Inspiration Image — Untitled sketch by Bob Larkin
Chief Warrant Officer2 Jerry Pruet loved America and the U.S. Army as if they were his blood relatives. Alone in his parked UH-1H “Huey” helicopter, he was a long way from the comfort and safety of family or country. He peered through the windscreen. Fog clouded his view as the sound of a northbound F-105 “Thud” reverberated overhead. Not far away, somewhere in this godforsaken Quang Tri River Valley, six exhausted Rangers had been on the run all night. Radio reports painted a bleak picture. The North Vietnamese Army surrounded their long-range reconnaissance patrol.
Scanning the airfield perimeter for his launch signal, he saw no one. He pulled a snapshot of his wife from his flight suit. His mouth curved into a grin. Yen brought more than the ‘peace’ her name implied. As fair of spirit as of face and form, she had proven as faithful as dawn. To thrive, he needed Yen, just as his helicopter needed JP-4 to soar.
# # #
The somber tones of Walter Cronkite reporting the daily body count from Vietnam filled Yen Pruet’s Honolulu apartment. She constantly rotated the gold band around her finger. When she and Jerry left her homeland, she never dreamed he would volunteer to go back. Chills raced along her arms raising tiny bumps. Hawaiian friends called the unexpected sensations chicken skin. The description fit perfectly. From the day she and Jerry met in Soc Trang, they shared a sixth sense connection. It had never felt stronger.
# # #
“Mr. Pruet,” an operations sergeant said from outside the Huey. “The major says the Rangers are taking a heckuva lot of fire. We’ve got to get ’em outta’ there ASAP. Cobras aren’t available, and fixed-wings don’t have visibility in the zone.”
His jaw tightened as he cranked the engine.
Co-pilot and crew climbed aboard strapping on their bulletproof “chicken plates.”
“The Rangers are northwest of the Rock Pile about a hundred meters up Razor Back Ridge,” the ops sergeant said, handing Pruet the mission brief card with pick-up coordinates.
He took the card and, per regulations, handed Yen’s photo to the ops sergeant. “Hang on to this for me, will you?”
His co-pilot laughed. “I should have known you’d have that. You always do.”
Nodding, he pulled on his green Nomex gloves. “OK, troops, we all know what our odds are. But those Rangers are depending on us.”
At lift off, the crew’s voices roared as one like jungle thunder.
Within minutes the Huey drew enemy fire.
“We’re taking AK-47 and 37mm fire around the clock,” the door gunner yelled.
“They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us,” the co-pilot said above the chaos.
Pruet’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Flying into a fog shrouded hollow, he approached the pick-up zone. Amidst firepower as thick as the fog, he transitioned to hover. Eternity stretched every second. He prayed the Rangers were nearby. A thunderous explosion slammed the cabin. His head banged violently against the door post. The sharp smell of hydraulic fluid filled the cockpit.
“Rotor head took a direct hit,” the crew chief shouted. “Got an engine fire!”
Vibration and smoke obscured the instrument panel. Sweat soaked the insides of Pruet’s gloves. Warm liquid stung his eyes. Sweat or blood? Either way, just another distraction. The machine tucked and spun. He had run out of ideas, rotor turns, and luck. Control slipped away. He and his crew were trapped beneath the churning blades of a fuel-loaded Huey.
“Get a grip, guys! We’re going down!”
Intensity gave way to stop-action movement. One by one, his senses shut down. The strain on his arms eased. Chaos dissolved into white silence. Instrument lights faded into a soft green glow like eyes. Yen’s eyes.
Mentally, he reached out for his wife as one of the helicopter’s blades sheared its tail. The blade flew through the fog like the wrath of Goliath's great sword! The main rotor blade flexed down, slicing the cockpit like a scythe. His scream vanished in the engulfing fireball.
# # #
Yen Pruet’s body jerked in a force of disturbance. Then, a sensation like a swarm of butterflies spiraling through her body brought instant peace. She and Jerry floated on a gossamer ripple in time. The rush of butterflies intensified . . . then vanished through every pore.
She wouldn’t need an Army chaplain to tell her Jerry had been killed in action.
