Suzanne Rice

The “Tales from Nick’s FARRP” series are a fictionalized version of real events and are dedicated to the memory of friends and classmates from the Class of 1969.

“So, Kenny, tell me what ‘airborne’ is all about.” 

*     *     *     *     *     *

I was speaking to one of the regulars at the bar in Fayetteville, NC, that I inherited from my late Uncle Nick, Captain Kenny Wayne.  Kenny was known as a “master blaster,” which is Army talk for somebody who has been a paratrooper for a long time.  All of the regulars here at the bar, known as Nick’s FARRP, are Army guys.  Since I know nothing about the Army, I am always asking them questions.  My name, by the way, is Gil Edwards.

*     *     *     *     *     *

“Well, Gil,” Captain Kenny began, “the obvious answer is that ‘airborne’ means the paratroopers who are qualified to parachute from airplanes.”

“Yeah, I know that much,” I said.  “So, how did you get into jumping?”

“Well, actually,” Captain Kenny began, “I went to jump school back when I was at school.”

“What Kenny means any time he says ‘at school,’” interrupted Major Tony, another regular here at the FARRP, “is, ‘when he was a cadet at West Point.’  He’s trying to be modest, although being a West Point graduate is hardly anything to brag about, especially when he gets to sit next to a Texas A&M grad like me.”

Captain Kenny responded, “Texas Aggies, like the illustrious major here, think they have the supreme pedigree as Army officers.  What I don’t get is why you would ever pay out of your own pocket to go through officer training.”

“You’re just jealous,” Major Tony shot back.

“As I was saying, before being so rudely interrupted,” Captain Kenny continued, “I went through jump school as a cadet.  After I finished my second year, in 1967, I volunteered to go to Fort Benning on my summer leave, to earn jump wings on my own time.”

“So, then, what does it take to earn jump wings?”  I asked.

“First off,” Captain Kenny replied, “you have to be a volunteer.  You can’t order someone to jump out of an airplane.  To become jump qualified, a volunteer must go through ‘jump school,’ a three-week course down at Fort Benning.  Then, to finish the course, you make five jumps from Air Force cargo aircraft.

“Then my subsequent duty that summer was serving as an airborne infantry platoon leader in the 101^st Airborne Division.  I got three more jumps with my troops at Fort Campbell, for a total of eight as a cadet.

“Was that unusual?”  I asked Kenny.

“Back in the 1960s it was,” he replied.  “A few cadets who had prior enlisted service had jump wings before entering.  But most West Pointers went to jump school as lieutenants after they graduated.

“So once my third year, we call it ‘Cow’ year, began, I got to thinking.  I wrote up a proposal that West Point should send all cadets to jump school during their summer duty that begins their ‘Cow,’ year.  I explained that, even though jump school is normally three weeks, a large part of that is physical conditioning.  So, a class of West Pointers could easily complete the course in two weeks.  There was already a two-week summer period for all new Cows (Juniors), called June Encampment.  We all called it June Entrenchment, because it was just a despised time killer.  Since cadets were already in pretty good shape, I said the new Cow class could just as well spend those two weeks at Fort Benning earning jump wings.

“In my proposal, I explained that the Army could save a lot of time and expense by not having to pay lieutenants travel expenses, since cadets would gladly do it for free, just like I had done.  Morale would go sky high.  I did fail to consider that all paratroopers have to be volunteers, because I couldn’t imagine why anyone would not want to jump.  But some people actually don’t want to.  Even cadets.  Beats me.

“Anyhow, I typed my two-page proposal up and sent it up my chain of command, through our Regimental Commander, a new colonel named Alexander Haig, to the Commandant of Cadets, Brigadier General Bernard Rogers.  Both of those guys wound up as four-star generals just a few years later.  Anyway, I never heard anything back about my idea, so I put it out of my mind and went on my way.

“But dang if, shortly after our graduation in 1969, West Point didn’t open up Jump School as an option for summer duty for new Cows.  And a year later it became an option for ROTC cadets as well.  They actually adopted my proposal.  There’s no telling how much money the Army saved by sending cadets to jump school instead of waiting until they are commissioned officers.  Maybe, it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

“You know, Kenny,” Major Tony said.  “I knew that jump school was made an option for ROTC cadets in 1972, but I never knew that was your idea. Not bad.”

“Well, then,” I asked Captain Kenny, “what did you do after you graduated West Point?”

“After graduation leave, I reported in to Ranger School at Fort Benning.  Already being jump qualified, I went through on jump status as an airborne Ranger.  From there I went to my Armor Officer Basic Course at Fort Knox, and from there I reported for duty at the 82^nd Airborne Division here at Fort Bragg.  I got enough jumps in Ranger school plus once I got to the division that they covered me for jump status and pay through all of my basic course and leave and travel time.  Counting my two months as a cadet, I already had nine months on jump status when I hit the division.

