Chickenhawk: A Shattering Personal Account of the Helicopter War in Vietnam
Robert Mason
Language: English
Pages: 174
ISBN: B002J81C3K
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A stunning book about the right stuff in the wrong war. As a child, Robert Mason dreamed of levitating. As a young man, he dreamed of flying helicopters - and the U.S. Army gave him his chance. They sent him to Vietnam where, between August 1965 and July 1966, he flew more than 1,000 assault missions. In Chickenhawk, Robert Mason gives us a devastating bird's eye-view of that war in all its horror, as he experiences the accelerating terror, the increasingly desperate courage of a man 'acting out the role of a hero long after he realises that the conduct of the war is insane,' says the New York Times, 'And we can't stop ourselves from identifying with it.'
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When we get to Qui Nhon.” He smiled. “Really?”. I smiled back weakly. I still wasn’t at all confident about flying the Huey. “Something wrong?” Leese asked. “You look kind of sick. This chow getting to you?” “No, the chow’s okay. I’m not too sure about my ability to fly a Huey off a carrier.” “It says here”—he produced a penciled note—”that you’re checked out in Hueys. All four models.” He looked back at me. “Well, I have flown them, but it was mostly time under the hood at altitude. I had.
Obvious inexperience got me a poor grade for my turn at command. Sergeant Malone, who kept a plaque in his office inscribed Woccus Eliminatus, would often whisper in my ear while I stood in formation, “You’ll never make it, candidate.” And when the four weeks of preflight ended, Malone had indeed put me on the list of twenty-eight candidates who would go before the elimination board. I remember feeling sick in a dim hallway the night before I was to see the board. I had failed before I had even.
Threw me the box and walked back to sit on the edge of the cargo deck. Riker and I and Reacher and the gunner sat around the Huey and ate lunch. Grunt Six was in the headquarters tent, making plans. I approached the headquarters tent after lunch. About five of the fifteen or so grunts on the hilltop were outside the tent hanging around. I said hello and sat down on a stack of C-ration cases. Beyond the group of T-shined enlisted men, I could see the wooden legs of a map tripod through the tent.
As it tore its way around through the padding on the inside of the helmet and the two wounds on each side of his head. I shook my head. God again? As soon as he finished his story, a Jeep drove him and the other pilot across the airstrip to the hospital tent. As I watched them go, I saw the eastern sky fill with a huge formation of helicopters coming from the direction of An Khe. The Cav was sending the 227th to join us. That’s about as near to full strength as the Cav got. I joined Resler and.
Not stand the idea that somebody could get killed by a Huey after the same Huey just saved his life. I was pulling off my helmet as the ship whined down when I saw the guy rush around from the side door of the ship. Before I could even think of saying “Stop,” he was driven to the ground. The tail rotor had hit him on the head. Thud. Down. I didn’t resign. There was a trick ending: The guy wasn’t dead. His helmet saved his life, leaving him with only a bad concussion and some cuts. “The dumb.