The following is an extract from an autobiography I wrote in 2004 as an exercise for the PTSD program at the Waco, TX VA hospital. It is being published for the remaining members of my Signal Corps OCS class 3-67, with whom I had lost contact. It is a lighthearted retrospective of my Signal Corps career.

I was a helicopter pilot before the Army created a separate Aviation branch. During my second tour in Vietnam, I was a Chinook driver with the 101st at Hue/Phu Bai and the company S-3. As luck would have it, Dick Pierce (RIP), the oldest guy in our class, was the Phu Bai airfield signal officer. Before anyone knew the acronym RIF, Dick knew what was coming when the war ended. He told me I needed to leave aviation to protect my career. I was on orders to attend the career course in my next assignment.

With no true Signal Corps experience, I was out of my element when I arrived at Ft. Monmouth. Almost half the class were Double-E’s, and all had Vietnam Signal Corps experience. I had to scramble.

Signal Corps Experience 😊

I had flown for my first six years and had been a leader and a pilot — hopefully in that order. That means I wasn’t branch-qualified in any of the career specialties (Infantry, Armor, Signal Corps, etc.). At that time, Aviation was not a separate branch; pilots had no career path in the Army. Not being branch-qualified spelled career death. I didn’t get my first Signal Corps assignment until my seventh year in the Army, when I was assigned to the 327th Signal Battalion at Fort Bragg — an on-call, 24/7/365 communications unit.

By the time I arrived in the battalion, I was three years in grade as a captain and the most senior captain in the battalion. Needless to say, with no signal experience and an aviator to boot, the battalion commander, LTC Ladd, wasn’t interested in making my life easy. We were never acrimonious, but it was clear he wasn’t going to help me advance toward a signal career. Rather than give me a command slot, he assigned me as the battalion motor officer. I only know how to drive fast cars, not fix slow ones.

The 327th motor pool had failed its IG inspection three years in a row. I met my motor platoon supervisor, MSG Kappleman, a naturalized citizen from Germany. Typical of the Army — and many civilian operations — they had promoted a master technician into a supervisor. Forms and records were not his thing, nor mine. Looking at the results from the past failures, I told him, “You fix the equipment, and I’ll fix the paperwork.” I found a dedicated forms-and-records person. We passed the IG with a 93%, and my Eel-Tee-Cee was happy.

Then the battalion S-3 left, which opened a significant hole in a tactical signal battalion — a field-grade officer slot. Rather than move one of the junior company commanders in or transfer another field-grade officer from the Signal Group, they reluctantly gave me the opportunity.

The Joint Uniform Task Force Atlantic (JUTFA) communication exercise was imminent. This was a joint-services communication exercise for the Atlantic region, and the 327th S-3 was in a sacrificial position. The 327th had never passed the exercise. I don’t remember how many years running, but it was many.

In a tactical signal battalion, the S-3 goes to the field to run the battalion operation; the battalion commander stays behind. Never having served in a signal unit, I followed the advice all officers have heard since we were 2nd Lieutenants: let the sergeants do it and learn from them. Knowing little about field signal operations, I didn’t have a choice. I had four E-6’s, three E-7’s, and my E-8 on the exercise. I should get a real education — and I did.

We had twelve HF (high frequency) radios to handle the communications, each with a wire tape-reel dipole antenna attached. The antenna farm, laid out across a few acres, was congested. We deployed a few days before the exercise began. I sat back, watched, and learned from these masters. Everybody was hurrying and scurrying around, erecting tents, radio equipment, mess facilities, antennas, etc.

We burned the frequencies in for two days. That’s where you turn all the radios on and transmit a continuous-wave tone on the frequencies you plan to use during the exercise. Hopefully, this intentional interference convinces others around the world to avoid the frequencies you’ll be using. Who would do such a dastardly deed? 😊

We tried contacting our assigned parties but had made only one intermittent contact. Our most crucial link would be with the Navy at Ft. Allen, Puerto Rico. It was dead. Things were getting nerve-wracking the closer we got to H-hour. Prior to the operation, I’d had the Ft. Huachuca labs run the LUF, MUF, and FOT propagation charts for all the available frequencies. Their detailed charts indicated we should not be having a problem.

The sergeants said they had done all they could do. It was just lousy propagation. Something didn’t add up to me. The Ph.D.’s and technicians at Ft. Huachuca are some of the best in the world. I had to check for myself, so I went out to the antenna farm to look around. My first question to the site sergeant: “Where is the antenna to Ft. Allen?” They showed me the antenna used for Puerto Rico.

To illustrate how a dipole antenna propagates, hold both arms up, level at your shoulders. Each arm represents a leg of the antenna. Turn your body so your chest faces your target for maximum signal strength. If you are in Dallas aiming for Ft. Worth, with your arms extended, your chest points west and your fingertips point north and south.

The antenna to Puerto Rico was pointed at Africa. The antenna for our primary communications responsibility was trying to make contact using the tip of a finger — an absolute electrical null point. NO signal was going to Puerto Rico.

I looked at another antenna intended for a different location. It was also pointed incorrectly. “Inspect what you expect.” My research began in detail, reviewing every radio and every antenna.

Each antenna leg (your arms) must also be trimmed to the correct length for the frequency in use. I had them drop the Ft. Allen antenna. It measured thirty feet on each leg — sixty feet total — electrically out of balance. I called for the person responsible for putting up the antenna farm and jumped his butt. Then I got my E-8 (the senior non-commissioned officer on site) and chewed a little there, too. I had been told as a 2nd Lieutenant, “You know you’ve made it as an officer when you chew out your 1st Sergeant, and he lets you get away with it.” 😊

I directed him to have all the antennas re-measured for proper length and to verify that each antenna’s azimuth was correct within five degrees.

During the JUTFA operation, all affected antennas would be dropped and re-measured at each frequency change — no exceptions. I had one of those new four-function TI calculators ($235.00, TINS). I used it to compute the formula for each frequency’s wavelength, and the required antenna lengths were put on a chart next to the 100-plus frequencies we planned to use. My sergeants were not happy. Screw ’em.

After the antenna farm was restrung and in place, I went to the radio tent. “Where is the radio to Puerto Rico?” I disconnected the coax cable from the radio and started walking the transmission line back to the antenna. It went to the wrong antenna!

So I had them tag every connector with its destination. After we walked the correct cable back to the Ft. Allen radio, I plugged it in, sat down at the unit, and asked for the operator’s manual. They did not have one. In fact, no radio on the site had a manual — a military requirement. By then I had lost all patience. Flummoxed, the lesson I was learning was not to trust the sergeants.

I ordered the 1st Sergeant to shut down every station and send one of his subordinates back to Ft. Bragg to bring back an operator’s manual for every radio. I did not care where he got them or how long it took; there would be one at each station. They tried to excuse the situation by explaining that they didn’t need the manuals — they had been doing this for 10–15 years.

“And haven’t you been putting up antennas for the same length of time?”

After a couple of hours, the manuals arrived. I took one, sat in front of the radio, and started to tune it up. A sergeant said he would do it for me. “No, I’ll do it myself.” In five minutes, it was tuned to the proper frequency with an antenna cut to the exact length for the frequency in use. I made one call to Ft. Allen. They immediately responded: “You’re coming in 5x5 (loud and clear) … where have you been?”

As an aside, that one call hooked me on HAM radio. Some of our career course classmates got their HAM licenses at Ft. Monmouth, but I wasn’t interested until I got that crystal-clear return call from Ft. Allen. I went on to earn my Amateur Extra license back in the day when you had to copy code at 20 WPM — KI5R.

So why was this story in my autobiography? The experience taught me two lessons worth passing on. First, not everyone who proclaims to be an expert really is — trust but verify. Second, to be a successful officer, supervisor, or manager, you must inspect what you expect. I have relied on those two lessons in every job I’ve had since that episode of incompetence and arrogance.

Later, I received a commendation from the Navy in Puerto Rico for providing an exemplary rate of communication reliability. The reliability cited (97%) to Ft. Allen was higher than the Navy’s own tough standards and the highest recorded in the history of the JUTFA exercise.

One doesn’t simply get a commendation letter sent directly to him in the military, especially from another branch of service. It must go through proper channels. So my letter went up the Navy’s chain of command, across the Pentagon, and back down through Army channels. Each level of command either endorsed it or added positive comments of its own.

This was the first time in years that the Signal Group had passed the exercise. After the Group commander presented me with the endorsed stack of commendations, he told me I would stay in place as the 327th S-3. He had numerous Majors looking to fill my slot; they could wait.

My ego high — and my job — lasted exactly one day. The bubble burst the next morning when the Army notified me, in the final RIF (reduction in force) of officers, that I was no longer needed.

Six thousand captains were eliminated with one form letter. One of my close friends was Aide-de-Camp to MG McKinnon, the commanding general for Army aviation at Ft. Rucker, AL. He reported that 4,996 of those captains were aviators. Most had no branch qualification, and most had no college degree. I fit those criteria exactly.

I was devastated.

All in all, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me from a decision I did not make. From that point forward, my life has been controlled by me rather than by someone else or a corporate system. I was doing well — better than most — until I became disabled in 2000, requiring back fusion surgery. Too many hours in a helicopter. I’ve been 100% Permanent & Total since 2003.

Currently, I have a fused back and a crushed nerve to the right leg; a heart attack in 2005 with five stents in tandem in the right coronary artery; and six more stents added last year in two operations to the LAD — the widow maker. They added another large stent in April to the RCA. Total stents: twelve. Finally, I have an inoperable metastatic neuroendocrine tumor on the duodenum the size of a grapefruit. I look belly-fat, but it’s the tumor pushing out against my diaphragm.

Cancer occupies (dominates) my mind, but the docs have never been able to control my BP. Without trying to be too funny (I do like poking fun), my adrenal glands are twice the size of a normal person’s (true). When they squirt, I can get unbelievably high BP readings. Regardless, I figure either the heart will blow or the tumor will rupture, and it’ll all be over quickly. 😊

To look at me, you’d never suspect there is anything wrong. I look like a 79-year-old fat man. I am a medical anomaly. I play a competitive game of racquetball three days a week. I’ve been playing rball since Dick McPherson, one of my former candidates, introduced me to the sport at Ft. Monmouth during the career course, and I’ve played three to five days a week ever since. I don’t have the endurance for tournaments anymore, but I relish beating the 40–50-year-old kids trying to get me off the challenge courts. 😊

On opposite days, I do a moderate upper-body workout. Because of my back and nerve damage, I can’t lift anything over 25 lbs., so my weight workouts have to spare the lower extremities.

Consequently, I spend much of my time in my zero-gravity chair, typing stories 😊 and harassing Lazy Len Robinson. 😊

Life is good. I am in His hands.

Waz your story?

Vietnam, PTSD, and The Service Dog Who Saved My Life

By Joseph P. Dougan

“Not everyone who lost his life in Vietnam died there. Not everyone who came home from Vietnam ever really left.”

Replace “Vietnam” with any combat conflict, and the meaning is the same.

——————————

I have PTSD, and I don’t mind talking about it.

I spent two tours in Vietnam as a combat helicopter pilot — ’68 through ’71. For thirty years I seemed fine. In hindsight, the symptoms were probably always there. But I had filed the bad memories away and learned to ignore them. It worked well enough.

Until it didn’t.

In 1999, I went to the hospital late on a Saturday night for my first MRI. I was being evaluated for severe back pain — years of helicopter vibration had done a number on my lower spine. Being something of a techno-nut, I was actually looking forward to the experience.

Until the table began sliding me into the tube.

The medical staff and I reached the same conclusion at the same moment: I was extremely claustrophobic. There was barely a fist-width of space between the tip of my nose and the ceiling of that machine.

It took seven attempts to stabilize me inside it.

The final arrangement included a cold compress over my eyes, a fan blowing into the tube, 1960s music through the headphones, and my wife holding the one hand sticking out of my metallic sarcophagus.

Then the MRI started.

The sounds were eerily familiar.

Terrifying.

The magnets slamming against the side walls sounded exactly like a muffled machine gun. The vibration traveling up through the slab felt like bullets walking down the tail boom of a helicopter.

For the next forty-five minutes, I relived a nighttime in hell from Vietnam, 1968.

I went into that MRI one person.

I came out another.

My life would never be the same.

——————————

Four years later, my counselor, Dr. Matt Menger, encouraged me to enter a twelve-week voluntary PTSD program at the VA hospital in Waco. I went. I learned.

The first thing they taught me: once PTSD is fully unleashed, you don’t simply get over it. You learn to manage it. You build a set of tools. You use them.

One of my doctors noticed I had spent my life working with dogs and suggested I train a service dog as part of my therapy.

That idea started my search for Pepper.

——————————

After researching breeders and trainers, I found Jeff and Heather Mincy at Lieben Kreiger Kennels in Temple, Texas. They breed German Shepherds specifically for service-dog potential, and Jeff trains one puppy from each litter to donate — fully trained — to a deserving family in Central Texas.

I honestly don’t know how he does it. From personal experience I know how deeply you can bond with a dog. Investing that much time, that much love, and then giving the animal away seems almost impossible. Jeff and Heather rank right up there with hospice workers in my book.

Jeff had already chosen the puppy from the current litter that he planned to train himself.

But I was in luck. That dog had an identical twin.

That twin became Pepper.

Pepper — my coal-black German Shepherd service dog

——————————

The First Ride Home

I should have known from the very first ride home that she was going to be something special.

It was a brutally hot spring afternoon in her Texas back yard — around 105 degrees. I carried her to the truck and laid her on the front seat for what would be her first three-hour vehicle ride. I brought a crate. I prepared for the worst, but I let her ride in the open front seat.

Doors closed. Windows up. Air conditioner blasting.

Pepper felt the rush of cold air after baking in the Texas sun. She looked at me once, rolled onto her side to enjoy the blizzard, and fell instantly asleep. She barely moved the entire three hour ride home.

No whimpering. No whining. No carsickness. No missing her brothers and sisters.

As they say — she was jiggy with it.

——————————

Training

Training began almost immediately. Pepper usually needed only two or three repetitions to learn something new.

She can hear my computer mouse hit the floor from the back bedroom and will come running to retrieve it before I can get out of my chair. She picks up coins as small as a dime from a tile floor.

Given inflation, I don’t make her worry about pennies.

One skill I eventually had to un-train was telephone retrieval. I taught her to bring me the phone when it rang. That worked great — until she started punching through digital displays with her canine teeth. She’s a German Shepherd, not a Golden Retriever. She doesn’t have a soft bird-handling mouth. Replacing phones got expensive.

She’s also a swimmer who spends her afternoons destroying a hard rubber Kong donut like it’s a pack of Lifesavers.

If I go to the VA hospital without her, the doctors and nurses complain.

When someone in a store questions why I have a service dog, I tell them she’s there to protect them from me.

——————————

The Week That Changed Everything

All of Pepper’s tricks helped with my mobility. Her loyalty steadied my emotional days.

But in January 2013, she did something no one could have trained.

By that point I had been on an emotional roller coaster for more than thirteen years. I had lost my business. I had lost my ability to work at the peak of my career. Depression had become routine. Antidepressants were issued like candy.

That winter I reached a particularly dark place — an acute case of Major Depressive Disorder with suicidal ideations.

Today was going to be that day.

My wife had returned to work to help support us. She left around 8:00 every morning and didn’t return until after 5:00. For someone dealing with severe depression, being alone all day can be dangerous.

I often stayed in bed all day waiting for her to come home.

One Monday, Pepper began whining at the gate that kept the dogs confined to the tile floor in the kitchen.

She had never done that before.

Finally, I got up and let her in.

Normally, she sleeps at the foot of the bed. But that day she climbed up beside me, lay parallel against my body from shoulder to hip, and rested her head under my ear.

She stayed that way all day.

If I got up, she got up. If I returned to bed, she resumed her position — breathing warm air down my neck.

The moment my wife came home that evening, Pepper went back to her usual routine, chasing my wife’s little Schipperkes around the kitchen.

Tuesday morning, my wife left for work again.

Pepper started whining at the gate.

Monday repeated.

On Wednesday, I ignored her. I didn’t want to move. Pepper barked. She growled. She got nowhere.

So she jumped the gate.

Thursday, I tried locking the bedroom door.

That lasted about ten seconds. She scratched and gouged the door frame trying to get in. Apparently, I was coming out of my MDD depression and still cared about something, because I didn’t want to pay for the wood repairs. Her marks are still in that door frame. I’ve never fixed them. I don’t intend to.

I let her in.

Friday, I told my wife to leave the gate and bedroom door open.

Pepper was in the bedroom the moment the garage door closed.

By the weekend, her relentless presence had pulled me back from the worst of it.

How do you train a service dog to do something like that?

You don’t.

I have no explanation for why she did it.

But I can say this with absolute certainty:

Pepper saved my life.

——————————

In hindsight, the conflict between the prescription drugs were contributing to my depression as much or more than anything else. I eventually eliminated all medications except blood pressure medicine. I haven’t taken an antidepressant since April 2013, and I’ve never felt the need to return to them.

2013 became the best medical year I’d had in more than a decade.

Now I’m not allowed to be alone.

If I get up, she gets up. Kitchen, garage, bathroom, yard, car, grocery store — Pepper is right beside me. If she doesn’t get to come along somewhere, she gets downright belligerent. When I return, she makes enough noise to sound like I’ve been gone a year in Afghanistan.

I’m not sure Jeff and Heather knew exactly what they were giving up when they chose her for me.

But I’m sure glad they did.

I love that dog.

——————————

Postscript

Pepper died on April 13, 2021, from a massive internal hemorrhage — most likely stomach cancer.

It was sudden.

At 7:00 that morning we were playing ball.

By 5:00 that afternoon she had to be euthanized immediately to prevent further suffering.

She no longer suffers.

But I still cry at her loss.

Every single day I’m reminded that for one critical week in my life, she knew exactly what I needed — even when I didn’t.

I finally wrote it down — ‘Toon Daddy is published

For those of you who have known me for a while, you’ve probably heard pieces of this story. A year in Vietnam. A nickname the men in my platoon gave me. A day in November 1968 that I still measure the rest of my life against.

It is all here.

‘Toon Daddy: Twelve Months in Vietnam as a Commissioned Officer and Combat Helicopter Pilot is now available on Amazon as a Kindle eBook, with the corrected softcover arriving by Friday May 29th.