“There is always rivalry within the paratrooper ranks.  When I was in the 101^st, we put down the guys in the 82^nd by calling them ‘almost airborne.’  You see that red, white and blue painting of the 82^nd patch on the wall there?  The ‘AA’ butt-to-butt in a blue circle on a red square stands for ‘All American.’

When I got to the 82^nd, we in turn referred derisively to the 101^st Airborne Division, whose insignia is the ‘Screaming Eagle,’ as the ‘puking buzzards.’

“My orders for Vietnam came through during the summer of 1970, and I was assigned to the airborne armored cavalry troop of the 173^rd Airborne Brigade, E Troop, 17^th Cav.  So, I stayed continuously on jump status from the summer of 1969 until the summer of 1971, when the 173^rd rotated back to Fort Campbell.  By that time my branch transfer to the Corps of Engineers was getting processed.  So, I spent every day of my time as an armor officer on jump status, and never jumped again as an engineer until I got back here to Fort Bragg.”

Major Tony spoke up, “I always wondered how you got enough months on jump status to make master blaster.  It takes 36 months on status and at least 65 jumps.”

“Yeah,” replied Captain Kenny, “when I got back here to the airborne engineer battalion, I had 27 months on jump status, but I sure did a lot of jumping during the next year.”

“So, Kenny, what’s so great about being a paratrooper, anyway?”  I asked.

“Well, Gil,” interrupted Major Tony.  “Do you remember when you first got here and Chief Rod was telling you about the Cav?  He told you that armies tend to recognize elite units by their willingness to do something completely insane in combat.  When I was in the Mexican Army, their elite units are the horse cavalry troops, who train to attack tanks, artillery and machine guns on horseback.

“But for our American troops, it is the willingness to enter the battlefield suspended from a parachute.  Totally insane in this century.  And I say that as a Special Forces combat veteran.  All Special Forces troops, as well as Rangers, have to be jump-qualified as a prerequisite.”

“Funny thing,” Captain Kenny said.  “You don’t have to be a paratrooper to go to Ranger school, but you do have to be jump qualified to serve in a Ranger unit.  And you don’t need to be a Ranger school graduate to be in a Ranger unit, just airborne.  Another funny thing:  Ranger school is the only training program in the US armed forces where successfully completing the course doesn’t necessarily earn you the course award.  Only some Ranger graduates are awarded the Ranger tab, that yellow arc that says ‘RANGER’ inside.”

“Another funny thing,” spoke up Major Tony.  “The regulations say there are two ways to earn jump wings.  Hardest way is to volunteer for a combat jump, whether you are jump qualified or not.  Primary way is ‘to complete a ground course of instruction’ and then make five jumps.  A jump is defined as to ‘exit an aircraft while in flight.’  It doesn’t say airplane, and it doesn’t say use a parachute.  Sometimes, when a paratrooper, especially a senior officer, has been injured, he can continue to qualify for jump pay by making water jumps.  That means a helicopter hovers over a body of water and he hops into the drink, to be fished out right away by guys in a boat.

“During the Vietnam ramp-up,” Major Tony continued, “I knew of specialists, mostly signal types, who were being rushed from Fort Bragg to fill critical billets in 5^th Special Forces headquarters units.  Since all of Special Forces personnel must have ‘silver wings upon their chest,’ these guys had to be jump qualified.  Their jump school consisted of one afternoon at Sicily Drop Zone, being taught how to make a parachute landing fall for an hour or so, then taking five rides in a helicopter to make their parachute jumps.  Even the ones who were banged to hell by the third jump were loaded with Darvon and completed their final jumps semi-comatose.  They were told they could convalesce on their plane trip to Vietnam.”

“Back to your question,” Captain Kenny resumed.  “The real value of paratroopers is that they think they are supermen.  They have demonstrated the guts to do something, repeatedly and voluntarily, that no sane person would ever do, and they think all ‘*legs’ [* is pronounced with a spitting sound] are inferior troops.  They are fond of saying, ‘Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for I am the toughest SOB in the valley.’

“Let me give you an example.  In the 82^nd Airborne Division museum over on post, there is a display that illustrates what I am saying.  During the World War II Battle of the Bulge, when German forces were overrunning our panic-stricken troops far and wide, a US Sherman tank was racing through the Ardennes Forest.  Approaching a young corporal from the 82^nd Airborne standing in the trail, the tank commander yelled, ‘Hey, mac.  Do you know where we can find a safe area? ‘The kid replied, ‘Just pull in here behind me. I’m an American paratrooper, and they ain’t coming past me.’”

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry

 

 

 

Editor’s note: The Nick’s FARRP series was written to remember the lives of some special men, members of the Class of 1969. Four of them were lost as young men soon after graduating from West Point as they were serving their country in Vietnam. The author, Guy Miller, was close to each one of them. One of the them was not only a high school friend, but also a roommate at West Point. The two of them shared a room Cow year (Junior) with another of the men remembered in the FARRP series. Guy was roommates twice with one of the men in the stories: Yearling (Sophomore year) and Firstie (Senior) year. Besides being a West Point classmate, another of the men in the stories served with Guy in the 82nd Airborne Division as young officers. Guy’s hope in writing this historical fiction series was to introduce you to his friends and to memorialize these great patriots. Miss Peggy is patterned after the widow of one of the men in the stories.  Each of the stories is based on real events given to you through the personalities of these men who were close to Guy and who are remembered fondly by Guy and members of the Class of 1969. We hope that you enjoyed meeting all of them. 

