The helicopters were getting closer now and lining up for the pickup.  I could make out the white markings in the front which told me they were the Greyhounds. This was a squad who had designated themselves “The Greyhounds”, and quite frequently took us out on our Search and Destroy “Eagle Flight” missions.  The water sprayed up from the rice paddies in a vaporized mist as they neared the ground. They cut their engines to a sort of idle as soon as they set down so that we could approach the choppers and board.  This was a more relaxed routine than a pickup in the field, where sometimes the runners wouldn’t touch the ground or water as they were anxious to minimize their vulnerability.  You had to admire the pilot’s self-assuredness and even cockiness.  During my Advanced Infantry Training I had mulled over the thought of applying for helicopter training, but it would have meant additional time in the service. Besides, from the time I was drafted, it seemed like I along with a lot of other folks, was trapped on a speeding train on a single track leading to only one place, Vietnam. I had made another effort to at least sidetrack that train from an infantry company where I was heading.  At the main replacement camp at Long Binh, before I was assigned to the 9^th Division, they had asked if anyone could type.  Of course, there were dozens, many who probably thought the 1-finger method was the only way to go, but it was like grasping at straws as our fate was being decided and we were dealt off  to units all desperately needing infantry replacements.  This was 1967 and casualties were increasing like the optimistic prognostications of the Brass.  The light at the end of the tunnel was there except that the end of the tunnel was moving all the time.

   We got into the helicopters.  I always preferred the floor seat, which I figured was the closest to the open door and the quickest way out if need be.  The disadvantage was that you’d be the first one off, jumping into unknown territory.  The depth of the water, even in a rice paddy was variable, and some had disappeared temporarily in a hidden bomb crater.  In other cases, because of the undistinguishable topography, especially during the rainy season, the first ones off had jumped into a river with their heavy gear pulling them down, never to be seen again.  Maybe that’s what happened to the guy whose body was pulled out of the river by the dock at the French Fort.  He was wearing combat gear and had drowned somewhere upstream.   You always knew deep down that it could be you next, but the optimistic side was always saying: “Nothing’s going to happen to me---not ME.”