9 Squadron Royal Australian Air Force Slicks
Phuc Tuy Province, SVN, 1969/70
©Copyright, the Pahl Collection
GREAT DAY TO FLY
Tom Becker, the gunner of 368, shoved the last of the cargo off onto the Korean firebase, on top of a mountain next to Vung Ro pass. They picked up three more passengers and the mail and supplies for the next Korean fire base on the day's work list. The Huey lifted off, gunner and crew chief clearing the aircraft for lift off. Clear right, clear left, tail's clear sir, they said.
Back up into the cool air they flew, it was another hot one on the ground. Tom keyed his mike, talking to the crew chief David Stover, "Say Dave, think we can talk the pilots into flying over Vung Ro Bay to shoot some sharks?" "Naa," says Dave, "too much to do." "Hey Dave, I just received my first picture of my little girl, she is a cutie." Dave, a long time crew chief, scanned the skies as he replied, "Maybe some day I will get married, just me, mom and my brother."
"You're too ugly," replied Tom, adjusting the bulletproof vest he was sitting on. "Damn, these things are hard," he said, more to himself than David. Every crewman knew that feeling, protection against bullets coming up through the floors, as was the normal, instead of wearing them. "Hey, we going to fly thru some clouds," someone remarked. Into the clouds they flew, but something went wrong.
The cloud didn't end so they banked left, away from the mountain. Tom, seeing trees thru the mist, shouted out a warning. Then he saw them coming straight at him. David thought of his mom in his last few moments on earth; Tom thought of his never-seen little baby girl, wondering if her mom would tell her about him. David thought of his mom, crying at his funeral, sad because he hurt her by dying.
I waited for news, having been informed that they had gone down. They were my roommates and best friends.
The crew sent to find the crash site, found the pilot with his hand still grasping the joy stick, the peter pilot's head was still in his helmet, lying off by itself. As usual, the transmission took out the gunner and the engine took out the crew chief, burning them to a crisp. They brought the bodies back in C- ration boxes; nothing was left big enough to put in body bags, of the crew in back, anyway. April 18th, 1972.
This story is true, except for the conversation, but that happened too, in our hootch. I am sorry to write this here, but it stays on my mind, never far, returning to dash happy times. I struggle with memories of the war; most are happy, good times with friends. One day, I hope to see Tom and David again, perhaps at Fiddlers' Green, empty our canteens, and walk down the path to hell together.