“Crimson and clover, over and over…”
The song played from Fusner’s tactically stupid, but achingly home-calling radio. The song’s lyrics just repeated with no actual meaning, like the days and nights of my life in Vietnam. Brother John came on after the song to introduce “Eight Days a Week”, by the Beatles. I liked that song, although, until I got out in the bush, I’d never put much emphasis on listening to rock and roll. For some reason being amerced in the wet-heated jungle, waiting for some gruesome death that might come at any minute, made every song burn itself into my brain. I understood why the men played their radios all day long, and why Armed Forces Radio shut down at night. It was worth the risk to all of us to be able to listen during the day. And Headquarters knew we’d play the music all night, too, if we had the chance.
Two choppers came in before sunset. Whatever Pilson said when he called for the medevac must have mollified Marine Air Command (Vertical) because the birds landed without Huey Cobras to fly their usual support. Either that or word had gotten back that the Army would fly in support of Marines in trouble, when the higher ranking Marine chopper pilots would not.