thedrifter
01-27-08, 08:03 AM
The 'Huey' saved the memories
David A. Maurer
Daily Progress staff writer
Sunday, January 27, 2008
As the large door of the metal warehouse was pushed open and the dark shadows lifted from her olive-drab skin, she was bathed in radiant sunlight.
I walked toward her, each step erasing the decades since I last saw her kind. When I reached out and put the palm of my hand against her, it wasn't a UH-1 Iroquois "Huey" helicopter I touched.
It wasn't a lifeless object of metal, glass, engine, rotor blades and general characteristics. This was a dear friend, the embodiment of why I had lived and not died dozens of times over.
It had been the wop-wop-wop sound of her voice growing ever louder that had made my heart jump so many times. That unmistakable drumming that had made me think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't going to die in all those places I remember now in images of faded green.
Teaching aid
Craig LaMountain had told me earlier that he had picked her out 12 years ago at a National Guard base on Long Island. The government had given it to him with the understanding that he would restore it to what it looked like in Vietnam and use it as a historical teaching aid.
"This colonel and I were walking along a line of helicopters, and he pointed at her and said, 'You want this one,' " LaMountain had said. "I asked him why, and he said, 'Because it had served in Vietnam.'
"I asked how he knew that, and he said by all the holes that had been patched over. After I got her, I wrote to the government and got her entire history. They had documented everything - every time she was hit, every mission she was on."
She had arrived in Vietnam in 1965 wrapped in heavy brown shipping paper. After serving for several years with the 282nd Assault Helicopter unit in Da Nang, South Vietnam, she was sent to Korea.
Saved from the crusher
Eventually the scarred, yet hail, helicopter returned to the United States. Like many returning Vietnam veterans, she didn't get much of a homecoming. She was headed for the recycling crusher when LaMountain saved her.
A few years ago, LaMountain retired from his automotive repair business on Long Island and moved to Greene County with his wife, Debbie. He now spends a lot of his time bringing the Huey to schools and special events on a flatbed trailer.
This past spring, he brought the chopper to the Rolling Thunder motorcycle rally in Washington. LaMountain said many of the Vietnam veterans attending the annual gathering became emotional when they saw the helicopter.
"All these big tough motorcycle guys would come up with tears in their eyes," said LaMountain, who served in Vietnam with the
Army from 1967 to '68. "If you weren't in Vietnam, you couldn't understand it, but I could."
Me, too.
There were several types of helicopters that served in Vietnam, but the beloved Huey is clearly the icon of that conflict.
One can have great affection for the Cobra gunships or even the large Chinook. But it's the Huey that earned the love of a great many GIs and Marines.
For me that love grew out of the fact that even when I was deep behind enemy lines she would come and get me. To this day, when I meet a Huey pilot or door gunner who served in Vietnam, I never fail to embrace and thank them for what they did.
Without realizing it at the time, I had said goodbye to the Huey on a beautiful spring afternoon in 1973. That day I had made my last parachute jump from one over a drop zone at Fort Bragg, N.C.
From time to time as the years went by I would hear her distinctive voice passing above me. No other helicopter was ever able to trick me into thinking it was her.
As my hand reached out to her for the first time in 35 years, my mind filled with things we had seen and felt. I remembered the day I had needed her most and how she had hovered just above us with her blades nearly hitting the trees.
How cold it had gotten when she was lifting me away, and the wind began to dry my blood-soaked uniform. Her reassuring voice was like a lullaby then, seeming to come from far away.
She had brought me all the way home that day, even though both her rotor blades had holes the size of softballs blown through them. All the way home with fuel leaking from wounds in her belly, and gaping holes torn through her body.
Yes, I thought, we'd been through a lot together. I looked up at her jet engine and recalled the sweet scent of her hot breath and how it always made my stomach clinch.
I remembered how just climbing inside her to head out on a mission would take all the resolve I could muster. So many emotions bond us together.
Now, as I climbed inside, I moved much slower than I once had.
I sat down in my old position at the front edge of the right-hand door.
I stepped out onto the skid like I had done many times going into landing zones. I remembered how the dirt and chaff would explode up from the ground, and how I could feel my eyes straining to see everything at once.
How quiet it would be when she left, and how alone and isolated I would feel. Easier to recall is the soaring elation I felt upon her return and how she always waited until we all were aboard.
How many times I had gasped for breath on her cold metal floor. With eyes squeezed shut I'd hear her engine screaming for altitude and pray her blades wouldn't snap off as she banked hard to get us out of harm's way.
She could take a lot, but she wasn't invincible. During the Vietnam War, 2,202 Huey pilots were killed and about 1,250 of the aircraft were lost in combat.
Fate and a man who believes in preserving history saved the one that now resides in a metal warehouse in Greene County.
"This chopper is a piece of history that has been saved," said LaMountain, whose brother, a Navy pilot, went down somewhere in Southeast Asia during the war and is still missing.
"When I'm around it, it almost makes me feel like I'm 19 again, and I'm back with the people I knew and trusted. Sometimes it's almost like you can hear the voices talking."
As I listened to LaMountain, I realized I had been unconsciously rubbing the side of the Huey gently with my hand. If not for ships like her, my life would have ended long ago.
Before I left I stood back far enough so I could see her from nose to tail.
