Simpy One of Many Stories of a Time Not So Long Ago

You guys have written some cool stories in a thread above. Here's one
I wrote tonight. Here's fictional story number #69a.

It's not polished. It's just a draft. Some of you might like it. Some
of you might identify with it. But, most of all, I hope you enjoy it
because I hope it puts you there. That was my goal.

BWB
__________________________________________________ ______





It was the most God-awful sound I ever heard, but I couldn't
figure out what it was. This loud drone beat me in the head as if a
sledge hammer were pounding my entire body from front, then behind,
then from the front again.

What the hell was going on? I struggled to think, to see, to
feel. Was I being electrocuted? What was that piercing, killing
sound? I knew it was not good. It even sounded diabolical, but how
could I stop it? How could I even figure out what it was? I strained
to peer but my eyes were useless. All I could see was a wall of red.
All I could hear was that loud sound of: "Bang-bang-bang-bang,"
hammering me in the head every second.

The red was confusing. Why wasn't it black, or white or
clear? Christ, what the hell is going on? Where am I? What is this?

I heard a scream from somewhere, a long way off. It almost
sounded like it was coming from the end of a large tin water-pipe. It
came again, then a lower pitched scream down the same pipe. Am I
asleep? I don't think so.

I struggled for consciousness. Things wouldn't come quick
enough. That sound? The "Bang-bang-bang-bang," every second or so.
Then it changes a bit. Now it's a piercing "bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep"
at the end of that tin pipe. At least I'm not being bashed by that
sound anymore. I just simply hear it. It's familiar for some reason,
but what is that reason? What is going on?

I know that sound. God, what is happening, where am I?
Christ, I have to figure this out. I'm almost awake now. I can feel
that I am, but I can't see. The sound isn't right. I know it's not
RIGHT at all. But why not?

What the hell is that wall of RED I see? The screams become
more clear then I hear a rifle pop. It too is at the end of a long
tin pipe. I hear a couple other pops from things that sound like hand
guns ... way down the pipe.

Where did all this come from? What are these familiar noises?
I don't get it, but I feel like I better start making sense of it soon
or I might have bigger problems. Something is horribly wrong. I feel
like I've done something that I'm guilty for. I feel like I'm about
to go to the principal's office because I just kicked the **** out of
somebody, but I don't know who. The world feels like it's whirling
around in circles.

Now I can sort of feel the forces on my body, but that damn
"Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep," just continues to pierce my ears! It
pierces my brain, my nerves, my soul. The sound of rifles gets louder
but doesn't seem to overcome that damn bleeping. I hear more
screaming, then I hear a voice in my head. "Captain, Duke is dead.
The son's a bitches got him. And, Pete! His leg is gone and he's
bleeding out. The femoral artery Captain! I can't get to him Sir,
and the left half of his head...Christ, I didn't know that brains
looked like that."

I struggle for consciousness but I just can't get a clear view
of what's going on. My mind is scrambled. This can't be a dream.
What is all that red? What is that God-damn bleeping sound that is
drilling me? Why doesn't someone shut that thing off? Nothing is
clear. Nothing makes sense. But-I do feel that it's paramount that I
figure this **** out, and figure it out as soon as I can.

Then out of nowhere my mind seems to "just return." I didn't
do anything, it just came back on it's own. Men in combat have this
happen a lot. They are completely disoriented and the out of nowhere
their senses just seem to miraculously return. It's a common thing in
combat. I watched a buddy of mine once who didn't even know his name.
He could walk around, look at things (he couldn't speak), seem
somewhat normal although he was GONE. Then all of a sudden, he's be
back. He'd return to the world.

I wiped the blood from my face. I was back and things weren't
good. I wiped the blood from my eyes as I heard the low rotor rpm
horn bleeping-bleeping-bleeping. For Christ's sake, I have to see.
We've had the **** shot out of us. What the hell is going on? Is the
main rotor gone? Has it stopped? Are we dropping like a brick into
the jungle? I wipe my left hand across my eyes to blot up some blood
into my Nomex flight gloves. It's like taking a paper towel to a
windshield that is completely slaughtered by bug-guts.

If you drive down a road and hit a million grasshoppers and
their guts splatter all over the window to the point you can't see,
then you take a paper towel and smear it all around so you get a tiny
little port-hole, you can view the world out of it. That's how the
world looked to me while we were spinning out of control and dropping
like a brick into the jungle.

