We shaved and breakfasted on fried eggs and bacon, and by 6:30 we were in the chopper.

"Go ahead and crank it up as soon as he gets the rotor untied," Mowdy said.

But as it turned out, they delayed our departure for 15 minutes of additional artillery prep, and we didn't take off until 6:47. Dawn was breaking as we climbed out at 65 knots, a gaggle of 10 slicks and two gun ships with our bird - Yellow 1 - in the lead. Fifty feet behind us and to our right came Yellow 2, commanded by Warrant Officer Jerry G. Foster, called "Pop" because he's 30 years old, considerably older than the others. Next came Yellow 3, whose Aircraft Commander is Warrant Officer Michael L. Almgren of Broadview, Ill. And after them came the rest of the flight in a column of twos, holding tight formation and following us like a train of cars as we snaked through the sky.

Already our earphones were filled with the voices of men in battle, a confused gabble of commands and advice coming in simultaneously on different frequencies. Flying a helicopter tires a man physically, but much of the mental fatigue stems from the need to concentrate on and understand the communications.

"They recommend that nobody fiddle around to the west of the LZ," said the radio. "There's a .50 caliber perceived in there."

"Roger that," said Mowdy.

We were approaching the pickup zone now, the place where we would take aboard our passengers.

"Yellow flight, this is Yellow 1," said Mowdy. "When we get down there, he wants three birds on the right and two on the left."

The grunts - the infantry riflemen - would be positioned in groups of seven so that we could put our choppers down beside them and they could climb speedily aboard.

"Tube artillery is firing from LZs Rita, Beverley, and Mustang," said a voice on the radio.

"There will be four Whisky Papa rounds on the ground to signify the last round. There will be full suppressive fire by your door gunners." It was 7:30 now, and the morning sun was streaming in through the right door.

"Hotel minus 10, hack," said Mowdy. Ten minutes away from Hotel, the phonetic H for Hour, the appointed time, the moment of our arrival.

"Hotel minus 8, hack."

Molstad got out his gas mask. If we ran into CS tear gas, he would fly the aircraft while the rest of us suffered.

"Hotel minus 5, hack."

Two of the grunts were grinning. What could they find to smile about at a time like this, seated there on the floor of the helicopter with their packs and rifles, waiting to go into combat?

"Hotel minus 4, hack."

Four of the grunts were Negroes, an almost irrelevant distinction out here. Even the most ardent southerner cares little or nothing about race in the combat zones. It's almost the only place in the world where whites and blacks live together without self-consciousness. Bravo company is commanded by a Negro, Capt. James Harris, of Cincinatti, who must rank as one of the best-liked and most highly respected officers in the army. "I'd gladly die for that man," said one of his chopper pilots, a white man reared and educated in Mississippi. And Harris inspires this devotion not by his flying skill, for he is a less experienced aviator than some of his subordinates, but by his easy-going and fair-minded instinct for leadership.

"Hotel minus 3, hack."

We were descending now through 1,000 feet.

"Hotel minus 2, hack."

We banked steeply to the left and headed for our final.

"Coming up on Hotel minus 1 in two seconds - hack," said Mowdy. "Turn right about 10 degrees, and I do have the tubes clear."

We were slanting down steeply into the LZ, just missing the treetops. The gunships came on both sides, positioned so that they walked their rocket fire right along beside us as we came in. The rockets crashed into the woods and burst in smoke and flame. Our door gunners opened fire at the same time, and rockets and M-60 machine guns together thrashed the trees, ripping off branches. Charlie, if he were there at all, would find it risky to shoot at us. [And Charlie was there, and he did put a hole in our tail fin.]