The day has been long and boring. The UH-1D helicopters, called "Slicks", have spent it sitting on the edge of a dusty little Delta village that is home to a small outpost of Regional Forces or "Rough Puffs" as we call them. A skillful enemy continues to evade our hunting gunships so we slick drivers sit and watch the dust devils and heat waves dance. Some of the local farmers kids come out to the slicks selling their produce. A big seller is the small, green melon that resembles a honey dew. We all buy some and each aircraft has a pile of ten or twelve.
    No bad guys can be found so we are given a rare break, an early release to home base. We could be back before dark. With our melons carefully stowed, we take off in a loose, lazy formation that spreads across the sky. Idle crew members start splitting open melons in anticipation ofits sweet reward. After just one taste, the stinging tartness tells us our melons need substantial ripening. Disappointed crews stowed the melons for another time. The formation drones on.
    Below us a pair of Navy patrol boats speed down the river leaving trails of frothy white foam on the brown, turgid water. They seek the nightly boat traffic that supplies the enemy with their lethal cargo of war; munitions that could find us tomorrow as their reluctant targets. We silently wish them good hunting as they continue down river. The formation drones on.
    In the distance, pulling out from a position hidden against the shore line, a group of small boats snakes out onto the river for a quick dash to the other side. They fly no flags and are traveling at dusk. They are the enemy, the Viet Cong, and we can't touch them. The "Rules of Engagement" prevent us from firing on them unless they fire on us and the patrol boats won't be able to make it back in time. A crew member in the lead slick throws a single melon out in frustration. Every eye in the flight is captured by the descending homegrown missile. We are all impressed by the sizable plume ofmuddy water that erupts within a 100 yards of its intended target and we are suddenJy struck with an idea. The dispatched melon has sparked a plan; it flashes from slick to slick.
The sons of fathers who flew the mighty bomber streams that crushed a fascist
Europe no longer feel the thumping clatter of rotor blades but hear the harnessed roar of a four engined, flying machine from days long passed. Their drab, colorless helmets fade away into service caps with shiny visors and 50 mission crush. The copilot now doubles as the bombardier and other crew members are now waist gunners. The formation draws tightly together into a sharp pointed "V" and starts a slow right circle to engage the target below. Halfway through the turn our gunships approach us and ask us what we're doing. With a short explanation, they also catch the spirit. Gaining speed, they suddenly pitch up in a hard spiraling right turn and position themselves in a floating top cover. As they interlace above us, the red, shark fanged mouths painted on their snouts harken back to "Flying Tigers" fame and like their predecessors, they prowl the sky in a hungry, impatient search of anything that would do us harm.
    The lead slick calls "Start bombing run". The formation pulls itself tighter and lines up on the targets below. Sweat runs down the neck of the lead bombardier as he sights on the enemy flotilla through the "cross hairs" of his feet. Puffy white clouds of river haze pass beneath us but someone calls "Flak, two o'clock low" just in keeping with the moment. The formation presses on. Lead shouts "Bombs Away!!!" and streams of melons tumble from the sky, arching towards the rash enemy below.
The first melon strikes, as a geyser of water spouts 50 yards from the lead boat and is quickly followed by a series of advancing watery explosions. Again and again and again fountains of brown, foamy water blossom around the convoy till suddenly, one series marches down the entire length of a boat, the missles passing through its thin wooden hull. It begins to sink, settling by the stern. The convoy, in panic and confusion, races back to its hiding place as one of its number slips beneath the silted waters.
    Our radios are a riot of toasts and boasts over this incredulous feat. A fly-by over home field is performed; a smart right echelon with a snapping left break over mid-field has all eyes looking up. The sons of their fathers, equipment slung over their shoulders, walk and talk in groups together. They gather at the bar and create a legend of this days events that will be forever enshrined in their memories. The multi-engined murmur of the ancient bombers slowly fades as they sleep. Dawn will rediscover the dusty thumping of rotor blades and hissing, hot breath of turbine engines, but in these twilight moments before reality, their faces reflect the pride of a job well done. For given the mission, they fulfilled it. They met the enemy and defeated him just as their father before them. And as they dream, the sleeping sons reach out for the glowing torch passing from their fathers hands.

Ed Gallagher

( The author is a former US Army helicopter pilot
with over 200 combat missions in Viet N am and Cambodia )