ROADRUNNER 103
I
started drawing airplanes when I was about seven years old. I had dreamed of
becoming a pilot for as long before that as I can remember. To be a WWII
fighter pilot, fly a P51 Mustang or a P38 Lightening, was all I ever wanted to
do. Reality set in when I learned that WWII had ended some years before.
When I was fourteen, I joined the Civil Air Patrol. My interest turned to jets. I loved the very nearness of the aircraft on the base where we held our meetings. The air force flew F89 Scorpions, then upgraded to F102 Delta Daggers. I remember sitting at my favorite vantage point and watching the jets take off and land. Later, I discovered girls and coincidentally that this was an excellent place to park with a date. I had managed to combine two of my favorite pastimes.
When I realized my dream of flying it was in army
helicopters not air force jets.
Like
almost all Vietnam helicopter pilots I started flying in slicks or H-models.
After a couple of months in country I was made an aircraft commander or AC and
moved from the right seat to the left. Slick AC’s flew in the left seat even
though helicopters are designed for the command pilot to fly in the right. The
instruments are laid out so the best view of them is from the right side. But in
Viet Nam, we didn’t fly IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) very often, at least on
purpose. So the switch was made because there was better visibility from the
left side.
After
about six months in country I determined I wanted the action of flying guns.
So, I asked for, and received a transfer to the gun platoon. Soon, because of
the hours I had in slicks, I was made an AC flying UH1-C helicopters, commonly
known as Charlie models. I moved back the right seat where the gun ship AC’s
sat. The gun ship aircraft commander had to sit in right seat because that’s
where the sight for the rockets is and you can’t and fire the mini-guns and fly
at the same time.
There were two usual types of gun ship. The first was a mini-gun ship. It was armed with two Gatling guns or mini-guns and fourteen 2.75 inch air to ground rockets. The mini-guns were a 7.62mm version of the Vulcan 20mm cannon used on fighters. Mini-guns were capable of firing fifteen hundred, three, or six thousand rounds per minute and were operated by the co-pilot. We carried about 12,000 rounds and normally kept the rate of fire to 1,500 rounds per minute to increase loiter time over target. The aircraft commander aimed and fired the rockets.
The other type was a hog frog. (It was also called the
lead sled.) It was so named because it flew like hog, and hopped like a frog on
take off. It was armed with a 40mm grenade launcher with a rate of fire of 220
rounds per minute controlled by the co-pilot and thirty-six 2.75 inch rockets.
In reality, it was very rare that a hog frog could get off the ground with all
thirty-six rockets. Normally they carried about 24 rockets.
Both types were crewed by a pilot and copilot and a flying crew chief and a door gunner. The crew chief acted as a door gunner when we were in flight. The door gunners were armed with M-60 machine guns with 2,000 rounds apiece.
The book said maximum gross take off weight for a C-model was 10,000 pounds. As I recall, we normally went off at 12,000 to 12,500 or more. What this meant was we didn’t hover at the normal three feet. Gunship pilots were lucky to hover at three inches and there were a lot of days when we couldn’t hover at all.
[Photo by and of 'Corky' Corkran, Wolf Pack 33, 11/66-8/67 with Hog Frog
gunship.]
In order to get out of the revetments on a really hot day, we would pull in maximum power very rapidly. The airplane would leap into the air. The engine was being way overtaxed by the pitch in the rotor system and would immediately begin to lose RPM and power. Near full right cyclic was applied and the aircraft flew sideways as the RPM wound down like a sweep second hand going backward. The cyclic was then centered and the helicopter crashed gently on the runway. Down went the collective and back came the RPM. This maneuver normally got your heart started just about any time of day.
Then came take off. The pilot pulled the collective in until the airplane came to a hover or the RPM started to bleed off whichever came first. If it was the latter one hoped the aircraft was light on the skids. That is, if the cyclic were moved forward, would the helicopter slide forward on the skids; or just sit there until enough fuel was burned to lighten the load? The prospect of not being able to move was potentially only slightly less embarrassing than the possibility of crashing at the end of the runway. I remember one day at Ban Me Thout….But that’s another story.
For insertions we normally flew a light fire team comprised of two mini-gun ships. For extraction’s we flew a heavy fire team of two mini-gun ships and a hog frog. When inserting a team, the decreased firepower was traded for increased speed. The idea on an insertion or infil (short for infiltration) was that we were in and out before the bad guys had a chance to react. When flying an extraction or exfil (short for exfiltration) the NVA often knew what was happening because the team had been compromised, so we needed the aerial artillery that the hog frog added to the fire team.
It was April 1969, I was on my six month voluntary extension after my first tour. The 281st were working with a Delta project code named Cass Park 69 out of Hue Phu Bai. Project Delta was our primary mission. This trip we were comprised of the Bandits (2nd platoon) and the Wolf pack (3rd platoon gun ships). The Bandits comprised a total of six slicks. The gun platoon was made up of three mini-gun ships and a hog frog.
Project Delta fielded two types of reconnaissance teams known as Delta and Roadrunner teams. The Delta teams were normally made up of three U.S. Special Forces and three Vietnamese Special forces although variations on that make up were common. The Roadrunner teams were made up of from four six Vietnamese recruited from the Northern Provinces of South Vietnam.
The Roadrunners were the spooks of the outfit. When they were riding out to their insertion slick they wore poncho’s covering them from head to toe. It was their job to infiltrate an NVA unit and then get away from them after they had gathered intelligence. They wore NVA uniforms and carried AK 47’s. As I recall they sometimes went in without radios. For communication, they used strips of yellow cloth that were displayed in a pattern across the body of one of the team members. Each team had a unique code. For example, a diagonal pattern from left to right might mean they were in contact and the enemy was in two o’clock direction. Another pattern might mean not in contact. There was even a pattern that meant, “We are impostors, shoot us.” Meaning that the team had been captured and replaced by real NVA waiting in ambush. The FAC (forward air controller) was responsible for decoding the patterns and telling us what the situation was. A Delta operation was made up of six Delta and four Roadrunner teams.
In addition, there was a platoon of Chinese Nungs with a complement of thirty-two officers and men. They were commonly referred to as the BDA or Bomb Damage Assessment Platoon. In reality the Nungs were mercenaries. We ate and drank with the Delta Teams. The Roadrunners and Nungs were left pretty much alone.
Finally there was a company of ARVN Rangers that provided perimeter security for the operation. They manned the guard towers and trenches, set ambushes and ran patrols to make sure the camp wasn’t attacked by the NVA or local Viet Cong.
Six slicks flew the insertion/extraction’s. The C and C (command and control) ship was flown by the slick platoon commander with the Delta mission commander and staff on board. Then there were six recovery slicks. Mission protocol required that before we attempted an exfil we have enough aircraft to extract a team or downed air crew on McGuire rigs. (A Mcguire rig consisted of three; one hundred and twenty foot long ropes and harnesses.) This meant that we had to have two aircraft available to extract a team. Less than two aircraft meant we were not to attempt an extraction.
On this day, we had three reconnaissance teams in the field, two Delta teams and one Roadrunner team. Three was the maximum number we would field at one time. I was the alert fire team leader. We were doing the typical things that alert crews do while waiting for something to happen. Writing a letter home, playing cards, cleaning our belongings of the ever-present dust or chatting about the job. It was just another day in paradise until the phone rang. When we were in the field, the gunship and slick pilots slept in their own tents, as did the enlisted air crew members. Its own field phone connected each of the tents to the TOC (tactical operations center).
