BABY SCOUT
Gunslinging and Whoring During the Chopper War in Southeast Asia
by
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In a large, grassy field was a lone hammock. It was a big clump of dirt, covered in tall, thick grass. My pilot decided to do a quick fly-by to check it out. At about twenty feet off the deck, he made his run. The Loach was doing about forty knots and the grassy knoll passed quickly by on the right. Potential targets are always kept to starboard. The hammock was a hundred feet away as we flew by. Suddenly, this routine mission went into the toilet. AK-47 assault rifles opened up on us from the grassy, island hideaway. Instinctively, I returned fire before locating the target. As my tracer fire hunted for the tell-tale puffs of smoke, the Loach shuddered violently and threw me back into the bulkhead. My machine gun fire went up and narrowly missed the rotor blades. The last thing I saw was Lt. Reese fighting the controls. The last thing I heard was him yelling, "We’re going in!" The mortally wounded Loach was coming apart in midair. Above me, the rotor hub linkage was shot to pieces and, behind me, the turbine had blown up internally from the invading bullets. We never had a chance. The ship was falling apart around me, but hit the ground before breaking into pieces. The ship slammed into the soft earth at forty knots. It hit first on the front curvature of the skids. The pilot had no control whatsoever. Only my Monkey Strap kept me from being ejected from the ship. The Loach bounced, then rolled for what seemed like an eternity. The world was a blur and I was being jostled as if in a large clothes dryer. My body was pelted, and bruised, by ricocheting grenades. The ammo belts slapped me and became wrapped around my neck and torso. I was feeling no pain, just amazement at what dying in battle was like. I kept tumbling in that clothes dryer and expected a fiery death at any moment. Slowly, the tumbling ended but the broken aircraft continued its slide on the muddy field. The Loach slid on its left side and I had faint glimpses of a clear, blue sky out of the right doorway of the ship. The Loach then slammed into a dike, flipped over it, and kept sliding down the grassy, muddy field. Everything happened within seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The Loach slowed quickly and when it ceased its death slide, it was leaning to the left at a forty-five degree angle. The mangled, but still intact, left skid kept the shattered warbird from completely rolling over. My head was spinning and I was on my back, tangled in ammo belts. The grenades were gone and I couldn’t find my M60. Its severed bungy cord was swinging free in the doorframe. My senses slowly returned and my first rational thought was, "I’m alive." I quickly determined that my continuing survival depended on getting clear of the smoldering ship. Quickly, I began to untangle myself from the constricting ammo belts. I heard moaning coming from the observer’s seat. Willie sounded like he was hurt bad. Lieutenant Reese was cursing, so I knew he was probably ok. The distinctive sound of AK-47 fire filled the air. Bullets ripped into the dead bird but were deflected by the turbine and its transmission. The Loach had slid far past the hammock and ended up with its tail section facing the men who had shot it down. Our very lives were saved by those happenstance events. "Mason, you ok?" "Yes, sir. How about you?" "Ok, but Willie’s hurt bad, maybe shot." "We’re being shot at, sir. We’ve got to get out of here." "I can’t. My foot’s stuck in the pedals. Can you get out?" "I think so. I’m trying. The Monkey Strap and ammo belts have me tied up pretty good." "Well, hurry the hell up. I don’t want to burn to death." "I’m trying, dammit!" * * * Sitting, or standing, were about twenty girls. They were all attractive, young, and most were wearing American-style clothes...miniskirts and blouses. Some of them wore the popular, white Nancy Sinatra Boots. All the girls had black, shoulder-length hair, or longer, and wore eye makeup and lipstick. A few looked as if they couldn’t be any older than fourteen. The rest were in their late teens or early twenties. They all had one thing in common. They were prostitutes. Whores, whose only job is to please young soldiers like me. The clerk clapped his hands and the girls lined up against the far wall. He turned to face us and said, "Choose, please." Ernie, the brash guy that he is, quickly took up the challenge. He walked up and down the line of