The “Tales from Nick’s FARRP” series are a fictionalized version of real events and are dedicated to the memory of friends and classmates from the Class of 1969.

“So, Rod, you knew him better than anyone else.   Tell me about my Uncle Nick.”

*     *     *     *     *     * 

I was talking to Rod Jordan, an Army Chief Warrant Officer and Master Aviator, sitting across from me at my bar.  My Uncle Nick opened this bar, called Nick’s FARRP, when he had to leave the Army because of cancers he got from some chemical he was exposed to during his tours in Vietnam.  He died a few months ago and left the FARRP to me.  It is located in Fayetteville, North Carolina, just off post from Fort Bragg.  My name is Gil Edwards, by the way, and I know nothing about the Army, so I keep asking questions of the regulars here in the FARRP.

*     *     *     *     *     *

“Well, New Guy, I’m glad you asked,” Chief Rod replied.  I knew that “New Guy” was his affectionate term for me.  “Your Uncle Nick and Miss Peggy’s late husband Mike and I were known as The Three Musketeers during our days serving together in the Army.”

Miss Peggy was the lady standing beside me behind the bar.  When Uncle Nick opened the FARRP a couple of years ago, he brought her on as his bar manager.  She is now my special guardian angel, teaching me about running a bar and keeping me from getting in trouble with the regulars here.”

“The three of us were in the same Basic Training company at Fort Benning, Georgia, when we enlisted in the Army in 1961.  While we were going through infantry Advanced Individual Training there, some aviation recruiters came up from Fort Rucker, Alabama, looking for people who wanted to go to flight school and become Army aviators.  We had no idea what that involved, but they told us aviators get to fly helicopters, and get extra pay to do it.

“That sounded good to us, better than being infantry grunts living in the mud, so we applied.  The first thing that happened was that they gave us what they called the Flight Aptitude Test.  It was a crazy test that asked questions about whether we ever raced cars, or rode motorcycles, or rebuilt engines.  It showed us little pictures and had us answer what we thought an airplane was doing, and had us chose which arrows would move a dot in a certain direction.

“Of the 17 of us that took the aptitude test, only eight passed.  Then they sent us eight to the airfield to get flight physicals from the flight surgeon.  Everyone but us three flunked the flight physical, mostly because of less-than-perfect eyesight.  Mike, Nick and I were accepted to be Warrant Officer Candidates but had to wait a couple of months after we finished AIT for the next flight school class date.

“During the waiting time at Benning, they made us do menial things, like painting rocks and picking up pinecones.  To get out of those details, we volunteered to go through Jump School, which was actually a lot of fun.  We were in super physical shape in those days, and none of us had any fear of jumping.  Once we were parachute qualified, we volunteered for more schools to stay off pinecone duty.  Mike and I got to go through jumpmaster school and pathfinder school, but that idiot Nick begged to go to Ranger school.

“By the time we finally reported in to Camp Wolters in Texas for warrant officer candidate training combined with flight school, all three of us were hot stuff paratroopers bursting with airborne pride.  Little did we suspect that once we began flight training, the Army would never let us jump again.  Jump wings were a dime a dozen, but with Vietnam starting to heat up, aviators were invaluable.

“Being warrant officer candidates, or WOCs, was like basic training again, only more so.  At the same time that we were earning aviator wings, we were being made into officers, which was a double dose of work and pressure.

The first four weeks at Wolters were hell, but once we started flying, it got a lot better.

“Our primary helicopter trainer in those days was the OH-23, better known as the ‘Hiller killer’

It was weird to fly, because instead of hydraulics, the rotor disk was controlled by gyroscopic precession.  That means the controls operated a pair of paddle blades, which then forced the rotor disk to tilt 90º later.  So, there was always a delay between control input and the aircraft response.”

“Rod,” spoke up Miss Peggy.  “Tell me about my Miguel.  He never told me anything about those days.”

“Sure, Peggy,” Chief Rod replied.  “Being Puerto Rican, Mikey spoke with a slight accent, which sometimes made people think he wasn’t too bright.  But he was always the smartest among the three of us.  Nick was the best pilot, but Mike was the sharpest.  He was the only man in our class who could handle the brain-work of flying instruments well enough to earn a standard instrument rating at Rucker, while the rest of us just got what was called a ‘tac ticket.’.  That meant if we punched into a cloud inadvertently, hopefully we could trust our instruments well enough to keep the bird straight and level and get back on the ground alive.  During the pre-Vietnam days, that was the best they could hope for.

