In praise of GIBs

Oh well . . . It was another day and another dollar. Tired and satisfied from a good days work, Dufe, Scotty and I carefully parked ole 624 in her revetment after a day of looking for ole Victor Charles and his cousins from the north. In truth, we seldom ran across ole Victor Charles. However, his cousins from the north always seemed to be available in an abundance that lent lie to the uninformed and ill thought words spoken by Jane and friends. That being the case, we had found one of his hide-aways and started a wee bit of a brawl. When the day was done, we had expended our munitions twice as had the Snakes. Being people who liked a big party, we even allowed our friends flying the fast-movers to join in the fun.

It was one of those situations where we were too deep in "injun country" to insert the Blues. As was frequently that case, Division did not have the resources to send in enough people to stand a fighting chance of surviving. Understandably, Division was always leery of inserting a big force outside of an artillery fan.

All things considered, it was a good day from a Scout's point of view. Scotty and Duff both got a couple of "kills" as had the Snakes. Who knows how many kills the fast movers got? When they "got" them, there wasn't much left. Using the combined skills of Scotty and Dufe, we had carefully "sniffed" the little people out, put a hurt on them, and forced them to move a bit and find a new neighborhood if they wanted to be left to their bed ways. We were happy. For a little while, they would be licking their wounds and rebuilding. While doing this, the would not be killing any GIs. All in all, a good day in the world of Aero Scouting.

With the rotor windmilling to a stop, for ole Bruce, it was time to go to the club, get a steak, enjoy a cold one, tell a war story or two, and generally unwind. Yet, I didn't feel right about the whole thing. It didn't seem fair. I knew that Dufe and Scotty had a lot of work to do after they went to the mess hall and received their ration of poison pretending to be edible food. Not unusual, ole 624 had several new holes that would need to be patched. She also needed a daily inspection that was more extensive than my post‑flight inspection. And, of course, she needed to be cleaned up and out rearmed etc.

Finishing with the log‑book, I looked up at Dufe and made my offer to help.
 "Hey Dufe ‑ anything that I can do to help you guys?"

He smiled, like an adult being very patient with an over-eager child.

"Hey Mr. C, you fly em, I fix em. That's how it goes. Now, you go get a cold one and enjoy it for me."

Well, somehow, that situation just didn't seem right to ole Bruce. While I might have been flying ole 624 but it was Dufe and Scotty who were doing the hard work of Scouting and looking the little people wearing the tan uniforms eyeball to eyeball when to going got loud and dangerous. We were in it together.

Ignoring Dufe, I started to help Scotty clean up the expended brass and other trash of combat. When we finished, he tossed me the bubble polish and a rag with one of his usual smart comments.

"Hey Boss, you clean the bubble. That way we won't worry about breaking anything that you don't understand."

By the time I finished polishing the bubble and cleaning away all the bugs, green stains from the trees that were NVA sympathizers, and so on and so forth, Scotty had broken down both M‑60s cleaned them and reassembled them. Being gracious, he let me carry one to our toy store and put them to bed for the night.

We got back loaded down with lots of bullets and assorted toys for the next days mission and put them and their respective places. It took several trips and being a wimp, I had worked up a serious sweat. I started to open my mouth and was greeted by a curt order from Dufe.

"God Damnit Boss! Will you get the hell out of here and let us working stiffs do our job! You're just getting in the way."

To which Scotty joined in.

"Mr. C, trust us, we know what we are doing and the hanger rats in sheet metal had plenty of beer cans, zinc chromate paint, and pop rivets. You're getting to be a pain in the ass. Now go get yourself a couple of cold ones and leave us alone. She'll be ready to fly by the morning."

Laughing, I surrendered. "Ok, Ok, I can tell when I not loved or wanted."

Scotty came to me as my back‑seat observer after my first unscheduled visit with the ground in injun country. He had been a former back-seater and then went back to the Blues looking for a change of pace. Well, I was on the ground and as scared as a twenty‑year‑old pretending to me a man and an officer can be. I would have filled my britches with my fear except the pucker factor was off the scale. He had previously told me that if I went down, his would be the first friendly face that I would see.

