Covey
submitted by: Alva Leon Matheson
The Air Force had more than jet jockeys. Not to belittle the guys in the Phantoms. They were great! They’d come to the end of their fuel range and hang around longer than they should to give your ass some cover when you really needed it. They brought death with ‘em, and left it with Chuck whenever possible. Good group of folk, all in all. But they weren’t all the fly boys in the Nam. Slow movers, old prop jobs brought out of retirement just for ground support, were good too. Slow to get there, they had long TOT – time on target. They would and did get down and dirty long after the fast movers had to go home or refuel. Never met one of these guys. But they were real, and I personally owe ‘em my ass as much as I owe the jet jocks.
Then there were the cargo guys and all the ground crews and support types that kept ‘em in the air. Met few of ‘em, but they did their thing to get me back. And the Jolly Greens did, too. Spent some time with ‘em both before and after my SEA excursion, as well. Another group that knew about “up close and personal,” and brought the air war to the ground.
But for us, operatin’ recon out of CCC, there was Covey. Covey flew our recons, our FAC, our radio relay, and sometimes our beer. Little ol’ O- 2s for the most part. Single door on the right side, the pilot bein’ on the left. Hadda be uncomfortable knowin’ you had to climb over whatever might be in the right seat before you could get out. But they flew in all weather, at low altitudes, under enemy fire, and kept us alive when no one else would or could come. They did more, too. They had the finger. They were the guys who knew where we were. Now, that may not sound like a lot. But when you are somewhere in Cambodia or Laos, the maps are what they were, and you’ve been runnin’ for a couple days so as not to have the vaguest notion of where in the holy hell you are, it counts for a fook of a lot. I don’t know about you, but with the maps we had, most of the time I didn’t know but within a couple klicks of where I was. And I’m a whiz with land navigation. I’ve maxed every course I’ve ever run. Even in Norway, ferchristsake! But the maps we had of V Corps were godawful. Sometimes they weren’t even worth carryin’, they were so inaccurate. Like most soldiers, I didn’t like bein’ lost. I get to missin’ peer group support real easy.
Pilots, on the other hand, especially Covey, always know where they are. Even if they have the wrong map. Even if we ended up in the wrong fookin’ country. I don’t know how they teach that. They tell me it’s because they have the same view as the map. I don’t think so. I’ve been on aerial recons, and nothin’ on the map looked like what I saw down there. But Covey, he just leaned over, thumped a finger onto the map and said there. While flyin’. I mean, isn’t he supposed to watch the road or something? But they always knew. Thank God! ‘Cause a lot of the time I ferdamn- sure didn’t. They did this a lot for us. On recons, on inserts, on radio contacts, on exfils, they were ready with that know-it-all finger. I don’t know how many times I’d get back from a recon and be briefin’ the slick pilots and say I wanna go in here, and the finger would appear and say no, there. Or I’d go to a debriefin’ and I’d have to say, Covey, where’d we come from, and back- track from that all-knowin’ finger to show where we’d been and where the bad guys were. Maybe they have special fingers with inertial guidance systems or somethin’. Issued in flight school. Or maybe their own special shaman. Issued with their cast iron stomachs and brass balls.
Beside bein’ the guys who told us where we were, they also told us where the bad guys were. Which was good. ‘Cause when we found out on our own, it was usually kinda late. Don’t get me wrong. The ‘yards could smell Chuck at a klick. But Covey could see him at ten. And they could explain it in terms we understood. Like, look *sshole, just the other side of the fookin’ ridge you’re stupid enough to be standin’ on when you’re supposed to be over fookin’ there. You could feel the finger stabbin’ the map from 2,000 feet.
They got communication skills from a somewhat less exalted spot than they got the finger. But we got the drift. And when the sh*t hit the fan, they could get fast movers, slow movers, slicks, snakes and all sorts of good stuff near us in a hurry. Which is good. ‘Cause we always needed it. Six guys wanderin’ around lost in Cambodia need everythin’ they can get. Covey would roll in, pop a willie pete rocket into the bad guys, and all hell would break loose. They’d sit up there and direct traffic with that magic finger, and the Phantoms and snakes and things would just sing. Good songs, too. War songs. Death songs. But mostly, we loved ‘em ‘cause they talked to us. It gets pretty lonely when you, your one one, and four ‘yards are the only friendlies within 100 miles. Bone crunchin’ lonely. And desolate.
Twice a day, a lonely little O-2 would fly somewhere near and talk to us. He’d have a Covey rider aboard, then, to man the radio. And the rider was good. He could even read the map and match it to the terrain most of the time. Rider would tell us we’re okay and we’d tell him what was what, and be a little less lonely. Riders are good people. But they don’t have the finger.
Covey had the finger. Covey was a demigod. And he was always givin’ us the finger. But we couldn’t have done it without him, anyway.