I could hear more clearly now. I had no idea why Gil was
shooting that damn M-60 while we were spinning out of control. I
wiped my eyes once more on the back of the glove of my left hand. The
world was spinning and that damn low-rotor rpm horn was pulsing and
piercing my head to the point of insanity. Christ--- I'd pull the
circuit breaker on that prick if I could find it without dying. But
screw that, I have to see what the hell is really going on and bail
this out if I can.

There it is! It's all there in tones of gray on the
helicopter instrument-panel in front of me. Every engine gauge is
setting on zero!

But, thank God we have 90% main rotor rpm. Damn... I might be
able to fix this crap. I drop the collective and watch the rpm whirl
up past 95%...then all the way up to 110% as the autorotation spools
me back to the NON-BLEEPING zone. God damn, I hate that horn! I'm
going to cut those wires if I live through this.

I jam the pedals a bit to get the nose straight and I'm a
glider pilot just flying an airplane, but an airplane with a 4 to 1
glide ratio. We do have some altitude. We're lucky. The clock may
have not run out, quite yet. There's a clearing up ahead, someone's
even popped smoke. Interesting how "gone" my brain is, purple, green,
red smoke? I can't tell what it is. It's just smoke. The blood in my
eyes makes the whole world look red anyway.

The gooks are shooting the **** out of us. I hear the ping,
ping, ping of the bullets going through the chopper. My right
Plexiglas window disintegrates and fragments hit what is left of my
helmet. The front windscreen was gone when I came back from my
dementia. I hope that the equal opportunity employees of Bell did
their job when they bolted this "SLICK" together. It's a hell of a
machine. This old Huey's been hit before but it's never been turned
to Swiss cheese like this. I can feel there's something wrong with
the lift of the rotorsystem, but, what the hell, it's flying. I'm not
dropping like a Roll's Royce engine strapped to my back.

The blood clouds my vision once more and I wipe it away. I
hear Gil screaming in the back as he blows away an endless stream of
rounds through that M-60. There are some things in combat that you
never forget. I had an instant to turn my head right and try to see
what the hell Gil was shooting at. I saw nothing but jungle. I
cranked my head around to look at him. I saw a crazed man with eyes
the size of silver dollars, blood running out of his helmet and his
mouth in a contorted geometry that looked impossible to duplicate.

Gil keys up his mic, "I'll kill everyone of these son's a
bitches Captain! I swear to God. The *******s blew Duke's head the
**** off."

"Just hang tight Gil. I'll probably slam this bitch down on
the LZ ahead. I'm sure they've punched holes in our rotorblades.
I'll never get enough lift to bail this **** out of the flare. We
have to be full of holes man...so hang on."

"Okay, Captain, gotcha. If you can't bail this **** out, then
see ya in hell Sir. Can't be much different than being in country."

I keyed up again, "****, I'd give anything to be out of gas at
this point. Too bad that 'Ops' juiced us back on hill 83. If it
weren't for the gas, I think we'd have a fightin' chance Gil."

"Don't worry Captain. If anybody can fly this pile of
Colorado Cool Aid, tin-can muther-****er into a safe landing at a
'hot' LZ, it's you Sir. If we don't get creamed, I just wonder what
the rest of my life will be like in the Hanoi Hilton. Hey maybe that
bitch, Hanoi Jane Fonda will come around an flash us Sir."

A bullet in my brain, blood flowing down my face from a
lacerated forehead and my eyes red with flowing-red-goo, I had to
grin. It was just the way it was. The whole war was a piece of crap.
All of it. Fighting people we didn't hate, killing people we had no
idea about. It was all a pile of ****. Then you have some celebrity
like Jane Fonda, traitorous bitch. This had to be a cartoon.

I landed that UH-1H that day in a rice field that had been
owned by a family for thousands of years. They didn't know what
government was in control that day. All they knew was that they had
owned that little piece of earth for some 5000 years. In fact they
didn't even know that. It was a given. They had passed that little
plot of land on from generation to generation through hundreds of
wars. This war was no different in principle. It was only different
in technology. It was the 20th century and the machines were more
capable of killing. The smoke I saw was them cooking a pig. It was a
sacred and religious day. Although a holiday to them, it was just
another day for us to kill people, or be killed.

We were lucky, they were "Friendy's" and hid us until a Jolly
Green came in and picked us up two hours later. They even fed us some
of their pig. It was Friday the 13th.

