokes was a buck and a magnum of Portuguese (Lancers) wine was 2 bucks. I can say truthfully that all the ingredients were in place for a horror show and regretfully the shameful behavior was not long in coming.
For lack of a better way of describing him we had a “tiny “oriental gentleman that worked as part of the indigenous personnel. He worked diligently at cleaning up the area to include the latrine. For a reason evident only to the man that gave him the moniker he was known to one and all as “Shit Can Man”. He spoke scarce few words of English but answered to his given name with a pretty much toothless grin. There was an unspoken bond between him and the fixed wing pilots. Maybe it had something to do with a latency period or some improper potty training.
A sad period has existed when for whatever reason the water truck failed to fill the 2500 gallon tank and there was no water for the latrine. At first there were excuses to be made for ignorance. Maybe the first college educated Commissioned Officer would drop an anchor in the latrine and discover to his chagrin that there was not enough water to flush properly. By the end of the day it was evident that nearly a hundred had questioned whether or not the previous 18 or so visitors had forgotten to flush. After it was obvious and since it was already hideously clogged one more couldn’t hurt. This went on to the point that a primitive pair of stirrups were nailed to the inside of the stalls to allow a resourceful pilot to raise himself perhaps 3 feet above grade and in a maneuver not unlike a Schnauzer in the front yard, find ultimate release.
Enter Shit Can Man. In a stream of Vietnamese expletives and a tantrum much the same as a cuckold might display at seeing a loved one making the beast of two backs, he threw himself to his knees and wept openly. One of the fixed wing guys would invariably come and counsel him and offer him a case of his favorite beverage in exchange for the tough morning ahead. In a display of courage that is a credit to Man’s survival skill he tackled the task at hand.
The fixed wing guys told him to “take frequent breaks, hydrate and pace himself”. The term “one turd at a time” was their watch word as he took his tiny fireplace shovel and set out on his “Journey of discovery”. A Colonel came by and shaking his head said “how can these people call themselves Officers?”. In an attempt to discourage this, boards were nailed across the entry to the stalls when water was not available. A Captain (L Graham) came by for morning coffee and Winstons. He had small lacerations on his Prefrontal area and another on his Occipital Lobe. Hey! are you all right we asked, he said “that number three crapper must be on the fritz again, I hit my head on a one by six getting in and getting out”.
I was and still am an observer of the remarkable variety of behavior exhibited when people are taken from what is normal and thrust into a preposterous situation. We as a species are very adaptable and can accept some very trying conditions when pressed by circumstance. I will now describe a Man who has risen to an exalted status without his even knowing of it for somewhat over 36 years. I tell this story because as a youth it made an impression on me and to this day it ranks as, dare I say; legend. In its telling a hundred or more pilots and others have sat at the feet of the Master in much the same way the Plebeians sat at the feet of philosophers like Soccer Tease and Play Dough. Characters in this story never fail to stir the emotions and touch the hearts of those that have heard it and yet cannot turn away as it is told once more. There are sound effects that may not be handled properly with mere words. I find onomatopoeic words don’t quite work in print. In a challenge situation some coworkers met my hooch mate Howard Manning in Las Vegas last year. They asked, had he known of this story? Could he tell it as he recalled it without any help from yours truly? He said he had indeed been present at the calamity himself and to a man they sat rapt as children might when hearing about the big bad Wolf. The story was the same without some of the exaggerated facial expressions need for the best impact, but a good listen none the less. Here we go
Stan King was as amiable a person as I have ever met. He had a disarming grin and mannerisms that made it hard not to like him from the get. He had a natural athletic look about him, although I don’t think he put much effort into his conditioning. Being raised on a working farm in the bucolic heart of Illinois had been enough to give him wide shoulders and just enough muscle for his frame. He may not recall it but I remember him saying that in High School Basketball a shot that was for sure going to be nothing but net was said to be “in the barn” since that was where they would practice year round. I can not say enough about how easy going and likeable he was. Stan was a fun lover and hell raiser. He had a quick wit and was never one to bypass a little mischievous fun. Unfortunately Stan fell in with a bad crowd and he was guilty by association with the likes of George Miller, Bruce (The Boy Whore) Lindsey, Larry (baby pig) Graham, and Mayo (NMI) Mims. On any given day these wretched slobs would drag poor Stan down to their level of depravity by forcing liquor on him. They might spend an entire day in their army green cotton boxers sipping various concoctions from a beer can with the top cut out and whatever ice they could scrounge. After the pool was finished they were insufferable in their demeanor. Were it not so tragic to see them languishing about, it might have been cute. Lindsey would sometimes resemble Cat Ballou’s horse as he leaned against the nearest thing that would support his dissipated body. For the most part they all could fly. Somehow they were all business when it came to the Trade. The time I got to go to Bangkok Stan flew me over. I could not have been in better hands. He was a solid stick and rudder guy and competent at what he did. We had another tenant activity at Long Than North called (CAC) Command Airplane Company. They were primarily People Haulers and had fancier paint on their Aircraft.
