a-visit

Memories are not only locked up in the dark reaches of the mind, but also can be found tucked away in old boxes relegated to the attic.

A few weeks ago my wife Faye came down from the attic tentatively holding something between her thumb and index fingers. My first thought was she had found a dead bat, which also call our place their home, but realized she would never carry even a dead one. She said, “ I found these with some of your other “Marine Things”, can you tell me what they are”? Once she dropped them in my hands I realized they were an old pair of flight gloves. I had not remembered bringing home any when I left for the States from Okinawa and had not seen a pair since that time. As I unfolded them, it was like I was being visited by an old friend and this old friend had been an intimate part of being during a special time of my life.

These flight gloves were in relatively good shape for not seeing service since 1964. They were pretty soiled and I could smell and feel past sensory memories of hydraulic, engine, and grease lubricants used to keep the UH-34 from grinding itself to death. These oils along with the darkness of over 40 years may have helped preserve the leather. The Navy/USMC flight glove at that time was a very light doeskin sewn to fit your hand like an extra skin, much like a fine women's dress glove. The soft texture and fit allowed the pilots and flight crew to retain the dexterity needed to perform tasks such as turning instrument dials with precision. They also had an important function of providing fire protection in case of a crash. The flight glove was a natural colored doeskin with a gauntlet length going half way up your arm. I expect this was to allow it to fit under the flight suit for maximum protection. On the back of the outside of the gauntlet was printed the description and Mil. Spec. Number for reorder. For a new enlisted flight member in the squadron, this was probably the first piece of flight gear that became your own. They most likely were old used up ones given to you by a crew chief that had just gotten a new pair. The more you flew, the more equipment you acquired till reaching that ultimate plateau of having a Navy leather flight jacket and aviator sun glasses to go with the flight suit, helmet and gloves. Somehow it didn't seem to matter you might not be receiving full or any flight pay for this job as long as you had the recognized honor of be a flight crew member.

It is almost impossible to have a pair of these gloves and not try them on again. As soon as I pulled them on the hands started to take over and a flood of memories came rushing back from 1964. I was immediately transported to that last day I had worn them. The first thing that happened was a flexing of the fingers inside the glove to stretch them out and develop that familiar feel. I was surprised the flexibility these old gloves still retained. It was an automatic reaction and part of a ritual that everyone seemed to develop as you prepared to go into battle. All of a sudden I was a warrior getting ready for battle again. The ritual was a lot of little things that you did every time like the flexing of the fingers and folding the tops half way down to your wrist making them more comfortable. Everyone had different rituals all headed to the same end.In my mind, I started to go through this ritual again. I would pull the zipper up on the flight suit and threading the strap of the shoulder holster for my Luger under my left arm an over my head. The hand would slide over the extra cartridge holder sewn up by the flight equipment guys that slipped over the strap. The Luger would be removed, the clip released, and the number of rounds counted. When placing the weapon back in the holster the right hand would slide up to the upper left arm to make sure the survival knife was in place and secure. This all followed with sliding your arms into the flak vest that had the feel of a very heavy winter coat even though it only went to your waist. Zipping up the flak vest could wait till you were airborne in cooler air. You would check the M-60 machine gun for operation securing it in the gun mount. Looking behind the seat, you would check to see you had enough 200 round cans of belted ammunition and the lids were positioned correctly to feed into this aircraft protector. All the time the heat is rising and the crescendo of battle is building with the radial engine roaring to life all around you. I signal the pilots to start and our engine and with a cough smoke it also roars to life. Carefully, I guide the pilot out of the parking area onto the taxi way and run for the doorway of the plane. The crew chiefs seat is just inside and to the right of this 4’ by 4’ opening and you have to be careful not to run into your M-60 as you jump into the plane. The M-60 folded back around the crew chiefs seat but usually had the flash suppresser sticking out about eye level. Having a fight with your M-60 was not a good way to start a flight. I would strap on my seat belt, make a quick check that tool boxes were tied down, and get a thumbs up from the gunner before calling the pilot that we are good to go. As the power increased for take off, the adrenaline came right along behind it and we were all in a different world of high alert; young men depending on each other to stay alive. You got real serious as you load the belts of ammo into the machine guns and clear the safety of the airstrip. All your senses kick in, as you want to be in front of any problem or hazard before it killed you. All you want to do is ome back to the safety of your airstrip.

With these old gloves on, all these memories came back with sensory feelings and smells. You flex your fingers and could almost feel your hand resting on the hand grip of the M-60 with the other arm resting on the barrel as you watched the countryside slide by below. These gloves were a good friend, had been with me in tough times, and we were still together after all these years. I got out some baseball glove oil, cleaned off the grim of the past, carefully folding them up, and placed them back in the box. This time I place them in my closet along with my old HMM-364, golden yellow, ball cap. There may be a time sooner than 40 years that I want that feeling of being a 21-year-old warrior again.

Warren R. Smith