The Friday Pilots
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
Preview from story, They Called Me “GAR” by George A. “GAR” Rose. This is an excerpt from GAR Rose’s story about being shot down, captured and imprisoned as a POW during the Vietnam War.
…I rolled-up my chute and took off uphill. I threw my parachute harness into a ravine and continued to move. After a few minutes, I heard voices, so I slipped into a thick bush, pushed the branches and grasses back into place and tried to conceal my entry point. The searchers went up and down the hill past me several times, then left when they discovered my harness. One individual sat on a rocky outcrop just above me for a smoke break and discarded the match into the grass a few inches from my face. I was able to pat the small flames out with my gloved hand. About an hour after I’d crawled into my hiding place, I could see a crowd gathering nearby. Then, a rifle was pushed into the bush stopping just short of my chest. The holder began waving the barrel about and jabbering very excitedly. Jigs Up!
I moved part way out of the bush and was grabbed by what seemed like a hundred hands. Almost instantly my garments were removed, and I was standing in NVN in my shorts, t-shirt and socks. A noose was placed around my neck with a long rope while my arms were trussed-up until my elbows touched behind my back. We began to move downhill while the group abused me with long bamboo poles and spittle. I have no idea how long we walked, but the size of the crowd kept growing and the screaming and whacking of my body was intense. The guy with the rope jerked me off the trail and forced me to my knees. The crowd cleared and became subdued. A sound very similar to that of my .22 cal. rifle bolt closing occurred behind me. This was it! I looked up to the sky, silently, said a prayer for Becky and Glen and closed my eyes. A clamor arose from off in the distance and the tension on the rope seemed to relax. A guy yanked me by my bound wrists upward to a standing position.
I turned to see a pith helmet with a red star on it. I never thought I’d be glad to see a red-starred uniform, but I guess it wasn’t my day to die. This militia guy took charge and the walk continued. We came to a small village where I was led into a pig pen and made to sit on a stool while the locals gathered, stared and spoke among themselves. An older guy spoke to me in French, and I kept saying, “Water, water, water, please!” Something clicked and he came back with some lukewarm tea that did slake my thirst temporarily.
As dusk approached, I heard a vehicle off in the distance. I was paraded out of the village, and as the truck slowed to a stop, another crowd came over a slight rise in the road. Pete’s head showed over the rise. It appeared he was uninjured. I was elated.
A NVN officer stepped out of the truck and with a purposeful stride came up to me and laid a haymaker to my cheek that caused me to see stars. He was showing the locals who’s who with his cowardly move. I got it! He pops a shot to Pete too, then ripped our shirts off and made a blindfold of sorts that he tied around our heads. The soldiers threw us into the bed of the truck, and we left the scene to great cheering and more taunts. At every little hamlet we came upon, the driver began honking so that by the time we arrived, the villagers were ready as we lay helpless in the truck bed. Several such hamlets were on the route and the same treatment was meted out at each one.
The Red River had to be crossed by ferry at one point in the journey. My guess is the crossing took place near Viet Tri. Our truck was the sole vehicle on the ferry. A noisy throng could be heard on the far side of the river and the frenzy seemed to intensify as the ferry drew closer. The truck was allowed by the crowd to exit the ferry but was then surrounded by the mass and stopped any forward movement. We were forced to sit-up by one of our guards, presumably so the madding crowd could get a good look at the Yankee Air Pirates. The crowd began to beat on the truck with their bare hands and bamboo poles adding to the din. The driver attempted to move forward several times with limited success. I sensed the crowd was out for blood. The truck began to rock side-to-side. The guards became unnerved. I saw their rifles, with bayonets, move from holding Pete and I at bay to a position pointing outward toward the rowdies. Some of the crazies backed off and the truck began to advance as we proceeded toward the next stop. My life was spared once again, but my adrenalin level was running low! I actually went to sleep, or passed out from exhaustion, for a bit. The truck took us to a building somewhere out in the wilds. Pete and I were pulled from the truck and separated. When my blindfold was removed, I was looking at a panel of three or four military officers, or enlisted, or impostors seated on an elevated platform…
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About the Book
This is a book of first-person stories written by old pilots, those who flew the old airplanes in the old air force. These are personal stories of growing up in a different America, their lives before political correctness, back when airplanes were dangerous but flying was fun.
The group calls themselves the Friday Pilots. They gather at McMahon's Prime Steakhouse in Tucson, Arizona, every Friday for lunch. There are those who finished careers as generals and colonels and majors and captains and even first lieutenants. They laugh. They exchange stories, some true. They have become legends in their own minds. There are fighter pilots, bomber pilots, airline pilots, corporate pilots, and astronauts. They have run large companies and been on boards. They have been rich and they have been poor. They have landed gear up and gear down. They have ridden huge rockets into space. They have crashed and burned. They have been to war. They have been blown from the skies, have run through jungles, and have parachuted into oceans. They have been captured and imprisoned as POWs and horribly tortured. There are heroes at the table, but none will admit it. They will tell you they have flown with those who were.
It seems everyone talks about writing a book. The Friday Pilots have done something few do: they have written their stories for their families and friends. Strap in, hold on, and enjoy the ride!
About the Author
Don Shepperd retired from the Pentagon in 1998 as head of the Air National Guard. He was a major general with almost forty years in the United States Air Force. He flew 247 combat fighter missions in the Vietnam War. He covered the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan for CNN. He is the author and editor of several books.