I’ll be honest with you about what it is and isn’t. It is not the Great American Novel. It is a short memoir about 1/80th of my life — but the most important 1/80th, the year that made me who I became. There’s no blood and gore, no score-settling, but the tragedy is obvious. What there is: the truth about what it was like to be a twenty-one-year-old lieutenant leading a platoon of highly intelligent warrant officer pilots who were constitutionally suspicious of anyone who hadn’t earned their respect — and what it cost to earn it.

“I can tell you plainly: it happened the way he says it happened. The men were who he says they were. That day in November was exactly as bad as he says it was.”
— Chief Warrant Officer Johnnie T. Wilson (Ret.), 187^th, Crusaders, who wrote the foreword and has been my friend for nearly sixty years.

The book was written for people who weren’t there — families, friends, anyone who has tried to understand why some men come home from war and are never quite the same, even if they never took a bullet. Veterans will find the behind-the-scenes look familiar. Everyone else will find it honest.

There are also a few moments I can only describe as Divine Interventions. You’ll know them when you get there.

Yes, I’m proud of it. And yes, at my age, finally being a published author is not nothing.

- Pat -

Why Was I the Last Guy to Solo in My Class?©

Joseph P (Pat) Dougan
REV: December 11, 2025

Every flight class has a last guy to solo. I just never expected it to be me.
And yet, here we are.

I’ve always had a problem with authority figures, which doesn’t exactly set one up for success in the Army. It’s not authority itself I resent — it’s authority wielded by people who are basic assholes. Unfortunately, that put me on a collision course with my first flight instructor, Mr. Ludwig (RIP).

Meet Mr. Ludwig (RIP): The Angry Swede With Custom Pedals

Ludwig was an extraordinarily tall, thin Swede with a hair-trigger temper and zero patience. His legs were so long that he had a custom set of anti-torque (tail rotor) pedals built for the OH-23 bubble-nose helicopter just to give him a few extra inches of room.

We did not get along!

One afternoon, while I was struggling through a hovering lesson, he was doing what he did best: yelling. Finally, through clenched teeth, he barked, “Okay, we’re starting from scratch. You have the cyclic.”

So, I took the cyclic (tilt), while he held the collective (up-down and throttle) and the pedals (yaw). After a few attempts, I regained control and managed a shaky hover. But I still wasn’t holding heading. The nose drifted left and right, and Ludwig’s volume escalated to the point where the intercom was just decorative.

To “help,” he placed us in front of a tree about fifty yards away and said, “Hold the nose on that tree.”

I picked it up to a hover. After a couple of semi-successful tries, the drift returned.

“LOOK AT THAT TREE! WHEN IT DRIFTS RIGHT, GIVE IT LEFT PEDAL!”

Violently, he angrily stomped on the left pedal — so hard that his long booted foot slipped off the pedal. His size-12 boot went straight through the Plexiglas bubble.

One stomp. One large boot-sized hole. 😊Well, maybe not quite that big…😊

😊 Donja just love AI pics? 😊

Walking Away (Literally)

He landed immediately and got out to check the damage. With the engine still running, I secured the controls with straps and friction locks, unbuckled, and climbed out. Then I picked up a large shard of the shattered Plexiglas and walked across the field to the control tower.

Even with my helmet on and earplugs in, I could hear Ludwig screaming at me to get back in the aircraft.

I climbed into the tower. The flight commander asked what the problem was. I handed him the Plexiglas and said:

“I’d like a new instructor.”

Shockingly, I didn’t get a pink slip that day, a failing grade.
I’m sure Ludwig did — he was transferred to another training flight immediately.

After that, my progress improved. I received very few unsatisfactory rides in primary. And yet…

The P1 Check Ride: My Nemesis

The P1 check ride is the end-of-Phase-I evaluation—the gatekeeper flight that determines whether you’re safe enough to continue to Phase II.

Ludwig had done a number on my confidence, and my own stubbornness didn’t help. By the time I reached the check ride, I was on my third instructor pilot. Thankfully, this last one was a master: 17,000 flight hours from WWII fighters to helicopters. He somehow found my “engage button” and taught me to actually fly. More importantly, he took the time to rebuild my confidence.

But I was still the last guy in our flight to solo.

The US Army scheduled our progress check rides with military instructors instead of the civilian contractors who taught us for the first eight weeks. These IPs wore bright international orange flight suits, which intimidated most students.

I was scheduled for a Monday morning with my Orange Teddy Bear.

I had no apparent fear, but I busted the check out.

That earned me another day of refresher training with my IP. The following day, I flew a prog ride with the assistant flight commander.

I failed that one too.

Which meant a mandatory final check with the flight commander—Mr. Ceramic Penis, hizownself. 😊

Bust this one, and I’d be headed straight to the Infantry.

The Friday Morning Judgment

The flight commander was an affable man who knew how to put a student at ease. Even so, I struggled.

When we landed, he didn’t take me into the lounge for the usual debrief. Instead, he stayed in the cockpit, where nobody could overhear.

Paraphrasing his verdict:

“Technically, you didn’t pass.
But I reviewed your records and talked to your instructors. There’s nothing here that says you can’t fly. Since you’re getting married tomorrow, I’m chalking this up to pre-wedding jitters.

I’m passing you.

But if you screw up anything from here on out… you’re done.”

And that’s why—even after more than 3,000 flight hours—I can confidently say:

I never technically passed a P1 check ride. 😊

Now you know the rest of the story. 😊

A Short Closing Note

If flying taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the only way through the learning process is with a mentor who believes in you—and occasionally puts a friendly boot up your butt.

Just preferably not through the aircraft.

Some of us take the scenic route to the solo flight line.
But we get there all the same.

My Infamous Trophy:

I was the very last guy in the Longhorn flight to solo (flying without an instructor). I think Gary Burrows was the first—he received a ceramic trophy handmade by the flight commander. Ceramics was the commander’s hobby, especially funny ones.

I, too, got a “trophy”: a very impressive 12-inch ceramic penis ashtray for being the last in the class to solo. You will have to imagine what the base looked like ... but they were huge. I am not sure whether he held auditions to make the mold, but that’s his story. I think my mother-in-law “accidentally“ disposed of it after I quit smoking.

Helicopters Are Dangerous:

OH-23 … The Hiller Killer

On my first solo trip from the main heliport, my stick mate Bill Deay and I did the preflight of our assigned helicopter on its green pad. A green spot meant the chopper was certified by maintenance to fly, and it passed our combined inspections. It was a scorching hot June, and the Texas noonday sun was bearing down. The helicopter did hover—and if it hovers, it’ll fly. But it felt weak or underpowered.

I was new at this, so I discounted my gut feelings and focused on being smooth on the flight controls. As I eased the OH-23 over that first short telephone pole, guiding our way out, things went downhill fast. The problem was that I was trying to go uphill. Taking off south from the west end of the flight line at Ft. Wolters meant climbing over a steep hill right after liftoff. You had to fly over color-coded telephone poles to maintain lateral separation from the other departing aircraft until clear of the base.

By the time I reached the top of the ridgeline and the last guiding pole, I was flying around it—technically beside it, meaning I was actually below it. Running out of altitude, power, and ideas, I furtively pumped the collective, trying to regain RPM, which was bleeding off, as indicated by the danger arc on my instrument panel. The controls were getting sluggish, but the ridge line finally fell away behind me.

Altitude is your friend, but I had little power, and the helicopter wouldn’t climb. I nosed the aircraft over to regain control and airspeed. Still, FTA (fly the aircraft)—I wasn’t dead yet. Glancing down at the Post Exchange below, I aimed for a running landing on the open field to the south.

About three-quarters of the way there, I realized my glide path would slam me into high-tension power lines. Oh! Great! a full load of fuel and 50,000 volt power lines. What else could go wrong? At the last second, I executed a cyclic climb with the regained airspeed and popped the collective to jump over. I’m not sure what happened, but the engine power surged back, and it started flying like a normal helicopter.

I opted for a full-power landing at the first safe spot rather than a riskier run-on to a dirt field. That turned out to be the manicured lawn of the post headquarters—right next to the post commander’s helicopter. To my knowledge—and no one’s disputed it yet—that was the first and only precautionary landing on the lawn of post headquarters in the school’s history.

Needless to say, it caused quite a ruckus. Some major came charging out of headquarters, yelling, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? TURN THAT THING OFF!” I was more than happy to oblige, so I reached into my flight suit’s ankle pocket and pulled out my laminated shutdown checklist. Now in a complete rage, he bolted around from the left side to the right and screamed, “I SAID TURN THAT THING OFF!”—then reached in to flip the gas lever or magnetos. He reached around my legs. Before the major touched anything, and with no choking, spitting, or coughing, the engine unceremoniously quit. The magnetos were on; the gas was on, but the major’s spittle-spewing mouth was finally off. Sweet silence filled the blast furnace air, and fortunately, nothing filled my pants.

Thoughts of humping an M-16 and a rucksack in Vietnam crossed my mind as I was sure my flying career was over. After a thorough investigation, though, Southern Airways maintenance was found at fault, and I was allowed to continue. I’d learned a crucial life lesson: helicopters can kill you.

Photo from the Larry Lagasse album

It’s 5:00 AM on Sunday, and my wife tells me I was screaming so loudly in my sleep that I startled our dogs. I didn’t wake then — though I slept poorly, tossing and turning all night.

She jokes that it must’ve been the late-night pizza. But I know better.

It’s that time of year again.

Why This Week Always Returns

Every six years, the calendar lines up so that a particular date falls on Thanksgiving. And every six years, something inside me stirs — a pressure I can’t quite shake.

For those who haven’t read my original story, “My Day of Infamy and Why November’s Last Thursday Haunts Me,” you can find it here:

👉 https://josephdougan.substack.com/p/my-day-of-infamy-and-why-novembers

In short: fifty-seven years ago, on a day that should have been routine, everything went wrong.

My unit — the 187th Assault Helicopter Company — lost six men.
The Manchus of the 4th Battalion / 9th Infantry Regiment, 25^th Infantry Division lost more than thirty KIA. It remains one of the darkest days of the Vietnam War.

Those of us who survived carried home memories, wounds, and burdens that didn’t stay in Vietnam. They came with us — into our jobs, our marriages, our families, our dreams.

War is not a moment. It is a lifetime.

The Toll, Then and Now

I am seventy-nine now, eighty in October.

Because of my service, my spine is fused after too many hours in a helicopter cockpit. Another fusion is pending,

Because of Vietnam, PTSD has walked beside me for decades — some days quietly, some days not. All who have served in combat have some version — whether they admit it or not.

Because of Agent Orange, I’ve had one heart attack and twelve heart stents.

And now I live with inoperable metastatic cancer. It’s stable, for now. But it’s there and may prohibit the back fusion.

If I’m still here in six years, I’ll be one of the oldest men in my family’s history. I’m not predicting the worst — but I’m honest enough to admit the odds.

So, this year, the question hangs heavier than before, six years to go:

Will this be Last Thanksgiving?

Who Will Remember the Ones Who Never Came Home?

A harder question follows — one that matters far more than my own legacy.

After fifty-seven years, who remembers the men who never made it home to see another Thanksgiving at all?

Who remembers those who never married, never raised children, never grew old?

Who remembers those who never got to enjoy life’s simple pleasures —
peeling out in a muscle car, an exhilarating motorcycle ride down a winding road, a slow-pitch softball game, a night out bowling, a cold beer and raw oysters with friends?

My personal list has more than thirty names. The Wall has more than 58,000.

When we sit around our Thanksgiving tables — full plates, warm homes, family close by — it’s worth pausing, just for a moment, to pray and think of the young men who were never given those chances.

This Thanksgiving

If you are able, take a quiet moment.

Remember someone who never came home.
Remember the families who lost a son, brother, husband, or father.
Remember the price they paid — and the decades their loved ones continued to pay.

Because remembrance is the one gift we can still give them.

Will you remember?

Overcoming Adversity©

By

Joseph P Dougan

Revised Nov 6, 2022

I have never published this story on my SubStack.com account, though I have told it often verbally and on Facebook. This experience has touched me to the core, and it always brings tears to my eyes when I recite it. But, after fifty years, the man behind the story is finally recreating his life for himself and his family. As we age, our legacy is written; we want to ensure that the person giving the eulogy gets the story right. I think this part of his story should be included with his permission.

When trauma and tragedy strike at the same time, the details are often lost in the shock or drugs. One needs the help of others who were there, but as observers, to finish the story or help put things in order. We all have our CRS blackout periods, during which we do not remember anything. Friends or people who were there can help put things in perspective.

On November 27, 1968, the day before Thanksgiving in Vietnam, my life as well as the lives of many others were changed forever. Our unit, the 187th Assault Helicopter Company, was decimated. Six unit members were killed, and many more were wounded. There was an almost complete loss of flyable helicopters over a sixteen-hour period.

There are multiple personal stories across the Internet about our Thanksgiving mission. “Trial by Fire” by Tom Pienta, Trezona’s co-pilot being the most significant. It can be found at

https://187thahc.net/?p=946

This story details what happened to Bob much later. He received third-degree burns over more than 50% of his body. Our company commander, Major Jim Gaffney, and concerned leadership took the one remaining flyable helicopter the next day (Thanksgiving Day) to Saigon to check on Bob and his crew. Initially, we were told that Bob was in shock and, due to the severity and extensiveness of the burns, would probably not survive. He had been intubated as his throat was closing from the enormous swelling. Normally, Bob was skinny as a rail. In the hospital, he looked like a ripe black watermelon at harvest. Fortunately, Bob beat the overwhelming odds against him.

While he was recovering from multiple skin graft surgeries, he was temporarily transferred from Brooks Army Burn Center in San Antonio, TX, to Ft Wolters in Mineral Wells, TX, to allow time for more skin to grow back. It would be needed to execute further painful skin harvesting for more plastic surgery grafting. I was assigned to Ft Wolters as a flight commander for a helicopter training unit.

I was Bob’s platoon leader from the time he came to the 187th until a few weeks before his tragedy. He was the most promising pilot among a group of highly skilled pilots in my platoon, recognized as a pilot’s pilot. His roommate, Ron Timberlake (RIP), is also one of the very best, and I went through flight school together. Ron and I were close friends, and he kept me apprised of Bob’s progress from Peter-P (co-pilot) to aircraft commander. We were both convinced that Bob would eventually be the heir apparent to the Standards Instructor Pilot (SIP) for the unit.

The SIP, responsible for the continued training of our unit pilots, is more than a prestigious position. Properly assigned, it does not go to the pilot with the most hours, the pilot with the highest senior rank, or the oldest pilot. It goes to the most proficient with the skills and patience to teach.

For example, most of my peers have acknowledged me as a highly skilled pilot. I’ve been an instructor pilot and flight commander responsible for evaluating other pilots. When I get in my helicopter, the first thing I do is strap-”IN”. Every pilot has their favorite aircraft. Mine is the CH-47 Chinook. I feel like I was born in it and can make it talk. Therein lies the difference between Bob and me. When Bob gets in a helicopter, he straps his helicopter-”ON”.

Flying becomes an extension of himself; the helicopter and he are one and the same. In the language that Bob understands, it is much like the quarter horse and the cowboy. The horse really doesn’t move around by pulling the reins like I would guide the flight controls. The horse responds more to the knee pressures and weight changes from the skilled rider. Bob brings out the best with his natural skills; it challenged other pilots to walk away saying, “Damn, I wish I could fly like that.” He is the perfect representative of an SIP.

Mineral Wells was a small town with about 10,000 citizens at the time of this story. There were almost as many military permanent party and transitory military students. There was not enough military housing for everyone, so most lived in the community. Aside from the post-commissary, there was only one major grocery store, an independent one named Buddies. The store had two entrances. One was in the center of the store, to the north, and the other doors were accessed from the east end. Between the two entrances, they store the shopping carts.

One day, I entered the main door and grabbed my cart from the back of the stack. Concurrently, a tall, thin man entered from the east and was taking his cart from the front of the cart row. His gate moving to the carts was strained and favored.

This man was frighteningly grotesque. He was a sight that anyone would want to stare at, but one knows how impolite that is. They turned away as I did. But what I saw was carved into my brain: there was no nose, only a flap of skin over the dime-sized holes where the nose was supposed to be. There were no lips. The upper lip, almost nonexistent, was curled back, exposing the gums and upper teeth. It was a sad sight at best.

I looked down, avoiding eye contact, and hurriedly turned my cart down the produce aisle. I wanted to stare more. Speechless, I had nothing to offer as I raced past this Halloween figure. I was about fifteen feet beyond this Steven King image when I heard a weak, almost feeble but compelling call, “Pat!”

My knees almost collapsed from fear of what I was about to see as I turned 180 degrees. I recognized that unmistakable voice but unidentifiable body. “BOB?”

Weak-kneed, it almost felt like my heart stopped and then started surging. We both hugged, and we both cried in the middle of that produce aisle. It must have been a real sight for the oncoming customers. It made no difference to us; time stood still.

As I mentioned earlier, I have never put this story in print, although I have told it many times. I cry when I tell it, and now I cry when I type it. I relayed that story to Bob many years ago. He did not remember. Though I will never forget his explanation of why so much was lost.

Bob told me that he had gone through sixty-three surgeries to try and make him whole again. During the grafting surgery recoveries, he was on many narcotic pain medicines. He technically died during his last surgery and was revived.

Bob said that was it … “I resigned myself to the fact that I would always be ugly.” And he got on with his life. Always one to strive for perfection, he is recognized as one of the best saddle makers in the nation. His trophy hand-tooled leather seats are on some of the finest horses in the world. He told me that his custom saddles were in such demand that his backlog of orders was almost three years out.

Bob sent me this picture from a feature article in a local newspaper.

I spent two years flying in Vietnam, accumulating almost 2,000 hours of combat time. I have never had a close encounter with death or tragedy. My emergencies always ended without complications; some were borderline miraculous. I have always wondered why. Some call that doubt survivor’s guilt.

I have no satisfactory answer. God is in control. I think I have a knack for writing and feel compelled to tell the stories of those that I do know who have persevered despite their setbacks. Their accomplishments in life need to be highlighted. For all of their misunderstood peccadilloes in life, they should never (nor we) forget where these “Bobs” have been and how far they have come – and how lucky we are to have known and befriended such people.

Six of the 187th AHC did not return that day, plus twenty-seven from the Manchu’s; those men did not get the opportunity to go on with their lives, create families, build businesses, or become pillars in their communities. Fortunately, there are positive examples from Vietnam survivors like Bob Trezona who have put the tragedy and setbacks of war behind them. They are living examples for others to follow of overcoming diversity .

