PICKED UP WITH A SHOVEL
It was just another day in Vietnam for our Helicopter crew, not knowing today we would be picked up with a shovel. This would be our last time to fly, for today we were to die.
We flew low in the Vietnam sky, radio played Harper Valley P.T.A. Then a call we heard, a soldier was hit below. “This is Two One we have it,” the pilot said. “Red smoke in site at two o’clock”. Rotor blades popped as the pilot banked right. This L.Z. is Hot!
The gunners fire as metal of death hits the Helicopter. “I’m hit,” the pilot cried as he tried to fly. A voice was heard from above,” Two One you’re on FIRE!” Our Helicopter crashes in a big flame, our final day had come.
We were put in a rubber bag and sent home. Our loved ones received a box covered with a flag. For many years we had no place to go. But as for me; in 1982 I found a home, on a black wall made of stone in Washington D.C. There I waited to see you and the son you carried for me.
One hot day in 1984 you came to touch my name; I heard you tell my son there with you, “This is your dad”. He is big and in his teens, looks like me; he has the same color of hair and eyes I once had; this I can see, plus my ears. You are still so pretty and full of life. No please don’t cry! You know I never could stand to see your tears. Who is that guy with you, holding your hand? Your wedding band is not the one I bought you. Oh; I see now, you have a new man. You know that’s good, it’s ok with me. I can see he is a kind man and cares for you and our son.
I know you have to go, it’s getting dark. I hope all of you come back some day. Don’t worry about me; I’m here with my crew. I am never alone. There are many of us fly boys here my dear.
Some were picked up with a shovel like me. Some were washed from their Helicopter with a bucket of water. That’s the way it was to be you see.
©Copyright 2003 by Johnny Hutcherson