War Year Read Free Page A

nine.
    They were fighting a few miles south of Cam Ranh Bay. Something was going on there every night since I landed. They told us not to worry about it. Guess I was in a worrying mood, though.
    I sat down on the sand behind our billet and watched the fireworks on the horizon. There were a couple of planes, propeller jobs, and a helicopter shooting up the landscape with machine guns and rockets. Looked impressive, red and orange flames, but you couldn’t hear anything. I guess it’d even look pretty if you didn’t know what was going on. I watched for maybe half an hour, until I finished the beer, then went back to my billet and sacked out.
    Only got a couple of hours’ sleep. The buck-sergeant came stomping in, turned on all the lights, and started hollering the most godawful language I’d ever heard—and I’ve heard some fine stuff. Then he started tipping over bunks when people didn’t get up. I squirmed out just in time to keep from getting dumped. The buck-sergeant wasn’t happy at being up at three in the morning, and he wanted everybody to know it.
    He calmed down a little bit after everybody was up and getting their gear ready. “All right, you fuckers, there’s a bus outside the door. Hand me one copy of your orders before you get on. The last ten fuckers gotta stand all the way to the airport, so get a move on.”
    I was the second one on the bus, but it turned out nobody had to stand. Never trust a sergeant. It was only a ten-minute ride, anyhow.
    The airport was a big metal hut filled with bored soldiers, and not much else. It had a refreshment stand and a Stars and Stripes bookstore, but they wouldn’t open until 0900. I sat on my duffel bag and started writing letters.
    Wrote a long one to my girl and one to Mom. I was halfway through writing my brother when the buck-sergeant made us line up to go out to the plane. He took a roll call, opened the door, and we trotted onto the field. There was a big old C-130, a “flying boxcar,” and we got on in no particular order. No seats—we just flopped our bags on the metal floor and sat on them. We couldn’t get everybody on at first, but they juggled us around and packed us in tight as sardines, and managed to fit everyone in.
    An Air Force guy with captain’s bars and a tough-looking .45 in a shoulder holster poked his head in from the front of the plane. “I’m your pilot, Captain Platt. I hope none of you guys get airsick too easy—this is gonna be a rough ride.
    â€œThis airplane is older than some of you. It’ll probably outlive some of you, too. If you got anything to say to your neighbor, you better say it now. ’Cause once I start these engines, you won’t be able to even hear yourself think until you get to Pleiku. It’s about one hour’s flight. If we land any sooner than that, you better start praying. You can smoke as soon as the light goes on.” Then he yelled something out a window and the engines started. The noise was incredible, so loud it made my teeth hurt.
    I’d flown lots of times before; my Dad had a license. We’d go out on weekends, out by Turner Field, and rent a plane for a few hours. But we’d always get the little Pipers or Cessnas, nothing that made a tenth as much noise as this did.
    We stood still for about five minutes before the plane started to move.
    After we rolled down the runway a while, the noise doubled and we were in the air. Without windows you could only tell by the upward tilt of the plane and the fact that the air was less bumpy than the ground. Still, the airplane sounded like it was going to shake itself apart.
    After a boring hour—nothing to do but look at the other guys turning green—the plane started to come down. I could feel the pressure in my ears, and there was a loud bump when the landing gear came down. We bounced several times before the plane started rolling on the ground.
    The rear