© 2009 centennial books

Made by Serif

 Red Beach, Da Nang.  October, 1967

The Chinook helicopter drifted down onto the macadam perimeter road of the base, creating its own mini-storm as the decelerating rotors peeled the top quarter-inch from the surrounding sand.  The markings said Army, though it could as easily been Marine.  Both branches shared the tactical air space above.  

I Corps, the northern-most provinces of South Vietnam, had been the exclusive domain of the Leathernecks since 1965, when they waded ashore at Chu Lai.  But the flank-speed escalation of the war since, as Uncle Ho Chi Minh sent his green-uniformed, pith-helmeted army south, in turn drove the American need to beef up along the DMZ to retard NVA infiltration.  The Marine top brass agreed to cede some of their I Corps turf in and around Da Nang to the Army doggies, and concentrate more of their own firepower in Quang Tri, Dong Ha and other strategic points that hugged the porous border with the North.

Why this particular Chinook had avoided the corrugated steel, football field size helipad of the Red Beach base was a question that went unasked.  The pilot, after cutting the whining engines and dropping the cargo ramp, jumped down and approached his fatigues-clad greeter.  The black metallic chevrons on the host’s collar indicated senior NCO rank, a Gunnery Sergeant.

“I’m here to pick up a special load,” Flight Suit offered, extending his hand.  

It was a wet palm.  Not good, the Gunny grimaced, but maybe this was his first run.  Wiping his right hand conspicuously on the side of his pants leg, he extended the now dry open paw to Flight Suit, accepting the outstretched envelope.  

The Gunny counted the cash.  Satisfied, his left arm shot up and circled in the air.  On cue, a diesel engine roared, a burst of black smoke belched from its vertical exhaust pipe and rose into the humid air like a counter-signal.  A deuce-and–a-half, 2.5 ton truck pulled away from the sun-baked, shimmering warehouse that stood a hundred yards off.  It rumbled towards the chopper, which sat like a corpulent mantis, hugging its improvised perch.  

There was a tense moment when, in a botched three point turn — the driver’s failed attempt to position the rear of the truck to the Chinook’s cargo ramp — the vehicle’s front wheels hung up in the off-tarmac sand.  The Gunny grimaced, leaped up on the running board, ordering the driver out.  Through a deft combination of double clutching and rocking motion, he restored all wheels to the blacktop.  

“That cost us five minutes, dipstick,” was his snarled appraisal.

The three uniforms created a chain, hurriedly transferring the truck’s cargo into the bowels of the chopper.  Five minutes later, it ascended into the pastel- blue Asian sky, dipped its nose in a nod of thanks, and beat south.