Dennis Owens

Pretty Weak

As I told some of my friends after returning from Viet Nam in 1970: If you're going to war, you'll want to fly; that way you're already there before the dark reality of your situation hits you like a ton of bricks.

I arrived on the last day of June, and I can still remember the rush of hot humid air as the stewardess pushed open the cabin door of the stretched DC-8's that had just delivered me to what had become America's long war.

As I disembarked the plane, and marched with all of the other new guys to the 95th Replacement Center, the fear of the unknown slowly crept into my thoughts.

Where would I go from here, and was I ever going to get out of this place alive?

As I slowly opened the folder, my eyes read only three words: First Air Cavalry. In panic denial, I quickly closed the cover, knowing that when I reopened it the words would have changed.

Soon we were hustled into a long screened make-shift building that seemed more like a temporary chicken coop than a military building.

Rather than “sit down and shut-up” I heard: “take a seat”, and wondered if this might not be so bad after all.

As our names were called, each of us was handed a manila folder with our military particulars printed in the upper right corner. This would be my assignment in Viet Nam, and I knew what hid within would be my fate.

As I slowly opened the folder, my eyes read only three words: First Air Cavalry.

In panic denial, I quickly closed the cover, knowing that when I reopened it the words would have changed.

Young, shirtless U.S. soldier stands outside, smiling and holding a cup.

Dennis H. Owens, LZ Atkinson

My thoughts raced as I remembered the encouragement our Sergeant had given us during AIT training at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. He knew all of us were concerned, or perhaps even scared stiff about going to Viet Nam, and assured us that we were far too valuable to be used as cannon fodder in Southeast Asia. Why, with our elite MOS of 13E20, we'd more than likely be placed at the battalion level far from the chaos of battle--not to worry he said.

After his reassuring words he returned to the blackboard, but then slowly paused and said: “That's unless you get assigned to an outfit like The First Cav.....then your shits pretty weak”. Within a short time, I was flying in a small four-seat helicopter along with Battalion Commander Fitzgerald to a remote Fire Support Base called L.Z. Jamie.

My Sargent's comment weighed heavily on my mind as I started my year of war serving in The First Air Cavalry.