When I answered the gun tent phone, a voice said, “Roadrunner one-oh-three in contact” or words to that effect. It was all the briefing I got, or needed. The Slicks and enlisted crews were alerted in the same manner. The slicks knew who would be primary ex-fil by the name of the team. The rule was, if you put them in you got them out.
We grabbed our personal weapons, canteens, survival kits, and cameras and ran for the waiting three-quarter ton trucks that would take us to the revetments and the airplanes. The rest of what we needed was already in the aircraft
During the short ride to the helicopters, we exchanged nervous glances, and exchanged rumors about what was going on. We checked and rechecked our personal weapons. As I recall, the primary emotion was anxiety. I silently prayed the pilot’s prayer to myself, “Please God, don’t let me screw up and do something really stupid that will get someone killed.” No atheists in a three-quarter ton, to borrow a phrase.
I was flying with my usual crew, Kirchmeyer and Deisher the crew chief and doorgunner and my copilot Jeff Murray, Joel Ferguson, Wolf pack three eight was the aircraft commander in number two and Bill Holt Wolf pack three five was flying a hog frog in the number three slot. Jeff was the kind of co-pilot that aircraft commanders hoped wouldn’t be promoted to AC until after you rotated back to states. He was just too good in the left seat to lose. His experience and knowledge relieved the AC of any need to control what was going on inside the aircraft. Joel was an experienced gunship AC and sometime fire team leader. It was a real treat to have someone flying number two that was capable of leading the team. Holt was new in country and because he was a senior First Lieutenant had jumped over some more experienced pilots to be an aircraft commander.
Our aircraft was number one oh four, aircraft were commonly referred to by the last three digits of the tail number. Kirchmeyer had painted “belly art” on the aircraft. It was a large red hand with the middle finger extended. We had to be careful where we flew so the Company Commander wouldn’t see it. It had been removed on orders several times, each time to be repainted a day or two later.
We arrived at the revetments and ran to the helicopters. The aircraft were all combat cocked for a quick start. This meant the throttle and other systems were preset for the start, all we had to do was jump in, hit the battery switch and pull the starter motor trigger.
While Jeff and I put on our chest armor (chicken plates), survival kits and gloves, the crew chief and door gunner removed the sock from the pitot tube and pulled the rotor blade to the nine and three o’clock position. Chest protectors and other gear on, we climbed into the cockpit and began the engine start routine. I pulled the start trigger while Jeff strapped in.
“Clear?” I asked. “Clear!” Kirchmeyer and Deisher confirmed. Kirchmeyer was directly in front of me holding the pitot tube sock and the rotor blade tie down over his head so I could see he had removed them. “Getting hot,” I warned Deisher who was peering through an engine access panel to check for leaks that I was about to pull the starter trigger and he could expect a face full of flaming JP4 and engine parts if something went really wrong.
The igniters sounded, click, click, click, accompanied by the low growl of the starter motor as a mist of raw JP4 was pumped into the ignition chamber. Then a gentle whumph as the fuel exploded, and the aircraft gave a slight shudder. The starter motor’s growl was replaced by the whine from the compressor blades. I glanced at Jeff expecting him to be strapped in and helmeted. We confirmed this by exchanging nods, and I turned the engine run up over to him. As he gradually increased the RPM to 6600 I strapped in and put on my helmet. I turned on the radios and other electrical equipment and performed an intercom check with Jeff. I followed this with a radio check with my two wingmen.
Kirchmeyer and Deisher slid the side armor on our seats forward and closed our doors. It always made me a little uncomfortable knowing that the pilots couldn’t slide the side armor plate forward or back or open or close the cockpit doors. But, we could always exit between the seats or smash our way through the windshield in an emergency. There was this time we caught fire while hot refueling…..but that’s another story.
“Wolf pack, this is Three-zero, radio check, victor, uniform, fox trot.”
“Three-eight, victor, uniform, fox trot.”
“Three-five, victor, uniform, fox trot.”
“I have the aircraft Jeff.” I said reaching for the controls.
“You have it.” He confirmed.
My wingmen confirmed we were all on the same frequencies for our VHF, UHF, and FM radios. We used VHF as the gun’s communication frequency, UHF to talk to the slicks and tower, and FM for air to ground.
“Wolf pack go tower uniform.” I instructed my flight to change from our tactical UHF frequency to Phu Bai tower’s frequency.
“Three-eight”
“Three-five”
They acknowledged the frequency change on VHF so as not to “chatter “ on the tower frequency.
Just as we changed to the tower frequency we heard the slicks getting departure clearance.
“Phu Bai tower Bandit-two six.”
“Bandit-two six, Phu Bai tower.”
Meanwhile our crew chiefs and door gunners removed the dust covers from the miniguns and rocket tubes. Then, they strapped into their jump seats for take off. The whole procedure was like a dance. No anxiety now, our fear of error was replaced by our confidence in the crew. We fed off of each other’s competence and cool. The slicks had performed a similar waltz just down the revetment line from us and were departing.
“Phu Bai tower Bandit two-six a flight of six helicopters is ready for take off.”
“Roger Bandit two-six you are cleared for departure runway one-six winds southerly at five knots.”
Jeff performed an intercom check with Deisher and Kirchmeyer.
“Bandit two-six on the go.”
“Phu Bai tower Marine two-seven-one.”
“Marine two-seven-one Phu Bai tower.”
Jeff gave me the check off, “Pre-take off check complete”.
“Marine two seven one is a charlie one-thirty five miles south for landing.”
A Marine Corps C-130 was approaching the airfield and requesting landing instructions.
“Marine two-one-seven Phu Bai is landing runway one-six, altimeter two nine nine zero, winds southerly at five knots.”
“Wolf pack pre-take off check.” I called my wingmen on VHF to make sure they were ready.
“Three-eight.”
“Two-one-seven roger.” The Marine C-130 was talking to the tower on UHF. I switched to my UHF radio to request take off clearance.
“Three-five.”
“Phu Bai tower, Wolf pack three-zero.”
“Go ahead Wolf pack three-zero”
“Wolf pack three-zero is a flight of three gunships ready for taxi take off, I am Tac E, troops in contact over.”
“Roger Wolf pack three-zero, understand tactical emergency you are cleared to taxi runway one-six, use caution for departing flight of six helicopters, altimeter two-nine- point nine zero, winds southerly at five knots. Break, Marine two-one-seven make a right turn out of traffic and await further instructions.”
My declaration of a tactical emergency gave us priority over any other aircraft either landing or taking off. The slicks had departed with a similar priority
“Two-one-seven right turn out of traffic.” The C-130 pilot acknowledged.
“Three-zero.” I replied to the tower and we adjusted our altimeters to the correct setting.
“Coming up.” I announced. “Clear left” and “Clear right” the gunners answered. Not too hot today, so we actually lifted off the ground to our three inch hover. I hovered out on the runway then set down went flat pitch to allow my wingmen to taxi out and line up behind me. I looked over my shoulder and watched as Holt struggled to get the heavier hog-frog onto the runway.
The cockpit temperature was probably a hundred and twenty. The sweat ran down my face, into my eyes, dripping off my nose. My tiger stripe fatigues were soaking through under the armor plate on my chest, as were the leather cloves on my hands. I kept running my eyes over the cockpit instruments, checking, rechecking then checking again. I glanced at Jeff he looked like someone had dumped a bucket of water over him, he too scanning the instruments for any anomaly.
I switched back to VHF “Wolf pack take off check” I spoke into my microphone. “Three-eight” “Three-five” came the answers telling me that Joe and Bill were behind me and they were ready for take off.
Then back to UHF “Phu Bai tower Wolf pack three-zero is ready for take off.”