………………………..

PS: Bob died unexpectedly in 2019 from undiagnosed cancer.

Thank you for inviting me to the NT40 mixer last Friday and the forum on Saturday. As a charter member of NT40, I enjoyed meeting current members and exchanging ideas, though I couldn’t stay for the afternoon session. I’m the “old guy” who parked himself in the corner—too creaky to schmooze like I used to! I’m writing to share observations from my time at the events and offer thoughts on NT40’s future, drawing from its roots when it was founded at North Texas State University.

First, a note on visibility. I mentioned subscribing to the NT40 Facebook page, only to learn it’s dormant because younger folks prefer Instagram. Fair enough—I’m catching up! But if NT40 aims to engage older alumni, who are prime supporters for initiatives like the proposed scholarship, consider meeting us where we are. A mix of platforms (Facebook, email, or even print newsletters) could bridge the gap.

I was intrigued to hear that students now lead the selection process for next year’s NT40 members. When I was appointed, the President’s office handpicked forty leaders from a student body of 17,000. It was a prestigious role: we were ambassadors tasked with championing UNT’s story. At the mixer, I noticed members mostly mingling among themselves rather than engaging alumni or guests. This made me wonder: Does NT40 still carry that ambassadorial prestige? Is the administration actively involved? Without that backing, NT40 risks becoming just another social club.

I’m also concerned about NT40’s visibility on campus. My two grandsons, current UNT students (find them on Instagram: innocent_blessing01 and semere.20), hadn’t heard of NT40. They’re from refugee camps in Rwanda and Eritrea—not your typical students, much like I wasn’t. NT40 should reflect UNT’s diverse student body and be selected for leadership, not popularity. What’s being done to promote NT40 to all students? Why should someone commit to this role? Clear answers could inspire more applicants.

For a glimpse into my NT40 experience, I’ve shared a story on my Substack (https://josephdougan.substack.com/p/timing-is-everything-8a6). It’s not polished—I’m no professional writer—but it’s a repository of life lessons for my daughters, who once wondered why I was such an “ogre.” The stories are free, no subscription needed.

I don’t mean to rant. NT40, with strong administrative support, is a launchpad for your future. It’s not about what UNT can do for you but the agape commitment you make as ambassadors. The connections you forge with alumni, guests, and peers are investments in your career. Use them wisely.

I’d love to hear your thoughts or discuss how NT40 can reclaim its ambassadorial spark. Wishing you all long, successful careers.

Sincerely,
Pat Dougan
NT40 Charter Member

I wrote the following in January 2014. If it is true that it takes a year for the side effects of statins to manifest themselves, then it will take that long to recover. That being the case, I still have more time to go, but the progress so far has been almost miraculous.

The following is not medical advice. I am not a physician or medical practitioner. It only represents my medical history, presented factually as possible.. What worked for me is not a guarantee that it will work for you.

Without exaggeration, I am a highly opinionated Type-A personality and will waste my lifetime to prove a point. In the case of the statin-heart-health-cholesterol controversy, you can add to that Pissed-Off. There is incompetence and neglect from physicians who refuse to follow their oath. Whatever happened to “do no harm”? Evidence-based medicine is a joke. Follow the money trail to get the facts.

If you report to your physician complaining that you think your medications are causing side effects, especially if they are statin medications, your ideas will be dismissed. Anything you have read that might validate your opinion will be disregarded or written off as anecdotal and irrelevant. Who are you to question your doctor?

To ensure you receive proper medical treatment, you must decide to take a personal interest in your health. I decided to do this a few years ago when I realized that my doctors were not giving me answers based on irrefutable facts. Only review the Covid treatment plan BS to see how incompetent and irrelevant the medical community has become. Physicians have ceased to be doctors/scientists. They have become prescribers guided by their insurance payments, co-pays, and government mandates. These highly intelligent individuals have surrendered their ability to think, and act based on the false premise that they are practicing evidence-based medicine. “Evidence” is apparently fungible, ensuring their personal income.

The data are available regarding statin drugs, but you must be willing to search for the facts. Your doctors will only give you the information they have – given to them by the pharmaceutical companies (unquestioned and blindly followed).

The following article is anecdotal, but they are my anecdotes and factual, not something I heard from a third party. It represents what happened to me since eliminating statins and their side effects from my life. I update it every few years … this is my twelfth year after I stopped taking statins.

I could republish the original report because nothing significant has changed. I will be 79 in October. Any adverse medical condition that I currently have cannot be attributed to the use or non-use of a statin.

Though I have inoperable metastatic cancer and CVD, I am still active and exercise extensively three or more days a week. More than twelve years ago, people thought I was crazy to defy the medical profession and quit taking statins. The “absolute” statistics on statins were available then but ignored. Physicians chose to use the “relative” statistics provided by the pharmaceutical industry; at best, this is a marketing ploy. I have yet to see absolute statistics proving any statin's efficacy.

Pat Dougan

Plano, TX

April 16, 2025

Preface:

It is incumbent on any scientist, which includes physicians, to challenge the theories. The more a hypothesis is challenged and survives the test of scrutiny, the greater the argument's reliability. Science is not a democracy, nor can it be if it is to maintain credibility.

Once a hypothesis is statistically disproven … if only one time … the theory is no longer arguable. You cannot vote a theory into validity. Any scientist (physician) who subscribes to a proponent’s opinion is no longer a scientist but a pawn in another’s unproven agenda [pharmaceutical company]; they no longer have credibility in my book.

The statin-heart-health-cholesterol theory has been statistically proven, hundreds if not thousands of times, to be invalid; read the abstracts at www.pubmed.gov; order the printouts, buy, and read the books for yourself as I did. It is where I compiled the data to accumulate the 50 Facts on Statins, Cholesterol, and Heart Health

https://josephdougan.substack.com/p/7fad4d3f-7674-4b1c-8f9d-5d95aba943cd

PhD. Chemist Ancel Keys, Professor Emeritus at the University of Minnesota, 1997 who was the originator of the cholesterol hypothesis (debunked by his use of selective data), has since explicitly stated, “There is no connection whatsoever between cholesterol in food and cholesterol in blood. And we’ve known that all along. Cholesterol in the diet doesn’t matter at all unless you happen to be a chicken or a rabbit.”

So, why are statins still being prescribed and diets restricted?

Background:

I have been disabled and unable to work since 1999. How much of my disability can be linked to legally prescribed prescription drugs? I will make a case that I effectively lost my quality of life and income at the peak of my earning career from prescription drugs. It started with statins.

Additionally, it is important to note that while on statins, my total cholesterol (TC) was in the 110 -120 range for many years. While admitted to a VA hospital in 2004, the staff dietician informed me confidentially, “Look, I shouldn’t be saying this because I am not a doctor, but your cholesterol is too low.” When bringing this issue to the resident physician in charge of my treatment program, he did not agree. Total cholesterol was the defacto evidence-based standard, and I must comply. I followed the advice of the physician instead of someone trained in nutrition.

It has now been shown that low cholesterol is inversely proportional to an increased risk of heart disease. My heart attack came in 2005.

Science dictates that "Correlation is not causation.” But how many anecdotes equal one fact? Scientifically, None.

How long does one have to go to prove there is no placebo effect i.e., it’s-all-in-my-head, become fact? Scientifically, never.

However, I am not a scientist; I do not have to prove anything. I am driven by common sense and the ability to link facts and occurrences. I know how to delete obvious bias and fiction from my personal equations.

It is now more than twelve years since I started my personal patient medical advocacy. Twelve years later, my facts have not changed; to date, nothing scientific has proven that statins work.

My Empirical Facts:

I was motivated to discontinue statins from watching a couple of independent health documentaries. February 2014 ended one year since I quit taking statins. Here are my personal results.

What has changed in one year? [this data is still current in April 2025]

1. In November 2012 I weighed 227 lbs. (heaviest ever); now I am 182 lbs. My weight has remained constant +/- five pounds for more than twelve years.

2. I have not taken an anti-depressant since April 2013, nor have I wanted to [I had been on as many as three different anti-depressant prescriptions daily during the previous ten years]

3. My EKGs and stress test are normal, minus the minor damage from the heart attack in 2005 that statins were to prevent. The last statement was through March 2025. However, I was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation in 2015. AFIB is another often-reported side effect of statin treatment.

4. Three months after discontinuing statins I was beginning to feel better physically. I started playing competitive racquetball two to three days a week. Physically active all my life, I had been sedentary for the previous four years. I had no desire to get out of my recliner. This aerobic rejuvenation was in 2013, and I have maintained my physical regimen ever since. I exercise three days a week, and my recent echo cardiogram shows my heart ejection fraction in the mid-sixties.

5. Lost sexual functions, another reported side-effect while on statins have returned to normal, albeit age-related libido for someone seventy-eight.

6. I have discontinued all medications except blood pressure or the AFIB-related blood thinners. Twelve years ago, I was on a pain management prescription for a twice-daily dose of time-released morphine. I had been taking it for nerve pain from a lower back fusion in 2000. My muscle and nerve pain have almost disappeared. One of the largest single reported side effects of statins is muscle damage. The heart is the most significant muscle in the body. Where is the common sense in their thinking? Why do doctors think that statins are selective and only affect the muscles that we can feel?

7. I have an active hydrocodone Rx for nerve pain. I have not taken hydrocodone since 2013.

8. As long as I play and continue my exercise program, (“motion is lotion”), I don't have a severe insomnia problem. [I do have PTSD which prevents it from going away completely]

9. Memory ..! Sometimes, I think I could go out for the debate team again; active cognitive thought is back. I now spend my time as an amateur author authoring historical essays on my time as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. My physician stated she would not consider giving me a cognitive test because she was amazed at the extensive details in my stories.

10. The endocrinologist was flummoxed when I saw him last; he cannot understand why there is improvement in my bone structure after years of osteoporosis deterioration. However, being a dutiful doctor bound by their baseless standards of practice, I was severely chastised for quitting statins, though neither he nor his PA could explain why all my lab results that day were normal. My last bone exam was in April 2016. I am no longer considered to have osteoporosis nor osteopenia. However, it should be mentioned that I do a minor weight-based upper body workout on the opposite days of playing racquetball.

What do statins interfere with? They affect the adrenal glands, which affect testosterone, which one must have to maintain bones. Note too, that if one researches statins, their negative effects on the adrenal glands and how the adrenals affect other areas of the body is a common theme.

11. There are various anomalous changes that cannot be linked or explained.

My fingernails are so hard now, I could use them to carve diamonds. I use toenail clippers on my fingernails. How much can it be attributed to no statins? I don't know, but the positive changes happened after eliminating statins. Though there have been no further infarctions since 2005, I have had additional heart stents added after two angioplasties. There are a total of twelve stents; six were administered in two procedures in 2021. The irony was that the stress test and echo cardiogram were normal. An angioplasty was ordered which revealed a 95% blockage in the LAD and circumflex; four stents were applied. Restenosis required three more later.

12. Due to metastatic cancer, CAT Scans are completed twice a year. I get a complete blood analysis three to four times a year. My diet keeps my TC stable around 210. Triglycerides are under 100 and HDL is in the high 60’s. At my age, there is a statistically greater probability of total all-cause mortality if the cholesterol was lower.

ADDENDUM:

Unresolved issues/comments for my doctors:

The side effects of statins are not immediately apparent. Reports indicate that this often takes months or years to manifest (and just as long to recover.) By the time one starts feeling the side effects from statins, it is so removed from the onset of taking the original prescription that the patient and the doctors fail to make the connection.

I reluctantly agreed to be placed on a statin in the late 90’s after they lowered cholesterol requirements from 250 to 200. My Dr. (my friend, my former flight surgeon, and my roommate from Vietnam) wanted to protect me from potential heart attacks or coronary artery disease. He knew that I am a Type-A working in a high-stress environment and often can emotionally drive my BP leptokurtic to unacceptable levels.

Importantly, and with no angst, my doctor was prescribing what was in my best interest (at the time) with the information he had available. Unfortunately, that information came from the drug companies and those “influenced” by the drug companies.

I had no predisposition or family history of heart disease. I had taken a military flight physical every year since 1966, which always included an EKG. All were normal. I was diagnosed with high blood pressure in 1972 and have taken various BP meds continuously since.

18 to 24 months after starting statins, my internist discovered the first blip on the statin EKG radar. I was lucky. I had my “statin-prevented heart attack” (five stents in tandem in the right coronary artery) on the Emergency Room table in March of 2005. I was in the operating room mere minutes after recognizing my symptoms and had minimal, if any, heart damage.

I have PTSD from piloting helicopters for two years in Vietnam. Eventually, I started going to the VA hospital for PTSD treatment. At one time, I was on three different anti-depressant drugs daily, along with routine psychiatric and group therapy.

After reading the multitude of books on statin drugs and how they affect so many other things in the body, one correlation kept sticking out. Statins affect the adrenal glands in many insidious and under reported ways. Statins lower the natural hormone levels from the adrenal glands e.g., norepinephrine (noradrenaline), epinephrine (adrenalin), and cortisol levels in the brain.

For almost 30 years prior to taking statins, I did not have a PTSD problem. Prior to statins, were my natural level of hormones allowing me to deal with potential PTSD issues? Were the statins impeding the adrenal glands the real reason that I quit coping? Did the reduction of my natural level of hormones cause my inability to deal with current stressors?

There is certainly correlating evidence that the depletion in the brain of norepinephrine and ephedrine should be considered as a potential cause for my susceptibility toward PTSD. If not, why not? And, if so, why don’t VA psychiatrists consider the veteran’s entire drug history prior to making their assessments and prescription recommendations?

As I stated in the early comments, I am no longer on any anti-depressants or in any form of therapy. Why is that? Why did I end up on them at all? And why did I get PTSD after thirty uneventful years? Why am I now able to live normally with PTSD without medication?

Conclusion:

My personal experience and research versus the advice I have been getting from multiple physicians have caused me to reevaluate the utmost respect I have for their medical opinions. One should never have to question the advice of their doctor. Now, however, I question everything and trust no one in the medical community without some form of confirming information.

Common sense makes more sense than all the non-evidence-based theories and unproven hypotheses.

Follow up:

I wrote the above and the 50-Facts About Cholesterol for my internist. Having been trained years ago by some fine engineers, they taught me that coincidences fade over time; facts will remain facts. My facts have stood the test of time for over twelve years.

I am going into my thirteenth-year sans statins. What has changed? NOTHING, except I am now in the best health that I can remember. At 78, I still play racquetball and work out three days a week.

The sad result, however, is I have lost confidence in expecting most physicians to stay current on medical facts and their unwillingness to listen to their patients. Their medical information seems to come from the cute drug reps bringing lunch to their staff. Regardless, doctors are not allowed to have an outspoken personal medical opinion that differs from the big-pharma influencing the AMA.

What values are evidence-based and standards of practice when evidence is the least used factorial? Drug sales and medical edicts are made based on “relative risk” reductions i.e., data manipulation, rather than statistically sound absolute risks.

As a patient, you are not allowed to have a medical opinion regardless of any evidence you might know. The physicians have a common retort, “You can’t believe everything you read on the Internet.” -- even if it comes from www.pubmed.gov ?

At 78, I know I am slowing down. I can feel it. My family history is not one of an extended life. But, I know I would have died already if I had stayed on statins. They had caused a lack of will to live. Discounting my metastatic cancer and heart stents, I’ve had more than twelve years of a normal life that I was not experiencing while on statins. No doctor who has never experienced suicidal ideation or the known debilitating side effects from statins will ever convince me otherwise.

You have a right to question your medical treatment until you are satisfied with the answers. Your doctors have an obligation to listen and explain in the language you understand.

If you like my historical narratives, please pass on my link to others. And, let me know how I am doing.

For those who have been around since I started writing my stories, this will be old news (old stories). I started writing and posting to my stories to my Facebook page a few years ago. My daughter encouraged me to write more. It started with a six-part series that I called The Early Years. Those stories for those who started following me later are on my Substack site. However, they were written pre-Grammarly.

I’ve gone back in and made some rewrite updates to the series i.e., cleaned them up a little, and reposted them.

They were the basis for my signature piece ‘Toon Daddy.

I think you will enjoy them.

By

Joseph P Dougan

Revised: 03/04/2025

My 67 Chevelle SS-396

I was in a group email discussion that got into our choice of muscle cars. Of course, in the 60’s, power cars were “the” thing. As a high school senior, my dad bought me my first car. More specifically, he signed for the car, and I paid for it. It was a new 1964 225cc Dodge Dart slant six with three on the column. -- not exactly the muscle car I had in mind. If you don’t understand that terminology, this post may not be for you.

Dad was a died-in-the-wool Chrysler devotee and refused to buy anything “Kool” nor would he ever buy a used car – “you are just buying someone else’s problem.” In a post WWII/Korea that was a frequent problem. Dodge Darts were not exactly Dodge Charger sexy, but I took what I got and tried to make improvements on it by adding a glass-pack muffler, bla bla bla, or anything a kid thought would make his car go faster.

I did pretty well. My biggest claim to fame was defeating my rocket science friend and neighbor’s 327 Chevy at the strip, an embarrassment that still is stuck in his craw today. I omitted his name (Tom) to save him any further embarrassment. However, he bested me as he now has a completely restored 69 SS-396 Camaro -- So Sweet!

The Dart was not the stud mobile that would attract many women, but my girlfriend and I spent a lot of time in it having a great time (in her parents’ driveway.) Things were much different back then. A car presented freedom to a teen, but it also represented a loss of the carefree innocence of childhood. The world was changing exponentially, and reality was raising its ugly head.

Unfortunately, I was not as studious as I should have been to avoid the Vietnam draft. I was a hot-shit news announcer and disk jockey at KOKO – one of the Kokonuts -- in a small town fifty miles east of KCMO. Cracking the books was never on my agenda. At night, when the FCC required radio stations to change power and radio antenna directions, I was the only reliable static-free pop station one could get in a college town. Going into the Student Union for breakfast or lunch was an ego trip. Once recognized, kids from all corners would come up to talk. I was beginning to think I was more popular than John Wayne [and if you don’t know who he is, this narrative is definitely before your time]. I was the only one you could hear interference-free at night. As the dorms were starting to load back up from the curfew restrictions -- freshman at 9:00, sophomores at 10:00, and juniors at 11:00. I’d bark out something like, “Aw, the girls in Todd Hall think the girls in Nickerson are … “ whatever it would take to get the request line ringing.