living, beautiful, female flesh. Ernie looked each one over as if he was examining some animal at an auction. At any moment I expected him to examine the teeth of one of the girls. Ernie took his time and eventually stopped in front of the smallest girl in the line. She also looked the youngest. I doubted she was even fourteen. The Vietnamese Lolita wore a black miniskirt, white boots, and a pink blouse that couldn’t hide a pair of surprisingly large breasts. It was obvious to me why Ernie picked her. She was an exotic woman-child who had matured before her years. "I’ll take her." "Very good, sir," said the clerk. "She’ll be at your door with any beverage of your choice." "Jack Daniels?" "Yes. We have Jack Daniels." There was an exchange of American currency and then Ernie walked back toward me. He was all smiles and said, "Your turn." I looked at the clerk who was beckoning me to join him. I moved forward but not toward the old man. My eyes directed me to the girl I had noticed when we first entered the parlor. The girl I wanted was the one who looked different from the others. She was tall, about five-eight, had black hair that hung straight and to her knees, and had an oval face with large eyes and full, pouty lips. She was the waitress I had first seen in the dining room. The young woman wore a red Ao dai decorated with yellow suns and gold embroidery. It fit her snuggly and accentuated her lithe figure. Her waist was tiny, yet her hips were rounded, as were her breasts that seemed too large for her slender frame. Her full lips were a lightly painted scarlett, and her full cheeks had a trace of blush. The girl’s eyes were truly Asian...oval, yet large, and hiding behind tiny slits of eyelashes. I stood in front of her and stared into those wonderous eyes. She looked down for a moment, then looked back up at me with a darkened expression. She was blushing. The girl managed a weak smile, then looked down again. She seemed embarrassed and a little shy. The old man walked over to me and I told him, "She’s the one." "Are you sure, sir?" "Yes. I’m sure." "You haven’t looked at the others." "No need. I want her. I want the girl in the red Ao dai, please." The clerk looked at me for a few seconds. I thought he was going to say no. He seemed to be studying me. Slowly, he nodded his head and said, "All right. She is yours for the evening." I was surprised by his sudden propriety. I also noticed, for the first time, that his English was as good, no, better than mine. I said, "I’d like to order a bottle of champagne." A smile came to his face a
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About the Book
Baby Scout
The story, based on factual places, people, and events, is graphic in its writing. It is true to the very nature of the young killers who were volunteers in this suicidal squadron of aeroscout combatants. There is extreme violence, graphic erotica, and mental anguish that only the Vietnam War could manifest. Most importantly, and sadly, you will learn how young men learned to enjoy hunting their enemy, and killing them. During the bloodiest year (1968), of the Vietnam War, killing was fun.
About the Author
Michael W. Mason is a 52-year-old baby boomer and was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico in 1948. Being a military brat, he moved often with his parents and attended many schools, including three different high schools. He graduated from Walt Whitman H.S. in 1966 and enlisted in the Army. He studied aircraft maintenance and served tours in Germany and Vietnam. During the Vietnam War, he was a helicopter crew chief and gunner. Mason earned the Air Medal, with clusters, and the Purple Heart after being wounded in combat while flying a mission over the infamous Iron Triangle. After military service, Mason attended C. W. Post College of Long Island University for two years. He transferred to the University of Georgia and majored in Broadcast Journalism. Mason graduated with a B.A. in Journalism. While studying for his Master’s Degree in Communications at Marshall University, Huntington, West Virginia, he accepted a job offer with WCIX TV in Miami, Florida. Since 1974, he has been a reporter, assignment editor, Chief Photographer, photojournalist, and a News Director. Mason’s work in Broadcast News has won numerous awards, including two Emmys and several AP awards. Mason is a full-time Photojournalist and writes at home. His interests include: sailing, tennis, reading historical novels, mythology, and writing feel good stories for friends.