Some Fiction For Interest

Here's a little fiction.

It's not polished. It's just a draft. Some of you might like it. Some
of you might identify with it.

BWB
__________________________________________________ ______





It was the most God-awful sound I ever heard, but I couldn't
figure out what it was. This loud drone beat me in the head as if a
sledge hammer were pounding my entire body from front, then behind,
then from the front again.

What the hell was going on? I struggled to think, to see, to
feel. Was I being electrocuted? What was that piercing, killing
sound? I knew it was not good. It even sounded diabolical, but how
could I stop it? How could I even figure out what it was? I strained
to peer but my eyes were useless. All I could see was a wall of red.
All I could hear was that loud sound of: "Bang-bang-bang-bang,"
hammering me in the head every second.

The red was confusing. Why wasn't it black, or white or
clear? Christ, what the hell is going on? Where am I? What is this?

I heard a scream from somewhere, a long way off. It almost
sounded like it was coming from the end of a large tin water-pipe. It
came again, then a lower pitched scream down the same pipe. Am I
asleep? I don't think so.

I struggled for consciousness. Things wouldn't come quick
enough. That sound? The "Bang-bang-bang-bang," every second or so.
Then it changes a bit. Now it's a piercing "bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep"
at the end of that tin pipe. At least I'm not being bashed by that
sound anymore. I just simply hear it. It's familiar for some reason,
but what is that reason? What is going on?

I know that sound. God, what is happening, where am I?
Christ, I have to figure this out. I'm almost awake now. I can feel
that I am, but I can't see. The sound isn't right. I know it's not
RIGHT at all. But why not?

What the hell is that wall of RED I see? The screams become
more clear then I hear a rifle pop. It too is at the end of a long
tin pipe. I hear a couple other pops from things that sound like hand
guns ... way down the pipe.

Where did all this come from? What are these familiar noises?
I don't get it, but I feel like I better start making sense of it soon
or I might have bigger problems. Something is horribly wrong. I feel
like I've done something that I'm guilty for. I feel like I'm about
to go to the principal's office because I just kicked the **** out of
somebody, but I don't know who. The world feels like it's whirling
around in circles.

Now I can sort of feel the forces on my body, but that damn
"Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep," just continues to pierce my ears! It
pierces my brain, my nerves, my soul. The sound of rifles gets louder
but doesn't seem to overcome that damn bleeping. I hear more
screaming, then I hear a voice in my head. "Captain, Duke is dead.
The son's a bitches got him. And, Pete! His leg is gone and he's
bleeding out. The femoral artery Captain! I can't get to him Sir,
and the left half of his head...Christ, I didn't know that brains
looked like that."

I struggle for consciousness but I just can't get a clear view
of what's going on. My mind is scrambled. This can't be a dream.
What is all that red? What is that God-damn bleeping sound that is
drilling me? Why doesn't someone shut that thing off? Nothing is
clear. Nothing makes sense. But-I do feel that it's paramount that I
figure this **** out, and figure it out as soon as I can.

Then out of nowhere my mind seems to "just return." I didn't
do anything, it just came back on it's own. Men in combat have this
happen a lot. They are completely disoriented and the out of nowhere
their senses just seem to miraculously return. It's a common thing in
combat. I watched a buddy of mine once who didn't even know his name.
He could walk around, look at things (he couldn't speak), seem
somewhat normal although he was GONE. Then all of a sudden, he's be
back. He'd return to the world.

I wiped the blood from my face. I was back and things weren't
good. I wiped the blood from my eyes as I heard the low rotor rpm
horn bleeping-bleeping-bleeping. For Christ's sake, I have to see.
We've had the **** shot out of us. What the hell is going on? Is the
main rotor gone? Has it stopped? Are we dropping like a brick into
the jungle? I wipe my left hand across my eyes to blot up some blood
into my Nomex flight gloves. It's like taking a paper towel to a
windshield that is completely slaughtered by bug-guts.

If you drive down a road and hit a million grasshoppers and
their guts splatter all over the window to the point you can't see,
then you take a paper towel and smear it all around so you get a tiny
little port-hole, you can view the world out of it. That's how the
world looked to me while we were spinning out of control and dropping
like a brick into the jungle.