Recognizing my ego needed a severe attitude reduction, Uncle Sugar came knocking via the selective service board. A drastic change of life was in store for me. As covered before in an earlier story, the Army’s Mean Green Maturity School was going to change my education and life forever.

When I entered Signal Corp Officer Candidate School in Ft Gordon, Ga., I was the youngest guy in the class. Most of the class were in their 20’s and college graduates. Being that it was the Signal Corps, many of their degrees were in electrical engineering. The few of us who were younger, and college dropouts were already seriously behind the curve. I was nineteen with a year and a half of college and failing grades. Still, I persevered. The TAC Officers (training officers) were picking on the older out-of-shape personnel. It is hard to be out of shape at 19, so the only thing they were doing to me, though grueling, was building me into a lean-green-fighting machine. I adapted.

Everyone in the platoon was assigned some superfluous activity for which we were held responsible. I was appointed the “Mess Officer” and was responsible for supervising the food operation and working with the mess sergeant in charge and his cooks. I made friends with one of the enlisted cooks supporting our unit. He had a black ‘58 348 Chevy with a white rolled and pleated interior. It was immaculate. He was fastidious and this car always shined. He received his orders to Vietnam and needed to sell his car. Remembering my dad’s philosophy on buying used cars, I wanted the car but was reluctant, especially knowing the crap I would hear from my father. But how could one turn down a certifiably cool car that only cost $500? I did all the right things. I took it to a mechanic that went over it with a fine-tooth comb and pronounced it a good buy. The cook gave me two months to pay it off, which cinched the deal.

Having a car opened another opportunity for freedom in the OCS environment that the others did not have. OCS was a place where they take away your inalienable rights for six months and pass them back as privileges.

Somewhere in the OCS maturation process, I broke the code and started figuring things out to keep ahead of the game. My game changer was buying this car. Only a couple of guys in the unit had automobiles, but most were in use by their wives who were living in apartment complexes off the post. This car afforded me an extra amount of leeway which the captive candidates didn’t have access to.

We had to change our uniforms sometimes as much as three times a day. Consequently, having a constantly prepared set of starched fatigues was critical. Demerits kept the married guys away from their anxious wives. Our freedom to come and go as we pleased was eliminated for six months.

The new car allowed me to became the platoon laundry officer. I made arrangements with a local laundry, to clean and starch our fatigues. This included fixing the rips and tears and broken buttons. Having an unkempt uniform would constitute receiving demerits which would keep one confined on the weekends. I would load up the trunk and back seat with the platoon’s dirty clothes and drive into town to drop them off and pick up the clean starched uniforms. In the city and out of the ever-watchful eyes of the TAC officers, after dropping off the laundry, I would slip by the local McDonalds and pick up our platoon order of forbidden food — “poggy bait.” By prearranging my visit, they would be waiting at the back door with 130++ cheeseburgers or hamburgers, at least as many large fries. If I did not order specific drinks, which screwed up their normal restaurant process, they would throw in many gallons of freebee-gratis orange-drink. All I had to do was sneak the poggy bait into the unit without our TAC officers knowing. Sometimes, I was not always successful.

Notice from the pics that this display is in the latrine. On this “bust,” the TAC officer, Lt. Drolick, directed the entire platoon to collect their “poggy-bait” (contraband food) and enter the shower area en masse to eat. Of course, all showers had been turned on to full force.

The real joke was on them (TAC officers), however. The amount of wet food flushed into the drainage pipes and clogged the sewage system for the entire row of barracks on our block. Multiple buildings had backed up showers and latrines. This required the post engineers to come out and auger many feet of plumbing lines. No one in the company area was happy the next morning. Our platoon, however, paid the physical abuse price after the TAC officer’s ass-chewing by the company commander (and his by the battalion commander).

Yeah, I am finally getting around to making this short car story even longer.

Christmas break was coming, and I needed to get home to see my sweetie and propose. The only thing the car really needed would be a new set of tires. The vacation break was a month and a half away. Buying the car wiped out my finances. I didn’t have enough money for the tires, but five other guys along my route needed a ride to get home too. They all chipped in their share of the costs early, allowing me to get the new shoes.

The first weekend that I was allowed to drive the car off the post for my personal freedom time, a seal in the hydraulic transmission broke sucking all the transmission fluid out through the engine manifold. This left a smoke trail out of the ass-end much like the smoke ship in a former story. When it sucked enough fluid out of the transmission, the car would lock into low gear until I added another couple of quarts of transmission fluid to start the process all over. Consequently, there was another major repair bill.

We were toward the end of our six months of training and entering senior class status, which means increased off-post privileges. One of the guys was from Thomasville, GA. He needed a ride down to get his car and come back to Augusta, GA. It was a Sunday, and I drove him down. It was 250 miles away. On the way back, my generator died somewhere in the middle of BFE, GA. This is the ultra-deep south in 1966, and no one works on Sunday – NO One!

I was operating on the battery, and it was not going to make it back to Augusta. The town that I was stuck in could not have had more than a few hundred people, but somehow, I got directed to an auto and parts shop where the owner lived in a house at the rear of the store. There was a chain winch hanging off the arm of a large oak tree. The movie Deliverance hadn’t been made yet, but that is where I was. The kid with the banjo was taking a nap.

After begging and pleading, the owner agreed to swap my generator for a rebuilt one in his shop. The problem was it was Sunday, and he would not do it until Monday. After further pleading discussions, he agreed to let me use his tools. So, in my Class A’s (dress uniform) I stripped down and did the swap-out myself while he sat on the front porch drinking his sweet tea. Within a few minutes of being officially late for signing back in, I hobbled into the company parking lot.

Hobbled? Ya, the engine was jerking around and not sounding normal. I didn’t know what was wrong, but I knew it wasn’t good.

The following free time that I was allowed off the fort, I took it back to the shop that certified it before purchase. I had a burned valve and another significant repair cost. I did not have enough for the tires, and I sure did not have the money to fix the valves. There was also no way in hell that I was going to ask my dad for a loan; he’d be good for it, but I’d never live it down. I had already taken the cross-country deposits and bought the new tires, so we are going home come hell or high water. Break out the rosaries; I only need a thousand miles.

After dropping everyone off on our route, another buddy from Kansas City and I drove the last two hundred exasperating miles from St Louis to KC in fog so thick that it looked more like we were driving through the inside of a ping-pong ball. With the engine sputtering, lurching, and gasping, I limped into the family driveway at about 2:00 AM and parked under my dad’s open bedroom window. I went to my bedroom frazzled, exhausted, and crashed.

When I came down in the morning for breakfast, my dad, who never shared any unnecessary words, didn’t welcome me with any of the hi-how-are-ya’s, glad-to-see-ya’s, how-are-you-doing. It was, “Do you really think that car is going to get you back?”

The search for a NEW car began. I had just turned twenty, which was still too young in KC to sign a contract, so I was going to need a co-signer. As a senior candidate or commissioned officer in Augusta, I could have signed a note for a Rolls-Royce without question nor did I need a co-signer. “An officer’s word was a bond.” KC wasn’t a military town. Nor was this a Rolls purchase; I was stuck looking for a Dodge or Plymouth because that is all I knew my dad would sign for. Chrysler products were more expensive than the Chevelle that I really wanted. Just give me a 327, with a four-speed on the floor, a bench seat, and I would be happy.

I could not find a Chrysler product that I liked or could afford. Without saying anything to my dad, I stopped at a Chevy dealer near the house and struck a relationship with a salesman. He had a car exactly what I wanted, and I drove it. Yes, this is the one, and at a price, I could almost afford. The problem still … it was a Chevy.

1966 was a down year for car sales everywhere. Before I took the car that I wanted to show my dad and grovel for his approval, the salesman asked if I was sure that was the one I really wanted – you know, being a potential helicopter pilot and all. He wanted me to look at one other. He rolled out a decked-out white 67 Chevelle SS-396 with a four on the floor still in its protective wrap and wax.

NO! I can’t afford that, nor would my dad ever consider signing for it.

The salesman convinced me to go take it for a drive and then take my dad for a drive. Bring it back tomorrow. Jeez, it was amazing. I took it home and begged my dad to go for a ride. “But this is the one ‘I’ want. Just come with me to check it out. Otherwise, I’ll wait until I get back to Georgia.”

KC recently opened the dual lane HW-71 south of town. It was late at night, and I drove up and down a length of it looking for cops. None were sighted. As I got on the access road in 1st gear and burned the rubber; it was quite throaty and impressive. I snapped dad’s neck into the back seat – no headrests in those days. When the tires squealed rubber going into second and third gear, even he had a Cheshire Grin on his face. Close the deal! $2300.00!

On the way back to Georgia I stopped in Norman, Ok to see the future Mrs. Dougan. By then, it was time for the 500-mile initial oil change. Her brother was working as a mechanic at a local filling station and performed the service. Occasionally, on the way back to Ft. Gordon, the car exhibited similar knocking to the 58 Chevy, but then it would go away. This went on for weeks and for months after I was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant.

I was assigned as a Tactical Officer responsible for my platoon of OCS trainees – a professional harasser. The platoon eventually gave me a sweatshirt with “Swamp Fox” embossed on it. It seems like every time that I had come back from the dealership with an un-fixed car, I’d take them on a five-mile run through the Georgia swamps.

Remember, most of these guys were college graduates; by definition, they were much smarter than the wet-behind-the-ears twenty-year-old 2nd Lieutenant. One day after one of our endurance runs, two of them came to my office. Both were certified i.e., passed-the-bar lawyers. They had a question. It seems like every time I had come back from the one and only Chevy dealership in Augusta, I would take them on one of my grueling fun runs. “Was there something wrong?” I explained that the car had been into the shop thirteen times in thirteen weeks, and it still didn’t work.

They suggested that I allow them to write a certified letter to the president of General Motors, which they did. Knowing full well that the president would not read it, they explained that it would get passed down to someone who could act. Additionally, copies went to the president of the dealership, the Better Business Bureau, the Augusta Chamber of Commerce, and the Post Staff Judge Advocate. Appropriately signed: Cherry & Reynolds Attorneys at Law. I still have the two-page single-spaced carbon copy citing the discrepancies.

Two days later and long before GM would have received their original, I got a call from the service manager at the local dealership. “When can you come back so we can fix your car?

After I explained that I was already in trouble from taking so much time off to get this problem fixed, they offered to drive out to give me a Chevy Caprice loaner until they could fix the problem. The service manager and general manager were at my office about forty-five minutes later.

After three or four days, I had not heard from them, and I did not like driving the Chevy Ark, so I drove down to see what was going on. The service manager took me to the garage to show me my car. They had finally found the problem. When I got to the service bay, my car engine – pistons there, crankshaft over here, springs and valves neatly sorted on the shop cloths. The engine was disassembled and was awaiting a rebuild.

This was in the days of bolt-on oil filters, and my future brother-in-law had cross-threaded the bolt holding the oil filter. It broke off metal fragments into the oil pan. As the bumps of driving stirred them up, they would get stuck in the hydraulic lifters, denying the valves the proper pressure. The engine was still being lubricated, but there was not enough pressure to keep the valves from slapping or some mumbo-jumbo explanation to that effect. Hell … I am just a helicopter pilot. I just fly ‘em and break ‘em. Someone else must fix ‘em.

I do not know what they did when they put that engine back together, but it was NOT the same engine configuration as the original. The Chevelle was almost uncontrollable. Trying to ease off the clutch without leaving tire noise and a trace of rubber became a fine art.

When I was a disk jockey, my roommate was going through the Missouri Highway Patrol Academy. When I came back for one final vacation before flight school, I told him this story. A fellow patrolman timed us on HW-50 by Warrensburg, doing over 130+ mph in a flying mile with the trooper at the wheel.

There was a reason that the underlying white concrete leaving Ft. Wolters towards Mineral Wells, TX, from the flight school entrance looked like an asphalt road. The testosterone-driven sign of burned rubber is left from every SS-396, Corvette, Roadrunner, Charger, and GTO leaving their manly marks – like dogs peeing on a tree.

I do not ever remember losing any race in that car, though it was only the 325hp version. No SS-396 350hp ever defeated me. My brother-in-law bought a ‘68 GTO, and it never could keep up. In fact, the first race (three times) on that stretch between Lexington and Norman, OK, was his pathetic loss measured by many car lengths.

Though he didn’t know how to bolt on oil filters, he actually was a good mechanic. Unfortunately, this started him on a losing financial quest to win. Over the next couple of years and after his many iterations of engine modification, he added a Holley AFB, Hooker Headers, ¾ cam, etc., the closest he ever came was just behind my rear bumper.

I Loved That Car.

If you like my historical narratives, please pass on my link to others. And, let me know how I am doing.

By

Joseph P Dougan

Revised: 03/04/2025

Winning Their Hearts and Minds

I saw pic on Facebook that prompted another early Vietnam memory. It concerns the Wop-Wop-Wop, the unique and famous sound that the Huey rotor system makes during certain parts of its flight. This occurs when applying power, which changes the pitch of the blades “biting” more air, and the retreating blade ... never mind! -- it just makes a super-KOOL sound. It is an adrenalin rush. From the ground, it is loud and very distinctive. It is a sound that no one who served in Vietnam will ever forget. All helicopters make a similar sound, but if you were a ground-pounder (infantry walking in the rice paddies), the Huey’s was an unmistakable sound that meant you were getting out of there.

Early on in my Vietnam career, the aircraft commander (AC) had to teach us the techniques of combat flying. It is easy to fly from point A to B at 2500’ but flying and navigating sixty miles at three feet was definitely more fun. To get around the jets landing or taking off at Ton Son Nhut Air Force Base, we had to fly low level (3 feet above the ground) as the jets would scream above.

There were two weather seasons in the lower half of Vietnam (III and IV Corps) – hot and wet or hot and dry. In the northern half (I and II Corp) the weather was mildew and miserably cold or just mildew in short sleeves.

It was hot and dry when I first got into III Corps. Towards the end of the dry season is when the rice farmers start plowing their fields for the upcoming rice-growing period. They were not using Massey-Ferguson’s or John Deer tractors. They were using two oxen pulling a single plow – just like your great-great-grandpa did in the 1800’s. It was tedious and tiring, I am sure. But when you are only 18-22 years old and flying helicopters like you owned the world, the meaning of servile labor never entered one’s immature mind.

Crossing the active runway low-level at Ton Son Nhut AFB on the south end was a flight path that would take one either over or between two large trees. Anyone could fly over them, but the real adrenalin rush was to fly about 100 knots up to them at three feet off the ground; at the last second cock the aircraft almost 90 degrees so the rotors missed the trees and flew sideways through the opening.

My AC let me make my attempt, and it was exhilarating. We turned around, and I did it again. Yeah! You just had to be there!

Continuing down south of Saigon while still low-level, I had an adrenalin blast. I was jumping rice dikes, palm trees, pineapple rows, etc., and then I saw a target of opportunity off to my right. It was a farmer with his two sloth-moving (sic) oxen plowing his field.

I peeled off and climbed high to the right to get behind them. Lining up to their rear, I lowered the pitch to start a high-speed powered-off dive (very quiet) as I descended to a few feet off the ground. Stopping my dive, I pulled in the pitch (power). This is when the Huey maximizes the Wop-Wop-Wop – and it did! reverberating off the dry ground.

What I didn’t know at the time, and seeing him that far in the distance, was that the farmer had the plow reins over his neck and under his arms. He was locked into the plow. This, as he soon found out, was not a good position to be in. When the explosion of the blade popping started, those oxen took off like John Wayne on a runaway stagecoach. They were digging a single furrow heading straight to Hanoi. The last I saw of the dangling farmer, he was flowing like a flag flying off a ship’s fantail.

Sorry, buddy. I didn’t know, but I can’t help it; I still laugh.

Yes, I am a sick son-of-bitch.

If you like my historical narratives, please pass on my link to others. And, let me know how I am doing.

By

Joseph P Dougan

Revised: 03/03/2025

In 2014 I was both honored and humbled by being asked to make a dedication speech for one of the 187th Assault Helicopter Company’s former aircraft. A Huey was permanently mounted outside of an Army Reserve base in Ft. Worth. [the speech can be found on my YouTube page]

In the fifty years since the Vietnam war, I have found virtually no one that wasn’t proud of their service or would not do it again even though most levels of leadership did not know what they were dealing with. This effectively became an OJT (on-the-job training.) Let me explain my thought process. In the end, I will tie it all up with one of the funniest stories of my first tour.

All of us had been trained at the various training facilities around the country, infantry training at Ft. Benning, Armor at Ft Knox, Artillery at Ft. Sill. The Navy and Marines had theirs too, but most of what was being taught was oriented toward a conventional war. Additionally, since Korea, the US had not been involved in a traditional war. Consequently, the combat-experienced soldiers and leaders were all virtually gone. Most everyone now was from “book trained” combat units.

In WWI, WWII, and Korea, lines of combat were prominently designed with the Cowboys on one side of the line and Indians (feathers, not dots) 😊 on the other side. Cross the line into Indian country, and you were in trouble.

Vietnam was nothing close to being conventional until the very end. Some called it a guerrilla war. No matter where you were in Vietnam, once you left the security of the fire base, airfield, or even places within Saigon, you were in Indian country. Some were friendly, and some were not. There was no way to know who the enemy was until they pointed a weapon at you.

Regardless of what it was named, this war was different. The US was executing the operation with procedures and equipment that had never been tried. We were at the forefront of a modern style of combat.

In my dedication speech, I pointed out a couple of similarities from previous wars for individuals and styles at the forefront of their conflicts and how they changed things for the future.

What is being at the forefront?

In World War I, it was the biplane and the legend of the Red Baron. … aerial warfare began.

General Billy Mitchell’s dive bombers blew a ship out of the water and suddenly we had aircraft carriers. Naval warfare has never been the same.

Then, at the beginning of World War II, Winston Churchill gave his ever-famous speech to the House of Commons .. “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”

A tribute to the Spitfires and the pilots and crews in the Royal Air Force.

The Huey helicopter and crews are the Sopwith Camel, the dive bomber, or the Spitfire of my generation. Modern combat has never been the same.

One only must look back on how the helicopter devastated the elite Republican Guard of Iraq during the first couple of days of the Gulf War liberating Kuwait to see how helicopter warfare has evolved.