BWB

Hey BWB,

Good 'Fiction', I enjoyed it. I think my grandfather told us stories
of hiding a couple of GI flyboys that got shot down. He said they
gave him some brownish sugarbar. I later understand that to be
choccolet.

Bryan "the monk" Chaisone
http://www.alexisparkinn.com/rogue's_gallery_a-h.htm#C

To ensure safe flight, have your planes blessed.

Buddhist monk, available to bless airplanes:

Blessing on site: cost of travel + $350.00 and a
case of Corona.
Blessing by phone: $12.50 and a sixpack of Bud.
Blessing over the internet: buck twenty five ($1.25).

Above prices are good for first three flights. Add 76 cents
($0.76)for each additional flight.






(Badwater Bill) wrote in message . ..
You guys have written some cool stories in a thread above. Here's one
I wrote tonight. Here's fictional story number #69a.

It's not polished. It's just a draft. Some of you might like it. Some
of you might identify with it. But, most of all, I hope you enjoy it
because I hope it puts you there. That was my goal.

BWB
__________________________________________________ ______





It was the most God-awful sound I ever heard, but I couldn't
figure out what it was. This loud drone beat me in the head as if a
sledge hammer were pounding my entire body from front, then behind,
then from the front again.

What the hell was going on? I struggled to think, to see, to
feel. Was I being electrocuted? What was that piercing, killing
sound? I knew it was not good. It even sounded diabolical, but how
could I stop it? How could I even figure out what it was? I strained
to peer but my eyes were useless. All I could see was a wall of red.
All I could hear was that loud sound of: "Bang-bang-bang-bang,"
hammering me in the head every second.

The red was confusing. Why wasn't it black, or white or
clear? Christ, what the hell is going on? Where am I? What is this?

I heard a scream from somewhere, a long way off. It almost
sounded like it was coming from the end of a large tin water-pipe. It
came again, then a lower pitched scream down the same pipe. Am I
asleep? I don't think so.

I struggled for consciousness. Things wouldn't come quick
enough. That sound? The "Bang-bang-bang-bang," every second or so.
Then it changes a bit. Now it's a piercing "bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep"
at the end of that tin pipe. At least I'm not being bashed by that
sound anymore. I just simply hear it. It's familiar for some reason,
but what is that reason? What is going on?

I know that sound. God, what is happening, where am I?
Christ, I have to figure this out. I'm almost awake now. I can feel
that I am, but I can't see. The sound isn't right. I know it's not
RIGHT at all. But why not?

What the hell is that wall of RED I see? The screams become
more clear then I hear a rifle pop. It too is at the end of a long
tin pipe. I hear a couple other pops from things that sound like hand
guns ... way down the pipe.

Where did all this come from? What are these familiar noises?
I don't get it, but I feel like I better start making sense of it soon
or I might have bigger problems. Something is horribly wrong. I feel
like I've done something that I'm guilty for. I feel like I'm about
to go to the principal's office because I just kicked the **** out of
somebody, but I don't know who. The world feels like it's whirling
around in circles.

Now I can sort of feel the forces on my body, but that damn
"Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep," just continues to pierce my ears! It
pierces my brain, my nerves, my soul. The sound of rifles gets louder
but doesn't seem to overcome that damn bleeping. I hear more
screaming, then I hear a voice in my head. "Captain, Duke is dead.
The son's a bitches got him. And, Pete! His leg is gone and he's
bleeding out. The femoral artery Captain! I can't get to him Sir,
and the left half of his head...Christ, I didn't know that brains
looked like that."

I struggle for consciousness but I just can't get a clear view
of what's going on. My mind is scrambled. This can't be a dream.
What is all that red? What is that God-damn bleeping sound that is
drilling me? Why doesn't someone shut that thing off? Nothing is
clear. Nothing makes sense. But-I do feel that it's paramount that I
figure this **** out, and figure it out as soon as I can.

Then out of nowhere my mind seems to "just return." I didn't
do anything, it just came back on it's own. Men in combat have this
happen a lot. They are completely disoriented and the out of nowhere
their senses just seem to miraculously return. It's a common thing in
combat. I watched a buddy of mine once who didn't even know his name.
He could walk around, look at things (he couldn't speak), seem
somewhat normal although he was GONE. Then all of a sudden, he's be
back. He'd return to the world.