I could hear more clearly now. I had no idea why Gil was
shooting that damn M-60 while we were spinning out of control. I
wiped my eyes once more on the back of the glove of my left hand. The
world was spinning and that damn low-rotor rpm horn was pulsing and
piercing my head to the point of insanity. Christ--- I'd pull the
circuit breaker on that prick if I could find it without dying. But
screw that, I have to see what the hell is really going on and bail
this out if I can.

There it is! It's all there in tones of gray on the
helicopter instrument-panel in front of me. Every engine gauge is
setting on zero!

But, thank God we have 90% main rotor rpm. Damn... I might be
able to fix this crap. I drop the collective and watch the rpm whirl
up past 95%...then all the way up to 110% as the autorotation spools
me back to the NON-BLEEPING zone. God damn, I hate that horn! I'm
going to cut those wires if I live through this.

I jam the pedals a bit to get the nose straight and I'm a
glider pilot just flying an airplane, but an airplane with a 4 to 1
glide ratio. We do have some altitude. We're lucky. The clock may
have not run out, quite yet. There's a clearing up ahead, someone's
even popped smoke. Interesting how "gone" my brain is, purple, green,
red smoke? I can't tell what it is. It's just smoke. The blood in my
eyes makes the whole world look red anyway.

The gooks are shooting the **** out of us. I hear the ping,
ping, ping of the bullets going through the chopper. My right
Plexiglas window disintegrates and fragments hit what is left of my
helmet. The front windscreen was gone when I came back from my
dementia. I hope that the equal opportunity employees of Bell did
their job when they bolted this "SLICK" together. It's a hell of a
machine. This old Huey's been hit before but it's never been turned
to Swiss cheese like this. I can feel there's something wrong with
the lift of the rotorsystem, but, what the hell, it's flying. I'm not
dropping like a Roll's Royce engine strapped to my back.

The blood clouds my vision once more and I wipe it away. I
hear Gil screaming in the back as he blows away an endless stream of
rounds through that M-60. There are some things in combat that you
never forget. I had an instant to turn my head right and try to see
what the hell Gil was shooting at. I saw nothing but jungle. I
cranked my head around to look at him. I saw a crazed man with eyes
the size of silver dollars, blood running out of his helmet and his
mouth in a contorted geometry that looked impossible to duplicate.

Gil keys up his mic, "I'll kill everyone of these son's a
bitches Captain! I swear to God. The *******s blew Duke's head the
**** off."

"Just hang tight Gil. I'll probably slam this bitch down on
the LZ ahead. I'm sure they've punched holes in our rotorblades.
I'll never get enough lift to bail this **** out of the flare. We
have to be full of holes man...so hang on."

"Okay, Captain, gotcha. If you can't bail this **** out, then
see ya in hell Sir. Can't be much different than being in country."

I keyed up again, "****, I'd give anything to be out of gas at
this point. Too bad that 'Ops' juiced us back on hill 83. If it
weren't for the gas, I think we'd have a fightin' chance Gil."

"Don't worry Captain. If anybody can fly this pile of
Colorado Cool Aid, tin-can muther-****er into a safe landing at a
'hot' LZ, it's you Sir. If we don't get creamed, I just wonder what
the rest of my life will be like in the Hanoi Hilton. Hey maybe that
bitch, Hanoi Jane Fonda will come around an flash us Sir."

A bullet in my brain, blood flowing down my face from a
lacerated forehead and my eyes red with flowing-red-goo, I had to
grin. It was just the way it was. The whole war was a piece of crap.
All of it. Fighting people we didn't hate, killing people we had no
idea about. It was all a pile of ****. Then you have some celebrity
like Jane Fonda, traitorous bitch. This had to be a cartoon.

I landed that UH-1H that day in a rice field that had been
owned by a family for thousands of years. They didn't know what
government was in control that day. All they knew was that they had
owned that little piece of earth for some 5000 years. In fact they
didn't even know that. It was a given. They had passed that little
plot of land on from generation to generation through hundreds of
wars. This war was no different in principle. It was only different
in technology. It was the 20th century and the machines were more
capable of killing. The smoke I saw was them cooking a pig. It was a
sacred and religious day. Although a holiday to them, it was just
another day for us to kill people, or be killed.

We were lucky, they were "Friendy's" and hid us until a Jolly
Green came in and picked us up two hours later. They even fed us some
of their pig. It was Friday the 13th.

BWB

Bill: While you might say that it is a draft and could use a little polish,
and I might agree with you, I nevertheless was glued to the CRT reading it.
I like your style. I kept dumping collective for the last half looking for
a clearing. You need to tackle a book. You may be the next Tom Clancy
Stu Fields

"Badwater Bill" wrote in message
...
Here's a little fiction.

It's not polished. It's just a draft. Some of you might like it. Some
of you might identify with it.

BWB
__________________________________________________ ______





It was the most God-awful sound I ever heard, but I couldn't
figure out what it was. This loud drone beat me in the head as if a
sledge hammer were pounding my entire body from front, then behind,
then from the front again.

What the hell was going on? I struggled to think, to see, to
feel. Was I being electrocuted? What was that piercing, killing
sound? I knew it was not good. It even sounded diabolical, but how
could I stop it? How could I even figure out what it was? I strained
to peer but my eyes were useless. All I could see was a wall of red.
All I could hear was that loud sound of: "Bang-bang-bang-bang,"
hammering me in the head every second.

The red was confusing. Why wasn't it black, or white or
clear? Christ, what the hell is going on? Where am I? What is this?

I heard a scream from somewhere, a long way off. It almost
sounded like it was coming from the end of a large tin water-pipe. It
came again, then a lower pitched scream down the same pipe. Am I
asleep? I don't think so.

I struggled for consciousness. Things wouldn't come quick
enough. That sound? The "Bang-bang-bang-bang," every second or so.
Then it changes a bit. Now it's a piercing "bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep"
at the end of that tin pipe. At least I'm not being bashed by that
sound anymore. I just simply hear it. It's familiar for some reason,
but what is that reason? What is going on?

I know that sound. God, what is happening, where am I?
Christ, I have to figure this out. I'm almost awake now. I can feel
that I am, but I can't see. The sound isn't right. I know it's not
RIGHT at all. But why not?

What the hell is that wall of RED I see? The screams become
more clear then I hear a rifle pop. It too is at the end of a long
tin pipe. I hear a couple other pops from things that sound like hand
guns ... way down the pipe.

Where did all this come from? What are these familiar noises?
I don't get it, but I feel like I better start making sense of it soon
or I might have bigger problems. Something is horribly wrong. I feel
like I've done something that I'm guilty for. I feel like I'm about
to go to the principal's office because I just kicked the **** out of
somebody, but I don't know who. The world feels like it's whirling
around in circles.

Now I can sort of feel the forces on my body, but that damn
"Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep," just continues to pierce my ears! It
pierces my brain, my nerves, my soul. The sound of rifles gets louder
but doesn't seem to overcome that damn bleeping. I hear more
screaming, then I hear a voice in my head. "Captain, Duke is dead.
The son's a bitches got him. And, Pete! His leg is gone and he's
bleeding out. The femoral artery Captain! I can't get to him Sir,
and the left half of his head...Christ, I didn't know that brains
looked like that."

I struggle for consciousness but I just can't get a clear view
of what's going on. My mind is scrambled. This can't be a dream.
What is all that red? What is that God-damn bleeping sound that is
drilling me? Why doesn't someone shut that thing off? Nothing is
clear. Nothing makes sense. But-I do feel that it's paramount that I
figure this **** out, and figure it out as soon as I can.

Then out of nowhere my mind seems to "just return." I didn't
do anything, it just came back on it's own. Men in combat have this
happen a lot. They are completely disoriented and the out of nowhere
their senses just seem to miraculously return. It's a common thing in
combat. I watched a buddy of mine once who didn't even know his name.
He could walk around, look at things (he couldn't speak), seem
somewhat normal although he was GONE. Then all of a sudden, he's be
back. He'd return to the world.

I wiped the blood from my face. I was back and things weren't
good. I wiped the blood from my eyes as I heard the low rotor rpm
horn bleeping-bleeping-bleeping. For Christ's sake, I have to see.
We've had the **** shot out of us. What the hell is going on? Is the
main rotor gone? Has it stopped? Are we dropping like a brick into
the jungle? I wipe my left hand across my eyes to blot up some blood
into my Nomex flight gloves. It's like taking a paper towel to a
windshield that is completely slaughtered by bug-guts.

If you drive down a road and hit a million grasshoppers and
their guts splatter all over the window to the point you can't see,
then you take a paper towel and smear it all around so you get a tiny
little port-hole, you can view the world out of it. That's how the
world looked to me while we were spinning out of control and dropping
like a brick into the jungle.

I could hear more clearly now. I had no idea why Gil was
shooting that damn M-60 while we were spinning out of control. I
wiped my eyes once more on the back of the glove of my left hand. The
world was spinning and that damn low-rotor rpm horn was pulsing and
piercing my head to the point of insanity. Christ--- I'd pull the
circuit breaker on that prick if I could find it without dying. But
screw that, I have to see what the hell is really going on and bail
this out if I can.

There it is! It's all there in tones of gray on the
helicopter instrument-panel in front of me. Every engine gauge is
setting on zero!

But, thank God we have 90% main rotor rpm. Damn... I might be
able to fix this crap. I drop the collective and watch the rpm whirl
up past 95%...then all the way up to 110% as the autorotation spools
me back to the NON-BLEEPING zone. God damn, I hate that horn! I'm
going to cut those wires if I live through this.

I jam the pedals a bit to get the nose straight and I'm a
glider pilot just flying an airplane, but an airplane with a 4 to 1
glide ratio. We do have some altitude. We're lucky. The clock may
have not run out, quite yet. There's a clearing up ahead, someone's
even popped smoke. Interesting how "gone" my brain is, purple, green,
red smoke? I can't tell what it is. It's just smoke. The blood in my
eyes makes the whole world look red anyway.

The gooks are shooting the **** out of us. I hear the ping,
ping, ping of the bullets going through the chopper. My right
Plexiglas window disintegrates and fragments hit what is left of my
helmet. The front windscreen was gone when I came back from my
dementia. I hope that the equal opportunity employees of Bell did
their job when they bolted this "SLICK" together. It's a hell of a
machine. This old Huey's been hit before but it's never been turned
to Swiss cheese like this. I can feel there's something wrong with
the lift of the rotorsystem, but, what the hell, it's flying. I'm not
dropping like a Roll's Royce engine strapped to my back.

The blood clouds my vision once more and I wipe it away. I
hear Gil screaming in the back as he blows away an endless stream of
rounds through that M-60. There are some things in combat that you
never forget. I had an instant to turn my head right and try to see
what the hell Gil was shooting at. I saw nothing but jungle. I
cranked my head around to look at him. I saw a crazed man with eyes
the size of silver dollars, blood running out of his helmet and his
mouth in a contorted geometry that looked impossible to duplicate.

Gil keys up his mic, "I'll kill everyone of these son's a
bitches Captain! I swear to God. The *******s blew Duke's head the
**** off."

"Just hang tight Gil. I'll probably slam this bitch down on
the LZ ahead. I'm sure they've punched holes in our rotorblades.
I'll never get enough lift to bail this **** out of the flare. We
have to be full of holes man...so hang on."

"Okay, Captain, gotcha. If you can't bail this **** out, then
see ya in hell Sir. Can't be much different than being in country."

I keyed up again, "****, I'd give anything to be out of gas at
this point. Too bad that 'Ops' juiced us back on hill 83. If it
weren't for the gas, I think we'd have a fightin' chance Gil."

"Don't worry Captain. If anybody can fly this pile of
Colorado Cool Aid, tin-can muther-****er into a safe landing at a
'hot' LZ, it's you Sir. If we don't get creamed, I just wonder what
the rest of my life will be like in the Hanoi Hilton. Hey maybe that
bitch, Hanoi Jane Fonda will come around an flash us Sir."

A bullet in my brain, blood flowing down my face from a
lacerated forehead and my eyes red with flowing-red-goo, I had to
grin. It was just the way it was. The whole war was a piece of crap.
All of it. Fighting people we didn't hate, killing people we had no
idea about. It was all a pile of ****. Then you have some celebrity
like Jane Fonda, traitorous bitch. This had to be a cartoon.

I landed that UH-1H that day in a rice field that had been
owned by a family for thousands of years. They didn't know what
government was in control that day. All they knew was that they had
owned that little piece of earth for some 5000 years. In fact they
didn't even know that. It was a given. They had passed that little
plot of land on from generation to generation through hundreds of
wars. This war was no different in principle. It was only different
in technology. It was the 20th century and the machines were more
capable of killing. The smoke I saw was them cooking a pig. It was a
sacred and religious day. Although a holiday to them, it was just
another day for us to kill people, or be killed.

We were lucky, they were "Friendy's" and hid us until a Jolly
Green came in and picked us up two hours later. They even fed us some
of their pig. It was Friday the 13th.

BWB

Stu & Kathy Fields wrote:

Bill: While you might say that it is a draft and could use a little polish,
and I might agree with you, I nevertheless was glued to the CRT reading it.
I like your style. I kept dumping collective for the last half looking for
a clearing. You need to tackle a book. You may be the next Tom Clancy
Stu Fields


And get him to show you the picture of him parked with the R22 on the
Whitehouse lawn, just as a protest, after being knocked off for parking
it next to that lake.

That's a story in itself.

Fact or fiction?

rm




"Badwater Bill" wrote in message
...

Here's a little fiction.

It's not polished. It's just a draft. Some of you might like it. Some
of you might identify with it.

BWB
________________________________________________ ________





It was the most God-awful sound I ever heard, but I couldn't
figure out what it was. This loud drone beat me in the head as if a
sledge hammer were pounding my entire body from front, then behind,
then from the front again.

What the hell was going on? I struggled to think, to see, to
feel. Was I being electrocuted? What was that piercing, killing
sound? I knew it was not good. It even sounded diabolical, but how
could I stop it? How could I even figure out what it was? I strained
to peer but my eyes were useless. All I could see was a wall of red.
All I could hear was that loud sound of: "Bang-bang-bang-bang,"
hammering me in the head every second.

The red was confusing. Why wasn't it black, or white or
clear? Christ, what the hell is going on? Where am I? What is this?

I heard a scream from somewhere, a long way off. It almost
sounded like it was coming from the end of a large tin water-pipe. It
came again, then a lower pitched scream down the same pipe. Am I
asleep? I don't think so.

I struggled for consciousness. Things wouldn't come quick
enough. That sound? The "Bang-bang-bang-bang," every second or so.
Then it changes a bit. Now it's a piercing "bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep"
at the end of that tin pipe. At least I'm not being bashed by that
sound anymore. I just simply hear it. It's familiar for some reason,
but what is that reason? What is going on?

I know that sound. God, what is happening, where am I?
Christ, I have to figure this out. I'm almost awake now. I can feel
that I am, but I can't see. The sound isn't right. I know it's not
RIGHT at all. But why not?

What the hell is that wall of RED I see? The screams become
more clear then I hear a rifle pop. It too is at the end of a long
tin pipe. I hear a couple other pops from things that sound like hand
guns ... way down the pipe.

Where did all this come from? What are these familiar noises?
I don't get it, but I feel like I better start making sense of it soon
or I might have bigger problems. Something is horribly wrong. I feel
like I've done something that I'm guilty for. I feel like I'm about
to go to the principal's office because I just kicked the **** out of
somebody, but I don't know who. The world feels like it's whirling
around in circles.

Now I can sort of feel the forces on my body, but that damn
"Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep," just continues to pierce my ears! It
pierces my brain, my nerves, my soul. The sound of rifles gets louder
but doesn't seem to overcome that damn bleeping. I hear more
screaming, then I hear a voice in my head. "Captain, Duke is dead.
The son's a bitches got him. And, Pete! His leg is gone and he's
bleeding out. The femoral artery Captain! I can't get to him Sir,
and the left half of his head...Christ, I didn't know that brains
looked like that."

I struggle for consciousness but I just can't get a clear view
of what's going on. My mind is scrambled. This can't be a dream.
What is all that red? What is that God-damn bleeping sound that is
drilling me? Why doesn't someone shut that thing off? Nothing is
clear. Nothing makes sense. But-I do feel that it's paramount that I
figure this **** out, and figure it out as soon as I can.

Then out of nowhere my mind seems to "just return." I didn't
do anything, it just came back on it's own. Men in combat have this
happen a lot. They are completely disoriented and the out of nowhere
their senses just seem to miraculously return. It's a common thing in
combat. I watched a buddy of mine once who didn't even know his name.
He could walk around, look at things (he couldn't speak), seem
somewhat normal although he was GONE. Then all of a sudden, he's be
back. He'd return to the world.

I wiped the blood from my face. I was back and things weren't
good. I wiped the blood from my eyes as I heard the low rotor rpm
horn bleeping-bleeping-bleeping. For Christ's sake, I have to see.
We've had the **** shot out of us. What the hell is going on? Is the
main rotor gone? Has it stopped? Are we dropping like a brick into
the jungle? I wipe my left hand across my eyes to blot up some blood
into my Nomex flight gloves. It's like taking a paper towel to a
windshield that is completely slaughtered by bug-guts.

If you drive down a road and hit a million grasshoppers and
their guts splatter all over the window to the point you can't see,
then you take a paper towel and smear it all around so you get a tiny
little port-hole, you can view the world out of it. That's how the
world looked to me while we were spinning out of control and dropping
like a brick into the jungle.

I could hear more clearly now. I had no idea why Gil was
shooting that damn M-60 while we were spinning out of control. I
wiped my eyes once more on the back of the glove of my left hand. The
world was spinning and that damn low-rotor rpm horn was pulsing and
piercing my head to the point of insanity. Christ--- I'd pull the
circuit breaker on that prick if I could find it without dying. But
screw that, I have to see what the hell is really going on and bail
this out if I can.

There it is! It's all there in tones of gray on the
helicopter instrument-panel in front of me. Every engine gauge is
setting on zero!

But, thank God we have 90% main rotor rpm. Damn... I might be
able to fix this crap. I drop the collective and watch the rpm whirl
up past 95%...then all the way up to 110% as the autorotation spools
me back to the NON-BLEEPING zone. God damn, I hate that horn! I'm
going to cut those wires if I live through this.

I jam the pedals a bit to get the nose straight and I'm a
glider pilot just flying an airplane, but an airplane with a 4 to 1
glide ratio. We do have some altitude. We're lucky. The clock may
have not run out, quite yet. There's a clearing up ahead, someone's
even popped smoke. Interesting how "gone" my brain is, purple, green,
red smoke? I can't tell what it is. It's just smoke. The blood in my
eyes makes the whole world look red anyway.

The gooks are shooting the **** out of us. I hear the ping,
ping, ping of the bullets going through the chopper. My right
Plexiglas window disintegrates and fragments hit what is left of my
helmet. The front windscreen was gone when I came back from my
dementia. I hope that the equal opportunity employees of Bell did
their job when they bolted this "SLICK" together. It's a hell of a
machine. This old Huey's been hit before but it's never been turned
to Swiss cheese like this. I can feel there's something wrong with
the lift of the rotorsystem, but, what the hell, it's flying. I'm not
dropping like a Roll's Royce engine strapped to my back.

The blood clouds my vision once more and I wipe it away. I
hear Gil screaming in the back as he blows away an endless stream of
rounds through that M-60. There are some things in combat that you
never forget. I had an instant to turn my head right and try to see
what the hell Gil was shooting at. I saw nothing but jungle. I
cranked my head around to look at him. I saw a crazed man with eyes
the size of silver dollars, blood running out of his helmet and his
mouth in a contorted geometry that looked impossible to duplicate.

Gil keys up his mic, "I'll kill everyone of these son's a
bitches Captain! I swear to God. The *******s blew Duke's head the
**** off."

"Just hang tight Gil. I'll probably slam this bitch down on
the LZ ahead. I'm sure they've punched holes in our rotorblades.
I'll never get enough lift to bail this **** out of the flare. We
have to be full of holes man...so hang on."

"Okay, Captain, gotcha. If you can't bail this **** out, then
see ya in hell Sir. Can't be much different than being in country."

I keyed up again, "****, I'd give anything to be out of gas at
this point. Too bad that 'Ops' juiced us back on hill 83. If it
weren't for the gas, I think we'd have a fightin' chance Gil."

"Don't worry Captain. If anybody can fly this pile of
Colorado Cool Aid, tin-can muther-****er into a safe landing at a
'hot' LZ, it's you Sir. If we don't get creamed, I just wonder what
the rest of my life will be like in the Hanoi Hilton. Hey maybe that
bitch, Hanoi Jane Fonda will come around an flash us Sir."

A bullet in my brain, blood flowing down my face from a
lacerated forehead and my eyes red with flowing-red-goo, I had to
grin. It was just the way it was. The whole war was a piece of crap.
All of it. Fighting people we didn't hate, killing people we had no
idea about. It was all a pile of ****. Then you have some celebrity
like Jane Fonda, traitorous bitch. This had to be a cartoon.

I landed that UH-1H that day in a rice field that had been
owned by a family for thousands of years. They didn't know what
government was in control that day. All they knew was that they had
owned that little piece of earth for some 5000 years. In fact they
didn't even know that. It was a given. They had passed that little
plot of land on from generation to generation through hundreds of
wars. This war was no different in principle. It was only different
in technology. It was the 20th century and the machines were more
capable of killing. The smoke I saw was them cooking a pig. It was a
sacred and religious day. Although a holiday to them, it was just
another day for us to kill people, or be killed.

We were lucky, they were "Friendy's" and hid us until a Jolly
Green came in and picked us up two hours later. They even fed us some
of their pig. It was Friday the 13th.

BWB

On Tue, 2 Mar 2004 18:13:14 -0800, "Stu & Kathy Fields"
wrote:

Bill: While you might say that it is a draft and could use a little polish,
and I might agree with you, I nevertheless was glued to the CRT reading it.
I like your style. I kept dumping collective for the last half looking for
a clearing. You need to tackle a book. You may be the next Tom Clancy
Stu Fields

Thanks Stu. I appreciate your comment. I need to tackle a book
alright. I've started three times but for some strange reason always
get bored doing it. I like short stories better because you can
finish them in a couple days and publish them. Magazine articles are
even easier, so I have always taken the path of least resistance.

But, my wife is harping at me to write a novel for real. And I think
it will be my next project. I have invented a character named Jack
Shawhan who has done it all. It will be an adventure story when I do
it. I only hope I can hold and grip the reader for a long period of
time. That's the task. When I get in the mood to write it's usually
only for an evening or so. I will expand that to do the book.

Books are a funny thing. I bought the book "Cold Mountain" and tried
to read it four times. I got into it 100 pages and just couldn't gag
it down anymore. It was well written, but there was no gripping plot
at that beginning level. I gave it to a buddy of mine (my mailman)
who, like me is an avid reader. I told him my problem with the book.
Being a physicist, I read slowly, about as fast as I talk. He reads
about three times faster so I figured he might enjoy it by speeding it
up three fold. He gaged on it in 130 pages too and brought it back.
It was in my mailbox one day with a note on it saying, "Bill, thanks,
but I agree with you, this book is a drag. I was bored for 130 pages
last night. I give up too."

Then the damn thing is made into a movie and it takes all the oscars.
I don't know how anybody could stomach reading it long enough to write
a screen play out of it.

It's funny how things work sometimes. I'd like to write a story like
that one that Meg Ryan did where she was a helicopter pilot that got
shot down, then there was an investigation. But, if I were to write
that story, I'd have more of it in the air. Too much of that was on
the ground watching people bicker. The beginning of it was great.
That's the spirit I'd like to capture all through a novel. Just like
my little story I posted here. Keep it exiciting all the way through.
That's the challenge, is to come up with enough that you can captivate
the reader for a long time, many days hopefully.

I appreciate your remarks. I need to kick myself in the ass and get
to it.

Bill Phillips

Bill: Of all the books that I have read, there is one that I have read at
least 12 times: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Not only did it
keep me going as I read it, I knew that I would have to re-read it to get
more of what was in there. I must say that I was disappointed to not find
the same Hooks in his second work Your short shot had some of those
Hooks.
You write the book and I want one.
Stu Fields
"Badwater Bill" wrote in message
...
On Tue, 2 Mar 2004 18:13:14 -0800, "Stu & Kathy Fields"
wrote:

Bill: While you might say that it is a draft and could use a little
polish,
and I might agree with you, I nevertheless was glued to the CRT reading
it.
I like your style. I kept dumping collective for the last half looking
for
a clearing. You need to tackle a book. You may be the next Tom Clancy
Stu Fields

Thanks Stu. I appreciate your comment. I need to tackle a book
alright. I've started three times but for some strange reason always
get bored doing it. I like short stories better because you can
finish them in a couple days and publish them. Magazine articles are
even easier, so I have always taken the path of least resistance.

But, my wife is harping at me to write a novel for real. And I think
it will be my next project. I have invented a character named Jack
Shawhan who has done it all. It will be an adventure story when I do
it. I only hope I can hold and grip the reader for a long period of
time. That's the task. When I get in the mood to write it's usually
only for an evening or so. I will expand that to do the book.

Books are a funny thing. I bought the book "Cold Mountain" and tried
to read it four times. I got into it 100 pages and just couldn't gag
it down anymore. It was well written, but there was no gripping plot
at that beginning level. I gave it to a buddy of mine (my mailman)
who, like me is an avid reader. I told him my problem with the book.
Being a physicist, I read slowly, about as fast as I talk. He reads
about three times faster so I figured he might enjoy it by speeding it
up three fold. He gaged on it in 130 pages too and brought it back.
It was in my mailbox one day with a note on it saying, "Bill, thanks,
but I agree with you, this book is a drag. I was bored for 130 pages
last night. I give up too."

Then the damn thing is made into a movie and it takes all the oscars.
I don't know how anybody could stomach reading it long enough to write
a screen play out of it.

It's funny how things work sometimes. I'd like to write a story like
that one that Meg Ryan did where she was a helicopter pilot that got
shot down, then there was an investigation. But, if I were to write
that story, I'd have more of it in the air. Too much of that was on
the ground watching people bicker. The beginning of it was great.
That's the spirit I'd like to capture all through a novel. Just like
my little story I posted here. Keep it exiciting all the way through.
That's the challenge, is to come up with enough that you can captivate
the reader for a long time, many days hopefully.

I appreciate your remarks. I need to kick myself in the ass and get
to it.

Bill Phillips

Then the damn thing is made into a movie and it takes all the oscars.

Hehehe, your TV watching must be wanting also. It only won one Oscar.
The "Lord of THe Rings" won ELEVEN
Oscars.
And THAT was a great book(s).
:O)

(Badwater Bill) wrote in message .. .
On Tue, 2 Mar 2004 18:13:14 -0800, "Stu & Kathy Fields"
wrote:

Bill: While you might say that it is a draft and could use a little polish,
and I might agree with you, I nevertheless was glued to the CRT reading it.
I like your style. I kept dumping collective for the last half looking for
a clearing. You need to tackle a book. You may be the next Tom Clancy
Stu Fields

Thanks Stu. I appreciate your comment. I need to tackle a book
alright.

Do it Bill. I bet you I've read it five times by now. I was so glued
I followed you over here searching to see if you've got any others
stashed away. What about bundling all of your usenet short stories
together? Call it something like: "Blood on the Rotor" by Badwater
Bill.

pac

If I could write as well as you, I would. You have done just about
everythingelse, now it is time to be an author.

"From the Badwater file", by Bill the Grump.

Go for it!

Bryan

On 5 Mar 2004 12:02:52 -0800, (bryan chaisone)
wrote:

If I could write as well as you, I would. You have done just about
everythingelse, now it is time to be an author.

"From the Badwater file", by Bill the Grump.

Go for it!

Bryan


Thanks guys. I need to do it I guess. For some reason, I seem to be
at a loss however. And, as you know, that's unusual for me.

Maybe I'll take a year off from all the usual horse**** that takes up
my days and do it.

BWB