“During the tactics phase at Fort Rucker, just before graduation, our class flew down to the Florida Ranger camp to practice formation flying and to fly the Rangers in air assault operations.  We had been told that the Rangers are always starving, and it was customary to bring candy bars to hand out to them during the flight.  But Nick had been a Ranger himself, and he told Mike and me that what Rangers really need was meat.  So, he bought a case of Spam for us to hand out instead of candy bars.

“So, I handed out cans of Spam to the Rangers on my bird, and their eyes got huge.  They cut off the lids with those twist keys that were attached and began wolfing down the meat.  Damn if one of the idiot Rangers wasn’t so ravenous that he sliced his tongue open on the can edge and bled all over the helicopter.  I always kidded Nick that he proved it didn’t require a lot of smarts to get through Ranger school, but he never thought that was funny.

“Before graduation, the Army asked us our preferred next assignments.  They told us that some helicopter units were being sent to Vietnam, which sounded like a real adventure to us, plus the chance to earn combat pay.  We three volunteered to go, and got sent for transition to H-21s, the old ‘flying banana’ helicopters.

In those days, the Army considered helicopters as transportation machines, same as trucks.  In Vietnam we were assigned to the 8^th Transportation Company [Light Helicopter], flying in support of the Vietnamese Army troops.

“The H-21 was huge, with two rotors, front and rear.  They were designed for the Air Force to use in the arctic to service radar sites and worked really fine in the cold.  But Vietnam was way too hot for them to work efficiently, and a lot of times we couldn’t carry more than five Vietnamese troops at a time.  Sometimes it was so hard to get them flying that we had to hover them sideways into the wind to get both rotors into translational lift.

“In June 1963, the Army closed down four helicopter transportation companies in Vietnam and sent most of us aviators to Fort Benning.  The Army was getting ready to create a special unit to test how the Army could use helicopters to move and support infantry troops in mobile combat.  The unit, called the 11^th Air Assault Division [test], would have hundreds of their own helicopters.  They assigned us aviators to the 10^th Transportation Brigade, a part of the 11^th Air Assault.  As air combat veterans who had already served in Vietnam, the three of us were considered the old men of the unit.  And we weren’t even 21 years old yet.

“In the summer of 1965, the ‘test’ division was renamed the First Cavalry Division [Airmobile], and President Johnson ordered us to deploy to Vietnam.  The 1^st brigade of the division was all airborne, at least for the first year in country.  So, Fort Benning ran 659 Cav troops through jump school in ten days before we deployed.  We loaded 16,000 men and 470 aircraft aboard Navy ships and sailed halfway around the world.  By September we had moved into the 1^st Cav Division basecamp at An Khe, and were becoming operational.

“Lots of people have called the 1^st Cav the “Air Cavalry Division,” but that’s not right.  Only one unit was actually Air Cavalry, which means they fought from their mounts.  That was the 1^st Squadron [Air] – 9^th Cavalry, better known as “first of the ninth.”   It had four air cav troops, each with their own scout helicopter platoon, gunship platoon and aero-rifle infantry platoon.  The rest of the division consisted of infantry battalions with ‘cavalry’ names.  These were actually dragoons, meaning infantry who rode to the battlefield and fought on foot.  Plus, there were all the supporting units, including aviation battalions, helicopter-transportable artillery and engineers, and all the service supporting units.

“I was assigned as section leader of a scout platoon in one of the air cav troops in the 1-9^th.  Our scout helicopters were the old Korean War vintage bubble OH-13 helicopters like you saw in that movie MASH.  Our job was to fly low and slow, hoping to get the bad guys to shoot at us, whereupon the gunships that were covering us would roll in with rockets and machine guns blazing.  We didn’t even have any weapons except for the personal .38 revolver we carried.

“Right away, us scout guys decided that would never work.  So, we duct-taped M-60 machine guns to our skid crosstubes, and tied commo wire to the triggers so we could fire them.

It wasn’t authorized, but, like we said, ‘What are they going to do?  Send us to Vietnam?’ Trouble with the duct tape was that after a hundred rounds or so of machine gun fire, the tape melted through.  We lost a couple of weapons that way, before the maintenance guys figured out a better way to secure the guns.

“Mikey was a gunship section leader in the 229^th Aviation Battalion, and Nick was the principal Huey instructor pilot in a company of the 227^th Aviation Battalion.  I only got shot down twice in 14 months with the Cav.  Both times I got extracted by the aero-rifle platoon, we called them the ‘blues,’ within less than an hour.  Never got hurt.

“We all got reassigned to Fort Rucker by the end of 1966.  They were just starting to get the new turbine-powered OH-6 scout birds as I was leaving, so I didn’t get much time in them.”

“So, Rod, you said my Uncle Nick was the best pilot of the three of you,” I asked.  “Is that right?”

“No doubt about it, New Guy,” Rod replied.  “He was the first man in our class to be able to hover, and the first man to solo, and was the honor graduate in our class.  Nick was just a natural aviator.”