I wiped the blood from my face. I was back and things weren't
good. I wiped the blood from my eyes as I heard the low rotor rpm
horn bleeping-bleeping-bleeping. For Christ's sake, I have to see.
We've had the **** shot out of us. What the hell is going on? Is the
main rotor gone? Has it stopped? Are we dropping like a brick into
the jungle? I wipe my left hand across my eyes to blot up some blood
into my Nomex flight gloves. It's like taking a paper towel to a
windshield that is completely slaughtered by bug-guts.

If you drive down a road and hit a million grasshoppers and
their guts splatter all over the window to the point you can't see,
then you take a paper towel and smear it all around so you get a tiny
little port-hole, you can view the world out of it. That's how the
world looked to me while we were spinning out of control and dropping
like a brick into the jungle.

I could hear more clearly now. I had no idea why Gil was
shooting that damn M-60 while we were spinning out of control. I
wiped my eyes once more on the back of the glove of my left hand. The
world was spinning and that damn low-rotor rpm horn was pulsing and
piercing my head to the point of insanity. Christ--- I'd pull the
circuit breaker on that prick if I could find it without dying. But
screw that, I have to see what the hell is really going on and bail
this out if I can.

There it is! It's all there in tones of gray on the
helicopter instrument-panel in front of me. Every engine gauge is
setting on zero!

But, thank God we have 90% main rotor rpm. Damn... I might be
able to fix this crap. I drop the collective and watch the rpm whirl
up past 95%...then all the way up to 110% as the autorotation spools
me back to the NON-BLEEPING zone. God damn, I hate that horn! I'm
going to cut those wires if I live through this.

I jam the pedals a bit to get the nose straight and I'm a
glider pilot just flying an airplane, but an airplane with a 4 to 1
glide ratio. We do have some altitude. We're lucky. The clock may
have not run out, quite yet. There's a clearing up ahead, someone's
even popped smoke. Interesting how "gone" my brain is, purple, green,
red smoke? I can't tell what it is. It's just smoke. The blood in my
eyes makes the whole world look red anyway.

The gooks are shooting the **** out of us. I hear the ping,
ping, ping of the bullets going through the chopper. My right
Plexiglas window disintegrates and fragments hit what is left of my
helmet. The front windscreen was gone when I came back from my
dementia. I hope that the equal opportunity employees of Bell did
their job when they bolted this "SLICK" together. It's a hell of a
machine. This old Huey's been hit before but it's never been turned
to Swiss cheese like this. I can feel there's something wrong with
the lift of the rotorsystem, but, what the hell, it's flying. I'm not
dropping like a Roll's Royce engine strapped to my back.

The blood clouds my vision once more and I wipe it away. I
hear Gil screaming in the back as he blows away an endless stream of
rounds through that M-60. There are some things in combat that you
never forget. I had an instant to turn my head right and try to see
what the hell Gil was shooting at. I saw nothing but jungle. I
cranked my head around to look at him. I saw a crazed man with eyes
the size of silver dollars, blood running out of his helmet and his
mouth in a contorted geometry that looked impossible to duplicate.

Gil keys up his mic, "I'll kill everyone of these son's a
bitches Captain! I swear to God. The *******s blew Duke's head the
**** off."

"Just hang tight Gil. I'll probably slam this bitch down on
the LZ ahead. I'm sure they've punched holes in our rotorblades.
I'll never get enough lift to bail this **** out of the flare. We
have to be full of holes man...so hang on."

"Okay, Captain, gotcha. If you can't bail this **** out, then
see ya in hell Sir. Can't be much different than being in country."

I keyed up again, "****, I'd give anything to be out of gas at
this point. Too bad that 'Ops' juiced us back on hill 83. If it
weren't for the gas, I think we'd have a fightin' chance Gil."

"Don't worry Captain. If anybody can fly this pile of
Colorado Cool Aid, tin-can muther-****er into a safe landing at a
'hot' LZ, it's you Sir. If we don't get creamed, I just wonder what
the rest of my life will be like in the Hanoi Hilton. Hey maybe that
bitch, Hanoi Jane Fonda will come around an flash us Sir."

A bullet in my brain, blood flowing down my face from a
lacerated forehead and my eyes red with flowing-red-goo, I had to
grin. It was just the way it was. The whole war was a piece of crap.
All of it. Fighting people we didn't hate, killing people we had no
idea about. It was all a pile of ****. Then you have some celebrity
like Jane Fonda, traitorous bitch. This had to be a cartoon.