“Wolf pack three-zero you are clear for take off runway one-six, winds calm, use caution for possible rotor wash from departing flight of six helicopters.”
“Roger, Three-zero is on the go.”
After one had flown as an aircraft commander for a few hundred hours the relationship with the aircraft changed. Instead of getting in and strapping down, you climbed in and strapped it on. You became part of the airplane. A pianist knows that when he presses the keys in a certain pattern a given sound will emerge from the piano. In the beginning, a helicopter pilot moves the controls, waits to see what happens and adjusts accordingly. At some time in your career, you become that pianist. You know that when you move the cyclic and the collective and the pedals in a given pattern the aircraft will perform a given motion. You are truly one with the aircraft. You think, it does. You are so in tune with the airplane that the actual flying of it is almost secondary to other activities you have to perform. Except for the take off.
After I got clearance from the tower for take off I pulled pitch and we lifted up to a three inch hover. A steady hand was the key here. I eased the cyclic forward just a few millimeters. The helicopter started to hover down the runway gathering speed. Just as we achieved transitional lift I moved cyclic back every so slightly to maximize the ground effect and compensate for the slight dip helicopters take as they change from hover to real flight. The aircraft was lifted to a height of a foot or so by the resulting ground effect. I eased the cyclic forward and we rode down the front of the bubble of air until we were an inch or two above the runway gathering speed. Then we were off, giving chase to the departed slicks. We climbed out at sixty knots with a rate of climb of four hundred feet per minute, not what I had dreamed about from my vantage point at the airport in my teens, but I was flying. And I was one with my aircraft, a most satisfying feeling.
“Marine two-one-seven you are cleared to land runway one-six, call cross wind, use caution for departing flight of three gun ships.”
The tower was crowding as many aircraft as possible into the limited airspace he had available, standard practice for the over burdened air controllers. Often the little tactical airfields handled as much traffic as a metropolitan airport in the states, with twenty or more take off and landings an hour. Phu Bai was no exception, it was a busy airport with marine helicopters and fixed wing aircraft and air force fixed wing aircraft flying in and out with supplies on a twenty-four and seven basis.
“Marine two-one-seven roger.”
The take off was a mentally exhausting experience. The degree of concentration required for doing it not just right, but perfect was enormous. One slip, one small cyclic movement exaggerated and you could end the mission before it started. I recall reading studies showing pilot’s heart rates were higher during take off and landing than actual combat. I’ll always wonder why we didn’t lose more aircraft on take off.
Ferguson lifted off as soon as I cleared the runway then Holt followed after Joel had cleared the runway. “Three-zero, Three-five is off.” Announced Bill telling me he had successfully taken off and was forming up in our loose formation about 200 hundred yards apart. Unlike the slicks we took off individually so we would have air as free from rotor wash as possible. There had been occasions when a wingman, particularly a hog frog had been left on the runway so departures were always confirmed.
“Phu Bai tower Wolf pack three-zero is clear of your airspace, changing to tactical frequencies and making left turn out of traffic.” I told the tower that he would no longer have radio contact our flight with except on guard channel and letting the Marine C-130 know we were out of his way.
“Roger Wolf pack, good luck.” Replied the tower.
“Coming left.” I announced to the crew.
“Clear left.” Confirmed Deisher.
“Wolf pack, go TAC uniform” I instructed my wingmen to change their UHF radios from the tower frequency back to our unit’s tactical frequency. “Three-eight, Three-five” came the confirmation.
“Why don’t you take over Jeff?” I asked.
“Okay.” He replied reaching for the controls.
“I’ve got it”
“You have it.” I said, lifting my hands out in front of me so he could see them.
The controls taken over by my copilot, I lit a cigarette. Relaxing for a moment and thinking something like, “Hey, I’m actually getting pretty good at this flying stuff.” As we gained altitude and burned off fuel our rate of climb and airspeed picked up and we closed on the slicks. The air cooled with altitude and we all began to feel refreshed.
Relaxing is something we were trained not to do while flying, so I savored the moment with Jeff at the controls. I remember Harry Etwieler, my first instructor pilot. My self and two other would be pilots were introduced to Mr. Etwieler during our first week on “The Hill” where four of the five companies of flight school candidates were housed. He had steel blue eyes and a face with more character than Mt. Rushmore. He could fly like no one I have ever seen since. A helicopter in his hands was a graceful bird. He spoke with a charming mid west drawl that belied his ability to destroy your ego in an instant.
The first words he spoke in response to my extended hand were “Don’t let’s get too friendly, I’ll probably have fail one or two of you.”
Welcome to flight school.
I soon learned that Harry’s primary means of communicating a point was to preface it with “Well I’ll be dipped in shit!” or simply “I’ll be dipped.” This was followed by an explanation of what you had just done wrong or right. Harry expressed equal surprise at either accomplishment.
There was nothing personal in the elimination, just simple math. The class started with 550 candidates in the 5th company in the first month. Before we moved up to the hill and one of the four flying companies they had to wash out 150. There were only four hundred beds in each of the four WOC (Warrant Officer Candidate) companies on the hill. The remaining four hundred were trimmed to 225 in the next four months. There were only 225 slots in instrument school. The majority of this trimming took place in two phases, the solo and primary tests.
We were required to solo in the first fifteen hours of flight instruction. I was in my thirteenth hour and hadn’t soloed yet. I had also not heard a civil word from Mr. Etwieler in the nearly three weeks since we had our “introduction”.
One of the training techniques that the I.P.’s used was to cut the throttle to flight idle at unexpected moments to simulate an engine failure. The trainee was expected to lower the collective to initiate auto-rotation and make a distress call on the radio. The trainee’s radio was never turned on at this phase so the call just went to the IP on the intercom.
This day we had been flying standard traffic patterns for about twenty minutes. We were on the downwind leg of the pattern at 500 feet when Harry told me a joke. “Do you know the difference between a pilot and a co-pilot?”
“No sir.” I replied.
“The pilot gets to fly.” Now I recognized this wasn’t exactly stand up routine quality but I laughed just same and thought Harry should probably keep his day job. I was pleased as a puppy that Harry had actually said something to me that wasn’t an instruction or a criticism. He had spoken a complete sentence that didn’t begin with “Jesus Christ” and use “stupid” as a pronoun, life was good. Then Harry pointed across my chest and said, “Look at that.” I turned my head to the right searching for what he was pointing at.
Suddenly something struck me hard in the back of my helmet. WHAM! Then again, WHAM! I turned back to see Harry lifting his clipboard to strike me again. Totally confused I cringed. My hands still on the controls.
WHAM! “We’ve” WHAM! “got” WHAM! “fifteen” WHAM! “seconds” WHAM! “to” WHAM! “live” WHAM! “you’d” WHAM! “better” WHAM! “do” WHAM! “something” WHAM! “now” WHAM! “or” WHAM! “we’re” WHAM! “both” WHAM! “gonna” WHAM! “die!” WHAM!
I felt air rushing through the open door on the left side of the cockpit. I realized we were out of trim, my reflex was to adjust the pedals to get us back in trim. Harry kept hitting me. The aircraft was sluggish in response to my movements on the controls. Finally it came through to me, Harry was simulating an engine failure while he was hitting me with the clipboard.
I downed the collective and entered auto-rotation and turned 180 degrees to get into the wind. “Mayday, Mayday this is Red bird five going down East of stage field Bravo.”
