The author served as a line Grunt and Scout/Sniper in Nam. I’m enclosing a poem he wrote about his Dust-off. May God always hold in his loving hands the living and dead of those aircrews, for if it were not for them, he would not be here today.
The Sweetest Sound*
Not songs of choice nor lover’s voice will ever compare
To the sweet sound of rotor blades as they beat through thick, humid air
I am a Vietnam vet. I served in the Infantry
The word Grunt refers to men like me
I have seen war at its worst and men at their best
Sadly, I’ve wrapped brothers in ponchos and sent them to their final rest
Now, many years later, as I lie here in bed
The visions come back to race through my head
The scars on my body will forever remain
As I touch them, once again, I feel the pain
Once again, I find myself on the ground
With blood, my blood, all around
As I lay there in unconscionable pain and fear
Came the sweet sound of rotor blades as my Dust-Off drew near
When, at long last, I reach my final day
I will look back on my life and say
I’ve heard beautiful songs of choice and the sweetness in my lover’s voice,
And yet, these cannot compare
To the sweet, sweet sounds of rotor blades
As they beat through thick, humid air.
*By Ernie Smiling Hawk, approval to use obtained from Jim Van Doren
*****
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CherriesWriter - Vietnam War website 
That was my first job after flight school—Dustoff 707 out of Quang Tri and Phu Bai. I still remember one hoist mission where we hauled up 2 WIA GIs, one was a 2LT. We had turned and headed home when the LT crawled forward, threw his arms around me with a kiss and a hug! Good thing I wasn’t on the controls.
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“Return To Service”
By Wiiiiam Gruendler, C Co., 1/20, 11Bde AMERICAL
On the ragged edge of the world I’ll roam, And the home of the Grunt shall be my home, And a bunch of bones on a jungle trail The end of my trail . . . who knows?Who knows!
I’m dreaming to-night by the TeeVee, alone in my plastic bower, My phone is charging beside me, my laptop flat on my knee; But I’m not in the mood for scrolling, I haven’t watched for an hour;
Body and brain I’m weary, weary of PTSD; Weary of crushing a longing that little I understand, For I thought that my tour was ended, I thought I had earned my rest; But oh, it’s stronger than life is, the call of that war-scarred land! And I turn to the ‘Nam in my trouble, as a child to its mother’s breast.
Here in my den now quiet; a drizzle taps on the pane; There’s comfort and ease and plenty (the disability check!) – All that a man might long for, fight for and seek in vain, Movies, the Web and music, pleasure a highway wreck.
Peace! I thought I had gained it, I swore that my tale was toll’d … By my hair grey or gone I swore it, by eyes slow to see; Yet what is it to me? Tonight, tonight as of old, Out of the dark I hear Her – Vietnam calling to me.
And I’m flying in fiery formation that might the devil deploy; My hand is athrill on my weapon, the Huey bounds like a bird. Hark to the rumble of rockets! Here in my La-Z-Boy Eager and tense I’m straining — isn’t it most absurd?
Into the churn and propwash, now grass that hisses and stings Leap I, psyched for the struggle, fury and fume and roar; Cobra’s spitting explosives — Oh, war’s a sport for kings! Life on the twist of a bullet – in Deep Kimchi once more!
How I thrill and I vision! There in my camp NDP; Red and gold cigarette-glow, night ambush on the trail; Scent of the palms and silence, flashbacks of LSD, Body alert with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream:
Banquet of Pound Cake and Peaches! moment of joy divine; The poncho is hot and gluey; coffee’s nearing the boil! Never a wolf was so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . .
The Re-Up Bird calling, “Ha!”- calls to her native soil.What do I want with real food? Can I eat any more? Can I sleep as I used to? . . . Oh, how I hate this life!
Give me the Great Uncertain, exploded land for a floor,The shelter half for a roof-beam. Incoming! Use my knife!
Something to fight and die for — the limpid leech of the trees,The Empire of Empty Lifers, dunes where Sir Charlie dwell; Big things, real things, live things . . . nodding out, catching Zs … How I ache for Vietnam! “Five and a wakeup” — Hell!!
Am I too old, I wonder? Can I take one trip more? Go to the great A Shau Valley, running with human blood? Peaks that pierce the cloud cover, paddies I must explore, Villes of a thousand foot trails, crossings of creeks a-flood.
Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and cave and rain? Whispering each to the other: “Many a moon has passed. Where has he gone, our lover? Will he come back again? Waste with his fires our jungle, zipped in a bag at last?”
