Saturday Morning, September 9, 2023
Better Run Through the Jungle
The Huey raced along skimming the jungle canopy, bumping and jumping, like a rodeo bull. Throttle open, the pilot held steady. He had learned much, now In country for months. Jungle foliage muffled his 1400 horses, guaranteeing he'd catch the Vietcong off guard. The landscape he knew well. His ship was almost empty. Only his co, ammo cases, and plenty of space.
Dress uniform for George C. Beuschold, HHC 1st Battalion, 35th Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 25th Division, US Army, Vietnam
Then he saw it, up ahead, signs of a firefight. The intensity between infantry and VC could be measured by the debris cloud rising into the air. Thousands of rounds from automatic weapons butchered hundreds of trees and grasses. In this turmoil, these particles rose in the intense summer heat, like chaff from wheat, carrying them skyward. It formed a halo. He saw the green smoke. His signal. LZ. He banked the Huey hard, screaming out over the clearing. Below, he saw his soldiers overwhelmingly outnumbered. He swung the tail, flattened his attitude, then dropped down at a roller coaster rate.
In the final millisecond he snapped his control and the Huey hesitated, now hovering just above the ground. A flick and he kissed terra firma. No words were spoken. None were necessary. The moment defined the action. Ammo boxes were slid out, the injured slid in. Fifteen seconds, and he was airborne. And so the day went. Run after run until all soldiers, injured and alive, were retrieved. Although bullet ridden, his Huey had survived. Strange, he thought, in a firefight, it was difficult for the enemy to hit the target. A gift of the magi for helicopter crews. Refreshing air surrounded the infantry soldiers as the Huey gained altitude. They lay down, exhausted. Below, the nightmare passed for this day. They had survived, thanks to this cowboy in the cockpit.
Hey Mr. Postman, Look and See
5 Jan '66. Dear Mom and Dad, Arrived in Pleiku at 3 am on Tuesday, Jan. 4 on 18 hr. flight with stop at wake island and philippines. So begins George Beuschold's first letter home from this foreign land. His anchor? HHC 1st Battalion, 35th Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 25th Infantry Division, US Army, Vietnam.
Letters home to his parents. They span the first week of January, 1966 to June, 1966. No immediate family members are alive so the package is returning to the those who cherish the moment most.
Our collectors. No safer hands exist.
I found a foot-long centipede in my tent this morning. George would spend five months based at the Pleiku Air Base before redeployment. Although restricted from detailing his missions, he was chatty about the army's inefficiency and American politicians. His insight is frank, honest, unpolished.
Many GI's read Time magazine as a connection to the homefront. Over and over he writes about the fallacy of American politicians, especially LBJ, on the war in Vietnam. The In country reality was far different than the rhetoric spewed back home. He knew American citizens were not given the truth. If only these leaders would come to Vietnam, taste the heat, experience the filth, wade through a rice paddy, and better, chase an invisible enemy. George would protect his buddies and serve his time. One comment stands out. The respect for the helicopter warships. They rose to the call whenever needed. Korea's and Vietnam's use of the helicopter would open the road for today's medevac system. Then, as quickly as George arrives, he departs. The letters written stand as testament. Five months compacted into a single stack promising endless musing.
George Beuschold's personal storybook. William Ehrhart, Bucks County author and professor, writes direct about his experiences in Vietnam. The enemy may have been invisible, but in reality, they surrounded them everyday and everywhere. His book, Vietnam-Perkasie, is a must read, first published in 1983.
Long Ago and Far Away
The helicopter droned onwards. Below, the green valleys and fields passed by, a landscape of beauty. Many years had passed since George Beushchold had touched this landscape. It was a new world. War surplus, the Russian helicopter kicked and bucked resisting its return to the air. The occupants waited patiently, checking and rechecking their supplies.
M-1965 Vietnam field jacket, aluminum zipper.
A familiar sight in Vietnam - Boeing CH-47 Chinook. George's personal items include a photograph album with prints and original slides.
A clearing offered respite as the helicopter drifted downwards. With a thud, the machine came to a halt, the engine belching and back firing as the pilot switched off the engine. He turned and smiled. I'll be here for a couple of hours, til you're settled in, then I'll be off. His accent was drawn, difficult to understand, caught somewhere be Uzbekistan and Ukraine. A field camp awaited them as they walked through the tall grass. It was here their base would be until their work was completed. It was a motley crew. Armed soldiers, a bomb technician, translator, and a team of forensic anthropologists. Their goal? To find lost American soldiers and retrieve them for their final trip home.
Where do Golden Rainbows End?
Vietnam is heartless, boasting a jungle devouring any and all things. Soldier's remains difficult to find and identify. Each day, forensic teams scour the world hunting those Americans time enveloped. From the jungles of Southeast Asia to the peaks in the Himalayas, the search continues. It is field demanding work, digging and and sifting piles of dirt, scanning for that one clue. Back home labs are run with precise attention to detail.And then the moment, an identification. This dedication is the sole domain of the United States. No one else in the world seeks this closure. For the families who have lost loved ones, there is no word to describe their appreciation. Where do golden rainbows end? Where they always have. Within the family. Each day, the sun rises and sets, day after day, year after year, millennia after millennia. Still, the killing fields renew showering us in perpetual pain. How many seas must a white dove sail, before she sleeps in the sand? Indeed. The mystery of it all continues.
No war ever ends until all participants have passed.
Doors open at 8 AM. Auction starts at 9 AM. PA AU 1265L [bb]