Warriors Once

A long time ago a group of young men (including myself) were sent to a land far away in service of their country to help fight a foreign war they knew little about and probably cared about even less. I vividly remember the moment we stepped off the plane of our incoming flight into Saigon and as soon as my feet touch the tarmac we were told one of our classmates who arrived a couple days before us was killed in action the day before.

After about a year of intense and grueling stateside military training, young men, many whom were not much older than teenagers, were assigned tasks which would require extremely disciplined men which these young and inexperienced men would become very soon.

To perform the tasks that would be required of us we were assigned a bucket of bolts, some formed sheet metal pieces and a conglomeration of other things and whirling parts all stuck together. Once assembled it was called an Iroquois and later nicknamed “Huey”.

Although our stateside training was superb it did little to prepare us for what we were about to experience. Nothing but the reality of war could even bring to our imagination some of the horrors we were about to see, discover and encounter firsthand.

Almost instantly we learned and understood that these thin-skinned bucket of bolts and whirling things to which we were assigned plus our recently acquired unique skills, often meant the difference between life and death itself to the men on the ground. We performed missions from transporting VIP’s from one location to another, inserting and extracting troops, delivering equipment and supplies, giving close air support to those pinned down by the enemy, picking up wounded while under intense enemy fire at times then delivering them rapidly to emergency care facilities and from the jungles and rice paddies carrying fallen brothers who had fought their last battle, back to base to be returned home.

Sometimes flying ten to twelve hours a day and at times 7 days a week, we seldom complained as we realized without our continuing support and dedication to those on the ground, many more could possibly die.

We honed our skills with each and every mission we flew while at the same time learning how to best control our own fears while under enemy fire at times or flying in adverse weather conditions and still being able to complete the task at hand. We had to find ways to cope with those nauseating feelings deep down in our gut caused from the sight and stench of dead bodies and mutilated medevacs.

At the end of the day, totally exhausted, we stretch out on a normally not so comfortable bed. But a bed that at this moment felt wonderful even though it had to be shrouded with mosquito netting to keep out rats during the night. Finally, when our mind cleared of thoughts, we would drift off to sleep and dream of home and better times to come while knowing that tomorrow we will be asked to do everything all over again.

When our yearlong stay in combat ended most of us who survived this ordeal both mentally and physically returned to the states. There we begin to share with others who will follow in our footsteps, the knowledge and skills we learned.

Now we are in the Autumn of our lives some 50 plus years after Vietnam and we remember the many brothers and comrades who are no longer with us. We come to the realization that we are the last few living members of a dying breed. We still have memories, both good and bad, because we are and always will be “The helicopter pilots and air crews of Vietnam”.

Even though we are not strong young men anymore, “WE WERE TRUELY WARRIORS ONCE: IN A LAND CALLED VIETNAM”!