Three doors down in our building lived a CAC fixed wing pilots named Barnett. Barnett’s folks or someone had sent him a real live refrigerator, top of the line. How it got there is a mystery with all the corruption on the docks. Suffice it to say it was popular in a place where anything cold to drink was a luxury. He was up north a lot and his roommate did not seem to care if stuff was stored in there. The best thing in the world was to get a cold seven up, open it, drink half and fill it back up with a little blended whiskey. There were no aluminum cans or pop tops for us. We had steel cans rusted just enough to give that metallic taste and opened with whatever was handy. Another fan favorite was the “Combat Martini” Mims was often credited with the invention. This was an easy fast drink to prepare and enjoy. A bottle of Vodka and a bottle of Vermouth were placed near the imbiber. In one cheek was placed a cube of ice in the other an olive (optional) three hard pulls were taken from the Vodka while glancing in the direction of the Vermouth. The contents of the mouth were chewed up and swallowed; repeat as needed.
Our power came from a much larger Base Camp a few miles away called Bear Cat. One night they were attacked with rockets and it knocked out the power. Back up power at LTN came from a 10 kilowatt diesel generator. It is my recollection that any loss in power would cause the back up to spin up and kick in instantly. In this case it did with an abrupt spike or surge of current that burnt out a fusible link in the back of Barnett’s fridge. Next guy into the hooch yelled aloud that the Kelvinator was “TITS UP”. A stampede to save the cold beer ensued immediately. Barnett was up north for a while and well meaning folks would check the contents of the freezer in the 95 degree room temperature. . In preparation for the occasional party there would have been steak, hamburger, pork chops, shrimp, prawns, chicken wings, and fish fillets stored in the freezer section.
A fortnight went by before Barnett got back. The fridge sat fermenting to the peak of fecundity with 30 or so pounds of flotsam and jetsam loose in the freezer compartment. The moment he got back, he entered the room yelled” Jesus” and came out and bent over to make a sidewalk pizza. He found a hand truck and placed his beloved Kelvinator between the adjacent buildings where it sat for few more days.
Major Randall our commanding officer came by and asked if I would get all available officers together for an Ops meeting. I told him to wait one and ran over to open the freezer section. In seconds doors were kicked open a block away and pilots that had flown night shift and others not ready to get up at 7:15 AM were up and about. Many had sat bolt upright in bed, waken from sound sleep by the piquant odor. They pleaded with me to shut the F@#$%ing fridge. I said for them to grab their socks, the ole Man wanted to see us. At the meeting some claimed to still have the pungent aroma lingering in their reverie. At some point two new pilots showed up and walked by as we were sitting at the picnic table. One asked who owned the Kelvinator I said” you guys if you got 15 bucks apiece”. They couldn’t get the money out fast enough. I said we would put it in their room while they picked up supplies and got an” in brief”. We put it in their room and fixed cocktails waiting to see their reaction. One came out in a rush, spewing as his friend said “ok funny man gimme back the money”. We apologized and removed the fridge. A guy’s first night in country is not the time to jerk him around too much. Two spit and polish Mohawk (OV1) pilots from across the runway came by to visit a flight school buddy in CAC. Curiosity got the best of them and they opened the freezer section. In unison they had a fit of Technicolor yawning that stifled their desire to visit.