Yes, I’ll go back to Vietnam, back to the thousand-yard stare, Back to the firebase and Phu Bai, back to the rice-covered sea. Old am I! what does it matter? Nothing I would not dare! Give me a hill to conquer – Death , if it’s meant to be!
I will fly back to Vietnam, feeble and blind and lame; Pull bunker guard for the Arty, FSB, LZ; Play with the NVA bastards, boasting my blood and name: I will DEROS to Vietnam, for she is calling me.
Then give to me weapon and Alice, C-rats, grenade; Give to me socks, my canteens, smokes, a full bandolier; Take me over the Typhoon, out to the bush: got it made! Turn me free-fire like a savage , lest I die in the rear!
I know the AO I’m seeking, up by the DMZ. Down in the Mekong Delta, Pleiku, it’s Cam Ranh Bay; Maybe I’ll get there, — maybe: death is set by decree . . .Hark! it’s Vietnam calling! Now must I go away.
Gone to the War that waits for me; Gone where my blood and Charlie’s be; Gone to The NAM her great death throes; Gone to my fate . . . God knows; God knows!
( … with apologies to Robert W. Service)–“…ye must be born again.”
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Only God and these brave men know what hell was like over there!
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Thank you for the poem. It hit me squarely in the heart. I was a Dustoff pilot in RVN from Oct. ’70 to Oct ’71 in III Corps. (Long Binh) There was no greater feeling of reward or accomplishment than the feeling picking up a wounded hero and getting them to and EVAC hospital or aid station. I turn 76 in a couple of months. The year spend in RVN is one of which I most proud and most blessed. Thank you, again.
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Beautifully composed and very true, as I can confirm from a similar experience.
Jamie Thompson C 5/7 1st Cav 1970-71
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Beautifully composed and very true, as I can confirm from a similar experience.
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The sound of a (slick) huey is unmistakeable to us who have heard them and rode in them. I still pause and search the skies every time I hear one. Thenkfully I was never medi-vaced , but knew several who were. These pilots were the best and will forever have a special place in my heart. Thank You to all who served and God Bless the ones who never made it home as I did. Frank Guy Americal Division Fire base Professional Chu Lai1971.
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I was a medic with Chu Lai Dust off and think this was very nice. Thank you for your service and glad you made it back.
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Evocative poem! I was also in the infantry but never got hit. Many of my mates did, and carried stretchers to those birds. The saddest time when one man died before they got to the medevac.
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The sound is a trigger. The poem brings tears to my eyes as I remember that sound like other Nam vets remember it. A good sound and bad memories, both. I heard a huey coming while leaving the Vietnam War Memorial in DC once. I became a puddle. Welcome home to all that made it.
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Definitely catches the moment repeated throughout the country to so many. Thank you for this reminder of that beautiful sound.
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Thank you for that beautiful poem. Today was my husband’s birthday (CW4 Milton G Kreger) DustOff pilot in Vietnam and in Nation Guard Cobra, etc. It was a hard day as he passed May 2023. Thanks for remembering those brave men (pilots and crew).
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Love the poem. As a dustoff hurting grunt myself I can relate. Thank you!
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Very moving. Here is another moving song: https://www.c-span.org/clip/public-affairs-event/user-clip-til-the-white-dove-flies-alone/4456157
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Thanks for posting the link.
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I couldn’t agree more. There was nothing more welcoming than the sound of incoming birds when you were in need. The cavalry has arrived!!! 1/6 198th LIB 1970
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enjoyed the poem. I can never not look up when I hear rotor blades..until the end when I head to The Great LZ in the Sky.
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USNR, I was seriously wounded May 1969, Cua Viet (Northern I Corps) and I will always remember the sound, even in the heavily sandbagged bunker.
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those who heard this sound will forever look up when we hear it
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very well represented. Those of us who have heard that sound will always look up when we hear it
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Strong words. Been there, done that.
Howard Robertson
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I’d like to print this poem in my condo newsletter where about 2,200 folks reside. Of those folks, many are Veterans. I’m their military correspondent and also served for 32 years in the Army. My brother, a Marine rifleman was KIA in 1965 in ‘Nam — and my longtime partner recently passed from five Agent Orange conditions; he served in the Army for 22 years.
Please let me know if this is possible, I’ll ensure I provided credit to the author. I’ve received your posts for many years.
Cerie Kimball, ckimball70@gmail.com
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Go ahead and share, Cerie.
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Thank you so very much.
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I really like this poem. I was a sailor, – not a grunt. But, I think the emotions expressed are a good tribute to those grunts on the ground. 🙏🙂🫡⚓️🇺🇸
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if I’m not mistaken, the author is of Cherokee heritage has more poetry online.
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SO OTHERS MAY LIVE
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