Speaking of rain

Flying door gunner on a Huey gunship south of Blackhorse base camp in summer 1967, I noticed a small rain storm several miles ahead. I had sleeves rolled up on my jungle fatigues, and was otherwise protected by a flak vest and crew helmet. The face shield was up, because the plastic face shields often became scarred and pitted from takeoffs and landings in dust and small stones and were difficult to see through.

The fire team flew through the rain storm. Let me tell you, rain hurts when you and it impact at 100-knots airspeed.

Hey, there was a war going on

In the summer of 1967 the flight operations officer one day said, “Sgt. Merriman, a helicopter is going to Vung Tau today at 1400 and I don’t want to see you for three days.” Vung Tau was a former French resort city at Cape St. Jacque.

I spent my two-plus days enjoying the sight of the ocean, meals in a real restaurant and the low cost of beer.

On the third day I went to the airstrip and asked to use a phone to call base camp to find out when my ride would arrive. A Vietnamese woman showed me to an office.

Now, at base camp we were in the partly Stone Age in telephoning. A caller picked up the phone and waited and after a while someone at the main switchboard would plug in and say “Long Gaio” and the caller would say “Blackhorse Three-Zero,” or whatever.

So I was in the office at the airstrip. I picked up the phone. I waited for an operator. And waited. And waited.

The woman in the office walked over and gave me a “You dumba$$ Americans” look, stuck a finger in the O and slowwwly turned the dial, all the time giving me that look.

I felt like a dumba$$ American.

I mean, I had traveled all the way across the Pacific to save the Vietnamese from the perils of Communism, but I didn’t know how to dial a freaking telephone.