Funny how the past never gets left too far behind. It reminds me there are forces at work a single individual will never comprehend. There seems to be a bond between people, objects, time and space. Is it the intensity of a situation or just plain coincidence that draws things together? Could it be a reminder that some things, events or people should not be forgotten? What we learned in that past experience should be brought forward and made public, not just documented, archived and left for a chance discovery in millenniums gone by.
It took me 35 years to write my book on the Vietnam War. Not because I was ashamed, frighten or mentally unstable. The time was just not right for me.
When I returned home after my second tour, I was constantly asked the same two questions, “Did I kill anyone?” and, “Did any of your friends get killed?” For the curious, the answer is, “Yes”. Back in the late 60’s, those questions were ignored. Why should I give someone a cheap thrill when friends of mine paid the tab?
This weekend, I was a guest speaker at a helicopter airshow. I had finished a video a few weeks ago showing a helicopter assault set to rock and roll music.
I wanted the audience to feel the excitement and sounds the two seem to have in common. The end of the clip is a solemn, almost religious finish that brought some of the audience to tears as it slowly shows the number of American casualties helicopter crews suffered in that 10 year war. War is not sane, glorious or forgiving. Hero’s are not made, they are lost.
I had a table set up outside on the airfield by the Vietnam Huey helicopter display so I could discuss my book and answer questions I was not able to due to my 30 minute window as a speaker. I was talking to the owner of the beutifully restorded ship and he asked me what group I had flown with in the war. I told him our call sign was “Little Bear”. He then informed me this helicopter was an x Little Bear aircraft! The markings had been changed to represent the unit he flown with in Vietnam. With only 25 helicopters in my unit and the fact I had been on over 250 missions, the chances were pretty good I had taken this ship into combat.
A cosmic reminder for me to keep speaking about the war so the men who perished in these machines should not be forgotten.
NOTE: A little over 7000 Huey helicopters participated in the Vietnam
War. Over 3000 were lost.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Little Bear 714
The following true story is a tribute to the men of A-Company, 25th Aviation Battalion also known by the call sign, "Little Bear", who served their country in the Republic of Vietnam.In the final days of October 1967, an armored personnel carrier with numerous troops on board rolled on top of a powerful anti-tank mine. The ensuing explosion killed four men and severely injured several others on and around the vehicle. Vulnerable and alone, their distress call for a dustoff (medical evacuation) was responded to by the closest helicopter in the area. The UH-1D ("Huey") Little Bear 714 was returning back to base from its lone previous mission. Two round trips were needed to deliver the wounded to a base hospital. It would take a perilous third trip in darkness to retrieve the bodies of the dead.
Hastily we loaded the last of the dead into the helicopter. Above me the rotor blades were spinning; frantically grasping for enough air to remove us from the engulfing jungle. A voice in my flight helmet cried out, "We're taking hits!" The crewchief's machine gun responded with a burst of yellowish orange tracers that disappeared into the night-shrouded jungle. "I'm in," I shouted and squeezed into the small space behind my own machine gun. We started to lift off when flashes of white appeared from the shrinking earth below. I could hear the splats as the bullets searched the ship for another host. I yanked back on the triggers of my weapon and fired and fired. The burning armored personnel carrier remained as a marker to soon fade and be forgotten, like its unfortunate crew. In the real world, grieving parents would be left with only tears and memories. "Where are you hit?" "What?" I replied. "Where are you hit?" again questioned the medic. We were back at the landing pad of the base hospital. The last body was being carried away on an olive green colored stretcher. The medic pointed to my blooddrenched arm. "It's not mine," I informed him coldly and turned back to re-enter my ship. Light from the well-lit pad revealed a palette of blood left by our passengers. The rotor blades fan effect had spray painted the inside of the Huey with a red sticky coating. Three bullet holes ventilated the area around my perch. Jerry, the crewchief, was staring down at a puddle of reddish-black fluid growing under the tail boom. The pilot was shutting down the engine to examine a strange whistling sound coming from one of the rotor blades. It would soon reveal a .30 caliber incision. Once again, in my seat behind the machine gun, I leaned back against the bulkhead and closed my eyes. "I'll be back in the States in ten more days and all of this will be forgotten," I said to myself. I was wrong. I have never forgotten.
Spec. 4 Tony Lazzarini
Door Gunner-714
October 27, 1967 Iron Triangle
Author- HIGHEST TRADITIONS
Hastily we loaded the last of the dead into the helicopter. Above me the rotor blades were spinning; frantically grasping for enough air to remove us from the engulfing jungle. A voice in my flight helmet cried out, "We're taking hits!" The crewchief's machine gun responded with a burst of yellowish orange tracers that disappeared into the night-shrouded jungle. "I'm in," I shouted and squeezed into the small space behind my own machine gun. We started to lift off when flashes of white appeared from the shrinking earth below. I could hear the splats as the bullets searched the ship for another host. I yanked back on the triggers of my weapon and fired and fired. The burning armored personnel carrier remained as a marker to soon fade and be forgotten, like its unfortunate crew. In the real world, grieving parents would be left with only tears and memories. "Where are you hit?" "What?" I replied. "Where are you hit?" again questioned the medic. We were back at the landing pad of the base hospital. The last body was being carried away on an olive green colored stretcher. The medic pointed to my blooddrenched arm. "It's not mine," I informed him coldly and turned back to re-enter my ship. Light from the well-lit pad revealed a palette of blood left by our passengers. The rotor blades fan effect had spray painted the inside of the Huey with a red sticky coating. Three bullet holes ventilated the area around my perch. Jerry, the crewchief, was staring down at a puddle of reddish-black fluid growing under the tail boom. The pilot was shutting down the engine to examine a strange whistling sound coming from one of the rotor blades. It would soon reveal a .30 caliber incision. Once again, in my seat behind the machine gun, I leaned back against the bulkhead and closed my eyes. "I'll be back in the States in ten more days and all of this will be forgotten," I said to myself. I was wrong. I have never forgotten.
Spec. 4 Tony Lazzarini
Door Gunner-714
October 27, 1967 Iron Triangle
Author- HIGHEST TRADITIONS
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