I landed that UH-1H that day in a rice field that had been
owned by a family for thousands of years. They didn't know what
government was in control that day. All they knew was that they had
owned that little piece of earth for some 5000 years. In fact they
didn't even know that. It was a given. They had passed that little
plot of land on from generation to generation through hundreds of
wars. This war was no different in principle. It was only different
in technology. It was the 20th century and the machines were more
capable of killing. The smoke I saw was them cooking a pig. It was a
sacred and religious day. Although a holiday to them, it was just
another day for us to kill people, or be killed.

We were lucky, they were "Friendy's" and hid us until a Jolly
Green came in and picked us up two hours later. They even fed us some
of their pig. It was Friday the 13th.

BWB

On 2 Mar 2004 06:00:39 -0800, (bryan chaisone)
wrote:

Hey BWB,

Good 'Fiction', I enjoyed it. I think my grandfather told us stories
of hiding a couple of GI flyboys that got shot down. He said they
gave him some brownish sugarbar. I later understand that to be
choccolet.

Bryan "the monk" Chaisone


Bryan:

Tell your grandpa thanks from one of the old boys who lived through
that era. He might have saved one of my friends or even a relative.

Was he living in Viet Nam at the time, or was it another war?

BWB

Bill,

It was the Vietnam Conflict. He was living in Laos at the time. He
now lives in Thailand.

Bryan 'The Flying Monk" Chaisone
http://www.alexisparkinn.com/rogue's_gallery_a-h.htm#C

(Badwater Bill) wrote in message .. .
On 2 Mar 2004 06:00:39 -0800, (bryan chaisone)
wrote:

Hey BWB,

Good 'Fiction', I enjoyed it. I think my grandfather told us stories
of hiding a couple of GI flyboys that got shot down. He said they
gave him some brownish sugarbar. I later understand that to be
choccolet.

Bryan "the monk" Chaisone


Bryan:

Tell your grandpa thanks from one of the old boys who lived through
that era. He might have saved one of my friends or even a relative.

Was he living in Viet Nam at the time, or was it another war?

BWB

I'll let him Know you said, "Thanks".

Bryan

(Badwater Bill) wrote in message .. .
On 2 Mar 2004 06:00:39 -0800, (bryan chaisone)
wrote:

Hey BWB,

Good 'Fiction', I enjoyed it. I think my grandfather told us stories
of hiding a couple of GI flyboys that got shot down. He said they
gave him some brownish sugarbar. I later understand that to be
choccolet.

Bryan "the monk" Chaisone


Bryan:

Tell your grandpa thanks from one of the old boys who lived through
that era. He might have saved one of my friends or even a relative.

Was he living in Viet Nam at the time, or was it another war?

BWB

On 3 Mar 2004 14:35:21 -0800, (bryan chaisone)
wrote:

I'll let him Know you said, "Thanks".

Bryan

You bet. I appreciate that more than you'll ever know...even to this
day.

Bill Phillips

I really thought that was good Bill. I liked the suspense and early
deception. I thought that was going turn out to be an alarm clock
beeping. I thought the story was going to be about drug-running for
some reason, with "the man" standing over you in the cockpit of your
stripped down Beech 18. It inspired me to pen this piece below this
morning:


The Buzz of RAH

You see there were eleven of them in all and they really had nothing
in common. The engineers, the builders, the dreamers, the weekend
warriors, the curious outsiders, and even the high flyers,
unsatisfied with having done it just the week before. But there were
more in the shadows. Many more. And this is where they would come
to find out about it so they could get their weekly fix. They spoke
in a kind of code and they talked about getting high all the time.
You see they were addicts. They were hopeless pathetic addicts. And
they could not be rehabilitated. Eleven little Indians hooked on the
intoxicating elixir of forcing their bodies into a state of utter
euphoria. Taking their bodies where they should not.

And it was dangerous. Most every young man wanted to get some at some
time in his life. And some paid with their very lives. They believed
in the dream. Some built the apparatus for it right in their garage
because they believed in the dream. And then something went wrong and
their friends had to say goodbye to them.