“But, Rod,” Miss Peggy asked, “you said my Miguel was really the smartest one, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely no doubt about it,” Chief Rod answered.

“What makes you so sure?” replied Miss Peggy.

“That’s obvious,” said Chief Rod.  “He married you, didn’t he?”

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry

The “Tales from Nick’s FARRP” series are a fictionalized version of real events and are dedicated to the memory of friends and classmates from the Class of 1969.

“So, Miss Peggy, tell me about your late husband.”

*     *     *     *     *     *

I was speaking to the lovely milk-chocolate-toned lady who manages Nick’s FAARP, the bar I recently inherited in Fayetteville, North Carolina, just off post from Fort Bragg.  My name is Gil Edwards, and my Uncle Nick left me this bar when he passed away recently.  He got some bad cancers from exposure to some chemical during his tours in Vietnam flying helicopters.  Miss Peggy and I were talking behind the bar, where several of our regular customers sat drinking beer and telling stories.  Because I know nothing about the Army, I am always asking questions of the people here in the FARRP.

*     *     *     *     *     *

“Yeah, Peggy,” spoke a man sitting at the bar I had come to know as Captain Kenny.  “I’d like to hear about him, too.  I don’t think I’ve heard you talk of your husband before.”

“Well,” began Miss Peggy, with a dreamy look in her eye as she was polishing a shot glass.  “I grew up in LA, and met Miguel at —”

“Woah!  LA?? You sure don’t talk like a California girl,” interrupted Captain Kenny.

“Kenny,” said the older man sitting next to him.  “You sure haven’t learned much Army lingo in your young years, have you?  — I believe I’ll have another beer, if you please, Peggy.”  The man speaking was an Army Chief Warrant Officer and Master Aviator I knew as Chief Rod.

“Kenny,” Chief Rod continued, “in Army aviation circles, ‘LA’ stands for ‘Lower Alabama.’  That’s the region of southeastern Alabama that surrounds Fort Rucker, the home of Army aviation.  That’s an aviator’s expression, so it’s understandable why a paratrooper like you might not have picked it up.  –Thank you very much for the beer, Peggy.  Continue telling him about your Miguel, or Mikey, as we called him.”

“Well, Gil,” Miss Peggy resumed, “LA is in the heart of the ‘Bible belt’ and all the counties around Fort Rucker were dry back in the 1960s.  So, the only place for miles around where anyone could get a drink of liquor was at Fort Rucker, either the Officers’ Club or the NCO Club.”

“Wait, Peggy,” I interrupted again.  “Were you in the Army?  How did you go to the clubs at Fort Rucker?”

“Gil,” replied Chief Rod again, “back during the Vietnam years the clubs at Fort Rucker were serious money-making enterprises.  So, civilians like Miss Peggy who swarmed from miles around were welcome, especially on Wednesdays and Fridays, to spend their money and support the clubs financially.”

I couldn’t help asking, “What was so special about those days?”

“Well,” Chief Rod replied, “I told you Fort Rucker was the home of Army aviation, the Army’s Aviation Center and School.  During the Vietnam years the Army trained over 40,000 aviators, the vast majority of them warrant officers, and every one of them spent some period of time at Rucker as a student pilot.  Plus, all the staff and instructors on post were already combat veteran aviators.  They worked as instructor pilots or testing new aircraft and developing aviation tactics, before being sent back for another tour.  Some, like Mikey and your Uncle Nick and me, already had multiple tours flying in combat by 1967, when Miss Peggy here met her Mikey.

“Everybody at Rucker was either on their way to Vietnam, or just returned from Vietnam and preparing for another combat tour.  The general attitude was, ‘Drink hard and be merry, for who knows what tomorrow will bring.’”

“Yeah,” I said.  “But what was so special about Wednesdays and Fridays?”

“Well,” Chief Rod resumed, “the rule for student pilots was, no alcohol for at least 24 hours before flying.  Since student pilots flew every day during the week, the only time they could partake of intoxicating beverages was Friday or Saturday night.  So, Fridays evenings were rowdy times, both at the NCO club and the Officers’ Club.  Warrant officer candidates and RLO student pilots were frequently known to behave in ungentlemanly fashion on weekends, upon imbibing excessive fermented or distilled beverages.”

A snicker went around the bar, as everyone noticed once again that Chief Rod’s erudite vocabulary seemed to grow in direct relation to the number of beers he consumed.

“So, Rod,” I said, “tell me again what ‘RLO’ means.”

“’RLO,’ my young civilian friend,” Chief Rod explained, “is a warrant officer expression for our superiors, if that’s even possible, known as ‘Real Live Officers.’  That means guys like Captain Kenny here, and Major Tony to my right.  And NCO stands for Non-Commissioned Officers, better known as sergeants.”

“So why do they have different clubs?” I asked.

