Chapter Three
First Mission
(Excerpt)

     I am sure every aviator remembers his first combat mission, and I am no exception. It was nothing extraordinary, except that it was my first time. In hindsight, the mission was almost prophetic in addressing the futility of the war as we were allowed to fight it.

     My arrival at Camp Holloway in 1965 in a C-123 with a load of grim South Vietnamese infantry soldiers was in late morning, I think. I moved into a hooch (that was easy; carried it all) and did some in-processing. I thought one of the strangest questions on one form was, “If you are lightly wounded, do you wish for your next-of-kin to be notified?” At least I could see things were serious. From the supply room I drew a weapon, flak vest, web gear, steel helmet, and other equipment and was told I would get a unit check ride the next day. We carried all of our personal flight gear with us, of course.

     I learned that my unit, the 119th Aviation Company (Airmobile, Light) had only UH-1Bs, organized into one platoon of gunships and two platoons of slicks. Great, I thought. I flew UH-1As and UH-1Ds in flight school, from where I had just graduated, but had only one ride in a B-model. Everyone assured me it would make absolutely no difference, and they were right. On the morning after arrival I was introduced to the senior unit instructor pilot. He explained me through all the forms in operations and we filed a local flight plan. He said he was glad I was a non-smoker and if he had his way, no smoker would be allowed to enter or leave flight school. Whatever. He would give me a check ride that morning and we were to fly a mission together that afternoon. (No way to flunk this ride, I thought.)

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