Back then, the troops would listen for the sound of incoming choppers, the rotors of which made a distinct sound. They didn't have the high-pitched whine of an outgoing, but instead a dull whop, whop, whop accentuated by a dense jungle canopy. The Marines could tell the difference between an incoming and an outgoing. When the first faint sounds were heard, they'd look up in anticipation.
The chopper brought connection. The Marines would unload the necessities: water, rations, bullets and bandages. But the real treasure was the gray canvas mailbag. The door gunner would pitch the bag to the Marines, pick up the trash, and dust off. One never stared at an outgoing chopper; they brought only isolation.
A letter from home is the tonic for the sum of all fears. What the Marines feared most was the struggle of being forgotten.
Sergeant Lihue would bark, "Mail call," and read the names of the recipients, simultaneously tossing letters and package to eager hands. I'd watch the eyes of my Marines. Some eyes glimmered, anticipating a letter from home. Others were forlorn because they knew there'd be none.
Those never receiving mail would still gather for this ritual. There was always hope.
After mail call, the Marines receiving nothing would retreat to the corners of the perimeter and silently wait till the pageantry subsided. It's never the battle that hardens the hearts of the combat soldier, it's the isolation.
As a community, we can make sure that our soldiers are not forgotten. I need your help to get it done.
For seven years, La Cañada has sent thousands of Girl Scout cookies to the troops via Operation Gratitude. Currently, there are 50,000 Girl Scouts selling cookies. Buy Girl Scout cookies and bring them to the Valley Sun's office at 727 Foothill Blvd. I'll see to it that your cookies get to the troops.