“I have the aircraft.” He said. “Well I’ll be dipped, you actually did it!” He recovered the aircraft from auto-rotation and exited the traffic pattern around the stage field. I had passed his test but was furious at him for striking me. Angrier still that the first civil conversation he had initiated was only a rouse to lull me into complacency. Finally, I was really pissed with myself for having fallen for it. We climbed up to a thousand feet and he turned the controls back to me. “You’ve got it.”
“I have it” I confirmed. Harry thrust his hands out in front of him showing me he was clear of the controls.
“Candidate you can never relax, the moment you are fat dumb and happy in a helicopter it will kill you. You have to be alert at all times. Engine failures always occur while you are thinking about something else.” On his instruction I flew back to the stage field and entered the traffic pattern. We finished up the hour of flying without further assaults.
The next day while flying traffic patterns he instructed me to hover to a point in front of the tower. I hovered as directed, wondering what I done wrong now. I sat the airplane on the ground. He said, “Something is loose back here.” and got out. He walked around the back of the airplane and came up behind me. He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see him a few inches from my face. He reached up and pulled my microphone away from my mouth so he could speak into it.
Reaching forward to the cyclic he keyed the intercom and said, “Turn your radio on, try not to kill yourself, you are cleared to solo.” He turned and as he walked away signaled the tower he was coming inside so he could have radio contact with me in case I needed help. Thus I was soloed.
Harry became more civil as he became confident he wouldn’t have to wash me out. I came to realize that all of his hard ass sarcasm was intended to teach me how to stay alive in a helicopter. Harry just didn’t want anybody to fly that would probably get killed for lack of him recognizing their inability to do the job. In a way I guess it was his private defense mechanism. Before I left for Ft Rucker, I tried to thank him for all he taught me.
Harry, always gracious replied, “You don’t know shit yet, and you can thank me when you come back form over there.”
Back from over there. It was much later that I realized how hard it must have been on the I.P.’s to teach young men to fly knowing the best of their progeny would be sent “over there” and in harm’s way.
I finished my cigarette as we cleared the populated area surrounding Phu Bai City and took the guns hot.
“I’ve got it.” I told Jeff.
“You have it.” He confirmed arms extended.
“Wolf pack, call weapons hot.” I radioed.
Jeff pushed in the circuit breakers arming the weapons systems. I heard the “beeeeep” in my headphones that told me the rockets were armed.
“Gun check” Jeff announced as he unfolded the minigun
sight from its stowed position. The mini-gun sight was an infinity reflex
sight. Which meant that when you looked through the sight a circle and dot that
defined the kill zone was in focus as was the target. When fired at the correct
range of 600 meters the circle described a kill zone. When the trigger was
pulled, anything in the circle died. A three way toggle switch on the counsel
controlled the firing of the guns, left, or right only and both. Another switch
beside it controlled the rate of fire, 1,500, 3,000 or six thousand rounds a minute.
Jeff pulled the dead man’s switch which activated guns and acted as a safety
(you couldn’t pull the trigger without pulling the dead man’s switch) and
tested the hydraulic slaving moving the sight left, right up and down. The crew
watched the guns moving in conjunction with Jeff’s moving of the sight.
“Left checks.” “Right checks” Kirchmeyer and Diesher confirmed the guns were slaving.
“Three-five’s hot.” “Three-eight’s hot.” Confirmed the fire team.
Every fire team leader had his pet saying that announced to the mission leader that his gunships were closed and ready to provide suppressive fire. “You got chocolate death on call” or “You’ve got death on call” and “We are armed and dangerous” are three I remember.
I radioed my own pet saying, “Bandit Two-six, Wolf pack three-zero, the pack’s in back, ready to attack.” Then I gave the aircraft back to Jeff to fly.
“Roger three-zero” Bandit two-six acknowledged.
Bandit two-six was Captain Sorenson, the commander of the Second Platoon slicks. He had been in command of the Bandits for about four months. We had flown several missions together and trusted one another implicitly. He had final say on the air assets.
In his aircraft were the Delta mission commander, call sign Raven and two other staff members. They were in charge of everything that happened on the ground and the overall mission. They were connected to all the radios for listening purposes and talked to the team on the ground and the air force FAC on the FM channel.
We sat back and rode out to the A.O (area of operations). This was always a strange experience for me. Gone was the adrenaline rush from the take off that had replaced the anxiety of the ride to the revetments. We flew mostly in silence. The noisy quiet of the engine and rotor blades interrupted by an occasional question or comment. Sometimes I turned on the ADF (Automatic Direction Finder radio whose frequencies included the standard AM radio band.) and found Armed Forces Radio. We then flew into combat to anti-war/anti-establishment rock songs. The irony still brings a smile.
“Get your motor
running, head out on the highway, looking for adventure or whatever comes our
way. Born to be wild….”
“Hawk, this is Bandit-two six.” Things got serious now, Steppenwolf would have to wait. I switched the ADF off.
“I have the aircraft Jeff.” I said reaching for the controls
“You have it.” He replied showing his hands.
I unfolded the sight for the rockets from its stowed position above the windshield. Jeff unfolded the mini-gun sight. “Bandit two-six this is Hawk” answered the air force FAC orbiting high over the A.O.
“Two-six has you in sight, Hawk we are about zero five out.” Meaning we were five minutes away
“Roadrunner one-oh-three is in the valley at your eleven o’clock. They were in contact but have broken with the bad guys. They were to the north. I have the team off my right wing now” The Air Force FAC went into a tight right hand turn right over the team. He had determined their situation by decoding the pattern of the yellow cloth the roadrunners carried.
“Roger Hawk.” “You got that Wolf pack three-zero?”
“Roger Two-six” I started a slow descent and we began trying to locate the Roadrunners on the ground. Often the crew chief or door gunner had the best view, and the best chance of making the initial sighting.
“Sir, I got’em at three o’clock” announced Kirchmeyer.
“Rog” I replied and turned to the right. I made a positive contact with the team and continued my turn getting into position to mark the team for my wingmen and slicks orbiting above us.
“Bandit two-six, Three-zero has them in sight.” I announced to the slicks. I dropped pitch and pulled back on the cyclic slowing my airspeed and continued our descent.
“Roger Three-zero, I have them too.” Replied Bandit Two-six.
“Okay you got’em?” I asked my pilot and crew.
“Right.” “Got’em.” “Okay.” Came their replies.
“Wolf pack Three-zero is going in to mark.” One of the benefits of being a fire team leader was having the honor of marking the team for the ex-fil pilot and your wingmen. This entailed making a low, slow drag over the team to insure the slick pilot and your wingmen saw exactly where the team was located. During this pass I would check out the landing zone and confirm whether we had a sit down or if we would do a McGuire rig extraction. I would also determine the inbound and out bound headings for the slicks and our gun runs.
There was an additional objective the low slow fly through. The idea was to present such a tempting target that no self respecting NVA gunner could resist taking a chance on winning a bicycle. (The reward for downing a helicopter.) We flew over the team at forty knots and about three hundred feet above ground level. Looking down, I could see one of the roadrunner team members lying in a small clearing with his yellow cloth strip running from his chin to his mid section. He gave a small wave as we flew over. “Mark.” I radioed to the slicks orbiting at 3,000 feet.
”Three-eight, has tally ho on the team.”
“Three-five has a tally.” My wingmen confirmed they had also located the team
“Roger Wolf pack.” I confirmed we all had a positive identification of the friendlies position and we were free to shoot anyone else.
The “too tempting a target” tactic worked to perfection and we received ground fire. I was in a right turn and starting my climb out when we took several hits.
“Three-zero is taking fire from the hill north of the team” I radioed the warning to my wing men. Ferguson’s aircraft immediately strafed the offending hillside with his mini-guns and door guns.