“Well, historically, it has been the responsibility of the enlisted ranks, and especially the NCOs, to shelter their superior officers from the sort of unruly behavior that officers seem to believe frequents the clubs of the lower ranks.  In short, officers and enlisted do their drinking in separate facilities.”

“What he means, Gil,” said Miss Peggy, “is that ‘O’ Clubs are supposed to be more dignified, while the NCO Clubs are usually more fun.  That probably wouldn’t be the case if officers were allowed to hang around.  Lots of times NCO Clubs are even nicer than the ‘O’ Clubs.  And warrant officers go to both.”

Chief Rod puffed out his chest.  “Warrant officers, Gil, have the best of both worlds.  NCOs and RLOs are not supposed to enter each other’s clubs, but warrant officers are welcome in both.  Warrant officers get all the benefits of being both commissioned and enlisted, depending on what the deal might be, without the majority of the responsibilities.  And Chief Warrant Officers happen to hold the most prestigious position in the Army.  In case you were wondering.”

“Actually, Gil,” spoke Major Tony for the first time.  “Chief Rod is basically right in what he just said.  Warrant officers are the technical specialists in the Army and are expected to be the most skilled people at their specialty, whatever it may be.  The Army has warrant officers in many technical fields, but aviation warrants make up the largest portion of the warrant officer ranks.  All they do for their entire career is fly, so they are generally far more skilled at the operation of aircraft than us RLOs.

“We, in turn, have the responsibility of command and staffing of aviation units, as well as being required to maintain full qualifications and competence to serve in our home branch.  I used to be an Infantry officer when I was in Special Forces my first combat tour, and now I am in Military Intelligence branch.  So, for me, aviation is considered an additional skill, not a career like it is for the warrant officers.  Although I gotta say, I got to be pretty good in the Huey cockpit as a combat aviator during my flying tour.”

“If I may continue,” Miss Peggy resumed, “telling about how I met Miguel:  In LA, a lot of the girls’ greatest hope in life was to meet and marry an Army aviator.  Aviators are generally better educated than most of the troops, plus they get flight pay, which makes them richer than the regular troops.

“So, as soon as I was old enough, I began hanging around the Fort Rucker clubs on Fridays and Saturdays.  Since most of the officers at the ‘O’ Club were already married, the NCO club was way more fun.  So, anyway, that’s where I met Miguel.  He was a Chief Warrant Officer serving as an instructor pilot.

He taught advanced Huey combat tactics to student pilots just about to graduate on their way to Vietnam.  We were married in late 1967 at the Fort Rucker Post Chapel, and a year later our son Jerome was born.  You guys all met Jerome at his ninth birthday party.”

“You keep calling him Miguel,” I asked.

“Miguel Tamayo was a Puerto Rican who enlisted in the Army in 1961,” Miss Peggy explained.  “He was in the same basic training company as your Uncle Nick and Chief Rod here.  The three of them went through flight school together and volunteered to fly helicopters in combat in Vietnam in 1962.  That was back in the early days, long before I met him.”

“So, where was I?” Chief Rod continued, “Oh, yeah.  Wednesday was Bingo Night at the Officers’ Club.  That is the night that brought the largest civilian crowds on post.  The club sponsored fabulous prizes, cash, and lots of other things.  People would come from miles around, some of them playing a dozen or more bingo cards at once.  Bingo Night was the primary money-maker for the ‘O’ Club.  Because of the bingo revenue, Fort Rucker was the only Officers’ Club in the entire Army that had no membership dues.”

                      

“Chief, let me explain to Gil here,” said Major Tony.  “When Rod says ‘fabulous prizes’, he is not kidding.  While I was finishing flight school at Fort Rucker, the ‘O’ Club used to park their prizes out in front of the main entrance.  One week it was brand-new matching ‘his and hers’ Corvettes.  Another week it was a Cadillac Sedan Deville pulling a boat on a trailer.  Later on, it was a new Cessna 150 airplane, including 35 hours of flight training.

“The Officers Club was making so much money on Bingo Nights each Wednesday that it could afford prizes like that.  Now they didn’t give away these prizes every week.  To win the grand prizes, you had to cover the card in a certain number of calls.  Each week the number went up one, until somebody finally won.  Then, they started over with a new grand prize.  It was a swinging time.”

Miss Peggy spoke up.  “I wasn’t the only LA girl who found an aviator husband at Fort Rucker in those days.  There were lots of girls doing the same thing I was.”

Major Tony resumed.  “They weren’t just coming to the NCO Club.  When I was finishing up flight school in 1971, there was an absolutely gorgeous young woman who was always at the bar in the Officers’ Club.  As a bachelor captain, I asked around about her, because she really caught my eye.  Very soon I learned the story on her.

“She really adored Army aviators.  Hanging around the NCO Club when she was 19, she had met the guy who became the honor graduate of his Warrant Officer Aviator Course, and they were married following his graduation.  Being the top grad, he got his choice of combat flying assignments in Vietnam.  Gung-ho stallion that he was, he chose gunships.  Within a couple of months in-country, he was killed, and she collected his $10,000 life insurance policy.

