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Along about mid afternoon, one Mekong River day, as the temperature sped
past one hundred degrees again, I was sacked out on a bunk, in the shade,
reading a Mad magazine for the umpteenth time. The cover was so wrinkled that
Alfred E. Neuman looked a thousand years old with all his teeth broken. On the other side of Tango
11 John, a gunner, assumed the same posture as I. He was intently scanning a
many months old Playboy. His choice of reading material was terribly ragged and
looked as if it had been used as bedding in a dog kennel. It was dirty, used,
much abused. I recognized his sad looking
magazine. I had already read it many times myself. I even read it upside down
one time because I got bored reading it right side up. Most of the good parts
were either ruined or had been torn out to be used as wallpaper. I was into the comic ‘Spy
Vs Spy’ when my cartoon espionage enlightenment was interrupted by James, the
radioman. He’d scrambled down the ladder from the coxswain’s flat to the
tiny berthing compartment beneath and was shaking my sandal clad foot with great
excitement. He had an intent look on his face and kept repeating, “Quick! Fire
up the engines! We have to get under way!” as he wrangled my foot side to
side. John sat up, instantly alert
and said, “James, my man, what’s happening?” The agitated radioman
related that a message had just come in ordering our boat to proceed to a
particular river location post haste. We also had to be prepared to land an
incoming Huey on the helicopter deck when we got there. James giggled with delight
as he told us that the Huey was carrying “Donut Dollies”. These were young
American girls that went out to entertain and uplift the moral of frontline
troops. Tango 11 was to hook them up with a squad of U.S. Army 9th
infantry soldiers somewhere out in the bush. James went on to say that
the aircraft concerned could not find a good place to offload their female cargo
anywhere on land because heavy monsoon rains had turned the entire countryside
into a knee deep sea of mud. At the end of this rundown
James’ face took on a hopeful vacant expression. He swallowed hard twice then
frivolously wasted our ‘Father in Heaven’s’ time by solemnly intoning,
“God! I hope they have dresses on.” I caught his meaning
immediately and we raced to get underway. James and I cast off the mooring lines
just as John started the motors with a teeth rattling roar which ejected a huge
billowing cloud of blue black smoke in the process. Having absolutely no mercy
for a cold engine he slammed the transmissions into forward then twisted the
throttles wide open. I would have been whole lot quicker at it myself because
this was already Much better than reading torn up magazines for the millionth
time. Pedal to the metal my man, and do not spare the JP (diesel fuel). James and I then went
topside to bend back the radio antennas which we secured out of the way of any
spinning helicopter blades. Our blunt nosed boat rocketed over the brown water
at the breakneck speed of about nine miles per hour, as fast as she would go.
What the heck, the diesel injectors probably needed cleaning off anyway. We roared along for forty
five minutes or so then reduced speed and started to circle at the intersection
of two canals which were banked by rice paddy dikes. Soon a six man squad of
muddy 9th infantry Doggies appeared along one section of dike where they set
about dropping their heavy equipment. You can usually hear a
chopper well before you can see it and soon I heard then saw one approaching
Tango 11 from high over the starboard side. The furious bird “Wop!
Wop! Wop! ed" its way down to us as James and I took up positions on the
landing deck access ladder with our heads poking up just above the pad. The coxswain was a master at
the boat controls. He held the Tango steady against the current as the Huey’s
skids settled onto it, driving the bow down into the water several feet. We took
on a sizable list to one side where the tail of the aircraft protruded. The
front of the chopper jutted out over the portside. The back end hung way out
past the starboard. Imagine balancing a running, upright, screaming 750 Honda
motorcycle across a canoe. It was scary and dangerous to say the least. The noise that accompanied
the howling wind was unbelievable. We turned our backs while the air blast from
the thundering rotor scoured the undersized helicopter flight deck free of sand.
James had on his usual sunglasses. I wore my standard black framed Buddy
Holly’s. When we turned back toward the oncoming cyclone, thus protected, we
had a magnificent view from below, up into the side door of the helicopter. James must have been in real
tight with the Big Man because as we looked on, two gorgeous American girls
emerged from the chopper dressed in blue pinstriped skirts which were
immediately blown straight toward heaven, then held there by a continuous up
rushing jet of air. James and I stood stock
still and watched a true miracle unfold as the females above us tried vainly to
hold down their clothing. They came towards us escorted by a crouching door
gunner carrying their equipment. The girls were bent over at the waist giving us
a spectacular, bra filled, panorama. My respect for James’ religious clout
climbed several more notches. When the Dollies reached the
top of the stairway they, amazingly, turned around to back down the steps then
stopped with their rears just a few inches in front of our gaping, imbecilic
faces. James and I had suddenly become two smiling fruit of the loom inspectors.