In Vietnam, every day was a learning experience or trying something new. There was no book to follow, though many senior infantry officers thought they already knew how. Those who came in willing to learn usually became great commanders.

In the rice paddy regions in southern Vietnam, a typical day would start with the AMC (air mission commander) flying his C&C (Command and Control) aircraft to the infantry fire base for a briefing from the infantry battalion commander. The infantry commander would brief the AMC on the particulars, e.g., where the Hueys would pick up his troops, and the general grid coordinates of where the troops would be inserted into an LZ.

Maps can show a lot, but an actual reconnaissance is necessary to pick an adequate landing zone. The AMC ferrying the infantry Battalion Commander (Bn Cmdr) and staff would take off to research a potential landing zone.

Here is where the conflicts could start. Most infantry Bn Cmdr’s were Lieutenant Colonels. Remember, the top-down leadership from WWII and Korea were all but gone, so the Army was trying to fast track their combat LTC’s to get them “command time.” Without actual combat experience, the chances of an LTC making full colonel and eventually General would not happen for their career advancement. Each of these individuals needed to make a mark for themselves (ticket-punching) in a combat environment, yet they had no training or experience in guerrilla warfare. For sure, they had zero experience in helicopter air mobile operations.

Consequently, good commanders would enter extensive intercom conversations with the AMC to weigh their advice. Keep in mind that AMC is a mission, not a rank. Many of the battalion commanders failed to make the link. Just as importantly, about the time a good Bn Cmdrs started figuring this style of warfare out (4-6 months), there would be a change of command; a new LTC would transfer in and take over the battalion. He needed his ticket punched too. The OJT battalion commander training would start again.

The 187th AHC had a couple of battalions within the 25th Infantry Division that we routinely worked with and supported. Depending on the Bn Cmdr, we either loved or hated the unit. One unit, in particular, the Manchu’s, 4th of the 9th Infantry, was always one of my favorites. Historically, however, if we were going to get into major trouble (enemy activity), it seemed like it was always with the Manchu’s. 😊

One day as AMC, I went out to pick up the new battalion commander to work on a day of eagle flights. Eagle flights: Pick up troops, drop them into an LZ, and let them look around. If they did not find anything (enemy in combat, tunnel location, caches, etc.) we would pick the unit up and drop them in another LZ. This activity could go on all day and extend into the week.

Learning eagle-flight operations required orienting the new Bn Cmdr on many untaught warfare techniques:

Things for the new commander to consider how to look for an LZ. How much space do you need to land ten helicopters? Where are the tree lines and potential danger zones? Where do you prep the LZ with artillery? Do we need Air Force bomb support? Where do we deploy the helicopter gun teams? Is there an alternate LZ near in case the original LZ is hot and reinforcements or blocking squads needed to be brought in?

Initially, most LTCs would follow all advice from the AMC. Once they got the hang of it, they would do what was required. AMC could then go back to being a highly skilled flying Uber driver. 😊

I worked with a new LTC who had been in Vietnam for a short time. He was a tall, handsome black man who, in military jargon, was “strack.” He looked the part, was extremely personable, and was a fast learner. He was a pleasure to work with.

One morning, we inserted one of his companies into an area honeycombed with tunnels containing weapons and food caches. This recovery operation was going to take a long time. There was no enemy contact, but all areas had to be cleared. Typically, when this happened, the 187th would be released to go work with other units. My new colonel had already broken the “code.” He knew that our unit had been flying a lot of hours lately and needed a break. Rather than release us to work for other companies, he put the 187th on standby, allowing everyone to shut down and rest for a well-deserved break.

There was no reason for him to bore holes (circle the area) over the recent find, so the Bn Cmdr recommended that we land back at his fire base and have some hot lunch for a change. There would be no argument from me or the flight. I sent them back to Chu Chi to shut down and relax until called out – hopefully never.

When I landed at the fire base, the infantry entourage got out, and I started a two-minute engine cooling down and shut down procedure.

The colonel waited for me just outside the rotor turn-down area. Once the aircraft was secured, I got out, hung my helmet, then turned around to walk to the colonel. We pull our Nomex fire-retardant collars up around our neck for additional protection when we fly. As I stepped off the skid and turned toward the LTC, I rolled my collar back down, exposing my branch qualification and rank.

Some were comfortable being around a Lieutenant 😊

I looked up at the colonel when I heard him say in a muffled voice, “Lieutenant?”

I am thinking, “aw-shit he’s turned back into a stateside asshole,” so I stopped and saluted him ☹ [you don’t normally salute in a combat environment] and put on my 1st Lieutenant hat with flight wings.

By then, this statuesque, handsome, ebony colonel was slowly turning into just a white marble statue but sporting a shit-eating grin on his face. 😊 In almost a scream, he said.

“A LIEUTENANT! You are just a LIEUTENANT?”

“Ah, yes sir.”

“You mean I’ve been letting a LIEUTENANT! run my battalion for the past three weeks?” 😊 😊 😊

And he put his arm around me and laughed as we walked to the mess tent. 😊

Ya just can’t make this stuff up … 😊

Hell, I had just turned 22. How old do you have to be to run a 700-man infantry battalion? 😊

If you like my historical narratives, please pass on my link to others. And, let me know how I am doing.

By

Joseph P Dougan

Revised 03/03/2025.

As stated earlier, I will try not to make these blood and gore war stories in my narratives. Again, these stories are not for people with an aviation background. They are written for the uninitiated. The stories are for my recreation and your enjoyment.

Writing these articles is harder than I thought. I am using my wife to read these stories as my “Napoleon's Private” … whenever Napoleon issued a written order, he first had a lowly private read it and repeat it back to Napoleon and explain what it meant. If Napoleon sent a message 2500 miles to Russia via horseback messenger, he could not afford for it to be misinterpreted … ya, she did not know who Napoleon's Private was either. 😊

I was the luckiest pilot in Vietnam, though I often flew with others who weren't having so much fun. This story is about two of my favorite mission assignments. The first is from my Vietnam tour flying Hueys in 68-69. The second comes from my tour in 70-71 flying Chinooks.

Survivor’s guilt is one of the symptoms of PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, which is now shortening to PTS because some post-boomer shrinks thought that the "D" in disorder was offensive. Trust me; it is a disorder. Survivor’s guilt is the feeling many combat veterans get when we do not understand why the person next to us got hurt or killed and we did not. What was I doing new or differently that kept it from happening to me or was it just Divine Intervention? For me, both of the following missions fall into that constant category of persistent wonder.

In my Huey tour with the 187th AHC I was fortunate enough to fly every type of mission available from slick-driver (ferrying troops), flight leader in lift platoon, fireteam leader in the gunship platoon, and AMC (Air Mission Commander) in the C&C (Command & Control) coordinating the overall aviation assets with the infantry battalion operations. However, my favorite mission was flying SMOKEY.

SMOKEY

SMOKEY was a single ship helicopter mission. This aircraft had been modified with an aeration nozzle ring attached to the exhaust stack of our turbine engine. A jet engine exhaust gas temperature varies around

550˚C (1000˚F). By pumping an oil chemical mixture through the nozzle, the atomized spray hits the intense exhaust heat and bursts into a billowing cloud of white smoke.

Seconds before the landing flight of ten troop-carrying helicopters, SMOKEY would come in flying as close to the ground as possible, laying a smoke screen between the tree line and landing aircraft. Obviously, smoke does not stop bullets, but it takes away any aiming capability. Just as obvious, SMOKEY is a prime enemy target.

We did not have selfies back then, so the following pic is not me. It is representative of what one smoke run looks like, though this picture depicts one that is more dangerous than it should be.

SMOKEY is too far out in the open and giving the enemy ample warning and an easy target. The pilot needed to loop in low level from the side and hug up close to the trees between the LZ and the enemy fortifications as he laid down his trail of smoke. One can see that the smoke is not dissipating; there is little to no wind to blow the smoke away. Laying the smoke at high speed (90-110 knots) close to the trees doesn't give the enemy ample time to know where and when you are coming from, and the smoke will linger in the trees for a long time. Get in and get out!

Understanding how the wind affects smoke dissipation and how the flight will land is essential. If the wind is blowing the wrong way or too strong it will be critical to time the smoke run. Mistimed and you can make the unit's landing more dangerous by obscuring their touchdowns with smoke.

Now that the specifics are covered, one can see why this mission is the ultimate adrenaline rush for the pilot.

Flying SMOKEY was a voluntary and autonomous mission. The battalion commander could not order a pilot to make a smoke run, though I never knew any smoke driver declining a mission. It was too important to the flight both in safety and their morale.

Our battalion SOP (standard operating procedure) required a smoke ship on all operations assuming the smoke ship was maintenance ready. Therein lies the problem. Due to the nature of the mission, this bird was always in need of care. The helicopter was constantly flown outside of the flight envelope designed by Bell Helicopter. The maneuvers required to place a proper trail for bullet avoidance kept the aircraft in a virtual high-speed aerobatic environment weaving between trees, shrubs, and rice dikes only a few feet or inches off the ground. Improperly flown or bad luck kept it in maintenance to repair the stresses, bullet holes, or broken chin bubbles from impacting trees and invisible bamboo limbs; bamboo is unforgiving and seemed to stick up out of nowhere.

Additionally, adding to the danger of the mission, note how low one must fly in the picture. Though crew chiefs and gunners are on board with M-60 machine guns, SMOKEY is defenseless. The diameter of the rotating blades is approximately 48’. That circle is known as the tip-path plane. Consider that the tip-path plane is a constant; the rapidly spinning rotor is like a solid plate on the top of the mast. The sudden and excessive maneuvering that SMOKEY must make would mean the gunners would be shooting through the rotor blades to hit a target. Until the aircraft is above the enemy, allowing the crew to shoot down, is the only time a gunner could fire.

I started flying this mission as my preference towards the end of October. I continued until the following February when the unit converted the smoke ship to an H-model, a troop ferrying slick. I had less than thirty days before I came home; I wasn't arguing. Until that time, we used an "off the books" C-model. C-models are significantly more maneuverable than an H-model and lend themselves well to this type of flying. I never broke a chin bubble nor had any combat damage, though, as covered in another story, an errant pair of 2.75" rockets from a gunship nearly took me out.

As a pilot, flying SMOKEY was the ultimate "cowboy" mission. Dudley Do-Right coming to save the day. 😊

At the end of a good day, flight lead would direct the unit over the centerline of the runway. One aircraft after the other would execute a high overhead approach ending in a trail formation. The lead aircraft would make their break and start a sweeping descending turn 360˚ over the Tay Ninh compound and back to the runway for landing. The crew chiefs and gunners would stream colored smoke.

I would be the last aircraft behind the formation. As it got to my turn, due to the maneuverability of the C-model, I would turn on the smoke generator and execute two 360's straight down over the runway. Properly done, from a distance, it would look like a streaming corkscrew. Leaving the smoke on, I would be the first to land and continue smoking down the runway. The landing flight's rotor-wash would cause the dissipation of my smoke trail across the runway. Time for a shower and cold beer!

Unfortunately, every day was not a good day. It seemed like every time I did not fly SMOKEY, whoever did was shot up or shot down. The 187th lost three smoke ships during that four months. Why Not Me?

Addendum: HA! Of course there is no way to confirm my claim, but this was in the Feb 19, 1969 Stars and Stripes. Every SMOKEY driver had a signature. Mine was always to surround the flight with as much smoke as possible. We used a C-model smoke ship. You could not do that tight of a ring in an H-model. I said in Feb of 69 that the pic was me supporting the 25th ID, and I still claim it until someone proves me wrong.

CHINOOKS

I was a flight commander between Vietnam tours at Ft. Wolters, TX running a Primary II helicopter training flight. As an RLO, I knew I would be returning to Vietnam for a second tour. Between OCS and flight school, I incurred a six-year military obligation. Wising up at the grand old age of twenty-four, I knew that I really did not want back into the combat assault business. 😊

Something safer seemed more to my liking, so I called DA (Department of the Army) and volunteered to go back early if the Army would give me a transition to a different aircraft. I asked for a fixed-wing (airplane) transition.

Naturally, after a long pause from them laughing at me, (I had to try) 😊 they said how about Chinooks (CH-47.) This seemed like a viable option. During my first tour, Chinooks were notorious for not being near anything that even resembled the sounds of firecrackers. 😊 I was happy with the transition until I got back to Vietnam.

Being a Captain with a few years in grade, I ought to be able to pick a good assignment. The orders came down from the replacement center. I was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division. The 101st looks great in Tom Hanks' movies -- in real life, in Vietnam, not so much.

"But! But! But! …." It all fell on deaf ears – "needs of the service" -- they are short [senior] Captains in the 101st ☹ ☹ ☹

I was assigned to a Chinook company just in time to start the super-secret planning for the largest aviation operation of the Vietnam war, Lam Son 719. This South Vietnamese-run operation was to invade Laos and cut the Ho Chi Min Trail. The Church amendment from Congress prohibited American ground troops or advisors across the Laotian border. However, the Vietnamese Army (ARVN) would be supported by US aviation assets.

This mission was due to commence in February after the monsoon season cleared. This proposed operation was so secret that our Vietnamese hootch-maids didn't tell us about it until late December. ☹

“On 8 December 1970, in response to a request from the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a highly secret meeting was held at the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam's (MACV) Saigon headquarters to discuss the possibility of an ARVN cross-border attack into southeastern Laos.”

I could write a book about this, but many (Americans and North Vietnamese) more qualified than me have already published volumes. However, I recommend “Invasion of Laos 1971” by Robert D Sander as the best I've read on the subject.

This invasion was so secret that the North Vietnamese only had time to amass more than 50,000 troops (reportedly, another 65k in reserve), anti-aircraft emplacements, and artillery batteries along the insertion routes. ☹ ☹ ☹

In 1968 our operational situation map had a dot-legend for reported enemy activity. A green dot on the acetate-covered map represented small arms or rifle fire; an orange dot was automatic weapons fire; a red dot was machine gun. A bright red dot on our map with a circle around it was for fifty caliber anti-aircraft fire. I implemented the same coding for our 1971 map. By the start of the second day of the insertion into Laos, I had consolidated everything through fifty calibers as a green dot. ☹ ☹ ☹

A typical Chinook mission during Lam Son 719 was sling-loading supplies to the hilltop artillery bases; this was usually pallets of artillery ammunition or replacement artillery pieces. When I say hilltops they were mini-mountain tops in the region southwest of the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone.) These hilltop locations were easy prey for the NVA artillery situated high on the mountain surrounding the ARVN's. There was no hidden way to get in or out; they could see us coming from their mountain top perches 20 miles away. The only possible safe way to come in was as high as possible and avoid the slant range of enemy anti-aircraft fire. Those AA emplacements changed daily.

A Chinook carrying an external load normally approaches landings on a long, slow, methodical glide path. The pallet would be slung below on a twenty-foot sling to minimize load oscillations while being buffeted in the wind. This type of approach would be certain death in the Laos environment. Clay pigeons at a skeet range have better odds. After trying the way they taught us in flight school, we had to improvise after a day or two. Chinooks, Huey’s and especially LOH’s (Light Observation Helicopters) were becoming arcade pieces. One of the senior warrants proposed a highly unconventional method, which we implemented. Our unit never lost an aircraft during the entire Lam Son operation.

We extended the sling length from 20’ to 60'. Enroute speeds were lowered extensively as a cargo suspended at that length is prone to oscillate, which will make the helicopter feel like it is at the wrong end of a bullwhip. Instead of flying at a few thousand feet, we rose to between ten and twelve thousand feet indicated altitude. Looking down through the chin bubble, we would align the fire base between the rudder pedals. At that point, we would bottom the pitch and free-fall, indicating about 60-70 knots air speed while executing multiple 360˚ turns. Keep in mind there is a whole lot of ah-shit pilot/co-pilot stuff going on in the background to keep engine and rotor speeds under control.

A Chinook under that kind of descent falls like a homesick rock. The Chinook has a vertical speed indicator (VSI) showing its rate of climb and descent. Seldom did I see it record rates less than 4000' per minute. If we were under fire, I would often kick the aircraft a ball width out of trim (an instrument on the aircraft indicating the helicopter was flying most efficiently through the air). This changes the relative aircraft nose position -- it is pointing somewhere that it is not going. Visually from the ground, it would change where one would typically be aiming at the helicopter, but it also increases the rate of descent.

During the last thousand feet, it was time to bring the engines back online to slow and regain control for the final approach. Ideally, as we slowed the load almost to a stop, we would pull the Chinook nose extremely high. This aerodynamic causes the helicopter to lose most of its lift capabilities, and the sling load weight finishes pulling the Chinook straight down. It was more akin to a controlled crash directly below the cargo hole.

Under normal resupply missions, the ground crew would have you move the load around two feet this way or four feet that way. Under these conditions, especially with mortars or artillery impacting the firebase, the ARVN wanted to get to their ammunition as quickly as possible.

The aircraft is free of load stresses as soon as the load touches down on the 60' slings. The engines were already at max torque. Readjust the flight controls to a take-off attitude, and the Chinook would start climbing like it had just been released from a slingshot. I've seen the VSI hit 4000' on the way back up. 😊 Let's get out of here! 😊

There was a minimum of four Chinook companies working in Laos plus a heavy-lift CH-54 Crane company and two Marine CH-53 squadrons: all reported combat damage. I know of two Chinooks from other units that were destroyed; most were shot with varying degrees of damage or crew injuries. In the two months of LS 719, the aircraft I was flying received no damage and none of my crew had injuries. Why Not Me?

Yes! PTSD is a disorder.

If you like my historical narratives, please pass on my link to others. And, let me know how I am doing.

(Part Two)

By

Joseph P Dougan©

Revised 03/03/2025.

Getting out of helicopter flight school was the “one way, do not pass Go; do not collect $200” trip to Vietnam. Being too young and too stupid to know any better, I was looking forward to the trip. It would be too easy to start exaggerating the dangers of being a pilot in Vietnam, but there are already a zillion books about that. Exaggeration is my specialty, but I try to ensure you know those are for illustrative purposes and humor. Also, these stories are here for you to read; they are not written for other pilots. Some of the languages might seem (is) crude, but nothing you haven’t heard before. Helicopter pilots have never been known for their couth. “Tact,” a rating on our efficiency reports, seldom saw me in positive numbers. 😊 These documents are as much history for my family and friends – the “what did you do in the war” crowd. It is not meant to represent all helicopter units, though it will be close.