She already knew.
To vote for Bonnie Bartel Latino:
Send email to MWSAPCA5@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
Scanning the airfield perimeter for his launch signal, he saw no one. He pulled a snapshot of his wife from his flight suit. His mouth curved into a grin. Yen brought more than the ‘peace’ her name implied. As fair of spirit as of face and form, she had proven as faithful as dawn. To thrive, he needed Yen, just as his helicopter needed JP-4 to soar.
# # #
The somber tones of Walter Cronkite reporting the daily body count from Vietnam filled Yen Pruet’s Honolulu apartment. She constantly rotated the gold band around her finger. When she and Jerry left her homeland, she never dreamed he would volunteer to go back. Chills raced along her arms raising tiny bumps. Hawaiian friends called the unexpected sensations chicken skin. The description fit perfectly. From the day she and Jerry met in Soc Trang, they shared a sixth sense connection. It had never felt stronger.
# # #
“Mr. Pruet,” an operations sergeant said from outside the Huey. “The major says the Rangers are taking a heckuva lot of fire. We’ve got to get ’em outta’ there ASAP. Cobras aren’t available, and fixed-wings don’t have visibility in the zone.”
His jaw tightened as he cranked the engine.
Co-pilot and crew climbed aboard strapping on their bulletproof “chicken plates.”
“The Rangers are northwest of the Rock Pile about a hundred meters up Razor Back Ridge,” the ops sergeant said, handing Pruet the mission brief card with pick-up coordinates.
He took the card and, per regulations, handed Yen’s photo to the ops sergeant. “Hang on to this for me, will you?”
His co-pilot laughed. “I should have known you’d have that. You always do.”
Nodding, he pulled on his green Nomex gloves. “OK, troops, we all know what our odds are. But those Rangers are depending on us.”
At lift off, the crew’s voices roared as one like jungle thunder.
Within minutes the Huey drew enemy fire.
“We’re taking AK-47 and 37mm fire around the clock,” the door gunner yelled.
“They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us,” the co-pilot said above the chaos.
Pruet’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Flying into a fog shrouded hollow, he approached the pick-up zone. Amidst firepower as thick as the fog, he transitioned to hover. Eternity stretched every second. He prayed the Rangers were nearby. A thunderous explosion slammed the cabin. His head banged violently against the door post. The sharp smell of hydraulic fluid filled the cockpit.
“Rotor head took a direct hit,” the crew chief shouted. “Got an engine fire!”
Vibration and smoke obscured the instrument panel. Sweat soaked the insides of Pruet’s gloves. Warm liquid stung his eyes. Sweat or blood? Either way, just another distraction. The machine tucked and spun. He had run out of ideas, rotor turns, and luck. Control slipped away. He and his crew were trapped beneath the churning blades of a fuel-loaded Huey.
“Get a grip, guys! We’re going down!”
Intensity gave way to stop-action movement. One by one, his senses shut down. The strain on his arms eased. Chaos dissolved into white silence. Instrument lights faded into a soft green glow like eyes. Yen’s eyes.
Mentally, he reached out for his wife as one of the helicopter’s blades sheared its tail. The blade flew through the fog like the wrath of Goliath's great sword! The main rotor blade flexed down, slicing the cockpit like a scythe. His scream vanished in the engulfing fireball.
# # #
Yen Pruet’s body jerked in a force of disturbance. Then, a sensation like a swarm of butterflies spiraling through her body brought instant peace. She and Jerry floated on a gossamer ripple in time. The rush of butterflies intensified . . . then vanished through every pore.
She wouldn’t need an Army chaplain to tell her Jerry had been killed in action.
She already knew.
To vote for Bonnie Bartel Latino:
Send email to MWSAPCA5@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
1 comment:
Thank you for posting my flash fiction, "The Rush of Butterflies," which was inspired by Bob Larkin's Untitled Sketch, on your site. I truly appreciate it--and all that both of you have done to promote the #MWSA People's Choice Award.
Most sincerely,
Bonnie Bartel Latino
http://tinyurl.com/nslyrr
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