I turned my head straining my neck to keep the target area and the team is sight as I climbed out over a hill east of the team. The noisy quiet of the flight to the A.O. suddenly exploded in cacophony of radio and intercom traffic.
“We’ve got bullet holes all over the cargo deck sir.” from my crew chief.
“Right, everybody okay? ” my reply.
“Understand you took fire three-zero?” from Bandit two-six.
“Rog, we’re all okay back here.”
“Roger, Two-six nobody hurt.” I said.
“Rog, Three zero”
From Jeff, “Everything’s green.” Meaning the instruments were all reading normal, my head was totally out of the cockpit I couldn’t take the time to look at anything but the events below and around us.
Then, Jeff again, “Cover the gun ship” followed by the door gunner’s machine gun staccato.
The gun ship crew chief and door gunner’s were the last of the real wild west gunfighters. Wearing safety harnesses tethered to the floor, they hung out of the cargo doors firing hand held M-60’s. It was the copilot’s job to direct them. It was their job to shoot around the outriggers that supported the mini-guns and rocket pods, under the rotor blades, between the skids and the fuselage and hit the target called by the co-pilot. This while being subjected to changing G-forces and views of the world beneath them induced by the aircraft commander’s maneuvers. They accomplished this by straining against their tethers with their legs, maintaining tension so they kept their balance.
The M-60 barrels would swell when they got hot and one could hear the rate of fire slow as the barrel tried to swell shut. The gunner’s heavily gloved hand removed the hot barrel from the firing mechanism and replaced it with one of two spares. The steady stream of deadly accurate fire resumed with hardly a break. Their fire hitting tree lines, muzzle flashes or firing in front of a slick coming out of the hole with a recon team on board. They also covered the other gun ships on the opposite side of the oval flight pattern we assumed for our runs.
In truth, very little instruction was needed from the fire team leader, the aircraft commander or the co-pilot. Everyone simply knew their job and they did it without need of instruction or control.
“Wolf pack we’ll inbound on the two-seven-zero. Bad guys are on the hill to the north of the team.” I called the inbound heading for our gun runs to my wingmen. I was just starting my turn to go back inbound to the target and team when, looking back over my shoulder, I saw Joel turn right and start his outbound bound leg. I slowed to set up our spacing in the orbit that would protect the slick to and from the landing zone. Then, to my horror, I saw Holt in the hog frog diving toward the team at what I estimated at about 140 knots.
I had barely thought, “What the Hell is he doing?”
When he announced, “This is Wolf pack three five, Mark, Mark, Mark,” as he flew over the team. Of course he had covered about a quarter mile as he was “Mark, Mark, Marking.” So, exactly where the team was would have been was anybody’s guess if they didn’t already know. I could see the tracers from his door gunner firing into the hillside the enemy fire had come from. Holt should have fired rockets at the hill but he was flying past it.
Then, instead of turning, he pulled up the nose in a cyclic climb. The hog frog’s sink rate was too high and it did not respond. Wallowing like its namesake in the hot humid air, Holt flew into a tree line on the hill to the west of the team. I started my inbound run just in time to see him fly through trees like some manic UH1-C weed-eater. Branches and green matter exploded out of the top of the jungle canopy. Then I witnessed a miracle. Holt, with part of a tree lodged in his cockpit, emerged from the opposite tree line preceded by a green cloud. He turned right and headed for a creek bed. Clearly, Holt was not “one with the aircraft” on this day.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday this is Wolf pack three-five I’m going down!”
I broke my run and followed him as he flew into a valley behind the team. Holt landed hard in a shallow stream sending up a geyser of water. I watched as the crew exited the aircraft and waded to the shore. I could see the door gunners carrying their M-60’s with several belts of ammunition hanging around their necks commando style. One of the pilots was helping the other. It looked like they were all okay. The tree was still lodged crossways in the cockpit.
Ferguson and I set up a circular orbit around the crash site not having a definite target we just orbited and waited to see if we drew fire. We were in a right hand orbit, the aircraft commanders and crew chiefs looking inside the circle and the copilots and door gunner watching the outside of the orbit. If we drew fire or found a target we would switch to an oval attack orbit.
Then the sound of an emergency beeper exploded in my headphones. Holt had activated his emergency radio.
“Beeper, Beeper come up voice.” Called Two-six. Telling Holt that he did not need to use the homing beacon just the two way radio.
“Roger this is Wolfpack three-five, who is this over?”
“This is Bandit two-six, give me a sitrep.”
“Roger Two-six, everyone is okay except me. I’m cut but I’m okay. We are just North of the aircraft over.”
“Roger Three-five, I have you in sight are you ready for recovery?” Sorenson was beginning to sound like Harry Etwiler.
“Roger that Two six.”
I called Ferguson, “Okay Three-eight let’s set up a race track. Inbound on the one-two-zero. Three-zero is breaking left, now.” We would switch from circling the crash sight to our oval pattern to escort the slick to and from the recovery site.
“Roger three-zero.”
I flew my outbound leg, feeling mixed emotions of anger at Holt and relief for the crew.
“Bandit two-six, this is Three-zero. Send recovery in on one-two-zero, looks like he can terminate at a low hover in the stream bed. The LZ is cold so far.”
“Roger, Three-zero.” Captain Sorenson selected the helicopter that he would send in after the downed crew.
“Bandit Two-nine, this is Two-six, you are clear for recovery. Land heading one-two-zero you have a low hover LZ.”
“Roger, Two-nine is on the break.”
The slick broke formation and dropped out of sky like a stone. He executed a high overhead approach, starting his descent and over 2,500 feet per minute and one hundred and ten knots. Ending at zero airspeed in a hover after he described whatever degree of turn was needed to end on the correct heading.
Ferguson and I covered his approach with rocket and mini-gun fire. Our door gunners dusted up the area around the downed gun ship. The slick terminated his approach right on target, dipping his skids in the water. The gun ship air crew ran back into the stream and clambered aboard.
“Bandit two-nine is coming out with a bingo.” The slick pilot announced he was lifting off with the air crew on board. Joel and I would adjust our orbit to keep him inside our oval as he lifted off and climbed out. Our door gunners would fire under and in front of him, Jeff and Joel’s co-pilot would put down minigun fire in front of the departing slick on our outbound legs.
“Bandit two-nine, Bandit two-six.”
“Two nine-roger.”
“Two-nine you are clear to RTB.”
Two-six had cleared Two-nine to return to base so the injured could be looked after.
We had lost over one third of our fire power before we had even started getting the team out. Ferguson and I returned our attention to Roadrunner one-oh-three. We made a couple of passes firing rockets and miniguns at the hillside where the ground fire had come from and the surrounding area. Miniguns don’t sound like the rata tat tat one commonly associates with a machine gun. They make a sound more like a chain saw with an attitude as twenty-five rounds come out of the spinning barrels every second
“BRRRRRRRAAPPP”. Even inside the helmets the sound was deafening. We didn’t receive any more return fire.
I was about to call for the release of the slick to recover the team when we heard Hawk calling Bandit two-six. An NVA unit with tracking dogs was pursuing one of the two Delta teams. The Delta mission commander determined that the Delta team was in more imminent danger than the Roadrunner team. Bandit two-six called me and aborted the ex-fil of Roadrunner one-oh-three.
“Cease fire three-eight, cease fire.” Jeff repeated the command to Kirchmeyer and Deisher. The clearance to fire had been rescinded. We were now under the normal rules of engagement. We were now required to be shot at first, and have our target clearly identified prior to returning fire. We pulled off the target and flew as directed to the Delta team, call sign Cowpony.