If my stories sound like I am bragging, to a certain extent, I am. I am proud of what I did, and the people I served with; I would do it again in a heartbeat. This initial series is primarily all the facts from my first year of flying helicopters in combat. You will have to excuse or laugh at the obvious intentional exaggerations.

I write when I get in the mood as my form of relaxation, though the shrinks call it therapy. I do not know how many of these quips I will get documented. It isn’t like I am US Grant and must get it all out before I croak, but I have metastatic cancer and heart issues, that thought is always a consideration. There will never be a book, play, or script; that involves editors, spell checks, ellipse checkers, and grammarians (Grammarly is the best you will get.) I do not have the discipline for that kind of commitment. Besides, I hate critics 😊 though I do like reading the likes and comment sections. I am getting too old to travel, so ego trips are the best I can get.

So, why am I writing now?

This past week put me in the mood again. I had a mini reunion at our house with a couple of my closest friends from my first Vietnam tour in 1968. One of these friends, Jim Ray, almost killed me by shooting a pair of 2.75” rockets below me. The closest I ever came to death in Vietnam was a tie between Jim Ray and the US Air Force. I was one of the luckiest pilots in Vietnam. In two tours of flying with almost 2000 combat hours, my aircraft never received a hit (combat damage bullets or otherwise) if I was flying as an aircraft commander. The last round that I took in anger was in my sixth week flying in my first tour as a co-pilot in an aircraft nicknamed “Olé Magnet Ass.” Its propensity to attract enemy FOD (foreign object damage) made the nickname obvious.

My other lifelong friend is Johnnie Wilson. We both grew up on opposites sides of Kansas City, Mo. but didn’t meet until Vietnam. Last week were long days and extremely late nights of constant humor and laughter and always ending wondering how we all got out of there alive. With the reunion memory-refresh still racing through my mind, I will try to add a couple more tidbits to my papers. More importantly, I will try and keep this from being another “war story.” Not everything we did involve shooting people or getting shot at. Sometimes life was fun, had meaning, or both.

Since many of the people in my narratives are still alive, I will either omit their names or provide them with some sort of anonymity from embarrassment, as necessary.

HOW DID I GET TO BE THEIR “LEADER”

Graduating from officer candidate school (OCS), any military academy, or ROTC commissions one a 2nd Lieutenant (Navy an Ensign). Being a commissioned officer may make you a “gentleman,” but it doesn’t mean you can lead.

I will not pontificate who’s, how’s, or what’s. Suffice it to say in your civilian careers, you’ve had good bosses, not-so-good and screaming assholes as leaders. The difference between good military leaders is the not-so-good or assholes can get you killed. Consequently, anytime a new leader comes into an army unit, everyone is leery until the newbie has proven themselves. Before I became the platoon leader and learned how to fly in combat, my introduction to the platoon was as a section leader in the 1st aviation platoon of the 187th Assault Helicopter Company.

The unit was critically short of RLOs, a euphemism for Real Live Officers e.g., 2nd Lieutenant, Captain, etc.. Due to the nine months of flight school training, I had already been promoted to 1st Lieutenant – 21 years old and had no experience. I had been a news announcer and DJ in a small-town outside of Kansas City while attending Central Missouri State University. Since my civilian skills were so much fun and cracking the books was not, Uncle Sugar invited me to matriculate to his Mean Green Maturity School 😊aka the US Army.

By the time I got to the 187th I was married (at age 20). In some cases, I was the “Toon-Daddy” to Warrant Officers pilots three years younger. Many WO’s were still teenagers getting their jolly’s off flying ten hours a day (and loving it) in half-a-million-dollar aircraft. [Toon-Daddy: a nickname given to me when I was promoted to platoon leader by an 18-year-old Silver Star recipient, Ron Timberlake]

The 187th Assault Helicopter Company came to Vietnam on a boat as a complete unit. The experienced warrant officer pilots and RLOs were due to rotate back to the states shortly when their twelve-month tour of duty expired. It was imperative that new pilots and RLOs had to be trained expeditiously.

Typically, it took 300 hours of combat flying to qualify for aircraft commander (AC). This was on top of the 210 hours of flying that we received in flight school. Occasionally, some made it sooner. I was one of those “some” as I made AC at 180 hours. It is easy to argue that they needed to make me an AC sooner because RLOs were supposed to lead the flights in and out of the landing zones (LZ). More often, due to a shortage of RLOs or RLOs with a functional brain (walk and chew gum at the same time), senior experienced warrant officer ACs would lead the flights.

I will take issue with my accelerated AC promotion claim, as I am an outstanding pilot. 😊 However, I will make a special note to Asa Vest and Kirk Nivens. When I arrived, they were two of the experienced platoon ACs who taught me how to fly – precision flying. They taught the ways and techniques that flight school could not teach. Asa’s favorite slogan: “If it will hover, it will fly.” He stressed pilot techniques to ensure that would happen.

But how do you lead people who already know more about flying? How does someone who is still learning earn their respect? Sometimes, respect happens because of something said or by being in the right place at the right/wrong time. It could be something unplanned and insignificant. Mine was a combination of everything.

When I first arrived, we had a unit commander to whom varied between the “not so good” and total asshole depending on whose perspective one was listening. He and one of the experienced warrant officers went crosswise. He wanted to exercise his commander’s option and issue a Article 15 against this pilot. Article 15 is the UCMJ’s (Uniform Code of Military Justice) non-judicial punishment. It is slightly analogous to getting a speeding ticket but with implications for more severe consequences. The commander’s reasoning put the rest of the platoon ACs into more than a surly mood. The word mutiny comes to mind. As they were preparing to storm the CO’s quarters with their demands, I went along, hoping to maintain a sense of civility.

As luck would have it, I managed to provide everyone with a way out from the corners that the two sides had backed into. I’ll take full responsibility … bla bla bla … and if he screws up again, the CO can issue two Article 15s, one for each of us. None were issued. From that evening meeting, I seemed to have everyone watching my back for the rest of my tour.

We flew in formation with two flights of four or five helicopters, and we flew a lot. I ended my first Vietnam tour with 1243 hours of combat time. For the first few months as AC, I usually flew as flight leader of a company one day. A company flight formation was two platoons with five helicopters each. I flew at the back or in the flight on opposite days; the 2nd platoon was responsible for flying lead on alternate days.

187th AHC platoon formation flight

FLYING LEAD

Initially, one would think that flying lead is straightforward, but it can be annoying to the rest of the flight if you do it wrong. It is more than just picking up a helicopter and flying from point A to B, and everyone follows. We prided ourselves on flying very precise and close-knit formations as a unit. They weren’t Blue Angels close, but another helicopter flying 100 mph about a rotor disk (48’) away can get pretty sporty when flight-lead cranks in a sudden turn, decent, or nervous control tick. The last guy in that formation is not too happy as everyone in the front is exaggerating their control movements and speed to keep pace. On the first flight of the day or going into a well-known LZ, the experienced AC usually flew. The co-pilot would fly the second lift, affectionately known as a Peter-P (Peter Pilot, PP). Until the newbies got the hang of it, the second formation flight could often be best described as any two or more helicopters flying in the same general direction, at approximately the same altitude and speed, going to the same destination. 😊

There were many hours spent flying in circles with infantry on board, waiting for a “not-so-good” air mission commander (AMC) in their command-and-control ships (C&C) to coordinate the flight operation with the ground-pounder (Grunts) infantry commanders. We had one AMC in our unit who was notoriously bad. His ineptness was complicated by the fact that C&C has six or more different radio frequencies that had to be monitored; all were going at the same time -- flight communications, gun teams, artillery, Air Force, emergency freqs, etc..

One sultry summer afternoon, this AMC numb-nuts habitually kept all of his radios and intercom switches OFF except for the one he was using at the time. His co-pilot, usually one of the newest pilots in the 187th, would have to listen and tell the AMC if someone on another frequency was trying to talk to him. This most often led to misdirecting the flight and the critical timing of landing the flight into the LZs.

We always tried to be at our LZ landing points as soon as possible after the last artillery rounds or bombs were dropped. We landed while the enemy still had their heads down and ears ringing. The greater the delay in our arrival from “last-rounds-out” call, the greater the chance that someone could be shooting at us on touchdown. This could be particularly disconcerting for the lead aircraft, as his touchdown point in the LZ was always marked by colored smoke grenades dropped from the gunship team. The enemy always knew where at least one helicopter would be.

Prominent geographic places would be identified during our flight briefings as reporting points (RP’s) for the inbound flight. They were usually one minute of flight time away from the LZ. As the flight lead approached an RP, he would report the position to the C&C. AMC would issue clearance to land in the LZ or continue to orbit. “Go-around” was never anything a flight wanted to hear. It is tedious. The troops onboard, however, loved it. We were generally flying about 2500’ - 3000’, and it would be the coolest they would feel until their next helicopter mission.

On this day, I was not flying lead. It was my best friend from our mini-reunion last week, WO JT Wilson [Northeast HS KCMO graduate]. After too many “lead, go-arounds” and “lead, where are you” calls, John hit his “I don’t givva shit” moment. Forty-five minutes of orbiting will do that to ya. To paraphrase, their conversation went something like this:

C&C: Lead, where are you?

JT: At the RP

C&C: Lead, go around.

Thirty seconds later …

C&C: Lead, where are you?

Keep in mind that it takes five or more minutes to ferry a flight of ten around a slowly sweeping 360-degree turn, many miles, and lot of JP4 (fuel).

JT: At the RP

C&C: Lead, go Around.

30 seconds later … do you get the picture?

C&C: Lead where are you?

JT: At the RP

This went on for a few more iterations. By the time this goat-fxxk had started, the flight had burned off enough fuel that helicopter weight or flying in a formation was no longer a concern.

C&C: Lead, where are you?

JT had brought the flight of ten to a 3000’ hover – they are helicopters ya know --

JT: At the RP awaiting release to the LZ with 110 souls on board anxious to do their job. 😊

The whole flight was getting a laugh that the AMC was so clueless, had no concept of how the flight operates in arriving at the RP on time, on heading, in a formation ready to do their job. Or, if AMC wants to know where the flight is, simply look at the RP and see 10 Hueys hovering there. 😊

As I said, assholes can get you killed, so when we had a chance to fxxk with them, we took full advantage. 😊 Warrant Officers were especially good at that. 😊

If you like my historical narratives, please pass on my link to others. And, let me know how I am doing

(to Flight School)

By

Joseph P Dougan©

Revised 02/23/2025

FYI: the facts are true the exaggerations are not 😊
you must figure out which is which 😊

As most of us (Vietnam Vets, helicopter pilots, etc.) have been questioned over the years -- Why, How, etc.? I present this synopsis as to how I got to where I am. This is not so much a story to entertain fellow flight crews but a document for my family and friends 😊 who have no military or aviation experience explaining how did that asshole make it in the first place. 😊

Who Let Him Through Flight School?

(A very long answer to a simple question)

by

Joseph P Dougan©

I was telling a friend a story about how I never passed a P1 check ride in flight school. P1 is the very first test of one’s flying skills; unless you pass, you go no further. So, how did I end up with almost 3000 hours of total flight time?

I thought (know) that I had written that story down many years ago, but I can’t find it nor most of the other stories about my early flight years. I am going to try to link a couple historical vignettes here which answer some of the questions I have been asked over the year. I want to get my history recorded as I prefer to remember it. 😊 Most people who could confirm any of this are already dead, so I can ham it up any way I want. 😊

How Did I End Up in Flight School in the First Place:

Having just turned nineteen when I went to basic training in January of 1966, the aptitude and psychological testing that the Army does when you first enter the service came back and reported that I was officer material. The drill sergeants at the replacement center started their appeal (harassment) that I needed to go to a “Leadership” school before basic training, which would then lead to Officer Candidate School (OCS). Upon completing leadership training, I would be an “acting-jack” platoon corporal, i.e., a squad leader during basic training.

One of their arguments for this recently turned nineteen-year-old was that the Army was already 17,000 lieutenants behind for the last fiscal year quota. At 19, I hadn’t put two and two together to note that the average life span of a 2nd lieutenant in Vietnam was 17 seconds. In retrospect, this was a more critical statistic as to why they were so far behind in their recruitment, but that thought never crossed my immature mind.

Under duress, I agreed to attend the specialty school and OCS. My dad was a 90-day OCS wonder during World War II, so I figured this must be part of my heritage.

After the leadership school was completed, a group of us was assigned to an empty basic training unit to await the arrival of the new inductees. During this dead week, the actual platoon sergeants were busy picking which of their new leadership graduates would be their acting-jack platoon sergeants.

My platoon sergeant, Sgt Britton, was your stereotypical Smokey-Bear-hat-wearing Vietnam vet from the hood – tall, sinewy, gruff, but he was delightfully funny. In an affable way, he seriously loved fxxking with the troops. Intimidation was a way of life for a drill sergeant. Finally, it came that day for him to make his choice for acting platoon sergeant. Psychological harassment was the order of the day.

Three of us were in the dayroom playing pool when Sgt Britton made his presence and point known. He had to make a choice and was looking for some answers. The winner from his questioning got their own semi-private room in the new brick steam-heated barracks instead of living in the group bay.

One of the other two leadership candidates was from Cleveland, Ohio. He technically was a volunteer enlistee. His trial judge had given him the option of prison or enlisting in the armed services. 😊

Sgt Britton started the questioning with, “Do you think you can whup me!”

This was Sgt Britton’s chief and only question in his selection process. This potential Ohio felon replied to the effect of – you are so much bigger than me, so I am not sure Sarge.

The second guy was from East St. Louis, and though it wasn’t stated, my impression he was in the Army for the same reason as the first though he looked more ominous and more than fit the part of an authentic thug. He was downright scary. His response was – I am not sure, Sarge, but I’ll sure give you a good fight.

Finally, it was my turn to the “Do you think you can whup me?” line of questioning.

Without hesitation, “Sure!” said I. 😊

“WHAT!!! What are you 130 lbs. soaking wet? I am a 6’1” combat-experienced, trained killer. What makes you think you can beat me?”

“Because you haven’t proved to me that you can beat me.”

“You are my platoon sergeant!”

I wasn’t trying to be arrogant, but I do think I had figured out his line of thinking. Regardless, I got the job and commenced to lead a rather good existence in basic training. When the new troops arrived, I picked the tallest, most physically fit ex-ROTC jock to be my roommate and section leader. Basic training was a lark as I became the “teacher’s pet” for the platoon sergeants.

I could write a whole book on basic training, but I am trying to get to how I got into and through flight school.

The decision to go to leadership school and OCS changed the direction of where I was supposed to go in the Army. It didn’t take more than the bus ride from the Kansas City recruiting station to Ft Leonard Wood to realize that my original lying-ass recruiter got the coal mine, and I got the shaft.

Basic training was a snap, and afterward, I was sent to Ft Jackson, SC, for advanced individual training (AIT). I was assigned to a platoon of OCS-scheduled applicants. The majority in the platoon were college graduates or ROTC experienced recruits. I was 19 with a year and a half of non-exemplary college. OK, so I flunked out. 😊

Prior to the start of training, the first sergeant came through the barracks on Saturday. “I am looking for truck drivers. Anyone here wanna be a truck driver?”

The moaning and groaning from the platoon was deafening. “I didn’t go to four years of college to be a truck driver!”

I knew my career as an acting-jack was over amongst all of these edumacated (sic) college and ROTC graduates. I also knew that the only guys that sky’d out more than me in basic training were the company drivers.

“Ya, 1st Sgt, I’ll do it!”

And so began my next eight weeks of never attending anything that had anything to do with (AIT). I don’t mean to exaggerate, but I never went to a single class that I can remember except Trainfire (weapons qualifications at the shooting range). This, too, was a joke because two days a week, I drove a five-ton truck loaded with ammunition to the ranges.

No ammunition was ever to be returned, so I got to expend all leftovers at the end of the day. I got to be an excellent shot with virtually every infantry rifle, pistol, and machine gun.

The other three days I was the 2nd Lieutenant XO’s (executive officer) personal jeep diver. He was instrumental in ensuring I knew how to pass the final G-3 testing.

The company had its weeklong bivouac (pup-tent campout) during the coldest week (sub-freezing) in South Carolina history. However, trucks had to be back into the motor pool by 1800 (6:00PM). So, I paid the company fireman – the guy that kept the coals in the old wood frame barrack’s furnaces hot – 20 bucks to keep our barracks warm and hot water going full tilt. After turning the vehicle in, the other drivers and I would return to turn on a dozen shower heads and use a thousand gallons of boiler steam nightly. I would clean up, grab some hot mess hall chow, then go a couple of doors down to the beer garden and feel sorry for the ROTC’ guys layered in multiple fatigues freezing their asses off in their pup tents. I can still hear their teeth clattering. 😊 … “I didn’t go to four years of college to be a truck driver.” 😊

One Saturday afternoon towards the end of AIT, I was sitting on the barracks stoop, taking in the warm South Carolina afternoon and semi-contemplating my future and OCS (ok, I was daydreaming). I looked up and saw half a dozen guys making a sports parachute jump. I thought, that’s pretty cool and watched them leisurely swing and sway in the breeze falling silently through the warm spring air. As they descended out of sight, my reality light clicked on. If this were a landing in Vietnam, they would be walking like everyone else and getting shot at!

This was not a concept that rang true for me; I am much too delicate. As I retraced their descent and looked back up, I saw that Huey flying off to the horizon. It was at that moment in time, with no more thought process than I just described, that I made a career and life-changing decision.

“I am going to flight school!”

Flight School … give me time … I told you I would get here.

I’ve always had a problem with authority figures which doesn’t bode well for being in the Army in the first place. I dislike authority, especially when the authorities are basic assholes to begin with. Thus, this was my dilemma with my first flight instructor Mr. Ludwig (RIP). To say we had an acrimonious relationship would be an understatement.

He was an extraordinarily tall and thin Swede with a horrible temper and zero patience. He was so long-legged that he had a unique set of anti-torque (tail rotor) pedals made, which gave him an extra couple of inches of leg room in the cockpit of a bubble nose OH-23 helicopter.

One afternoon while learning to hover, I was doing particularly poorly by his standards. Through his constant screaming, it was clear I was not adapting too well. He finally said, “Ok, we are going to start from scratch. You have the cyclic.”

