Post by Jim Visel on Jun 29, 2010 10:39:02 GMT -5
ROBINHOOD COFFEE
Middle of August, 1966, I had been assigned to the 1st Aviation Group, 11th Brigade, 173rd Assault Helicopter Company, in what was still at that time, part of the Michelon Rubber Plantations, in Lai Khe, Vietnam. The “Robinhoods,” as they were called, had been assigned to the “Big Red One,” 1st Infantry Division, 3rd Brigade. Lai Khe had become their base camp as they operated in about a hundred mile radius of that location.
My problem is that I had been trained as a “Mohawk” (fixed wing) crewchief, and the only thing that they had in common with helicopters, was the engine. While they tried to figure out what to do with me, I was temporarily made the company “gofer.”
Whoever needed an extra hand was my boss for that day. I hauled garbage, worked on vehicles, hauled locals who had been hired to do work for the company, cut down trees, and raised 20-man tents, and filled sandbags. It was frustrating, but I laid into it with a farm-boy’s heart towards work. The huge black motor-pool sergeant took me under his wing, and, if you can be friends with a sergeant, that’s what we became. One day, he came looking for me, and we went over to the mess tent for a mid-morning cup of coffee. I was the only PFC there and didn't know if I was going to have breakfast, or be eaten for breakfast. Everybody there was at least a Staff Sargent.
The flight crews often flew at night, and the Mess Sergeant had been ordered to have the coffee-pot full and ready to go 24 hours a day. I never got into how they made coffee there, but it was known far and wide, that this stuff was a real eye-opener. It was hot, very black, and when you added the creamer, even with two packets, it hardly even changed color. Some things you just don’t ask about. And you never criticize the food.
As a matter of fact, there were a lot of things in the company like that, the mail-man was somebody that nobody messed with; he brought good news if there ever was any. The Medics were never ragged on; they took care of things when you were wounded or need any medical attention. As for the Mess Sergeant—nobody gave him a hard time; in the Army everybody was always hungry.
I was embarrassed; and had never have seen so many stripes in one place. "Top", the First Sergeant was there, as well as all three Flight Platoon Sergeants, the Supply, the Medical, and of course, the Motor Pool Sergeant. Is this what the hapless victim of cannibals feels like? Why was I here? I did notice that my mentor had slipped a spoon out of his shirt pocket, and was stirring the thick coffee with it. I wondered if I let go of my own spoon, if it would stand upright, or if it cooled would it become a black Jello?
The conversation made the rounds, most of it was taken up by the mortar attack which once started, lasted til 4:00am. Curiously there was only one person injured, a broken leg for one of the crew-members when a helicopter crashed as it came in for a landing afterwards. Two gunships and a slick had been out searching for the enemy mortar tubes. In addition, there were some holes blown in the PSP (Perforated Steel Plank) runway, by the incoming .82 mm mortar rounds, and which had just been patch-welded. 120-some rounds had been counted incoming. There had been a hole nearby the crumpled helicopter, so it was possible a round went off under it as it came to a hover.
The conversation lagged a bit, and then the Motor Pool Sergeant drawled, “You know, according to “The Book,” coffee comes in five flavors; in order they are, Coffee, Java, Joe, Jamoka, and Carbon Remover.” He held up the spoon with which he had been stirring to the light. (He had carefully soaked it in battery acid for weeks and it looked like lace.) “Where does Robinhood coffee fit in?”
There was silence for a moment, and then everyone burst into laughter. Even the Mess Sergeant joined in. I wondered at the ways of the NCO’s. There was, incidentally, an improvement in the Robinhood coffee from that day on.
Middle of August, 1966, I had been assigned to the 1st Aviation Group, 11th Brigade, 173rd Assault Helicopter Company, in what was still at that time, part of the Michelon Rubber Plantations, in Lai Khe, Vietnam. The “Robinhoods,” as they were called, had been assigned to the “Big Red One,” 1st Infantry Division, 3rd Brigade. Lai Khe had become their base camp as they operated in about a hundred mile radius of that location.
My problem is that I had been trained as a “Mohawk” (fixed wing) crewchief, and the only thing that they had in common with helicopters, was the engine. While they tried to figure out what to do with me, I was temporarily made the company “gofer.”
Whoever needed an extra hand was my boss for that day. I hauled garbage, worked on vehicles, hauled locals who had been hired to do work for the company, cut down trees, and raised 20-man tents, and filled sandbags. It was frustrating, but I laid into it with a farm-boy’s heart towards work. The huge black motor-pool sergeant took me under his wing, and, if you can be friends with a sergeant, that’s what we became. One day, he came looking for me, and we went over to the mess tent for a mid-morning cup of coffee. I was the only PFC there and didn't know if I was going to have breakfast, or be eaten for breakfast. Everybody there was at least a Staff Sargent.
The flight crews often flew at night, and the Mess Sergeant had been ordered to have the coffee-pot full and ready to go 24 hours a day. I never got into how they made coffee there, but it was known far and wide, that this stuff was a real eye-opener. It was hot, very black, and when you added the creamer, even with two packets, it hardly even changed color. Some things you just don’t ask about. And you never criticize the food.
As a matter of fact, there were a lot of things in the company like that, the mail-man was somebody that nobody messed with; he brought good news if there ever was any. The Medics were never ragged on; they took care of things when you were wounded or need any medical attention. As for the Mess Sergeant—nobody gave him a hard time; in the Army everybody was always hungry.
I was embarrassed; and had never have seen so many stripes in one place. "Top", the First Sergeant was there, as well as all three Flight Platoon Sergeants, the Supply, the Medical, and of course, the Motor Pool Sergeant. Is this what the hapless victim of cannibals feels like? Why was I here? I did notice that my mentor had slipped a spoon out of his shirt pocket, and was stirring the thick coffee with it. I wondered if I let go of my own spoon, if it would stand upright, or if it cooled would it become a black Jello?
The conversation made the rounds, most of it was taken up by the mortar attack which once started, lasted til 4:00am. Curiously there was only one person injured, a broken leg for one of the crew-members when a helicopter crashed as it came in for a landing afterwards. Two gunships and a slick had been out searching for the enemy mortar tubes. In addition, there were some holes blown in the PSP (Perforated Steel Plank) runway, by the incoming .82 mm mortar rounds, and which had just been patch-welded. 120-some rounds had been counted incoming. There had been a hole nearby the crumpled helicopter, so it was possible a round went off under it as it came to a hover.
The conversation lagged a bit, and then the Motor Pool Sergeant drawled, “You know, according to “The Book,” coffee comes in five flavors; in order they are, Coffee, Java, Joe, Jamoka, and Carbon Remover.” He held up the spoon with which he had been stirring to the light. (He had carefully soaked it in battery acid for weeks and it looked like lace.) “Where does Robinhood coffee fit in?”
There was silence for a moment, and then everyone burst into laughter. Even the Mess Sergeant joined in. I wondered at the ways of the NCO’s. There was, incidentally, an improvement in the Robinhood coffee from that day on.