“Three-eight go Cowpony TAC fox mike” I instructed Joel to join me on Cowpony’s air to ground frequency. Jeff changed our FM radio frequency to Cowpony’s, we had stayed on our unit’s FM frequency since we had radio contact only with the Delta teams.
I switched from VHF to FM and called the team. “Cowpony, this is Wolf pack three-zero.” Cowpony was Sergeant Walt Howard, known to almost everyone as Howie.
“This is Cowpony over.”
“Cowpony, Wolf pack three-zero is en route with one.” I told Cowpony there would be two gunships.
“Roger Wolf pack three zero, we are running the ridge above the blue line, the bad guys are about fifty to one hundred meters behind us. Let me know when you want a seven-eight, over.” Cowpony was telling me he was on a ridge over a river. I looked at Jeff who was pointing to the river and the parallel ridge on the map.
“Roger Cowpony we’re almost there.
“Okay, wolf pack let me know when you want a seven-eight.”
“Seven-eight” was the code for smoke. It was only used in dire circumstances since the NVA could see it too and pop their own smoke to confuse the pilots. Much preferred were signal mirrors (seven-five) and an orange cloth panel (seven-six) since they could be directed so only the helicopters could see them. The Delta team leader was trying to sound calm but the stress and exhaustion came through the radio loud and clear.
“Ah Rog, Cowpony give me a seven-eight as soon as you can hear us.”
“Okay.”
A minute or later I heard, “Wolf pack three-zero, seven eight now. Fire to the north of the seven-eight.”
“Roger, Cowpony, north of the seven-eight.”
I saw red smoke filtering up through the jungle canopy and fired a rocket directly at it knowing it took time for the smoke to get through the jungle and the Delta team was running. “Woosh” went the rocket motor out of the tube. Then, in a few seconds “BANG!” went the seventeen pound warhead. It had a kill zone of forty meters, the same explosive power as a 105mm howitzer round. The explosion created a halo of mist due to the compression of the humid air.
The idea was to get our fire between the team and pursuing NVA and make them slow down or stop. Then we could send in the slick to recover the team.
I switched back to VHF, “Three-eight, put it just to the south of my first rocket”
“Roger.” Came Ferguson’s reply.
“Gun.” I said telling Jeff that I would not fire another rocket in this run.
Jeff fired a burst from the mini-guns and directed the door gunner’s fire.
“Kirch fire right where I put that burst and run slow to the south. Deischer, cover Three-eight on our outbound.”
“Three-zero on the break.” I announced to my wingman as I turned right and started outbound. As we passed I glanced at my wingman as he fired a rocket that would land just to the South of mine. I noted that Deischer’s fire was landing directly under and in front of Joel. Joel’s door gunner was returning the favor covering our flight path. Right out of the textbook. The text book that we and our 281st AHC predecessors had written.
“Wolf pack, seven-eight now, over.” Cowpony could bring the fire closer to him by popping smoke more often.
“Got it, Cowpony.” I said switching back to FM and twisting around to see the smoke.
“Three-eight is on the break.”
“Rocket.” I turned inbound to cover my wingman’s turn I fired a rocket just south of the last smoke and our door gunners fired under Three-five to protect him as he turned.
“Wolf pack seven-eight now, over.” Cowpony was now popping smoke every five seconds or so. Having seen where we were putting the fire and getting the timing down of the smoke filtering up through the trees, he was bringing my fire closer to him until he was sure it was between he and the pursuing NVA.
“Rog Cowpony”
We made two more passes, when Cowpony said “Seven-eight now, we’ve broken contact over.”
“Roger Cowpony.”
“Cowpony this is Raven, we need you to get to a sit down over.” A sit down was a landing zone that a helicopter could actually land in. That meant that one helicopter could extract the entire team.
“We’ll try. Wait one.”
The team had been running up and down hill with sixty-pound packs for the better part of an hour. Raven and Bandit two-six knew they were exhausted but we only had five recovery slicks left having used one to pick up the downed gun ship air crew. We still had to go back and get the roadrunner team and might have to extract them with McGuire rigs, which would require two aircraft. If we could get Cowpony out with only one slick we’d still have four left which would satisfy our extraction protocol of having four aircraft available to extract a team. Bandit Two-six was orbiting above my two gunships and with Raven directed Cowpony to a bomb crater in the jungle. The air force must have hit the trail sometime earlier.
We continued to fire on the ridge at the same point we had been when Cowpony called contact broken. The idea was to prevent the NVA from advancing further along the ridge. We cut back to conserve ammunition. After about ten minutes Cowpony made the clearing.
“Raven I got a sit down, over.”
“Roger Cowpony good work.”
“Wolf pack three-zero, I’ll give you a seven-six over.”
“Roger, Cowpony, I’ve got you in sight.” I made the low slow drag over the team.
“Bandit two-six, Wolf pack three-zero, mark.”
“Roger Three zero.”
“Three-eight is tally ho the team.”
“Bandit two-three, Two-six, you have Cowpony?”
“Two-three is tally ho on Cowpony.”
At the same time I called Three-eight and gave him our inbound heading and started to set up. The sun was going down and I wanted the slick to come in with the sun at his back. That way the NVA would be looking into the sun if they fired at us.
“Bandit two-six this is Wolf pack three-zero, recovery is cleared for a high overhead, final on zero-nine-zero. Exit on zero nine zero, you have a sit down.” The slick would land with the sun to his back then take off the same way to avoid flying into the sun. We would simply extend our run until the slick was safe then exit straight out behind him.
“Two-three, this is Two-six did you copy Three-zero?
“Two-three roger.”
The slick would fly almost directly over the top of the team, then dive making a tight circle ending up on a heading of due East. We knew exactly what to expect so we could provide the best possible cover and avoid a mid air collision with the slick.
The slick broke right behind Three-eight and began to slow on final approach to the landing zone. Three-eight put a couple of bursts of mini-gun to the north of the LZ, then broke to the right. Jeff fired a burst and then directed our door gunners to strafe the ridge line.
The slick terminated his approach just over the jungle canopy and began to work his way down into the hole. The co-pilot, crew chief and door gunner would guide the aircraft commander through the branches until they were low enough for the team to climb on board.
The crew of the “hole slick” was now completely oblivious to what was transpiring above them. Their world became the aircraft and the green walls that defined the hole they were descending into. Each of them was responsible for a ninety-degree arc around the aircraft.
Their concentration was totally on that and the broken branches in the ragged one hundred or so foot deep landing zone. They were too busy to be scared.
The door gunner and crew chief had the job of watching the vulnerable tail rotor and their portions of the main rotor’s arc.
Bandit two-three stabilized the aircraft above the hole. “Okay, bring it down about two feet.” directed the door gunner. Okay now stop and turn about a foot to the left.”
The pilot looked straight ahead with an occasional side ward glance to check the tip path of the main rotor. His hand and feet gently maneuvered the controls.
“Okay, now come down a foot. Good, right there. Now turn right about a foot.”
The crew chief on the other side took his cue from the instruction to move the tail in his direction.
“Clear right. Okay, good now come down about three feet. Good, now turn right and come down another foot.”
The co-pilot sensed a momentary lull, “All green, 98% n1 and 29 pounds of torque.” providing an update to the AC on the engine’s performance.
Joel and I continued our runs, firing rockets and mini-gun, our door gunners firing close to the hole the slick had disappearing into.
“Okay, good. Now come down a foot and turn left.”