At this point, I controlled the cyclic (tilt) and he maintained the control of collective (up and down) and pedals (left and right). Eventually, I regained control of all three at a hover. However, I was not maintaining my heading; I kept drifting the nose left and right. His screaming continued to the point where the intercom was not necessary.

He put me in front of a tree about fifty yards to our front and told me to hold the nose on that tree. After a couple of limited successful attempts, the nose started drifting again.

“LOOK AT THAT TREE! CAN’T YOU SEE IT DRIFTING? WHEN IT IS DRIFTING TO THE RIGHT, GIVE IT LEFT PEDAL!”

And with that comment, he jammed his foot into the left pedal causing an erratic correction. But more importantly, his long-legged foot slipped off the pedal and straight through the plexiglass bubble leaving a large albeit embarrassing hole (about a boot size 12). 😊

After he set the aircraft down to check out the damage … with the engine still running, I secured the controls with the straps and friction. I unbuckled, got out, and picked up a large section of Plexiglas. Still wearing my helmet and earplugs, I could hear Ludwig screaming at me to come back as I walked across the field to the control tower. When I climbed into the tower module, the flight commander asked me what the problem was. I handed him the section of Plexiglas and said I wanted a new instructor.

Surprisingly, I did not get a pink slip (unsatisfactory evaluation) that day, but I am pretty sure Mr. Ludwig did as he also got an immediate transfer. In fact, I got very few unsatisfactory rides in primary training. So how did I not pass a P1 check ride?

Due to my recalcitrant nature, I ended up with two more IP’s (instructor pilots) prior to moving on to P2 (second phase of flight training). Plus, I had a flight evaluation review board for landing on the lawn of post headquarters (TINS: it was an emergency ... but I am the only one in recorded history at Ft. Wolters to make a precautionary landing on the lawn of post headquarters.) 😊 This landing will be covered in a future publication. The last IP found my engage button and taught me how to fly. I was officially the last guy in our flight to solo.

To commemorate this ignominious event, I was presented with a prestigious 12” ceramic penis ashtray which was complete with the balls in the base made by our flight commander. Ceramics was his hobby though he never revealed who posed for the 12” mold. 😊 Times were different back then. People weren’t so easily offended; however, either my wife or mother-in-law “accidentally” disposed of my prize trophy. Tragic, because it was very cool! 😊

Civilian contractors taught the first eight weeks of training. The P1 check ride is performed by MOI (methods of instruction) Army pilots in orange flight suits, the “orange teddy bears.” Their flight evaluations were the Army’s way of ensuring they were getting their money’s worth from the civilian training.

I was finally doing well, feeling confident, while learning how to fly. Having “checkitis” didn’t seem to bother me, but the timing of this check ride was not ideal. It was on a Monday, and I flunked.

Busting a ride is not unusual, and it necessitates another couple of hours of retraining with the IP. It is time to calm the nerves, go over procedures, a little more solo time, and reschedule a makeup check ride. Mine was scheduled for Wednesday. Ya, I busted that one too.

That precipitated a prog-ride (progress check ride) with the assistant flight commander who then put me up for a final check ride with the flight commander on Friday morning. Bust this ride and you get a one-way ticket to the Infantry.

As luck would have it, the flight commander was an affable guy who did well putting one at ease, but I still had my difficulties. Finally, we got back on the ground. Debriefings usually are done in the stage field lounge area. The flight commander did mine from the cockpit where no one could hear him as he gave me the bad news.

To paraphrase: Technically, you didn’t pass, but I have reviewed your records and talked to your IP’s. There is no reason nor recorded grades that say you can’t fly.

Since you are getting married tomorrow, I am writing this performance off as pre-marriage jitters. I am going to pass you. But, if you so much as screw up even a little in the future, you are out of here. 😊

And that is why I know in 3000 flight hours that I have never passed a P1 check ride. 😊

And now you know the rest of the story. 😊

I’ve got a few memories from that operation that still stick with me.

The first was pure awe. First day of reopening Khe Sanh, up at altitude, looking back down Highway QL9 — thirty miles to Dong Ha, then south to Quang Tri. A continuous olive-drab snake of vehicles, with their headlights on, motoring north as far as I could see.

I had the full op-order sitting beside me, and I remember being amazed that at H-plus-whatever, there’d be a set of grid coordinates in the middle of nowhere where we were supposed to deliver our sling-load — usually bridge-building material. We’d approach some imaginary green dot in the jungle, and right on cue the trees would start falling as the engineers’ Rome plows busted their way through.

Singularly, this was the most amazing military operation I witnessed in fifteen years of military service. I was/am proud of the part I played in the operations planning and how well it was executed.

The second memory — and the one that matters — came later, when Khe Sanh itself went IFR. Socked in, weathered in, everybody stuck. The whole formation of heavy-lift and medium-lift helicopters had to land around the outside of Firebase Vandergriff’s perimeter. It was situated at the base of the valley leading to Khe Sanh. It was lower and out the clouds.

I don’t know the exact head count, but Varsity alone had eight CH-47s, and we were joined by elements from five other Chinook companies, two Marine H-53 squadrons, and the H-54 Sky Cranes out of Da Nang. I never did well in high school math, but I’d bet that pile of helicopters on the ground represented a serious representation of the medium and heavy-lift capacity in all of Vietnam — and an even more serious chunk of their dollar value.

A CH-47 landing on Khe Sanh — from the Ben Brown collection, Varsity B/159th.

So, there we all were, diddley-bopping around our aircraft, trying to find a spot to heat up C-rations and hoping we weren’t about to step on a landmine. I looked up at the Rock Pile, capped in a light coat of clouds, and did the math a different way: that many high-value aircraft sitting still in one place, under a ceiling low enough to keep our own gunships and fast movers away — that’s not bad luck, that’s an invitation. When the Rock Pile’s obscuring cloud lifted, the NVA weren’t going to let this target of opportunity like that go to waste.

I’d only been the company S-3 for a couple of months, and I’d already made my reputation as the company prick, so this next progression fit right in. I called a crew meeting and told everyone to get back to their aircraft and run the start-up checklist — right up to the edge of starting the APUs and turning the turbines over.

At a minimum, one pilot in the seat would be ready to go hot at all times.

The bitching could be heard in Saigon.

I didn’t know how long we’d sit there. But when the first mortars started landing, the Varsity rotor blades were already turning — in seconds, not minutes.

Engine levers slammed forward, “One and two to flight.” No time for a formation takeoff — everybody just pulled an Otis-elevator max climb straight up through the clouds and regrouped at altitude. We broke out around 10,000’ AGL. Next stop, Quang Tri, to await further orders.

Our Chinooks were stuffed to the gills — airmobile carts loaded with maintenance gear, tents, personal gear, the works. Our original orders were to camp out on Khe Sanh. Back then, Chinook crews were some of the most experienced aviators in-country; with rare exceptions, you needed at least 1,000 hours just to transition into the aircraft. Naturally, that meant Chinook drivers had always leaned toward the comfortable side of soldiering. So, the idea of sleeping in cold, damp tents — and yes, Vietnam gets cold — while rockets and mortars came in, went over about as well as you’d expect to a group of privileged old cantankerous farts. Which is to say: not at all.

Planning to live on Khe Sanh went out the window after Vandi’s little mortar and rocket wake-up call. Fortunately, somebody at MACV in Saigon had a rare moment of clarity and decided the medium- and heavy-lift units shouldn’t be bunking on Khe Sanh alongside the slicks and LOHs. We could fly up early every morning instead.

Whoo Hoo!

Back to Phu Bai. Hot showers. Warm beds. O-Club. Horny Nurses with no other competing pilots around. Bridge, Poker and Pinochle.

Nobody bought me a drink at the O’Club that night, either.

Subject DEALING WITH ANGER .. my criminal history :-)

The following is an extract from a thread on one of my crusty old veteran's email lists. I added my history showing how things have changed over the last 60-70 years. This will be a change of pace from my military stories. Old vets are not woke. In fact Facebook algorithm wouldn’t allow this post in its original form because it reportedly violated the Community Standards. I filed for an repeal as it doesn’t violate any of there precepts. We’ll see if they allow this one through.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

DG commented:

“Yeah, tell that to the woman who was recently arrested because someone didn't like the fact that her 10 year old son was seen wandering around about a mile from home.

Hell, when I was ten I wandered miles and miles away from home and mom was glad so she could watch her soap operas in peace. Then the adults recruited me to babysit while they went out partying on Friday and Saturday nights. At least I did get paid 25 cents an hour.

Times have changed. And not for the better.”

..............................................................................................................

My response to DG's comment:

Agreed.

Growing up in KCMO, living outside was mandatory in the summer. In the summers between sixth and seventh grade and seventh to eighth grade, I am not sure I spent any of my nights in a bed. My dad had two shelter halves from WWII and Korea. The two halves buttoned up made a pup tent, which is where my neighbor and I stayed. Sure, we got into a little nighttime mischief, but nothing that outgoing prepubescent kids haven't been doing since the beginning of time.

My buddy was a year older and had already set his career sights on being a cartographer (map maker). His multi-year project was to create his own detailed [very] map of KC. It was an amazingly exact large-scale drawing that he worked on in his unmodernized attic. Scrap boards had been laid across the rafter to put his drafting board and chairs on to give us a room in the tiny space for our cigarettes and ashtrays. Did I mention we were eleven or twelve?

To confirm the accuracy of his project required riding our bikes all over the metropolitan area, both north and south of the river. At the time, KCMO was the second largest city in sq miles in the nation, which required a lot of pedaling. Fortunately, we lived in its geographic center (39th Prospect).

In order to get to our destinations, we had to leave early, usually well before the sun came up. Neither of us had a pot to piss in (no money), but my bicycle was a 26" AMF Roadmaster single-speed, and it had a big basket. Anytime either of us saw a "returnable" Coke or soda bottle by the side of the road, into the basket it went. When we got tired, we'd cash them in for a Coke or candy bar. Some days we'd get lucky and find enough bottles to have enough for a hamburger. Joe's Restaurants, a local chain, had five burgers for a buck; I can still taste 'em.

On not-so-lucky days ... well, we'd have to "improvise" our hiding and diversion skills at the Katz drugstore candy aisle. I was innocent-looking, and he always looked like a thug, so the store clerks focused on him. Some of our all-day rides were just too long, even for an 11-13-year-old to survive without sustenance. I might have died.

I forgot to mention that there were no protected bicycle lanes, no helmets, no sunscreen, no bottled water, and virtually no provisions of any kind. Generally, summer rainstorms were a mixed blessing. Today, these rides would be even harder, if not impossible. Now, due to the turnover among neighborhood residents, carrying an AK-47 with a 250 round basic ammo load in the "hood" would add another 15 lbs. to the mix, and there would be no room for bottles. :-)

There was only one bridge, the Chouteau Bridge, on the far NE side of KC that allowed bicycle or pedestrian traffic across the Missouri River. It was only two lanes and always scary to cross. Its location made visits to NW KC an all-day affair. This made for a 40-50 mile round trip. Getting there was not the problem. Getting home was. Riding the cliffs downhill to the Missouri was a gas. Trying to pedal back up the Mo-river cliffs at the end of a long day was a killer, especially with big-balloon tires. A single-speed bicycle that weighed about forty lbs. to start but about a hundred and fifty lbs. on the way back home. It was a roll'n boat anchor full of bottles. In the sixth to seventh-grade year, I did a lot of zig-zagging or walking the bike up the hills. By seventh to eighth grade summer, I had built the leg muscles up to make it straight up.

At no time did my parents ask what time we left which was often by three or four in the morning. Nor did the parents ask where we went as long as we were home by dinner! Also, NO ONE ever stopped us to find out what a pre-teen was doing riding their bikes at four in the morning. Who would have believed that story anyway? :-)

FYI: My buddy [who barely remembers me] lived his dream and went on to be an internationally recognized cartographer and leader of their primary cartographic organization. He lives in an apartment across the street from the beach overlooking the Gravesend Bay in Brooklyn, NY.

Me: Katz cut their shrinkage losses and went out of business. A courtesy ride home from the KCPD, who were unconvinced of my apparent innocence but benevolent, gave me a tour of one of their substations, which convinced me to change my wicked-wicked ways. I quit pedaling the streets and appropriating life-sustaining sustenance a long time ago. The AMF Roadmaster became a Harley Davidson HOG. I used to prefer to look at the Mighty-Mo, now supplanted for the Red River, from a tandem rotor Chinook at 3000', cooling off from the scorching Texas sun while drinking my bought-and-paid-for Dr Pepper. :-)

I published this story a few years ago for my aviation buddies. Things happened quickly during the emergency, and recreating a story from forty-plus years ago leaves out a lot of detail. One of the things missing from my original version was what was going on in the back — that is, what was the enlisted flight crew doing? Frankly, I didn’t remember who the crew was. Now I know, and I have revised my story for everyone’s enjoyment.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a bimonthly Hookmasters National Guard reunion luncheon. I left the unit in 1981, and I seldom go; most attendees are much younger, with memories of the Mideast, heads-up displays, LED instruments, night vision goggles, etc. I was one of the original CH-47 Vietnam-trained Chinook pilots and a platoon leader as the National Guard was starting its upgrades and transition. We flew underpowered, six-wheeled A-models with analog instrument displays. I don’t have much in common with the current generation attending — except being among the consistent professionals of the Hookmaster crews and staff.

I sat at an extended table as the group introduced each other. After I introduced myself, the individual sitting across from me, Tony Fretwell, had a look of shock and questioned me.

“Do you remember flying an A-model [Chinook] carrying a water trailer into Magazine Mountain at Ft. Chaffee?”

Tony was one of the two flight engineers (FE) in the back of the CH-47 in the following story. Jim Reynolds was the other and was “over the load.” A sling load is suspended on a cargo hook about twenty feet behind the pilot, and the FE lies face down on the floor over the observation hole above the cargo hook to monitor the external load. The FE watches the load to give flight information and precision positioning instructions to the pilot — “right two, forward one, down two, load on the ground, load released.” The three of us met for lunch this week so I could piece together their view of what happened that day in Arkansas.

I’ve revised the following narrative to include their observations. I also tried to make it more reader-friendly for my non-aviation followers.

This was a significant event for all of us in many ways. Tony stated that he almost gave up flying that day. I don’t think he was joking.

I am sure it was a personal calling that this event may have had an impact on, but eventually Jim went to the seminary and became an Episcopal priest. Jim served at St. Martin-in-the-Fields Episcopal Church in Keller, TX from 2004 until he retired in 2013.

Jim makes the sixth of my helicopter contemporaries who matriculated to the “cloth.” God has a lot to do with why many of us are still here when the facts indicate we shouldn’t be. He had His hand in the successful outcome of this story, too.

Cheated Death, Again©

or, the closest I’ve come to death while flying 😊

by Joseph P. Dougan

I spent two years in Vietnam and experienced as much combat as most other helicopter pilots. However, with 2,000 hours of combat flying, the closest I have ever come to death while flying was at Ft. Chaffee, Arkansas in the late ’70s while flying for the Texas Army National Guard.

I will eliminate the name of my co-pilot, who was the cause of our anxiety. I don’t think he reads my historical narratives — but if he ever does, I am sure his version would be much different. We all remember what we want, which is usually at odds with the other participants on the same mission. But to reveal his version, he will have to expose himself for the rebuttal. 😊

Peter Eldridge, who was flying in the jump seat, is now in his eighties. Everyone knows how Pete exaggerates 😊, but now I have more still-alive witnesses to back my description. 😊 Fortunately, this story has a happy ending and has been a source of entertainment within my aviation circles for many years.

I was a platoon leader in a National Guard CH-47 Chinook company in Texas. We were the first National Guard unit to be assigned CH-47s, and we were performing our two-week summer camp in hot and sweltering Arkansas. Many of our pilots were Vietnam-experienced but had recently completed transition training to a new type of helicopter. They were being retrained from flying single-rotor, single-engine utility helicopters (Hueys) to tandem-rotor, multi-engine, medium-lift cargo helicopters.

Sling-loading is a typical Chinook mission. Our heavy cargo is carried externally, suspended on 20- to 40-foot nylon slings. The longer the sling, the harder it is to keep the load under control. In Vietnam, the load was normally howitzers, pallets of cannon shells, and often both — slung piggyback, one under the other.

PHOTO: B/159th 101st “Varsity” 1971 (my unit)

In the States, civilians get fearful when they see a 155mm cannon suspended over their house, and they call to complain. 😊 Consequently, we train with heavy objects that don’t look so ominous — usually large blocks of concrete, CONEXes filled with concrete, or anything heavy. During summer camps at military facilities, we get to fly with normal combat loads. One example is lifting a full 500-gallon water trailer. At 8.3 lbs. per gallon plus the weight of the trailer, it is heavy and doesn’t streamline well in flight, especially when suspended on longer slings. Varying the sling lengths makes a good training exercise. However, if the load starts oscillating, the pilots feel like they are on the wrong end of Lash LaRue’s bullwhip. And if you don’t know who that is, you are obviously younger than 70.

There was a Boy Scout camp at the top of Magazine Mountain, the highest point in Arkansas at over 2,700 feet. The scouts had no running water, and one of our missions was to resupply the camp with a potable water tanker. A full water trailer makes a good training load; the elevation and the variability of the winds at the escarpment landing zone add to the training difficulty.

Water tanker sling-load (Ft. Campbell, KY)

Cross-training pilots to a different style of helicopter often means forgetting the old and adapting to the new. The idiosyncratic differences between how a utility helicopter and a cargo helicopter fly are significant, especially when carrying an external load. Our Dallas-based Chinook unit had recently expanded and brought on a new group of National Guard pilots to be cross-trained from the Houston NG facility.

Magazine Mountain sits on the edge of an escarpment. Walk to the edge and jump — it is almost 3,000 feet straight down. No one will hear the splat. Our pinnacle landing site was a few feet from this edge. The view is incredible. Today, there is a state-owned lodge with cabins (and running water) at the top.

My mission on this day was to check out a new and highly experienced pilot from the Houston facility. He was their affable SIP (standards instructor pilot). A SIP is a senior instructor who flies with and certifies the other pilots in the unit annually. Revered, they are acknowledged as the most proficient pilot in the unit. They are the unit’s aviation mini-god.

Aerodynamically, the only similarity between a Chinook’s and a Huey’s flying characteristics is what the ground looks like from 2,000 feet. Being the best in one aircraft does not mean those piloting skills automatically transfer. Each type of aircraft has idiosyncrasies that must be mastered. Flying troops or cargo internally is significantly different than slinging a load beneath a tandem-rotor helicopter.