“So, she went back to the NCO Club, and damn if exactly the same thing didn’t happen two more times.  By 24 years of age, when I saw her, she had been widowed three times, and had collected a ton of life insurance.  But she was known at the NCO Club as the ‘Black Widow,’ and no one there would even speak to her.  So, she was trying her luck at the Officers’ Club.

“Upon learning about her, I decided, ‘Thank you very much, but no thanks.’  I’m sure she was very sweet, and I’m not superstitious at all.  I understood perfectly well that she had absolutely nothing to do with her husbands’ being killed. Nevertheless, even though I felt sorry for her, there was no way I was going to get to know her any better.

“I never learned what became of her, but I hope she found what she was looking for.  Sorry, but it wasn’t going to be me.”

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry

The “Tales from Nick’s FARRP” series are a fictionalized version of real events and are dedicated to the memory of friends and classmates from the Class of 1969.

“So, Tony, why is your hat different from everyone else in here?”

*     *     *     *     *     *

I was talking with a guy I knew as Major Tony Williams, who was sitting at my bar with a bunch of other Army guys.  My late uncle had left me this drinking establishment, Nick’s FAARP, in Fayetteville, NC, when he passed away several months ago.  We were located just off post from Fort Bragg, and a lot of Army guys hung out here.  Since I know nothing about the Army, it seems I am always pestering these guys with questions.  My name, by the way, is Gil Edwards.

*     *     *     *     *     *

          “Well, Gil,” Tony replied, “surely you have heard of the Army’s Green Berets.  That is another name for the Special Forces, the guys I served with on my first tour in Vietnam.  This precious head cover I am holding is in fact none other than an example of the famous Green Beret.”

“How come I have never seen you wear it before?” I inquired.

“That’s because I have just come from a job interview at the JFK Special Warfare Center.  Since the JFK job as Special Warfare Center staff aviation officer calls for a flash-qualified field-grade aviator, they wanted me to show up dressed as one.”

“I thought you already had a job.  Wasn’t it psychology, or something like that?”

“Close, Gil.  I have been working in the Army’s 4^th Psychological Operations Group, better known as “the PSYOP.”

Our headquarters mess hall is known far and wide as having the best chow in the entire Army.  No offense to you, Miss Peggy,” he added, nodding to my bar manager, known for serving up a pretty good cheeseburger with fries, and a few other things on our short menu.

“So, what is PSYOP?  And what is ‘flash-qualified?’” I peppered him with more questions.

“Gil,” interrupted Chief Rod, sitting beside Major Tony.  “PSYOP is those wimpy guys with their leaflets and loudspeakers, trying to persuade the bad guys to quit fighting and come over to our side.”  Rod Jordan was a very senior Army helicopter pilot, or as I found out they like to be called, an aviator.  He had also been best friends with my late Uncle Nick, ever since they had gone through Army Flight School in the early 1960s along with Miss Peggy’s late husband Mike.

“Rod, you know that’s an oversimplification,” Tony responded.  “PSYOP really encompasses everything you could think of that might help persuade an enemy to lose his willingness to risk his life by continuing to fight.  It can involve some things that are highly classified, too Top Secret for your simple aviator ears.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Military Intelligence Hot Dog,” Rod replied with a grin.  “Peggy, would you mind bringing another beer for this poor simple aviator?”

“Wait, Tony.”  I interrupted with my earlier question.  “What does ‘flash-qualified mean?’”

Captain Kenny spoke up from the other side of Chief Rod.  “Gil, anyone can buy one of those green berets at the PX, but only fully qualified Special Forces soldiers are allowed to wear it.

You can tell that they are true Green Berets by that shield shape on the front, called a flash.  The colors of the flash tell which Special Forces unit the soldier belongs to.”

“So then, Tony, I see the yellow diagonal slash with three red stripes inside.  What is that supposed to tell me?” Another of my endless questions.

“Gil, yellow with three red stripes indicates the colors of the flag of South Vietnam, which you will see often on ribbons worn by the guys who served over there.  This is the flash of the 5^th Special Forces Group, the guys I served with during my first combat tour in Vietnam.  If I am selected for the staff aviation job, I will wear the JFK flash, which is black over white and gray.  When you see the solid red flash in here, that indicates 7^th Special Forces Group, the guys assigned here at Fort Bragg.”

“Yeah,” said Chief Rod.  “Those are the guys who every so often put on ‘The Green Beret’ show at the Gabriel Demonstration Area on Smoke Bomb Hill.”

Puzzled, I had to ask, “I’ve heard of Smoke Bomb Hill.  What is that?”

“That, New Guy,” [I recognized the affectionate term Chief Rod had for me], “is the part of Fort Bragg where the Special Forces and other special operations units are located.”