“BRRRRRRRRRRAP.” Came the sound of our mini-gun fire followed by “BANG!” as a rocket impacted.
“Clear left.” The slick door gunner said on cue.
“Watch the branch at 2:00 o’clock.” The co-pilot warned.
“You can slide left about a foot.” The door gunner offered the AC a way around the offending branch.
“BANG!” another of our rockets impacted. Then “BADDABADDABADDA.” The gun ship’s door gunner covered a break.
“Clear of the branch at two O’clock.” Confirmed the co-pilot.
And so it went as the slick crew worked the helicopter down in the hole to a hover just off the ground. The Delta team climbed on board and the process was reversed. If they took fire, they would be forced to slowly work their way out. Coming straight up would risk damage to the tail rotor causing loss of control and crash.
The slick crew’s senses were tuned to sorting out our door gunners fire from possible enemy ground fire. The radios were silent, everyone knowing that the real important communication was going on in the hole slick. After a few minutes that must have seemed like an hour or two to the slick crew I saw the slicks rotor blades coming up from the jungle.
“Two three is coming out with a bingo.” There was a mutual sigh of relief. We had all been in the hole with the slick. Then Two-three rose and departed over the top of the ridge then dropped his nose to gain airspeed. Three eight was almost to the end of his run and I was just about to turn on my inbound run. I turned inbound early so as to keep the slick inside our oval
“Cease fire three-eight.”
“Rog,”
We could see the slick climbing, now out of range of small caliber weapons. Safely achieving an altitude that was too high for small caliber but too low for any large antiaircraft guns that might be in the area.
“Two-three say status.” Called Bandit two six.
“Two-three is green.” Bandit two-three was out of the hole with no wounded and no damage to the aircraft.
“Roger Two-three.”
“Bandit two-six this is Hawk over.”
“Roger Hawk”
“Bandit two-six, I have two flights of high speed’s en route over.” Hawk had called for two pair of air force jets to come to attack the area we had just left.
“Roger Hawk, lets pick up Roadrunner one-oh-three and get out of here.”
“Roger that Two-six.”
“Wolf pack, say status.”
“Wait one Two-six.” I replied as Jeff asked our crew to inventory the mini-gun ammunition stores and rockets.
“Sir, you’ve got three rockets left and about two thousand rounds of mini-gun. Deischer and I have about five hundred rounds left.” This was probably just enough ammunition to extract Road runner one-oh-three if we didn’t run into too much trouble.
“Two-six, Three-zero has three rockets, twenty five per cent minigun and a little door gunner ammo. I’m at four hundred fifty pounds of fuel. “ It was just over thirty minutes flying time back to our base at Phu Bai and we burned about ten pounds a minute so we had just enough fuel to get the Road runners and get home.
“Two-six, Three-eight has five hundred pounds of fuel, two rockets twenty per cent mini-gun and a little door gun ammo.“
We were in bad shape, and the slicks could not have much more fuel than the gun ships. We had to choose (or Bandit two-six and the Delta mission commander flying with him did) between leaving the road runners on the ground for at least another hour and one half or trying to get them out with the assets we had on hand. The day had already brought the unit a lost gun ship my aircraft had battle damage. Two-six weighed the possibility of losing another aircraft or two against the probability that the road runners would be killed or captured once we left.
“Hawk, Bandit two-six, can you give me an E.T.A on the high speeds?”
“Wait one.” Hawk called the fighter control to see if they had launched and if he could get the call sign and frequency for the fighters. If they had accomplished their mid air refueling we could have help in minutes. Otherwise it was going to be too late to help get the team out but they could provide some cover while we ran home got refueled and rearmed then flew back to pull out the team. It was also getting dark and we could not extract a team at night.
“Bandit two-six this is Hawk, the high speeds won’t be here for another half hour over.”
“Rog, Hawk, thank you.”
The jets would not get here in time to help us so we were going to commit to recovering Roadrunner one-oh-three on our own.
“Wolf pack three-zero, Bandit two-six we are going to recover the team over.”
“Roger that Two-six.”
“Hawk this is Bandit two-six do you have Roadrunner-one-oh three in sight?”
“Roger Two-six, you’ll need to turn left about ten degrees, you’ll be on them in about five minutes. Do you have me in sight?”
“Roger Hawk.” We could see the FAC orbiting high above the team. The flight headed toward the waiting roadrunner team.
“Okay Bandit two-six, the team is in a clearing to the South of the Blue line over the next ridge. He’s still flashing no contact.”
We were behind the slicks by about two hundred yards. I pushed the cyclic forward increasing my airspeed to one hundred twenty knots so I would get a head of the slicks and just clear the ridge described by Hawk. I intended to come in low so I would have as little exposure as possible before I marked the team. This was a gamble since the team would be harder to spot at a lower altitude, but it would be quicker if it worked. We didn’t have enough fuel or ammunition for a prolonged fight.
I banked right. “Hawk this is Three-zero give me a vector over.” I slowed down to try to give myself a chance to see the team.
“Roger Three-zero level out now you are almost right on top of them.” I kept slowing down looking down at the jungle for the small clearing where we had seen the team before. The light had changed by now and we were coming from the opposite direction. Nothing looked familiar
“They are under you now Three-zero.” Great! I’d missed the team.
“Roger, no joy Hawk.”
“You passed them Three-zero, turn right and come back around.”
“Three-eight has the team.”
“I see them sir, they are at our three o’clock” from Kirchmeyer..
Everyone seemed to have the team except me I added power to climb for a better view. Then there he was plain as day, I felt like an idiot for not seeing him.
“Three-zero has the team.” I flew back over them, “Mark”. I started an out bound leg to set up our gun run. Jeff and Deischer confirmed they both had the team.
“Three-eight, Three-zero, we’ll out bound on zero nine zero.”
“Roger.”
We made two passes strafing the path the slick would take. We didn’t receive any return fire so I called Two-six to release the slick.
“It’s a sit down Two-six, send recovery in on a high over head and land two-seven-zero.”
“Roger Three-zero.”
“You have that Two-two?”
“Two-two roger.
“You are clear Two-two.”
“Roger, I’m on the break now.”
The slick pilot made his approach. Picking up a road runner team was always a nerve racking experience. The roadrunner recovery ship had a road runner on board to identify the team. As the team exposed themselves from their hide the door gunner on the side the roadrunners were approaching from would be nervously looking back and fourth between the team and the Roadrunner on board making the I.D. Both the door gunner and the Vietnamese would be pointing weapons at the approaching team. One false move and they would open fire.
When the Vietnamese on board recognized all of the roadrunners, he would shout “Okay!” then the team would run to the aircraft.
“Two two is coming out with a bingo.”
Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. We only had one door gun firing. I glanced down at my fuel gauge and saw I had two hundred and thirty pounds. Jeff was covering the slick as he climbed out when the mini-gun quit. I looked over at him as he switched to the right side gun and pulled the trigger. It let out a short burst then went quiet.
“I’m dry Rick.”
“Kay.”
Then Kirchmeyer’s door gun fell silent. We continued to climb up to the slicks. Running out of ammunition was not unusual it didn’t do much good if you landed with a half load of ammunition and didn’t kill the bad guys. Missions were planned with the idea that we could exact two teams, or one team and a flight crew. This time we had extracted two teams and a downed flight crew. All things being equal we felt pretty good about a tough mission already over two hours long.
“Three-zero, Three-eight is dry.” Ferguson notified me that he too was out of ammunition.
“Three-eight, say fuel.” I asked Joel to let me know how much fuel he had left.
“Three-zero, Three-eight is two-seven-zero.”