Stan King was a bit of a philosopher. He stated with some conviction” things can only stink so bad”. He said he would clean out the Kelvinator and fix it. His thinking was sound and logical and not without merit. If the temperature drops to -20 it is hard believe you would feel any worse if it was -25. Its cold or it stinks there is a limit out there somewhere. Stan said on a farm lots of things stink. A stillborn calf comes to mind or perhaps mucking a hog pen. Stan would attempt to clean out and fix the fridge.
As added insurance Stan took his issue Gas mask removed the filters and drenched them in Aqua Velva after shave. He was clad in a jock strap, some boots, lineman’s gloves, and of course the gas mask. He looked like a naked hairy Darth Vader. Stan opened the freezer compartment and took a quick look and gave us thumbs up. We watched from a distance and placed small wagers on the outcome. My money was on Stan and his “how bad can it stink” theory. He was rugged and in growing up in farm country had actually touched the dirty sphincter from which life first oozed. He picked up a puffy plastic bag full of what appeared to be either grey chicken wings or bloated shrimp floating in a gelatinous partly clarified mushroom soup fluid. The bag had glued itself to a pack of hamburger that had gone rancid and congealed some days before. Then it happened. The rubber band that held the bag shut shredded and allowed a burst of spores and fetid juices to escape, clinging to Stan’s gloves and hovering in a small nimbus cloud near the mask. Valiantly Stan went back to the task but in seconds he turned his head from side to side like Carl in Slingblade. He looked toward us and his eyes were wild and fully open. He bent at the waist and his sweaty legs buckled a little. Someone hollered what we already knew, Stan was in trouble. He uttered a plaintive somewhat muffled cry from under the mask and then a sound. Gack, GACK, gack, and finally GLURK as the lenses of the M17 protective mask half filled with what appeared to be Pet milk and Captain Crunch from a Kellogg’s variety pack. We raced to the scene but no one helped Stan we just went to the fridge to shut that door. Stan’s gloved hands were goopy and would not allow him to loosen the straps on the mask very well at all. Some one grabbed the back strap and freed Stan from the source of his strangling. A chunk of necrotic flesh was stuck to the toe of his boot and he trembled as we all lit a smoke and slowly walked away to where he could wash his hands. He said later that the smell was unholy and wrong. He said there was an acrid nasty stench in that box that took him by surprise. At first all he smelled was after shave and just a hint of road kill opossum. Then there came a smell so putrid and repugnant it caused him to forget what he was doing.
At the time I think a Super 8 movie camera may have been present and some footage taken. It could save me a lot of story telling. Unit veterans would pour over it like the Warren Commission doing the frame by frame on the Abraham Zapruder film.
I know the 26’ Python we had was the most photographed snake on the planet. Somewhere there is footage of that snake eating a young pig. We would momentarily petrify a pet monkey named Charlie by periodically showing him a stuffed and mounted Cobra someone had brought back from Thailand. These were mundane day to day things. Yet to a boy from Pennsylvania, by way of Arkadelphia, Arkansas, they made an impression that cannot be erased.
Looking back I think Stan may have devoted this event perhaps a minute and a half of his time and forgotten the entire incident a few days later. I often think about the Gang of Four and their antics. Thanks for letting me share these recollections. I seem to remember that Shit Can Man took the Kelvinator away and left it open till in dried out. Next he scrubbed it out and took the back off, removed the insulation washed it, dried it and put the thing back together to include a fabricated fuse. It was eventually returned to service. Nash Kelvinator Company founded in Detroit Mi. 1914 is no longer in business. Kelvinator got its name from Baron Kelvin that defined absolute Zero as something like minus 273 degrees centigrade. Molecular motion stops along in there somewhere. Some of us in spite of being absolute Zeroes back in 1969 have done OK for ourselves.
