On April 30, 1975, Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese army, marking the strategic, tactical, and symbolic end to the Vietnam War. On the flip side, how could such an aircraft have reasonably served as a medical evacuation vehicle? Then it hit me-I realized the emphasis was on “evacuation” more than “medical.” A flying ambulance, it wasn’t. How could a soldier, fully loaded with gear, reasonably expect to hold on to an aircraft with just a finger or two? Rough going, I guess. He nodded, “And for people.” I was astounded. “Handles,” the pilot nonchalantly replied. All of the seats had been removed, and I noticed tiny ringlets, not much bigger than the width of a man’s index finger, recessed into the floor. I remember chatting briefly with the pilot, who allowed me to sit in the back of the aircraft. Looking back through the mists of time, their question seems a bit less preposterous.
And I was wearing an uncomfortable dress uniform outside, in 90 percent relative humidity and Chicago heat. I wore aviator-style Ray-Ban sunglasses (who didn’t?). I had an anomalously short haircut given that it was 1983 and big hair was all the rage. I played a lot of soccer and was in great shape. That said, I was two months shy of my 19th birthday. I never had any desire to join the military and didn’t think I would ever be mistaken for a military man. To my surprise, a lot of visitors asked me if I was the pilot. I was assigned to guard a Huey helicopter that was displayed by the U.S. A little heat-induced sweat was a small price to pay for the chance to break the tedium of yet another day inside.
I knew full well I would be working in the heat of a Chicago summer in my standard, museum-issue formal uniform-white, short-sleeve dress shirt, blue necktie, navy blue slacks, and dress shoes. Given the repetition involved in our daily tasks, I jumped at the chance to work outside at the festival. Other days I worked in the famous Coal Mine exhibit, replete with working equipment and a passenger train, where we offered tours to up to 2,000 people on busy days. Most days, I worked at the information desk, giving driving directions and pointing out the cafeteria or nearest restroom to harried guests.
I was a tour guide, a position I had held for nearly two years.
On July 20, 1983, the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago held an outdoor festival to celebrate its 50th anniversary. But 10 years later I had a personal encounter with a Huey, and I’ve not forgotten it. I was too young to understand much about the war, and frankly, I don’t remember anything special about that date. military involvement in Vietnam officially ended on August 15, 1973, just before I turned 9. The Huey has become one of the most widely recognized military vehicles of all time. Indeed, the vehicle has become synonymous with the Vietnam War. The Huey has been made famous by its prominent role in Hollywood films, from Francis Ford Coppola’s award-winning classic Apocalypse Now(1979) to Platoon (1986) and Full Metal Jacket (1987) among many others. Officially, a total of 7,013 Hueys were used in Vietnam 3,305 of them were destroyed, leading to the deaths of over 2,700 pilots, crew members, and passengers. During the Vietnam War, its role expanded greatly to include search-and-rescue operations, troop transport, disaster response, firefighting, cargo transport, and special operations. Ground-based American medical personnel often had mixed feelings about the sound, for it often meant that new casualties were being transported back from the front lines.įormally known as the Bell UH-1 Iroquois Helicopter (originally the HU-1, hence the nickname), the Huey was first flown during training exercises in 1956 as a medical evacuation and general utility helicopter for the U.S. On the other hand, for the North Vietnamese soldiers who were on the receiving end of an attack, the sound would’ve been insidious and demonic. soldiers in Vietnam, the sound communicated the promise of rescue and transport to safety, and was therefore inspirational and heroic. Painted black or dark green, it is frighteningly utilitarian, if not sinister.Īcoustically, the rhythmic, thumping sound of a Huey is primal and tantalizing, and iconic in and of itself. Visually, the helicopter looks vaguely like a dragonfly, a grasshopper, or some other large insect with big eyes. But nothing tops the Huey, if you ask me. World War I gave us biplanes for the first time, World War II and the Korean War gave us the Jeep-now part of American pop and recreational culture-and the Iraq and Afghanistan wars gave us Predator drones. What is the most iconic military vehicle ever created? For both visual and acoustic reasons, I’d suggest it’s the Huey helicopter of the Vietnam War era.