I didn’t like the idea of flying through the area at treetop-level.

I didn’t like the idea of flying through the area at 40 knots.

I didn’t like the area, period.

Nothing personal, just an irrational desire to live through the next three hours…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Some quick background: The Air Force defoliation program, Ranch Hand, used C-123s rigged with a pair of fifty-foot ag-spray booms bolted beneath the wings to lavishly drench large tracts of jungle with herbicides to expose major infiltration routes, large enemy base camps, bunker complexes, and so forth. The Army defoliation program, Autumn Mist [John and a couple of the Usual Suspects will find that an interesting choice of code name], used Hueys rigged with a pair of eight-foot ag-spray booms wired to the fuselage to surgically spritz individual treelines with herbicides to expose trails, VC/NVA overnight bivouacs, individual bunkers, and so forth.

The C-123s flew relatively fast, in straight lines and collected a lot of bullet holes.
The Hueys flew really slow, jinking constantly and collected even more bullet holes – because we also inherited those areas the Air Force considered too dangerous…

FYI, Agent Orange feels sticky and tastes oily. If the subject ever comes up at a party, you’ll dazzle ‘em...

Now, most Autumn Mist pilots flew at sixty knots and stayed about five feet above the trees, which minimized their time in the Dead Man’s Zone, but caused excessive spray drift when they were flying in a crosswind. Which meant incomplete coverage of the target. Which meant another trip into the area to clean up the missed areas. Which also meant they were traveling at the optimum speed for someone leading the aircraft by ten feet, which was pretty much what the VC Field Manual for Shooting Helicopters Down recommended. I flew at forty knots, dragging my skids in the treetops, which resulted in minimal crosswind drifting, so all the vegetation got the full benefit of the spray. Which also meant that somebody leading me by ten feet was missing my nose by about four feet. I calculated the increased exposure time and heightened pucker factor was worth not becoming a frequent flyer over a known nasty area. And I flew with the doors off, so I could track the treetops with my peripheral vision, too. Although, if they'd been bulletproof...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Time: About 0915, roughly a week after this incident.

The Place: Seven miles southeast of the city of Can Tho, Phong Dinh Province, RVN.

"Coming up on the first point in three…two…one…start spray."

"Roger, start spray."

The little donkey engine strapped to the transmission well changed pitch as it began sucking liquid instead of air. I was absorbed with keeping the belly of the Huey from hitting the trees but still realized that the small, cold prickly feeling between my shoulder blades had just crawled up to the nape of my neck. While my Peter Pilot covered our left front quadrant with his M-16, I kept scanning for tree limbs, muzzle flashes, tree limbs, RPG backblasts, tree limbs, tracers, tree limbs –

And then my gunner screamed, "SIR! Break left! BREAK LEFT! NOW!"

My heart grabbed my tonsils, small-cold-and-prickly gibbered and clawed its way into my skull and I slammed the cyclic left and aft to pull the ag-boom out of the trees.

"What is it? What is it?"

[Cripes, if it’s an RPG or a missile, I’ll have to dive to the other side of the woodline and tuck in close; if it’s small arms, I’ll have to increase speed to climb out of range; if it’s a fifty-one, I’ll have to stay low and get out of range as fast as possible. Oh-geez-oh-geez-oh-geez, if I screw up this up, we’re all dead…]

"WHAT IS IT?!?"

"Sir, she’s the world’s biggest pot plant – she’s huge! Must be forty feet tall and thirty feet around! We almost sprayed her!"

My heart sank down into my stomach, small-cold-and-prickly joined it, I started a slow climb back to treetop level.

"You. Scared. The. Living. H*ll. Out. Of. Me. For. A. WEED?!?"

"She’s not a weed, Sir, she’s the goddess Sativa! Just look at her – she’s beautiful! We almost killed her, Sir…"

I won’t even attempt to recreate the ensuing diatribe and the aerial gyrations. Suffice it to say that I saturated an area the size of Yankee Stadium with fifty gallons of Dow Chemical’s Liquid Bulldozer, cussing a blue streak the entire time...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The working party from Strive Valiantly Company watched in silence as the American helicopter with the odd, protruding tubes climbed skyward. When it vanished behind the trees, Sergeant Van Lanh Thu clambered from the half-built bunker and quietly ordered his squad back to work. They quickly removed the camouflage from the stack of red roofing tiles and placed their weapons nearby. Van examined the red-brown film on a nearby nipa palm; the film had formed soon after the helicopter had arrived over his position. It had flown so low, he had seen the pilots’ faces.

He rubbed the leaf between his fingers. He smelled his fingertips, then tentatively touched his index finger to his tongue.

Oil, he thought. Muttering Death leaks oil. Shoddy maintenance is a sign of poor morale.

He wiped his fingers on his blue fatigue shirt.

Eldest Brother will be interested. He signaled a man carrying a woodcutter's axe. "Younger Brother Phouc, I have a message which you have the honor of delivering..."

To be continued...