Then I smiled at her and whispered, "Welcome home."
dmaurer@dailyprogress.com
Ellie
David A. Maurer
Daily Progress staff writer
Sunday, January 27, 2008
As the large door of the metal warehouse was pushed open and the dark shadows lifted from her olive-drab skin, she was bathed in radiant sunlight.
I walked toward her, each step erasing the decades since I last saw her kind. When I reached out and put the palm of my hand against her, it wasn't a UH-1 Iroquois "Huey" helicopter I touched.
It wasn't a lifeless object of metal, glass, engine, rotor blades and general characteristics. This was a dear friend, the embodiment of why I had lived and not died dozens of times over.
It had been the wop-wop-wop sound of her voice growing ever louder that had made my heart jump so many times. That unmistakable drumming that had made me think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't going to die in all those places I remember now in images of faded green.
Teaching aid
Craig LaMountain had told me earlier that he had picked her out 12 years ago at a National Guard base on Long Island. The government had given it to him with the understanding that he would restore it to what it looked like in Vietnam and use it as a historical teaching aid.
"This colonel and I were walking along a line of helicopters, and he pointed at her and said, 'You want this one,' " LaMountain had said. "I asked him why, and he said, 'Because it had served in Vietnam.'
"I asked how he knew that, and he said by all the holes that had been patched over. After I got her, I wrote to the government and got her entire history. They had documented everything - every time she was hit, every mission she was on."
She had arrived in Vietnam in 1965 wrapped in heavy brown shipping paper. After serving for several years with the 282nd Assault Helicopter unit in Da Nang, South Vietnam, she was sent to Korea.
Saved from the crusher
Eventually the scarred, yet hail, helicopter returned to the United States. Like many returning Vietnam veterans, she didn't get much of a homecoming. She was headed for the recycling crusher when LaMountain saved her.
A few years ago, LaMountain retired from his automotive repair business on Long Island and moved to Greene County with his wife, Debbie. He now spends a lot of his time bringing the Huey to schools and special events on a flatbed trailer.
This past spring, he brought the chopper to the Rolling Thunder motorcycle rally in Washington. LaMountain said many of the Vietnam veterans attending the annual gathering became emotional when they saw the helicopter.
"All these big tough motorcycle guys would come up with tears in their eyes," said LaMountain, who served in Vietnam with the
Army from 1967 to '68. "If you weren't in Vietnam, you couldn't understand it, but I could."
Me, too.
There were several types of helicopters that served in Vietnam, but the beloved Huey is clearly the icon of that conflict.
One can have great affection for the Cobra gunships or even the large Chinook. But it's the Huey that earned the love of a great many GIs and Marines.
For me that love grew out of the fact that even when I was deep behind enemy lines she would come and get me. To this day, when I meet a Huey pilot or door gunner who served in Vietnam, I never fail to embrace and thank them for what they did.
Without realizing it at the time, I had said goodbye to the Huey on a beautiful spring afternoon in 1973. That day I had made my last parachute jump from one over a drop zone at Fort Bragg, N.C.
From time to time as the years went by I would hear her distinctive voice passing above me. No other helicopter was ever able to trick me into thinking it was her.
As my hand reached out to her for the first time in 35 years, my mind filled with things we had seen and felt. I remembered the day I had needed her most and how she had hovered just above us with her blades nearly hitting the trees.
How cold it had gotten when she was lifting me away, and the wind began to dry my blood-soaked uniform. Her reassuring voice was like a lullaby then, seeming to come from far away.
She had brought me all the way home that day, even though both her rotor blades had holes the size of softballs blown through them. All the way home with fuel leaking from wounds in her belly, and gaping holes torn through her body.
Yes, I thought, we'd been through a lot together. I looked up at her jet engine and recalled the sweet scent of her hot breath and how it always made my stomach clinch.
I remembered how just climbing inside her to head out on a mission would take all the resolve I could muster. So many emotions bond us together.
Now, as I climbed inside, I moved much slower than I once had.
I sat down in my old position at the front edge of the right-hand door.
I stepped out onto the skid like I had done many times going into landing zones. I remembered how the dirt and chaff would explode up from the ground, and how I could feel my eyes straining to see everything at once.
How quiet it would be when she left, and how alone and isolated I would feel. Easier to recall is the soaring elation I felt upon her return and how she always waited until we all were aboard.
How many times I had gasped for breath on her cold metal floor. With eyes squeezed shut I'd hear her engine screaming for altitude and pray her blades wouldn't snap off as she banked hard to get us out of harm's way.
She could take a lot, but she wasn't invincible. During the Vietnam War, 2,202 Huey pilots were killed and about 1,250 of the aircraft were lost in combat.
Fate and a man who believes in preserving history saved the one that now resides in a metal warehouse in Greene County.
"This chopper is a piece of history that has been saved," said LaMountain, whose brother, a Navy pilot, went down somewhere in Southeast Asia during the war and is still missing.
"When I'm around it, it almost makes me feel like I'm 19 again, and I'm back with the people I knew and trusted. Sometimes it's almost like you can hear the voices talking."
As I listened to LaMountain, I realized I had been unconsciously rubbing the side of the Huey gently with my hand. If not for ships like her, my life would have ended long ago.
Before I left I stood back far enough so I could see her from nose to tail.
Then I smiled at her and whispered, "Welcome home."
dmaurer@dailyprogress.com
Ellie