TBS 2-67 Cruisebook_Updated_7Jan23

A Year in the Provinces
“No kidding?”
“No, sir; and if you need you can have our
Claymores, too.”
“We have a couple in place,” the captain says, like
it’s a generous deal.
“I’ve got five...”
“Gunny!”
Seeing the tea leaves better, the lieutenant adds he
could register in some arty if the CO would like. “Oh,
we’ve got a GS battery of 105’s back there,” he says,
hooking his thumb back toward Cam Lo.
The lieutenant nods, “OK, but if you change your
mind I’ll get with your FO.” Then he adds, kind of
mumbling,“ I have, well, two tubes of 175’s...in direct
support.”
“FO!”
Two days later the team was in a trench at the LZ.
Somebody is inbound to pull the wounded out, start the FO
on his way home, and get the team back for debrief. A
last minute reshuffling by LZ control suggests it’s not
46’s. Slicks? Nah, he sees, as the first of several realtired
CH‐ 34’s pops up from from below the hill and slings
itself sideways into the zone. The markings say King Bee
Squadron, which the lieutenant doesn’t recognize as being
Marine, and a quick glance at the pilot says he ain’t one.
It doesn’t take long to load the wounded into the
first 34, but the NVA spotters aren’t snoozing. The second
34 rocks to a stop and off jumps a replacement FO for
Bravo Company. He gets maybe ten feet before he’s
dropped by a mortar blast. The little Vietnamese 34 pilot
has the old girl rev’ed up like a debutante on prom night,
churning for all she’s worth, so as the 34 gets sprayed with
shrapnel he reflexively jerks his arm and the poor old thing
bucks a bit. He forces himself to ignore the thump of
mortars by intently watching two Marine lieutenants run
toward him, scooping up the wounded one mid‐stride and
sticking him through the door. In seconds the rest of the
team piles in.
Blades bite and the tail swings 180; the 34 slides
down the hill, picking up speed but not altitude. It seems
30 ft is now max ceiling. In moments the Vietnamese
crew chief is excitedly waiving a couple of red shop rags
and jumping up toward hydraulic lines that he is far too
short to reach. Neither lieutenant gets it but two lance
corporals do, stand up and wrap the rags around spurts of
hydraulic fluid.
The recon lieutenant stares at hydraulic fluid
running down their arms for a
moment, wondering how much more ludicrous things could
get, before glancing aft to where his corpsman is gift
wrapping the still‐leaking FO for a trip home. He lays
back, his head on some Marine’s shinbone. There are
things to be learned here, he reckons: First, You’ve been
hand ‐picked is Marine jargon for, Kid, you’re all we’ve
got. Second, never pass up an opportunity to keep your
mouth shut, especially on the radio. Third, bring lots of
stuff to away gun‐fights. Makes folks happier to see you.
Last, when you know things that senior officers don’t, they
are real anxious to see you.
***
A‐18