They were breaking the law. Newtonian Law as it was known all the
way up to 1900. This was a new drug. It was really only a rumor
until 1903. Then it became believable and hit mainstream. And it was
good. It was just as good as falling in love. You never forgot your
first hit. You never forgot that feeling that you had conquered the
whole world, and you never forgot the look on people's faces after you
did it that first time by yourself. They could see the glow on your
face. They could see you were slightly smiling to yourself doing
mundane chores that you always did. They could see something had
changed in you for the better but they weren't sure what it was and
they had this quizzical look on their faces. They noticed it
everywhere you went... as you ran your errands, as you went to work,
as you said hi to your neighbor and stopped to pet a dog that you did
not like.

And they were right. Something was going on with you and there was no
way for you to hide it. Music sounded better to you. Food tasted
better. You found pleasure in everything you did. Life was good. It
was good to be alive with your little secret:
Your feet had left the ground that week with only you as the master of
your fate. And here you were walking and talking to mere mortals a
few days later, who had no idea where you soul had been soaring. You
would forever savor that feeling and spend the rest of your life
hoping to do it again.

pacplyer


( I hope some of you liked it.)

The Buzz of RAH

You see there were eleven of them in all and they really had nothing
in common. The engineers, the builders, the dreamers, the weekend
warriors, the curious outsiders, and even the high flyers,
unsatisfied with having done it just the week before. But there were
more in the shadows. Many more. And this is where they would come
to find out about it so they could get their weekly fix. They spoke
in a kind of code and they talked about getting high all the time.
You see they were addicts. They were hopeless pathetic addicts. And
they could not be rehabilitated. Eleven little Indians hooked on the
intoxicating elixir of forcing their bodies into a state of utter
euphoria. Taking their bodies where they should not.

And it was dangerous. Most every young man wanted to get some at some
time in his life. And some paid with their very lives. They believed
in the dream. Some built the apparatus for it right in their garage
because they believed in the dream. And then something went wrong and
their friends had to say goodbye to them.

They were breaking the law. Newtonian Law as it was known all the
way up to 1900. This was a new drug. It was really only a rumor
until 1903. Then it became believable and hit mainstream. And it was
good. It was just as good as falling in love. You never forgot your
first hit. You never forgot that feeling that you had conquered the
whole world, and you never forgot the look on people's faces after you
did it that first time by yourself. They could see the glow on your
face. They could see you were slightly smiling to yourself doing
mundane chores that you always did. They could see something had
changed in you for the better but they weren't sure what it was and
they had this quizzical look on their faces. They noticed it
everywhere you went... as you ran your errands, as you went to work,
as you said hi to your neighbor and stopped to pet a dog that you did
not like.

And they were right. Something was going on with you and there was no
way for you to hide it. Music sounded better to you. Food tasted
better. You found pleasure in everything you did. Life was good. It
was good to be alive with your little secret:
Your feet had left the ground that week with only you as the master of
your fate. And here you were walking and talking to mere mortals a
few days later, who had no idea where you soul had been soaring. You
would forever savor that feeling and spend the rest of your life
hoping to do it again.

pacplyer


( I hope some of you liked it.)

I liked it. Nice job. It's fun to write. I see that you like it
too.

BWB

(Badwater Bill) wrote

I liked it. Nice job. It's fun to write. I see that you like it
too.

BWB

Well, I wouldn't call mine real writing. I just copied a lot of your
style with the cool repetition and great front-end suspense (i.e.
reader gets hooked and asks himself: just how sinister is this story
anyway?)

Glad you're not sore about it. :-) Your a good author Bill. The Nam
story was a real cliffhanger.

Anyway, shouldn't have put mine in your "fiction" thread. Mine is a
"true" story about Rahians that have actually been signed off for
solo. ;-]

I mistook it for a creative writing thread. What threw me was the
rough-draft comment and thinking: why would a full bird be in an army
helo in the jungle? Then I saw a Charles Lindberg thing on "D.C.
Wings" today about Lindberg sneaking into the Solomon Islands and
shooting down Japs without permission from the war dept, and realized:
Hey, it could happen.

So BWB did you really do it?

As Howard Hughes was asked if he meant to fly the Spruce Goose off the
water he replied: "*You'll* never know!"

Great stuff, keep it comming,

pacplyer

(It seems to me I remember a story by you about gun running. I can't
seem to find it. You don't have a link to that do you?)

So BWB did you really do it?


Nah. I was never in a war. Air America was a civilian airline
Everybody knows that. Ask Walt Troyer. He flew for AA. He and I are
about the same age and lived through the same ****ty times. I was a
cargo dog like you Pac. Just on the helicopter end of things and
peripherally attached to Air America. Never saw any real heat. At
least that's what my file in the Pentagon says.

