Page 37 - DFCS NEWS MAGAZINE 2018-2

Heaven’s Swing
Thanksgiving, 1969
By Lew Jennings
AH-1G Cobra Gunship Pilot CW2 Lew Jennings.
jungle fatigue shirt and cinched the body armor over my chest with Velcro straps.
Next was a survival vest containing some signal flares, signal mirror, first aid kit, strobe light, flashlight and a few
survival items like matches and fishing line in case we got shot down or crashed.
Then I strapped on my trusty .38 caliber pistol; a revolver that wasn’t good for much of anything except a false sense
of security. I carried it in a “John Wayne” western style holster and belt. Before I would get in the aircraft, I would swivel the belt around so that the holster and pistol covered my crotch giving some “additional” protection.
Last was my ‘ballistic’ helmet, an experimental flying helmet, supposedly strong enough to deflect small arms fire - bullets smaller than a fifty-caliber round.
I grabbed my water jug and a box of C-rations on the way out of the hooch. It’s always above a hundred degrees in that enclosed Cobra Gunship Plexiglas canopy if there’s any sunlight at all, so I carried lots of water even though it was cool and rainy today, remnants of the monsoon season in Vietnam.
And we’ll probably miss chow tonight at the mess hall so the C’s will come in handy. Hopefully I made a good choice like beans and franks.
In my haste I didn’t have time to pick and choose. Please Lord, just so it isn’t beef and potatoes or tuna or scrambled eggs. I didn’t want to look!
My copilot that day was Stan Shearin. He had been alerted to ready our aircraft for an urgent mission as I headed towards the Operations bunker.
Mark Stevens joined me from the Lift platoon. The Slick pilots were famous guys in their own right, flying UH-1 Huey workhorses that could carry up to 10 soldiers and did everything; haul troops, food, ammo, beer, wounded, body bags, Generals, Privates, and even celebrities like Bob Hope; anything, everything, anytime, anywhere.
Mark and I entered the bunker together and stooped low under the corrugated steel roof, as we made our way past the piles of stacked sandbags towards the sounds of crackling radios. We emerged into a small room filled with stale cigarette smoke and surrounded by maps of our area of operations, mission status boards showing who was up flying, where they were located, and what unit they were supporting, aircraft status boards indicating what aircraft were available and which ones were down for maintenance or had been destroyed by enemy fire or accident, and the SITREP Board indicating the date, time and short summary of the latest situation reports sent in by our own reconnaissance teams. This was the heartbeat and communications center for the unit.
It was late in the afternoon on a gloomy November day, the day before Thanksgiving at Camp Eagle, I Corps, Vietnam, when I received word to report to the Tactical Operations Center (TOC). I was resting on my bunk in the hooch I shared with Mike Talton. I had been up since 4 a.m. as I had already flown the first-light reconnaissance mission out to the A Shau and had returned earlier in the day.
It was 26 November 1969 and by now I had flown over 500 combat missions during my tour in Vietnam. Only a couple more months, a few hundred more missions, and I would get to go home. Having flown the first light reconnaissance, I was supposed to have the rest of the day off. Something bad must have happened if I was being called up to the TOC.
I quickly donned my gear, pulling a heavy bulletproof vest we called a “chicken plate” down over my head and
38 / DFCS News Magazine / WINTER 2018