The Camouflaged dark green C-130 circles high somewhere over the dense jungles of Viet Nam. Bright foliage nurtured by abundant rains stretch far into the horizon and seem to meet and touch the cloudless clear blue sky. To the untrained eye this vision would be one of beauty, the kind that is captured by a skilled painter that selects just the right color to portray the rising steamy mist. To the young pilot listening to a crackling radio and looking through his dark aviator glasses for a smoke flare, however, this vision means danger. He reacts instinctively putting the big steel bird into a steep dive. My heart begins to race….the tires hit a just built airstrip…the deafening sound of engines reversing 
replace the monotonous drone and the once clear sweet air fills with dust. On command the rear door drops open, sweltering heat and humidity engulf the cabin and within minutes our cargo is loaded. This work horse of a plane lunges forward and like an F-14 in an air show we go straight up, harnesses tight against my chest. Soon we are out of reach of the inevitable ground fire and with mission complete we make our way to the relative comfort and safety of Naha, Okinawa.
It’s Memorial Day weekend thirty nine years later and the festivities have just begun at Marshside Mama’s. An extra bar has been set up outside to accommodate the revelers and boats from Hilton Head and Savannah “raft up” on the small County dock. The aroma of Beth’s incredible gumbo wafts from the confines of her small kitchen and the sound of Budweiser snap tops blend in with the singing of the tree crickets. An industrious local has already started the obligatory campfire and I make the decision to spend part of my early evening just hanging out , roasting a few marshmallows, watching the sunset and talking about the Island’s History with curious guests. I’m right in the middle of the Yemmassee Indian uprising when the sound of an approaching low flying aircraft diverts our attention. One of the fire worshippers comment that it’s just the Coast Guard Helicopter doing their usual training run but once you have heard the drone of a C-130 you never forget it. Sure enough, direct overhead flies the workhorse of our military, probably from the Charleston Air Base, not painted green but camouflaged in timely shades of brown.
Now I have seen these C-130’s fly over before….once there were ten in formation…and I rushed inside yelling to my Bride, Mary….”You got to see this”. But the sight of this lone aircraft on Memorial Day from my past that I had spent so much time in and always admired was just a bit to much to bear. Excusing myself I leaned up against an ancient live oak tree and recalled that day so many years ago as a pimple faced eighteen year old when I experienced my first “dive to the jungle”. You see, that was not just ordinary cargo we were picking up. It was green body bags of young guys just like me. They had dreams of the future and waited anxiously at mail call for that precious letter from home. I remember that seamlessly never ending trip to Naha shivering at high altitude from the cold and sharing that cargo hold with the lifeless bodies that gave their all and the ultimate sacrifice for their beloved country.
Someone puts a dollar in the jukebox and a song Jimmy Buffet wrote about Daufuskie blends in with chatter of the fun loving merrymakers. I make my way to the relative quietness of the dock adorned with an American flag tattered and torn since its unceremonious 9/11 hanging. My harmonica which I had planned to play for fun now is held in trembling hands. The sound of taps drifts over the stillness of the marsh as a tribute to my unknown comrades and to the pimple faced kids of today that are still giving it “their all”.
Comments