Door Gunner
At the end of the day, I always laid back
With booze, hookers, pot, or even some smack.
We were psychedelic gunslingers and lived by no book.
Killers by day, at night we did whatever it took.
Near the middle of my thirteen-month tour,
The situation wasn’t promising, to be sure.
We were never told by superiors on which of the days
We’d be flying secret missions for Special Ops or Green Berets.
From faceless, nameless powers always came down the order
To fly this day covertly o’er the treacherous Cambodian border.
In case we got shot down, we carried no paper.
Officially, lost choppers blew up and turned into vapor.
From the clothes we wore, no one could tell who was in charge.
For officers captured, punishment would be ever so large.
Our job was to find the Greenies a soft LZ—
Get those gutsy men down and give us time to flee.
Most landing missions went smoothly and we took no VC fire.
Other times it got hairy and circumstances turned dire.
On the worst of all days, we set down in the jungle’s gap,
Never seeing the enemy’s well-planned, nightmarish trap.
The skids of the New Yorker had barely touched ground
When all about our cabin echoed the most dreadful sound:
Bullets tearing through metal and into men’s flesh,
Our once-gallant chopper being shredded to mesh.
The Green Berets shot their way into the open to battle.
If left in the chopper, they’d have been slaughtered like cattle.
I had broken my bones and a bullet into me had drilled.
For my crew, far worse: they’d been shot up and killed.
A second helo was radioed to attempt a daring rescue,
To save their fellow countrymen from war’s final curfew.
The Green Berets heroically drove the VC back to the trees
While our birds up above circled anxiously like bees.
Brave pilots dared death to seize those whom they cherished
As they risked their young lives so that comrades were not perished.
The Berets dragged me from our chopper crumpled and burning,
While bullets kept flying and chopper blades kept on churning.
Once we were far up above and out of harm’s way,
The other bees’ awesome fire rained down on the fray.
The jungle lit up like a thousand Fourths of July,
Friends in the chopper and VC fighters left there to lie.
From the crash and the battle, my body was twisted and rended.
The docs put me together, my body’s wounds mended.
But never a day passes after all these long years
When I don’t catch myself reliving the worst of those fears.
Most days I’m all right and move past that horrific tour,
Though at times, I swear I’m back on a Cambodian jungle floor.
With booze, hookers, pot, or even some smack.
We were psychedelic gunslingers and lived by no book.
Killers by day, at night we did whatever it took.
Near the middle of my thirteen-month tour,
The situation wasn’t promising, to be sure.
We were never told by superiors on which of the days
We’d be flying secret missions for Special Ops or Green Berets.
From faceless, nameless powers always came down the order
To fly this day covertly o’er the treacherous Cambodian border.
In case we got shot down, we carried no paper.
Officially, lost choppers blew up and turned into vapor.
From the clothes we wore, no one could tell who was in charge.
For officers captured, punishment would be ever so large.
Our job was to find the Greenies a soft LZ—
Get those gutsy men down and give us time to flee.
Most landing missions went smoothly and we took no VC fire.
Other times it got hairy and circumstances turned dire.
On the worst of all days, we set down in the jungle’s gap,
Never seeing the enemy’s well-planned, nightmarish trap.
The skids of the New Yorker had barely touched ground
When all about our cabin echoed the most dreadful sound:
Bullets tearing through metal and into men’s flesh,
Our once-gallant chopper being shredded to mesh.
The Green Berets shot their way into the open to battle.
If left in the chopper, they’d have been slaughtered like cattle.
I had broken my bones and a bullet into me had drilled.
For my crew, far worse: they’d been shot up and killed.
A second helo was radioed to attempt a daring rescue,
To save their fellow countrymen from war’s final curfew.
The Green Berets heroically drove the VC back to the trees
While our birds up above circled anxiously like bees.
Brave pilots dared death to seize those whom they cherished
As they risked their young lives so that comrades were not perished.
The Berets dragged me from our chopper crumpled and burning,
While bullets kept flying and chopper blades kept on churning.
Once we were far up above and out of harm’s way,
The other bees’ awesome fire rained down on the fray.
The jungle lit up like a thousand Fourths of July,
Friends in the chopper and VC fighters left there to lie.
From the crash and the battle, my body was twisted and rended.
The docs put me together, my body’s wounds mended.
But never a day passes after all these long years
When I don’t catch myself reliving the worst of those fears.
Most days I’m all right and move past that horrific tour,
Though at times, I swear I’m back on a Cambodian jungle floor.
A tribute to John Thorburn, Sergeant, USAF Retired
Continued |
Copyright © 2007 by Michael Domino