Kenny jumped in here, with a grin on his face.  “Those green beanies really keep to themselves over there.  One Friday afternoon early in my first tour here at Fort Bragg, I needed some cash for the weekend.  I was still a naïve airborne cav Second Lieutenant at the time.  On my way home, I passed the little Smoke Bomb Hill annex of the Officers’ Club, where I knew I could cash a $25 check.  It was Happy Hour at the tiny hut, right in the center of the Green Beret units at Fort Bragg.

“As I entered their small O-Club and my eyes were adjusting to the darkness inside, I heard a bell start to ring. Ding, ding, ding, ding.  Curious, I asked what that meant.  One of the guys at the bar said, ‘Lieutenant, anyone who wears his hat in the club has to buy a round of drinks for everyone present.’’’

“Oh, no, you didn’t!” groaned Tony.

“Yeah, I really did,” responded Kenny.  “Ashamed, I removed my hat and said I only wanted to cash a check.  The bartender said, ‘Sure, I’ll be glad to.’  I approached and laid my hat on the bar as I pulled out my checkbook.  Ding, ding, ding, ding.” 

          “Dang, Kenny, you sure were dumb as a lieutenant, weren’t you?” said Rod.

Kenny continued.  “‘What is that ringing again for?’ I asked.  ‘Lieutenant, anyone who lays his hat on the bar has to buy a round of drinks for everyone present.  That makes two rounds you owe us.’ So, I quickly pulled my cap off the bar and slipped it at the small of my back under my belt.

“While I was waiting for the bartender to cash my check, my curiosity got the best of me.  Wondering how this magical bell kept getting rung, I bent down to look under the bar.  There it was, a white cord running the length of the bar.  Reaching out to test the tension on the cord, I gave it a slight tug.  Ding!  A cheer went up among the dozen or so Special Forces officer in the bar.  Embarrassed, I asked sheepishly, ‘Now what?’  ‘Well, lieutenant, when you deliberately ring the bell, it is the signal to the bar that you are buying a round for everyone.  That makes three rounds you owe us. ‘

“Seeing my obvious chagrin, a major spoke up.  ‘Hey, guys, this new lieutenant obviously doesn’t know anything about Officer Club etiquette.  How about we give him a break.  Just one round for all of us here ought to settle up for him, don’t you think?’

“A grumbling consent emerged from the other officers in the hut, most of them probably remembering their own naïveté when they were Second Lieutenants.  Since it was Happy Hour, drinks were half price, so I emerged from the hut still holding about half of my $25 cashed check.  But I never set foot in that Special Forces club annex again!”

“Good story, Kenny,” said Chief Rod.

“Well,” Captain Kenny answered.  “I was pretty green as a lieutenant.”

“Still are, don’t you think?” teased Major Tony.  “Peggy, another beer for me and our junior companion here, if you please.”

“At least I wasn’t the dumbest lieutenant at Fort Bragg.  That distinction went to none other than a brand-new Green Beret lieutenant just graduated from the Q course.”

I couldn’t help from piping up.  “What’s this ‘Q’ course?”

“That, my young civilian friend,” replied Major Tony, “is the many-months-long Special Forces Qualification course, completion of which constitutes ‘flash qualification.’  All the Special Forces training happens at Camp Mackall, which is a sub-post of Fort Bragg located some 50 miles west of main post.”

“Anyhow,” continued Captain Kenny, “this brand-new flash-qualified lieutenant was part of the Special Forces capabilities show being presented for a bunch of VIPs at the Gabriel Demonstration Area on Smoke Bomb Hill.  His role was to rappel from a helicopter hovering at 50’ in front of the viewing stands, to show the ‘fast rope’ assault capability of the Green Berets.

“This hot-dog lieutenant had been practicing for a week how to take the 50’ rappel in a single bound, ruining many nylon ropes in the process by melting the nylon from the heat absorbed by the metal snap link.  He would push off from the 50’ rappel training tower, releasing all braking tension on the snap link, essentially in free fall.  At about 40 feet down he would yank tension on the rope, turning all of the kinetic energy of his fall into heat, bringing him to a halt about two feet off the ground.  Then he would just walk out of the rope, presumably to the cheers of the VIP audience in the stands.

“He practiced this repeatedly, until he could judge it perfectly.  Just one problem – on the day of the Gabriel demonstration, they had installed a brand new nylon rope in the helicopter.”

“Oh, no!” groaned everyone listening at the bar.

“What?” I asked, baffled by everyone’s reaction.

“Gil,” explained Tony.  “Nylon always stretches under a load.  The nylon ropes used for rappelling have been used and stretched repeatedly, so you can judge how much stretch you will find at the bottom.  But a brand-new nylon rope that has never been loaded will stretch a long way the first time it is used.”

“So?” I asked.

“Gil,” continued Captain Kenny.  “When he braked his rappel at the 40-foot point, the new rope stretched and stretched.  He slammed into the ground with most of the full force of his 50’ fall.  He broke both his legs and compressed his spine and spent the next several months in a full body cast, like a potted plant.

“And thus, ended his illustrious military career.”

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry