photo #5305744

"The Man In the Doorway"Tribute to the Door GunnerThey came in low & hot, close to the trees & dropped their tail in a flare, rocked forward & we raced for the open doorways. This was always the worst for us, we couldn't hear anything & our backs were turned to the tree line.The best you could hope for was a sign on the face of the man in the doorway, leaning out waiting to help with a tug or to lay down some lead.Sometimes you could glance quickly at his face & pick up a clue as to what was about to happen. We would pitch ourselves in headfirst & tumble against the scuffed riveted aluminum, grab for a handhold & will that son-of-a-bitch into the air.Sometimes the deck was slick with blood or worse, sometimes something had been left in the shadows under the web seats, sometimes they landed in a shallow river to wash them out.Sometimes they were late, sometimes... they were parked in some other LZ with their rotors turning a lazy arc, a ghost crew strapped in once too often, motionless, waiting for their own lift, their own bags, once too often into the margins.The getting on & the getting off were the worst for us but this was all he knew, the man in the doorway, he was always standing there in the noise, watching, urging... swinging out with his gun, grabbing the black plastic & heaving, leaning out & spitting, spitting the taste away, as though it would go away...They came in low & hot, close to the trees & dropped their tail in a flare, rocked forward & began to kick the boxes out, bouncing against the skids, piling up on each other, food & water, & bullets...a thousand pounds of C's, warm water & rounds, 7.62mm, half a ton of life & death.When the deck was clear, we would pile the bags, swing them against their weight & throw them through the doorway, his doorway, onto his deck & nod and he'd speak into that little mic & they'd go nose down and lift into their last flight, their last extraction.Sometimes he'd raise a thumb or perhaps a fist or sometimes just a sly, knowing smile, knowing we were staying & he was going but also knowing he'd be back, he'd be back in a blink, standing in the swirling noise & the rotor wash, back to let us rush through his door & skid across his deck & will that son-of-a-bitch into the air.They came in low & hot, close to the trees & dropped their tail in a flare, rocked forward, kicked out the boxes & slipped the litter across the deck & sometimes he'd lean down & hold the IV & brush the dirt off of a bloodless face, or hold back the flailing arms & the tears, a thumbs-up to the right seat & you're only minutes away from the white sheets & the saws and the plasma.They came in low & hot, close to the trees & dropped their tail in a flare, rocked forward & we'd never hear that sound again without feeling our stomachs go just a bit weightless, listen just a bit closer for the gunfire & look up for the man in the doorway.Michael Ryerson - USMC, FAC, 1966-1968, RVN