FNG

The C-130 rolled to a stop at the airport in Quang Ngai and Joe Hicks had his first view of Viet Namm. The large rear door slowly opened and the new Marines got in lines for departure. This was mid August and the heat was so high that the air was almost too hot to breathe. Then there was that smell. A sickly, sweet odor that floated like a fog, too thin to see, but too thick to ignore. Thick black smoke bellowed over the airport from burning planes and broken jet fuel lines. To Joe it looked like a good beginning for a second rate horror movie. "This is not real, this can't be happening to me” he thought,” not a good ol’ Texas boy like me.” Joe found himself fifth in the line moving off the aircraft. The ones ahead of him shuffling down the ramp carrying their seabags and brand new M-16 rifles. Joe saw daylight start to filter up toward him as he moved off the metal ramp and onto the carmax runway.

“Incoming! Hit the deck and grab a hole, dumb ass.” Joe started to turn toward the voice when his legs were kicked from under him and he fell into a large, wet crater. A large man with Sgt. chevrons on his helmet was screaming at the new Marines to find a hole and crawl in. Bombs and mortars were hitting everywhere and Joe cringed in his makeshift foxhole as the concussions swept over him. He was screaming but no one could hear him over the thunderous roaring of exploding ordinance. The quaking ground held still as Joe choked on the nitrate and sulfur still burning around him. Dragging his seabag with all he owned in it, he crawled up towards the air and daylight. Standing, he looked for the sergeant who had been doing all the yelling. His boot caught something and rolled it into the opening, a helmet, with Sgt. chevrons stenciled on the front. Joe looked down into the open lifeless eyes of what had been a man, and puked. A line of camo-clad Marines strung by and one of them kicked the helmet off the road and looked at Joe, “Damn FNG” he muttered and looked away.

After checking in Joe was informed that he was to be a side gunner on a slick, but he had no idea what that was. He was afraid to ask but knew he would have to. Stowing his gear in a vacant hooch, he went looking for a friend, any friend. He didn't know what plane crew he'd been assigned to, but he went to where he thought the flight line was. A young LT came out of nowhere and yelled at him, "Are you that damn FNG on my crew?" Joe didn't know what to say, so he answered he was. The LT screamed, “Get suited, we have a hop, now.” Joe still didn't know what FNG meant and he was still gagging on that awful smell. At Flight Ops, Joe got all the gear he'd need to do whatever it was he was supposed to do. He returned to the flight line looking for the LT. An Army green colored helicopter with side number 034 was starting up and the man in the Plexiglas bubble was waving at him to get in. Joe climbed in and the chopper lifted off, very fast and straight up. A young slightly bearded man was sitting on the other side from Joe looking at him and laughing. Joe thought he must really look scared or something. He yelled his name was Bob and he helped Joe get into the harness. Once hooked up Joe could hear through the ICS. Bob grinned and asked him how long he'd been “in country.” Joe stammered, ”Just got here.” Bob grimaced, shook his head, tapped the LT on the shoulder, and yelled into the ICS, "Why the hell did HQ send us another FNG, we needed someone to replace Jack that had flying experience." The Lieutenant shouted something about being shorthanded and turned back to the controls. Bob screamed at Joe, “Don’t touch anything, don’t ask me any questions, and don’t get sick.” The flight was just an engine test and they were soon back on the ground. Bob asked Joe where his hooch was and then told him to move over with him. The CO wanted each crew to stay together. So the move was made and Joe hoped he had a new friend. Bob was cold, never speaking much and when he did it was short and quick. Joe asked him why. "Don't get close to anybody over here", Bob said, "they won't be here tomorrow."

The first night at base was not what Joe called comfortable. It was August and the heat was unbearable, and the bugs. He didn't know which was worse, the biting bugs, the stinging bug, or the biting-stinging bugs. No sleep and now breakfast, just hot black coffee, a stale roll, and off to the flight line. Bob was sitting in the door of 034 looking rested, refreshed, and ready to rock and roll. Asked how he slept, Joe just grunted. "You'll get used to it soon, if you last that long," the LT stated. The CO called the briefing and all of the crews went to the OP. hut. Names and call signs Joe didn't know were flying around, but he played it cool and kept quiet. "Just watch me," Bob said, "do what I do and say what I say." How the hell could he do that and still know what was happening?

