On January 7, 1967, John Steinbeck was in Pleiku, Vietnam, flying a UH-1 Huey helicopter with Troop D, 1st Squadron, 10th Cavalry. He wrote the following about helicopter pilots: “I wish I could tell you about these pilots. They make me sick with envy. They pilot their vehicles like a man controls a beautiful, well-trained draft horse. They zigzag along streambeds, rise like swallows to clear trees, turn, twist, and dive like swifts in the evening. I watch their hands and feet on the controls; the delicacy of their coordination reminds me of (Pablo) Casals’s sure, seemingly slow hands on the cello. They truly are musicians’ hands, and they play their controls like music, and they dance them like ballerinas, and they make me jealous because I so long to do the same. Do you remember your childhood nighttime dream of perfect, free, and wonderful flight? It’s like that, and sadly, I know I never will.” My hands are too old and forgetful to receive orders from the command center, which speaks of updrafts and crosswinds, drift and changes of direction, or ground attacks indicated by a small puff or a flash, or a bang, and all these commands must be obeyed by the musicians' hands instantly and automatically. I must express my desire in admiration and joy at seeing it. Sorry for the ecstasy leak, Alicia, but I had to get it out or I'd explode.