Four hours later, mid afternoon, Dillan was walking into the terminal at DaNang. It took him about an hour to track down a ride. But then a Marine UH-1N, a “Huey”, dropped down on the ramp, rotors still turning. Running across the ramp, head down in a wind storm, Dillan climbed in. Shortly he was sitting on the floor on an old flack jacket, life jacket, aviation green helmet on his head, visor down, intercom plugged into the wall socket.

As soon as the turbine started to wind up, the crew chief swung the mount out and locked it, popped an ammo belt into the machine gun and slammed the top lid, letting the weapon swing down, barrel pointing up and out the door. Then he grabbed a tiny canvas rear facing seat with a flack jacket for a pillow. The whine and whoop increased, the helo tilted forward, and they skimmed across the tarmac and lifted up, turning a hard right.

Over the intercom, “This is your captain speaking. Welcome to Air France flight 69 to Paris, Lieutenant. We’ll be arriving in about 40 minutes. The stewardess will be serving drinks in the First Class cabin as soon as we get to altitude. Pinching the ass of the stewardess is not allowed under International law.”

“A pinch’ll get you a pop in the chops,” came on the circuit.

Dillan said into his boom mike, “Thanks. Lieutenant Dillan, Uncle Sam's Navy here. Your stewardess is way too ugly. Would love to stop in Paris but I’ve got a business appointment.”

“Roger that, I’m Captain Marvel, this here’s 1st Lieutenant Spiderman, crew chief is Lance Corporal Hardon, all proud US Marines, nice to be hauling the Navy around instead of vice versa.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Keep your butt on the flack jacket, natives not all friendly. Get their kicks from punching holes in our belly sometimes. Jacket keeps the family jewels in one piece anyway.”

“You have a real nice country here. Natives counting coup on male parts and all.”

“Yeah, us Marines are all hung like horses so we make big targets. You Navy guys are probably safe.”

They went north at about 500 feet, and out over the harbor, mountain visible to the right. Then north west towards Quang Tri, Hardon, or what ever his real name was, by the door and swinging the M60 around. Dillan could see the coast below and to the right.

About half way through the flight the pilot came on again,

“Hey Lieutenant, that city off to the left is Hue, major shoot’m up there in 68 during Tet.”

“Roger that,” looking out the window. “It looks big.”

“Lost some good Marines there. Before my time, but biggest battle of the war. You in the zone then?”

“Yeah, off shore, destroyer doing gunfire support, I think. Around here and up by Quang Tri. Some route one work somewhere along this coast. Looks like a lot of action, lots of craters.”

“You’ll see more around Quang Tri. Not going up to the DMZ or over to Khe Sahn are you?”

“No, thank God. Lots of NVA and Charlie activity?”

“It comes and goes, mostly in the higher elevations. Marines and ARVN have little bases scattered all over the flats and up towards the zone. Keep them in check. Quang Tri has a base, maybe battalion sized, bit smaller at Dong Ha. ARVN here and there.”

“You play taxi a lot?”

“Our job. Shitty little war but someone has to be at the bottom of the food chain. As long as we don’t get sent to the little LZs probably as safe as being a hack driver in the South Bronx. Little places get hot. The highlands are crawling with NVA.”

“You a New Yorker?”

“Longgga Islannn, couldn’t ya tell?”

“Oh, not at all.”

“Yeah, right, Spider here says I’m loosing my accent. Now I even talk like a real American. Hang on; we’re going to swing out over the SCS a bit. Taxi reported some turkey mistaking a chopper for a Canadian goose couple of days ago.”

Soon they made a loop around a camp on the edge of a river, PBRs tied up to floating docks, sheds and hootchs, a few LCM-6s, maybe an 8, a couple of LCVPs. A large fenced area and cleared land outside the fence quite a ways, a dirt ramp to the river bank with a big LCU on it, bow door down. The pilot dropped into a landing circle, flaring and setting the skids down.

“This look like your stop Lieutenant? “

“I guess. Cua Viet right?”

“Sure is, we haven’t dropped someone off in the wrong spot in a week. Dispatch would pull our hack license. Have a nice war.”

“Right, a nice war, thanks, I guess,” and Dillan took off the helmet, and life jacket and handed them to the crew chief, crawled out, grabbed his bag, and walked head down and holding his pisscutter on his head with his other hand to the group of guys in greens standing outside the rotor wash. The other passenger jumped out and walked off past them. It was hot as hell and humid. By the time he got to the group he was sweating.

One of the guys stepped forward, green shirt, sleeves cut off, like a vest, open, green muscle undershirt under, green pants, boony boots, faded blue ball cap that had dirty white letters, something about Brown Water River Rats on it. No rank insignia. Tall, thin, but a clean shave.

Yelling over the helo noise, “You Dillan?”

Yelling back, “Sure am. MINEFLOTONE staff,” and holding out his hand for a shake.

Shaking Dillan’s hand, “Yankolonis, Bill Yankolonis, Lieutenant Commander in the real world, OIC. Welcome to the French Rivera.”

“Damn and the pilot said we were going to Paris.”

“Can’t trust Marine pilots. Lost all the time. Let’s get out of this heat.”

Dillan followed him over to a jeep, couple other guys tagging along.