Tony Bolivar and I carrying a bridge-building pontoon boat at Ft. Chaffee, AR circa 1978

Because I was flying with the anointed — the best pilot in their unit 😊 — I was not concerned, and I let my guard down. This is an admission that even experienced pilots make mistakes.

Our pinnacle drop-off point is a notch on the edge of Magazine Mountain’s escarpment, but the peak continues to rise abruptly from the only cleared landing area available. It was barely large enough to physically land a Chinook and its load, lined on one side with telephone poles and wires and on the other by a WPA-constructed stone wall. Regardless of wind direction, there is only one way into the landing zone: fly directly over the river basin and land to the north, perpendicular to the side of the escarpment.

The prevailing winds run out of the northeast through the southwest; consequently, you are always landing with a quartering wind from one direction or the other, and often with a tailwind. When the valley winds slam into the sheer cliffs, they combine and thrust upwards. These updrafts can be exceptional in the afternoons as the valley floor heats up, adding to the landing complexities. Landing into a direct headwind is always preferred; on Magazine Mountain, it almost never happens. And when landing on a pinpoint mountaintop, the peripheral vision and ground-speed cues pilots rely on in a normal approach (airports, etc.) are nonexistent. Their only frame of reference is experience garnered from mountain flying. I flew many hours in a Chinook in the mountains of Vietnam and Laos.

Today, not only would I be flying with the “new guy,” but in the helicopter’s jump seat (which has no access to the flight controls) was Peter Eldridge, another highly skilled Vietnam-trained pilot who could offer advice. Standing in the passageway immediately behind Pete was Brigadier General Stewart, the Texas State Adjutant General, coming to observe our training and visit the boys in the scout camp. Two pilots with hundreds of hours of Chinook time, the “anointed one,” and a Brigadier General … what could possibly go wrong? 😊

The following is going to get technical, but I will try to simplify it. Whether you are flying a Huey or a Chinook, the helicopter’s flight characteristics change dramatically when flying an external load. This is further complicated by the dissimilar flight characteristics of a Huey versus a Chinook.

Chinooks carrying external loads make their approaches longer, shallower, and slower than a conventional single-engine landing. External loads don’t respond well to sudden directional movements. Turns must be slow and precise. Abrupt changes in the helicopter’s direction are opposed by the inertia of the load — the load wants to continue in the direction it was originally going. A recalcitrant load’s objection to change can be detrimental to having a good day. We were about to have a bad day.

My transitioning pilot was doing great controlling the load pickup and the en route flying with the water tanker slung below. Things changed when it came time to make our approach to the side of the mountain. An awareness of ground speed — not airspeed — is fundamental. But when the ground is more than three thousand feet below, there is no frame of reference. As we started our descent and final approach to our pinpoint pinnacle destination, I commented to my co-pilot about his need to slow down. I made multiple intercom calls — “Slow down,” “You are coming in too hot,” “Whoa, cowboy” — to no avail. Being a former instructor pilot (IP), sometimes it is best to let them learn from their mistakes. That was MY MISTAKE! If I have a defense affecting my judgment, it’s this: no experienced pilot wants to forcefully take the controls of an aircraft from another highly competent pilot.

From no ground reference to instantaneous ground perception, our world changed. As we approached short final to the scout camp, he started to recognize his excess ground speed. The SIP had thousands of hours in a single-rotor aircraft, and his pre-conditioned single-rotor flying muscle memory took over. He forgot the first thing tandem-rotor pilots are taught in their transition course. He unexpectedly yanked back on the cyclic, throwing the aircraft into a severe nose-high position. This is referred to as a Huey quick stop. Unarmed Huey medevacs would fly fast into a spot, execute a quick stop, pick up the injured soldier, and leave.

The maneuver throws the helicopter nose-high, and the revolving rotor system pushes against the wind to abruptly stop forward movement. If you have ever extended your hand out of a car window while speeding down the highway: tilt your hand against the prevailing wind, and it tries to blow your arm backward. That’s a Huey quick stop. It is the ultimate No-No in a Chinook, especially when carrying a heavy load.

The Huey has one rotor system to carry the load. The Chinook has two — and needs both. The six intermeshing blades are mechanically separated at thirty degrees, with the overlapping aft rotor blades mounted higher. As the helicopter picks up speed, each rotor system automatically rotates forward, allowing the cargo frame to maintain a level flying profile. Each system provides equal lift. Lose the lift on one, and be prepared for the consequences.

Assuming you are reading this on a computer, put your right hand on the top right corner of your display. Put your left hand on the lower-left portion of your display. Both hands represent the two rotor systems, with a downward flow of air providing the helicopter’s lift and maneuverability. Tilt the computer screen forty-five degrees to the left: the rotors bite more air, and you go forward and faster.

Now, what happens when you tilt the computer screen forty-five degrees to the right? The front rotor system is now higher than the aft system. The downward airflow from the forward system blows its draft into the rear system. “Dirty” air destroys the aft rotor’s airflow and lifting capacity. The helicopter stops forward progress and starts falling like a homesick rock. And as discussed, the load continues to go where it was previously flying — now dragging the falling Chinook behind it.

We were just short of the sheer drop-off, and the mountain peak directly in front of us started racing toward our windshield. My co-pilot now realized the error of his excessive ground speed. Under normal circumstances, an experienced pilot would have made the prudent decision: nose over, pull in a little power, and make a go-around to try it again.

In this Ah! Shit! moment, a go-around didn’t happen. He executed a radical Huey quick stop, throwing us nose-high, killing our airspeed and load-carrying capacity. It was still 3,000 feet straight down.

I immediately jammed the cyclic forward to level the rotors and took over the flight controls.

The last visualization Pete and I vividly remember was looking out the windshield and seeing nothing but blue sky. Through our chin bubble, we watched the water trailer’s fenders swinging almost horizontally in front of us. The trailer’s forward momentum helped pull us over the pinnacle edge. Jim Reynolds said that while we were still falling through, the water trailer swinging forward barely avoided slamming into the side of the rock face. He estimated the clearance at five feet or less. There would have been no recovery from that impact.

There are three emergency electrical releases on the cargo hook, plus a manual release D-ring. Each pilot has one on his cyclic; the FE over the hole has one on his cabin-length master control cord — called the “pickle.” In unusual circumstances, if the FE determines the pilot can’t fix the condition, he has the authority to “airmail” the load, i.e., cut it loose. The pickle was lying next to Jim.

Respecting my co-pilot’s many hours of flying experience, I had not been “riding the controls” with him on our approach as I would have with a new student — but I did go into prepared mode the closer (and faster) we got to our destination. After taking the controls, I simultaneously kicked the directional pedals, both to stop us from flying into the rising hilltop and to align more directly with the current winds. The aircraft was shuddering almost violently as I finally regained our lift and control. The swinging load slowly began to abate its oscillations. There was no time to talk; my hands were full, but I fully expected the FE to airmail the load.

Tony, meanwhile, was ricocheting between windows in the dancing helicopter, trying to provide clearance instructions off the stone wall and the telephone poles. The pickle, normally at Jim’s side, was bouncing around the cargo area from the vibration and the unusual attitudes the helicopter went through during my recovery. It had bounced out of Jim’s reach. I had my finger on my jettison button, too. Fortunately, the gasping, underpowered A-model turbines and I finally got the free-swinging load settled, and Jim didn’t have to pull the manual release.

Once the errant load stopped throwing us around, I dropped off the water tank and landed next to it — to check for any apparent helicopter damage, and to change our underwear. 😊 Violent maneuvers like that can affect bladder control. 😊 Reliably, excess maneuvers will break the Lord mounts that hold the eleven sections of the rotor system’s driveshaft in place. Lord mounts are a design feature (designed to break) to absorb the driveshaft flexing under the power changes from the engines’ torquing. Bladder and bowel control is a medical issue. 😊

Safely on the ground is when humor took over. General Stewart came up to the walkway vantage point, oblivious to the reality of what had just happened. He was dancing like a kid at Six Flags, shaking everyone’s hand and exuberantly proclaiming on our intercom, “That was the greatest helicopter ride I have ever had! Thank you!”

No one said a word while he was leaving the aircraft.

As he left, I called on the intercom, “Chief, is the General disconnected?”

“Yes.”

Though I don’t remember my exact words, I made the debriefing statement to the co-pilot regarding his Huey quick stop: “If you ever do that again, and the helicopter doesn’t kill you, I will!”

To this day, I don’t think the co-pilot has a clue how close we came to a major catastrophe. Five feet from the load slamming into the side of the hill and falling 3,000 feet was too close for me.

It also continued the tradition, as covered in my previous stories: the closest anyone has come to killing me was by “friendly fire,” not the enemy. 😊

Didn’t understand some of the language or acronyms? There is a glossary that is updated weekly: “Dad to English … English to Dad.”

If you like my historical narratives, please pass my link on to others. And let me know how I am doing.

By

Joseph P Dougan

September 24, 2024

The following list was compiled ten years ago and published on Spacedoc.com sponsored by Dr. Duane Graveline.  Dr. Graveline, a former NASA astronaut and Air Force and Army flight surgeon, died from the effects of rhabdomyolysis, a severe muscle degeneration, a known side-effect of statins.

Revised:  September 2024

1. Vitamin D is synthesized from cholesterol by sunlight. 
2. Cholesterol is the precursor for a whole class of hormones known as the steroid hormones that are critical for life ... a primary component for most sex hormones, bile acids, aldosterone, cortisol, and calcitriol necessary for maintaining the proper calcium in our bodies. 
3. Cholesterol and fats are not related.
4. “There is no connection whatsoever between cholesterol in food and cholesterol in blood. And we have known that all along.  Cholesterol in the diet doesn’t matter at all unless you happen to be a chicken or a rabbit.” Ancel Keys (fabricator of the cholesterol myth)
5. Fats and cholesterol are moved through the system by lipoproteins
6. HDL, high density lipoprotein, (not cholesterol)
7. LDL, low density lipoprotein, (not cholesterol)
8. VLDL, very low-density lipoprotein, (not cholesterol)
9. VLDL’s are manufactured in the liver used to transport fat and cholesterol
10. LDL’s are the reduction of VLDL’s after the fats and cholesterol have been delivered
11. VLDL’s are raised by eating carbohydrates
12. High fat diets lower VLDL’s ... check out the results from the Atkin’s diet studies or any of the other high protein low carbohydrate diets
13. Regardless of the variability of VLDL’s, LDL levels remain relatively constant
14. It has never been proven that saturated fats raise or lower LDL’s.  From Dr William Castelli, Director of the Framingham Study [the largest continuous study of its kind in the world] states that the more saturated fat one ate, the more cholesterol one ate, the more calories one ate, the lower people’s serum cholesterol (LDL).  Dr George Mann, New England Journal of Medicine, regarding the diet-heart hypothesis: “The greatest scam in the history of medicine.”
15. Statins block the Mevalonate pathway in the liver affecting the distribution of other important items necessary for healthy cell production and operation.  The most notable is CoQ10, a primary support for heart cell growth and operation.  Reduce cholesterol synthesis by 50% and you will also reduce CoQ10 by 50%.  The heart is the largest single user of CoQ10.  If you take statins, you must take CoQ10.  
Statin drugs are now known to suppress the nuclear factor-kappa B response and thereby open a veritable Pandora’s box of unpredictable consequences.  
Statin drugs also inhibit dolichol, which is vital to the intricate process of neuropeptide formation and results in another broad range of potential behavioral manifestations. 
16. After an eleven-year study, the Surgeon General’s office could not find evidence to support the diet-heart hypothesis i.e., saturated fat and heart disease
17. Even taking the best possible figures from selected trials and painting them in the best possible light…if you took a statin for thirty years, you could expect five to six months of increased life, and that is only for men with pre-existing heart disease.  For women, taking a statin is pointless and cannot extend your life by even one day. 
18. The French have the highest rate of saturated fat consumption in Europe (Switzerland #2) yet have the lowest rate of heart disease (Switzerland #2)
19. After World War II, Switzerland’s fat consumption increased by 20%.  Heart disease fell. 
20. The PROSPER trials (as published in The Lancet) showed that though there was a reduction in CVD, the increase in cancer deaths completely offset the slight decrease in CVD. 
21. Professor Michael Oliver, Finland study ten-year follow-up, found that people who followed the controlled cholesterol-lowering diet were twice as likely to die of heart disease as those who didn’t. 
22. High cholesterol is not a risk factor for strokes. 
23. The cholesterol levels in Japan since WWII have risen by 20%, but the rate of strokes has fallen by 600%
24. Framingham Study: A direct association exists between falling cholesterol levels and increased CVD death rates. 
25. No controlled, randomized study has ever been done in which raising HDL levels has reduced the rate of heart disease. 
26. Veins do not develop atherosclerosis unless they are removed and used to replace an artery. 
27. The brain contains over 25% of the total amount of cholesterol in the body, and cholesterol is over 2% of the total weight of the brain.  If you want the brain to function, it requires cholesterol.  Consequently, the brain synthesizes its own cholesterol.  Most liver-generated cholesterol cannot breach the blood-brain barrier. 
28. Low cholesterol levels lead to reduced serotonin [an anti-depressant] levels in the brain
29. From the Royal College of Psychiatry paper titled “Low Cholesterol May Indicate a Risk of Suicide” … Lower cholesterol levels were related to higher levels of self-reported impulsivity…. 
30. Statin drugs have been linked to over 300 side effects ... primary known statin side effects: Type two diabetes, polyneuropathy e.g., sensation changes, memory, speech impairment, joint pain, muscle pain & muscle damage (widely reported), fatigue, liver damage, cancer, cataracts, sexual dysfunction, serious degenerative muscle tissue condition (rhabdomyolysis).
31. 2012, FDA Adds New Warning Labels to Statin Drugs ... Liver damage, Memory loss and confusion, Type 2 diabetes, Muscle weakness. 
32. 900 studies that show statin drugs are dangerous. 
33. In forty years of examining the link between saturated fat, cholesterol, and heart disease, NO direct role of these substances in the causation of cardiovascular disease has ever been established.  At best, it is still a hypothesis. 
34. CHD deaths have been declining – which includes non-fatal disease – CHD is not declining; it is remaining steady or even increasing i.e., people are having just as many heart attacks as ever – if not more – but emergency medical treatment has become increasingly adept at saving their lives.  Framingham Study: “Our data indicate that the decline in mortality was primarily the result of improved survival among persons with new cases of cardiovascular disease, rather than the result of a substantial decrease in the incidence of the disease.”
35. The AHA (American Heart Association) earns more than $650 million/yr primarily from endorsements and licensing fees (drug companies).  … From the Wall Street Journal and stated by Jan L Breslow, president of AHA, “Our philosophy was that to get more money from politicians, we had to show that good things were happening.”
36. High cholesterol levels have been associated with increased mortality before the age of fifty, but after this age cholesterol levels in adults showed NO relationship with CVD, stroke, or total mortality.  Framingham Study: Those whose cholesterol levels had decreased during the study experienced an increase in both total CVD and mortality. 
37. Muldoon’s reports in medical literature documenting cognitive impairment in 100% of statin users if sufficiently sensitive testing is done. 
38. 12,000 Osaka residents aged 40 – 69: every 39mg/dl drop in blood cholesterol was associated with a 21% increase in overall mortality.  The lowest overall mortality rate was in patients whose TC was between 200 – 259mg/dl. The highest death rate was observed in those whose TC were below 150mg/dl
39. MRFIT, 36,0000 men between 35 – 57: Those in the lowest cholesterol category, <140 mg/dl, had a higher all-cause death rate than all but the very highest category.  The lowest mortality was seen across the 160 – 219 mg/dl
40. Use caution when reviewing mortality results: total mortality vs. CVD mortality should take precedence.  If you are dead, you are dead regardless of the cause.  Overall total mortality begins to rise when blood cholesterol drops below 180 mg/dl. Low cholesterol showed significant associations with death from cancer, liver diseases, and mental diseases.  “The low cholesterol effect occurs even among younger respondents, contradicting the previous assessments among cohorts of older people that this is a proxy or marker for frailty occurring with age.”
41. NHLICB, special conference: Evidence from a multitude of studies was presented linking low blood cholesterol levels to an increase in various cancers, hemorrhagic stroke, respiratory and digestive diseases, and violent death. 
42. Muldoon: Low cholesterol levels can impair normal brain functions … mean total reaction time of men in the lowest category of blood cholesterol (avg 152mg/dl) was 12.7 milliseconds slower than that of the highest category (avg 242mg/dl). 
43. The Japanese experience a low rate of heart disease and the longest average life expectancy in the world.  By 2000 total fat and animal fat intake in Japan had risen over 250% from 1961 levels. 
44. In 1960 the leading cause of death in Japan was stroke.  Since both stroke mortality and incidence decreased dramatically, animal fat and protein intake markedly increased, blood cholesterol levels increased, while dietary salt intake and blood pressure levels decreased. 
45. Japan studies: 1984 -2001, people with the highest intake of animal fat had a 62% lower risk of ischemic stroke deaths.  The highest quartile of saturated fat intake had a 70% lower risk of hemorrhagic stroke than those in the lowest quartile. 
46. Framingham Study: “…in Framingham, MA, the more saturated fat one ate, the more cholesterol one ate, the more calories one ate, the lower the person’s serum cholesterol … we found that the people who ate the most cholesterol ate the most saturated fat, ate the most calories, weighed the least, and were the most physically active.”  
47. NCEP “experts” (funded by drug companies) cite compelling evidence and recommend LDL levels less than 70 mg/dl. Researchers however looking for the “compelling” evidence stated: …”no clinical trial subgroup analyses or valid cohort or case-control analyses suggesting that the degree to which LDL cholesterol responds to a statin independently predicts the degree of cardiovascular risk reduction.”
48. Statin trials are controlled by drug companies who exclude patients e.g., women of childbearing age, history of drug or alcohol abuse, poor mental function, heart failure, arrhythmia, and other cardiac conditions.  Would you be allowed into a trial?  This is hardly a sampling of the people whom these drugs will affect the most…. 
49. 51% of prescription drugs are found to have serious side effects not detected prior to regulatory approval. 
50. I am finished, if this is not enough to convince you, fifty facts more won’t make any difference. 

If you like my narratives, please pass on my link to others.  And, let me know how I am doing.