What a Piece of Work We Were

Frank's dead. Asked me if he could have my boots 'cause I

was going to die. We sat and heard the briefing O

tell us about the areas where we would go,

the enemy confronting each of us where we

would be assigned, and expectations when we'd fly.

When he revealed that my assignment would place me

especially in danger's way, Frank plucked me for

my legacy. We laughed and wondered how the war

might touch each one of us. I took his comment as

a wink of jealousy that I might get to see

some action first, might be the first to terrorize

the Viet Cong, might get to kick some commie ass

before the others from our Pensacola class

of Navy fliers. What a piece of work we were,

we dozen arrogant young bulls. We eight new guys

and four more pilots from the fleet completed SERE

(Survival) and the Huey helicopter schools

together. Now we sat and listened to the rules

of flying combat there in Vietnam: don't fly

too low; don't pick a fight with heavy guns; be sure

you've clearance to attack; it's suicide to try

a solo strike. We'd learned to fly; we understood

the rules; it now was time to send us out for blood.

Give us a shot at Charlie -- let his mother and

his widow weep, for now was Charlie's time to die.