While he was going through the start-up procedures, Ritchie was tuning the radios and calling for clearance to take the runway. Once they were satisfied that there would be no engine fire, Lovelace and Mondie moved to the front of the aircraft and secured the fire extinguisher, then pulled the bulletproof protector on the exterior of the pilots’ seats forward and closed the pilots’ doors.
“I have the aircraft,” Ritchie said.
“You have the aircraft,” Mr. Zuccardi responded, indicating that positive control of the aircraft had been transferred from one pilot to the other.
“Clear left,” Lovelace indicated.
“Clear right,” Mondie responded.
“Clear to come back,” both responded in unison.
With that, Ritchie picked the aircraft up to a hover within the metal revetment and started backing out to move to the runway. Revetments were about fifteen feet wide, forty feet long and six feet high, with dirt sides sandwiched between corrugated metal sheets. They were designed to provide some protection to the aircraft during rocket or mortar attacks, and the sides of most revetments indicated that they were doing their job.
Ritchie called Flight Operations. “Chicken-man Three India, Chicken-man One-Two.”
“Chicken-man One-Two, go ahead.”
“Chicken-man One-Two is off Lai Khe.”
“Roger, One-Two, have a good day.”
As Ritchie pulled in power and climbed out, he turned to his copilot. “Zuccardi, call Arty and get us clearance up to Song Be.”5
The morning sun was just cresting the horizon and the sky was clear right now but could change quickly, which was typical for this time of year. The southwest monsoon season was from May to September, so a downpour could occur and usually did in the afternoons. Fortunately, most downpours could be seen coming and avoided. Traffic was moving on Thunder Road, Highway 13, the main road from Saigon to the Cambodian border and Snoul, the first major city in Cambodia and the scene of heavy fighting on May 1, 1970, with the Cambodian Incursion. Since it was a dirt road, most vehicles were plowing through mud. Ritchie tuned in the Armed Forces Radio Network for some morning music for the crew. A country song was on, and Ritchie sang along.
“Mr. Ritchie, do you have all those country songs memorized? How about some Aretha Franklin?” asked Mondie. Mondie was a nineteen-year-old black kid from the Lower East Side of New York City, known as the Alphabet City, and had enlisted for Huey mechanic. Rather than spend his evenings drinking away his pay, he was working on taking his SAT exam so he could take his GI bill and go to college once he got home.
“Mondie, I do have most country songs memorized as I grew up listening to the greats. Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins, Sons of the Pioneers…great stuff.”
“Where you from, Mr. Ritchie, that you would listen to that stuff? Sure ain’t from California,” Lovelace jumped in. Lovelace was from Kentucky, as his accent indicated, and was new to Mr. Ritchie’s crew, as the AC he normally crewed for had recently gone back to the States. Lovelace was a quiet fellow who always carried a smile and others would tease a bit about his curly blond hair. After high school, he’d worked for a time in a furniture store but had aspirations of going back to Lexington and opening his own store.
“I’m from Los Alamos, New Mexico,” Ritchie stated.
“Is that why you always wear them shit-kicker cowboy boots?” Lovelace asked.
“I wear them because they’re very comfortable and easy to get on and off, and until someone says I can’t wear them when I’m flying, I will continue to do so,” Ritchie unapologetically explained.
“What’d you do there before the Army?” asked Mondie.
“Would you believe I was a cop when I got drafted? Started as a cop as soon as I graduated from high school. They’re even holding my job for me until I get home.”
“Hell, how old were you when you got drafted? I thought being a cop, you would be exempt from the draft,” Lovelace chimed in.
“Being a cop got me exempt for only so long. I was twenty-seven when they finally called me up and married too. Thought that alone would keep me from getting drafted but no.”
“No wonder you look so old,” Mondie interjected.
“Hey, I’m not as old as Fairweather,” Ritchie protested.
“That’s true. He even has gray hair in his mustache, and a lot of it too,” Mondie stated.
All the while, Zuccardi was taking this running diatribe in, just enjoying the morning flight. He had been in-country all of three weeks and flying only a week, so everything was fairly new to him. Originally from Premont, Texas, he rather enjoyed Ritchie’s musical selections.
“What about you Mr. Zuccardi? You married?” Lovelace asked.
“Nope,” was all Zuccardi would say.
Not to be left out of the conversation, Mondie started in, “Were you drafted too, Mr. Zuccardi?