Taking Fire!
 

The reader of this story must keep in mind two divergent, yet interrelated issues. First and foremost, a Cav Aero Scout is the modern Army’s finest honed killing instrument. His situational reflexes are far superior to the mundane, everyday, average helicopter pilot. His life and the lives of his observers rest upon reflexes so keen that, if he could, he would smoothly and nick-free shave his youthful face with their edge. With a deep bloodlust pounding through his veins and arteries, the well-trained Scout never stops to think and ponder the situation while on a recon. For to do so, would give the bad guys the upper hand and he and his observers would be killed dead as he wistfully spent his time thinking about his course of action. With a sixth sense beyond human comprehension he daily takes on the bad guys in their own backyard and wins. To illustrate his abilities, he would shoot first and ask questions later. As the man said. “Let God sort them out!”

Even when he remains moderately drunk and terminally hung-over from a night of insulting the lower varieties of helicopter pilot his reflexes are immeasurably superior than those of a National Hockey League goal tender. However, make no mistake. He is human. Come the morning’s launch into the wild blue he might need a little help finding his way to the flight-line. That is, he might need help if he didn’t spend the night comfortably curled up to his beloved lady Loach. It is also true that his crewchief might have to steady his wildly wavering arm as he vainly attempts to count all four rotor blades of his revered Red Bird. Usually the compassionate crewchief helps him as this higher order mathematical task has moved beyond his capabilities. “That’s one, Sir. Yes, that two, Sir. Very good, Sir. That’s three. Outstanding, Sir. That’s four. We’re in good shape this morning, Sir. You’ve successfully completed yet another preflight. Now, if you promise not to breath on me, I’ll strap you in and help you put your helmet on.” Even when his crewchief has to fly to the area of operations because our brave Scout is hanging his head out the door relieving himself of the gallons of Arthritis medicine he consumed at the Club, he retains his super-human killer reflexes.

Moving on, the other important aspect of this saga is to remember that our Scout pilot of great renown has a short memory. In this case, he had just finished his tour in lovely Southeast Asia. As we all remember, lovely SEA has lots of many things. It had copious amounts of heat and humidity. Rain, yes rain, rain, rain, seemed to everywhere. His little part of Vietnam had lots of trees, very big trees, and it also had mountains with rocks on them bigger than houses. And of course, in his little part of that world there was an overabundance of little people who came down from the north just for the chance to test his reflexes. Boldly going forth, he had bested the best of them even when they got in the first shot. However, he never encountered snow in II Corps. While he remembered the concept, he had forgotten the things wondrous things that can be done with snow.

Ergo, my problem. Released from the naval Hospital in Boston, I was enjoying thirty days of leave and staying with my folks. Oh, that I could wax eloquently of how I won the war in II Corps the day I was wounded by the foul Yellow Hoards that almost overrun me. Oh, that I could say that my wounds and injuries were incurred in saving the world for motherhood, apple pie, and the girl next door. Alas, they were received in a “jungle rules” volleyball game with the dirty double-dealing Hook drivers in the 61st. Cheating, and using two Doctors, they cut my legs out from under me in a sapper attack across the wire. Well . . . there were several cases of beer at stake. (If he ever gets around writing about it, John Hargelroad has another version of the story. I still don’t want to believe him. Anyway, I digress and I’ll let him tell that story.) Unfortunately, I was evaced out with another in a long list of knee injuries.

I had only been released from the hospital for a couple of days and we had one of those wonderfully wet, spring time, New England snowfalls. The air was crisp and not too cold and a deep white blanket covered the ground. It was everything that SEA was not. It was the type of day only a boy from the Union can truly appreciate. As I was waiting for my New 340 Duster to be prepared for me, I was driving my old beat up 1960 rambler American. With less than ideal tires on it, I was enjoy sliding about on the snow like the child that I remain. It was almost as much fun as my ole Loach and nobody was shooting at me.

Equipped with my finely tuned Aero Scout reflexes, once again, driving in the snow was wondrous and glorious. Working the last year with Uncle Sam’s finest had prepared me to go with the flow. It was like riding the shifting winds in the hills of the highlands as I made the bad guys cower in fear. While there was no power to spare in a three man Loach, going with the flow made the challenge fun. With the window down and the radio blasting on WBZ, which was still a rock station, I crested the hill over the railroad tracks. Traveling a little rapidly, the little car was almost airborne. My world was heaven on earth.

BAM ---- BAM — BAM! Three loud tinny bams in quick succession smashed into my mind. Sharp as a razor and trained in the tough survival school of the Aero Scouts, my body went on full defensive automatic. Combat reflex, which had served me well, immediately snapped on line. I attempted to mash down on my mike button and screamed. “TAKING FIRE. J---- H. C-----, ONE-FOUR IS TAKING HITS!” I yanked the collective up to my armpit, kicked right pedal, and gave her full right stick. SMASH! I buried the poor little Rambler into the snow bank on the other side of the old factory.
Well . . ., when I peeled my forehead off the windshield, I tried to open my door. Remember, I was not a lesser type of helicopter pilot. I was an observant, blood thirsty, killer Aero Scout. Snapping my head on a pivot, I had seen where I was taking fire from. Two or three youngsters were on the roof of that old factory. They had broken all the rules. Back in my day, you only threw snowballs at the trucks. They had thrown them at me and hit me. My mission was clear. I was going to insert one very p----- off Scout and beat the s— out of those little motherless jerks. I lunged to the passenger’s door. I couldn’t open it either.

Both doors were jammed shut because I had forcefully put the poor little car VERY DEEP into the snow bank. Why didn’t I try the back doors, you ask? It didn’t have any. The snow was piled so deeply about me that I could barely see out the side windows. Therefore, I had to crawl out the back window.

Two hours later, I finally got my little car shoveled out from the snowbank. Of course, it was also high centered on the compressed snow that the plows had put there. To this day, those youngsters have no idea how they looked death in its cold and heartless face and escaped. They had fired upon and hit ole Red one-four and lived to tell about it. Not many can make that claim.