But, I'll tell you another bit of fiction. The Army Huey's couldn't
cross into Laos or Cambodia to chase the Viet Cong (VC) over imaginary
borders in the middle of the jungle. The Air Force couldn't bomb over
these borders either although it did happen a few times and we took a
lot of heat for it. That was one of the things that was so crazy
about that war. There were gobbs of rules that were all in favor of
the enemy. So, there had to be some way around this at times when it
was absolutely essential for the safe ops of a mission to be
successful "in country."

If a civilian pilot for Air America crossed a border in a slick, it
was a sacrificial mission and nobody gave a **** if they didn't come
back. The Huey had no markings and the occupants carried no ID's. If
you got shot down, nobody knew you and nobody came to get you. If you
lived, you ate bugs, dogs, cats and monkeys. You used your sniper
capabilities to take out any unfriendlies and you walked back to Viet
Nam. You actually crawled back to Viet Nam because you had to stay
hidden in the dense jungle. You used your pocket knife, your survival
gear and your wit to get you back. You didn't even have a radio
because that would give you away. Water was usually the most critical
thing. If you had water, you'd most likely make it. So, the first
thing you did was try to figure out how to follow a path that had
water along it. River's, streams, lakes, anything with water.

Getting shot down for Air America wasn't like the Army. If you were
a soldier and you went down in a slick or a gun ship (in country), the
Army would almost commit endless resources to picking even one man up.
The Marines operate that very way to this day. Nobody gets left
behind, PERIOD. If one guy is out there in the weeds, they'll napalm
the **** out of the jungle and kill every living thing within 5 miles
to clear an LZ for a safe pick-up.

Air America was different. The CIA operated it covertly but those who
worked for it knew that they were to be sacrificed if they creamed in
over some imaginary line (border) somewhere where "We" (the USA)
weren't supposed to be. The way it would be explained is that the
crew was a mad-dog renegade group of drug smugglers on a personal
mission to smuggle heroin or opium across the border for their
personal profit. That was one story. There were others.


__________________________________________________ ______

A couple definitions for the kids who didn't live through that era:

VC= Viet Cong "gooks", the enemy

LZ=Landing Zone

Slick= A stripped down Huey helicopter like a UH-1H or a B-model with
no guns on the outside.

Hog=Same UH-1H with guns, rockets and all sorts of other **** attached
to the outside of it. It was slow and dirty so it was called a HOG.

Air America= CIA owned and operated airline run by a bunch of card
carrying crazies. Although most were civilians, even the one's who
weren't never carried any ID. I've heard there were many military
people including Bird Colonels who flew for Air America. But I
wouldn't know for sure. At the end of my career in the government I
even had a couple O-6's who worked for me, but they never admitted to
doing anything like that during the war.

in country= Means, in Viet Nam



(It seems to me I remember a story by you about gun running. I can't
seem to find it. You don't have a link to that do you?)

I posted it 10 years ago here somewhere. It was the story of how
Badwater Bill got his name. I've been through about 5 computers since
then and it's probably lost somewhere. It was about my inability to
fit back into society after the Viet Nam war. I ended up in Central
America supporting a bunch of good looking women. I had a lot of
testosterone in those days.

Some son's a bitches stole my women one day and I had to hunt the
*******s down and kill them. In the process, I got my name Badwater
Bill. But it was in Spanish. I'll try to find it. It was just a
fun story I wrote one day, just like the one above. It was about 80%
truth and 20% fiction. That's about the way I write this stuff. I've
lived a lot of it, but just in different circumstances. I embellish
it and change it to make it entertaining. There's nothing romantic
about war when a man is there. It's the Tom Clancey in me that makes
me write this stuff. I'm an armchair warrior. I never want to be in
harm's way again in any circumstance. I'm a coward. I'd rather sit
home and watch TV than be in a battle. But, when I was younger, I was
different. All of life was an adventure.

I'm old too, and I'm cranky. If the enemy didn't get me, my own men
would frag me for being so cranky. I got a kick out of somebody here
the other day who was talking about somebody by calling them by their
first name then using the word "Grump" at the end. It was like: "Oh
yeah, John the Grump riveted those. He did a great job too." That
would fit me nowadays. "Bill the Grump."

BWB