We immediately took our jobs very seriously and did our utmost to detect any
flaws in the material displayed but I must say everything appeared to be
completely faultless to me. Just to be sure, however, I, being the diligent
sailor that I was, quickly double checked my work a few times, and Yes!
Everything that I saw was absolutely perfect. The chopper changed pitch
and the noisy green beast “Wap! Wap! Wap! ed" up, then away into the sky. I did not actually see the
chopper lift off. My attention was firmly locked on the firm round sight firmly
ensconced in the very firm front of me. My mind was also firmly in shock. To
addled to even form lewd thoughts, a thing that had never happened to me before. James snapped out of his
fantasy first. He awkwardly climbed outside the ladder rails up onto the landing
pad and offered his hand to each lady in turn, assisting them back up to the top
deck. I followed visually chained
to the bouncing, white cotton vista ahead until I regretfully rose to the level
of the deck myself. Regretfully, that is, until I finally looked at the faces
connected to those magnificent posteriors. "Wow!" I thought,
"Round eyed girls are not extinct after all." James, ever the handsome
gentleman, led the lovely duo forward to the bow door at the very front of the
boat chatting up a storm as if he had known them for years. I struggled along
behind doing a very realistic imitation of Chester, the stiff legged deputy on
Gun Smoke. “Hey! Wait for me Mr.
Dillon!” The coxswain throttled up
slightly easing us toward the waiting Army troopers standing along the beach
atop a semi dry patch of dike. Six of us waited at the
Tango's bow facing the approaching men. Two flushed faced Donut Dollies, two
combat sailors wearing flip flops and two other dudes both named Woody. The boat slid gently up to
the beach which provided an easy step to shore for our female guests. A grinning
pair of Army soldiers assisted them as our engines shut down. I helped set two
anchors in the mud securing the boat then joined the crowd atop the earthen
mound. The ladies got right down to
business. They introduced themselves while the soldiers and sailors all lowered
their vantage points by sitting. The men also immediately shifted their brains
to a more favorable alternate location somewhat lower on their bodies, which
quickly took over all male thought control. The entertaining girls
produced poster display cards depicting cartoon characters along with a large
box of donuts. One of the Dollies passed out the confections with a brilliant
smile. When all had been served the other Dolly told a poster board story to a
totally enthralled audience of American sugar lipped warriors. The goddesses had
our undivided attention. Nothing short of a thousand pound bomb could have made
an impression on our intently focused minds. Every once in a while Dolly
number one made us eat another donut which we chewed mechanically like robots.
We were eating the donut but our thoughts were somewhere else altogether. The ladies wound up their
little show after twenty minutes or so. By that time most of us men were
shifting from one bun to the other in a vain attempt to find a compromise
sitting position that was comfortable without stating the obvious. A few
squirming souls had given up completely. They now stood hopping from one foot to
the other in acute distress. The fried sweets probably
tasted good just as the story was probably cute, but I really could not say for
sure because those particular memories are lost in a testosterone induced haze.
The shapely donut chicks could have been speaking Chinese while handing out
chunks of cow pie for all we knew or cared. When the show was over we
gave the girls a very hearty round of well deserved applause. Everybody smiled.
The American lovelies had managed to uplift everything in sight including our
moral. They were masters of their craft, true naturals in every respect. The sound of an inbound
chopper intruded above so the ladies packed their gear and stepped back aboard
our boat. Tango 11 again took up station away from the bank to land the
approaching bird. The Donut Dollies departed
in the same exotic manner that they had arrived. Skirts held aloft by the
benevolent wind from rapidly whirling blades. We waved as they flew off into the
wild blue yonder in search of yet another group of muddy grunts to dazzle with
their show. Nice piece of work ladies,
very nice indeed, job well done. All in all it was a pleasant experience for
every man involved. I think that Congress should bestow a special medal unto the
truly heroic women who put on those kinds of selfless, courageous shows. Perhaps
the award should be in the form of two intertwined golden glazed donuts with
crossed, uh, pink helicopter blades behind, all hung from a blue pin stripe
ribbon. Yeah, that would be a nice way to say thanks to All those pretty girls
that actually came out into the bush and visited with us muddy grunts. ------------------------------------------------------------- Larry
Kennedy |
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