The flight today was an “SAR”, which Joe found out to be a "Search and Rescue" mission. A flyer was down and the slicks were low cover while the Sandy’s had the perimeter recon. and covered the slicks. The Jolly Green was to make the Dust-off. Which Joe later found out to be the actual pickup. Would he ever learn the jargon, he didn't want to be a “Fucking New Guy” all of his life in country. The LT explained that they were to fly cover for the other helicopters, while they tried to pick up the downed pilot. Bob countered by saying, “We’re the duck and run bird, we fly low over the trees and try to draw Charlie’s fire and if we make it, we call Sandie in to smoke Charlie before he can get the J. G.” Now he understood, Joe said to himself, he thought. The flight was calm, the jungle looked pretty and very green from a thousand feet up. Bob watched his lulling reaction to the flight and jabbed him on the shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable up here, Charlie can zap you from a thousand feet and not even spill his tea. My last co-gunner caught his right under the chin and never got to fire a shot. Take that damn new flack jacket off and sit on it, wear an old one. Also, if you can find one, get an old .45 frame to sit on, that’s right, right between your legs, nice and tight.”

Joe was in wonder at all this information, but thought he’d better take it for true blue as Bob was winding down his year and his rotation was up next week. He should have learned a few tricks about staying alive in the past twelve months. Suddenly the radio crackled to life about someone popping smoke and which LZ. Bob was already firing but at what Joe was not sure. He leaned out the side of the slick and saw little figures running though the trees. "Shoot damn it", shouted Bob and Joe felt the M60 chatter and start to heat up as shell cases fell all over the floor and out into the air. "Orange smoke at the edge of the trees, 2 clicks out" the radio shrieked. Joe felt the hot air rush past him as the slick spiraled in, then he heard Bob scream and looked to where he had been. No gun, no Bob, just empty harness swinging to the outside of the slick. What happened, and where was Bob? All the rest was a blur of guns, shooting, yelling, and hot air. He just couldn't get it out of his head. He had been there one second, then gone.

That first mission melted into many more of like cadence. He knew he had at least one year to fulfill before going home, but whether he would make it or not depended on his learning what to do and when to do it. He had learned how to maneuver the swing mounted M-60 and keep a steady stream of fire going. He had learned the jargon of “In country” Marines and used it freely now. He learned about pain also, not just his but pain of loosing friends and Buds. Then he learned how to be hard core, to mask his feelings and hide the fear. First the fear of being shot, then the fear of making it almost to the end and not making it “all the way.” All the way back to the World. The crash even blotted out that fear, almost. It did end his year, his short year, not just a 365-day year, but a nine month, life time year.

That all seemed like many lifetimes ago. Now here he was, lying on the hospital gurney, watching the big silver Freedom Bird land and rollup to the ramp, all too pat. He was going back to the World. Maybe not whole, but alive. His short year's tour was over, his missions completed, how many of them, he'd lost count. How many had he flown with the same pilot, not many. The LT on his first hop had lasted one more, then he too got zapped. Freaky ground fire and he had forgotten to put the old auto frame between his legs before take off. Charlie shot from below and hit him in the groin, castrated, he bled to death before he could get back. So many things to learn to just stay alive, little things like sitting on a new flack jacket and wearing the old one. Most of Charlie's fire came up, not down. Sitting on a old 45 auto to keep what was yours whole and functional. Now, as he lay back and looked up he thought, the World, he really was going home. He'd done his time, screw Charlie and Uncle Lyndon too. What did he owe either of them? The little yellow bastards always looked better through the sights of his M60 anyway, and every once in a while Uncle Lyndon image would sneak in.

He watched the Bird roll to a stop and the rear doors open. Two lines of new Marines filed out and a Gunny Sergeant yelled at them. Nothing changes. Does the World end or start here? A smooth faced young Marine marched past and asked how the chow was at this chicken base. Joe looked up at him and grumbled, “FNG”, the sergeant just smiled and yelled some more.

Two rows of gurneys were pushed up to the ramp, one had IV stands hooked to them, while the other had zipped, body bags. Joe thought how close he had come to being fitted for one of those and shivered. As his gurney was pushed up into the dark hole of the aircraft's belly, he looked back to see a Grunt pouring diesel into a 55-gallon drum and lighting it. He wondered if the smell would ever go away. His thoughts rotated to home, what was he going to do when he got there. Not play football or ride broncs, that’s for sure. His mind liked to play tricks. He'd think his foot itched and he'd reached to scratch it, but then his hand would freeze. He'd remembered the crash, the fire, the pain, but not the darkness. He didn't come to until he was in the “China Beach” field hospital. There he learned what had happened. His life changed that day, and now he would have to start all over. As the doors started to close and the light got dim, Joe thought he heard the sergeant scream, "Incoming."