Stranded and scared to death, I looked up at the insanity! The world's biggest target was flaring for landing into the little clearing I had sent my broken bird into. "God," I thought to myself. "That takes a 'full-sized' pair to make yourself that kind of a target in what might turn out to be a baited trap." I vowed to never insult a slickie again. Well, as with many of my vows.

Looking up, I saw Scotty standing on the skids of the flaring Huey. He leapt into the emptiness and landed with a tuck and roll as did the rest of the blues. As a result, the Huey's skids never touched ground and her vulnerability was limited.

Later that evening Scotty made me a promise. "Mr. C, when you start flying lead scout, I fly your back seat and teach you the tricks of the trade and try to keep your butt alive." He was true to his promise. He kept me alive and taught me the tricks of the trade. With the passage of time, I came to admire and love him and considered him my best friend in the world. We became an unbeatable team. It was like basketball. I knew when he would cut for the basket and I would know when to lob the pass without looking. Release the ball, Scotty in for the score two points for the good team. It was like that till the day he got shot‑up and later died of his wounds.

Dufe came to Scotty and I and wanted to be part of the team. After a little work, we got him released from his hanger rat duties and assigned as a crewchief. As fate would have it, he became 624's new crewchief and the teamwork began. Willing, to the point of making both Scotty and I crazy, he learned the trade. Ole Dufe kept "HIS" bird in tip top shape. Shoot, when we had to do an engine change, he wouldn't let the hanger rats touch "HIS" bird! Nope, ole Scotty the observer turned grunt turned observer and Bruce the helicopter driver did the engine change in the revetment. Well, we provided the "horse‑power" and he the supervision and knowledge. We done goodly cause the TI passed it first time. Maintenance test flew it and signed it off.

Dufe became our only crewchief who flew as back‑seat observer. In time, he became on of the better ones. However, we never became quite as close as Scotty and I were. I couldn't have stood the pain of losing another man whom I considered more important than myself. I loved him and was so proud when I later found out that he made hard‑stripe five. I loved him because almost every time he stood on the skid and engaged in a slugging match with the little people (always NVA in our AO) he would piss his pants in fear. Yet a braver man that I because he recognized his fear, he kept coming back for more.

The next morning I wondered down to the flight line to preflight and earn another dollar. Scotty and Dufe were there waiting for me to show up. Ole 624 was clean, fueled, armed and ready to go. She was a little different. Three new patches in bright green zinc chromate paint decorated her flank joining many others. Pausing and laughing, Dufe had a suggestion.

"What do you guys think? Should we name her ole "Spot?"

With a touch of laughter, and the warmth of a special fellowship, we mounted up. Dufe let me start "HIS" helicopter and the three of us headed out to the AO. I knew the score. Yep, some of the harder calls were mine. I was the quarterback of the bird and of the whole team. However, it was Dufe and Scotty who were the most important members. If they said come left, I came right. If they said let's look over here, that is where we looked.

We were a good team and once again we found the bad guys and went about the ugly business of killing them or seeing to it that they got killed.

Many years have passed. In some ways, more than I care to admit. Old and grey, I now remember our days of glory with a fine group of fling wing friends. God willing, I am a little bit wiser than I was a long time ago. While I knew it deep inside, I never really was able to speak about it. Today, I recognize that, at least in my experience of my little piece of the war, it was the GIBs that made a Cav troop and more specifically a Scout team work.

While we drivers flew and learned some things about finding the bad guys, it was the GIBs who made it happen. Nine times out of ten, it was one of the GIBs who found the bad guys or the first piece of evidence that would lead to their being found. When it was slug it out time, it was a GIB who stood on the skids with his 60 doing his John Wayne thing. When it was time to make sure we had birds to kill the bad guys and save the good guys, it was the GIBs who put in the long and terrible hours with little thanks.

While it should have been said several times a day, way back when, I shall say it today.

To all you GIBs, THANK YOU! You guys are the ones who made the whole thing work as well as it did.
 
Bruce E. Carlson -- Pastor
Red Bird Publications