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My first flight on a helicopter was in 1978. I flew 300 miles from Wiesbaden Air Base in
Germany to Cantigny, France, for a ceremony marking the 60th
Anniversary of a World War I battle in that town. Several American veterans of the battle
joined French veterans to mark the Allied victory in the little French
town.
We flew in UH1 “Huey” helicopter. The flight was on a clear,
beautiful spring day. We flew at 1,000
feet of altitude. In those days before the strict safety requirements of the
modern Army, we were allowed to fly with the door open sitting on the floor,
facing sideways with our feet hanging to the side out of the aircraft.
When we crossed the border from Germany to France, we went
from flying over little towns and deep forests to flying over roads lined by
trees. The trees were in perfect lines for a mile or more along the side of
straight roads. The new leaves and the
very straight lines looked lovely as we sped along above the rolling farm country.
Cantigny is northeast of Paris so we did not pass over any
major cities. The entire village turned out for the ceremony. It was the first World War I ceremony I had
attended. It was an honor to watch the
veterans, most in their late 70s and early 80s stand to attention and salute
the flags, then talk among themselves about the war they fought at the
beginning of the century.
After the ceremony, I flew back on a twin-engined plane that
had an open seat. My next helicopter
flight would not be for another 30 years, in 2009, when I flew in a Blackhawk
helicopter from Camp Adder to Al Kut in Iraq.