That meant that my wing man had about twenty-seven minutes of fuel left. I had twenty-three. I guessed I was about seven minutes short. We continued to climb to just below the slick’s altitude, watching Two-two join the formation.
“Two-six Three-zero, the pack’s in pack and we are dry.” I let Sorenson know we were in formation behind him and out of ammunition.
I congratulated my crew for their fine job. “All right! Good work guys, I really mean that. Kirch, Diesh, really good job. You guys really put it to them. Jeff just right man, you were excellent. This would have been perfect except for Holt.
I looked over at Jeff and put my left hand out. He slapped it giving me five. Kirchmeyer and Deisher responded, “Thanks sir.”
“Yeah thanks a lot Mr. Galer.”
“Okay, lets get this thing back to Phu Bai, and have some beer. Smoke’em if you got’em guys.”
I began to think and calculate our fuel load I thought we might get back to Hue Phu Bai or maybe not. The impact of what we had just done began to hit me. The adrenaline rush of the past hour or so vanished. I was suddenly exhausted.
“You have the aircraft Jeff.”
“Roger.”
I lit a cigarette and reached for the ADF radio. Time for some tunes for the ride back to Phu Bai. I relaxed and enjoyed the view, my cigarette and the great feeling I always had when we pulled teams out under fire. And got away with no one killed.
Eric Burton and The Animals said it best.
We gotta get out of
this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do.
We gotta get out of
this,
girl there’s a better life for me and you
It was our anthem even though a lot of us were on extensions and second tours.
Later I took control of the aircraft. I thought we might run out of fuel and I was supposed to be in control if we crashed. I watched the fuel pressure drop five pounds down to seventeen PSI. We had less than one hundred-fifty pounds of fuel left. As the individual fuel cells emptied we would lose five pounds of fuel pressure. A few minutes later we lost the next five PSI of pressure, now we were down to twelve pounds.
I could see the rice paddies that surrounded Hue Phu Bai. Bandit two-six switched the slicks from TAC UHF to Phu Bai tower and called for landing instructions. The routine of landing our flight would take our minds off the low fuel status.
“Wolf pack three-eight go guns cold.” Even though we were out of ammunition safety procedures required that we pulled the circuit breakers and the door gunners removed the barrels from their M-60’s prior to landing.
“Three-eight is cold.”
“Three-eight go Phu Bai tower uniform.”
“Three-eight.”
“Phu Bai tower, Wolf pack three-zero.”
“Wolf pack three-zero Phu Bai tower.”
“Wolf pack three-zero is a flight of two UH1 gun ships, five miles West for landing, guns cold, breakers pulled. We are low fuel over.”
“Wolf pack three-zero we are landing runway one-six winds calm, altimeter two-nine- nine five, are you declaring an emergency?
“Negative Phu Bai tower, I still have about five minutes of fuel.” The fuel pressure gauge was now bouncing from zero to five pounds and I could hear the fuel pumps whining as the fuel cells were sucked dry.
“Roger Three-zero you are cleared for a straight in approach call one mile final.
“Three-zero roger.”
“Bandit two-six is one mile final. Request clearance to taxi to the refueling area.”
“Roger Bandit two-six, you are clear to land runway one six and taxi as requested, winds calm. Please clear the runway for arriving gun ships.”
“Roger.”
“Phu Bai tower, Wolf pack three-zero is one mile final.”
“Roger Wolf pack three-zero, you are clear to land, runway one-six, winds calm, use caution possible rotor wash from five Uh-1’s landing now.”
“Three-zero roger.”
We shot a normal straight in. I hovered straight to our revetment and parked. I downed the collective and rolled the throttle to flight idle. I watched the exhaust gas temperature drop until it reached 450 degrees and then shut the engine down. The fuel gauge registered zero and the fuel pressure gauge had stopped bouncing and was also registering zero. We had landed with maybe thirty seconds to spare.
I pulled off my helmet and hung it up behind me. Kirchmeyer came around opened my door and pulled back the side armor plate. I finished unstrapping and climbed out of the aircraft. I started getting out of my chest armor. Taking off the chicken plate, gloves and helmet felt great. Kind of like unbinding an elastic bandage or taking off a tight pair of shoes. I was so tired I could hardly stand.
Routine reclaimed my mind. I reached back into the cockpit and pulled out the little green notebook that we recorded the mission time and any mechanical defects. I wrote in the mission time: take off at 15:35 hours landing at 18:20. Elapsed mission time was recorded as “2+45” not bad for a helicopter with a maximum of two hours and thirty minutes of fuel. I signed off on Jeff’s time and my own.
“Jeff, Kirch, Deisher lets check for battle damage.”
“Right, yes sir, yes sir.” Came their replies. We started a walk around and counted the bullet holes. There were a total of twenty obvious entry holes, eight of which were in the rotor blades. I red lined the aircraft in the green notebook. It would have to be thoroughly checked by maintenance before it flew again. Jeff thanked the designer of our armored seats after seeing that a couple of rounds had hit his.
Our truck was waiting to take us to the debriefing tent. More trucks were waiting for the slick pilots near their revetments.
Kirchmeyer and Deischer began rearming the gun ship a fuel truck would be by soon. The slicks were lined up at the fuel pumps hot refueling.
Jeff and I climbed on to the truck. I took a long pull from my canteen. The truck drove forward to pick up Ferguson and his co-pilot. I reached down to give Joel then his co-pilot a hand. Joel sat down and looked at me.
“Shit.” He said shaking his head.
“Roger that. Did you see Holt take fire?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I didn’t see any; but everything was happening so fast. I just made my pass and turned and I saw him coming down like a bat out of Hell.”
“Yeah, mark, mark, mark I wonder what the Hell he was thinking.”
“He was thinking?” Jeff looked at me, the sarcasm obvious in his tone and showing on his face.
“Well, what passed for thinking. “
The maintenance team would be ready for the ride back to the revetments. They would work through the night if need be to green line the aircraft so it could fly the next day.
We road the rest of the way to the debriefing tent in silence.
I sat through Cowpony’s tale of being ambushed and being chased by over a hundred NVA regulars with tracking dogs. How they dropped tear gas grenades to try and lose the dogs. How they had leap frogged one another to set up claymores to slow their pursuers. What they had seen, trucks in convoy, hundreds of bicycles with packs on them. Carrying God only knew what being walked down the trail. A trail with the trees on either side pulled together with cables to close the jungle canopy above it. A bull dozer. I heard the praise that the Cowpony team members had for the suppressive fire we had put down. How between us and the slick, their lives had been saved.
I left the debriefing tent and walked to the beer tent. I bought a six pack of cold beer and walked back to the revetments. Kirchmeyer and Deisher were still there working on the aircraft. They stopped when they saw me and accepted the beer I offered.
“How’s it stacking up?” I nodded toward the helicopter.
Deisher answered. “Maintenance was out, we’ll be green lined us as soon as the rotor blades are replaced. They went down to get them a few minutes ago.”
I admired the fresh patches in the aircraft’s aluminum skin. There were lots of others. “Okay,” I said, “I haven’t been to Ops yet to see if we are fragged for an insertion or not, I don’t think we will be. I’m not even sure if there will be a go at all. You guys can get some rest but check with Ops okay?”
“What are they saying about why Lt. Holt went down sir?”
“Nothing yet, all I heard was the Special Forces medics stitched up his chin. I think he’s back in the gun tent, I didn’t see him when I picked up the beer.”
“No sir, Lt. Holt is in the evac hospital.” The enlisted were always a few steps ahead of the officers when it came to scuttlebutt, I knew they knew more than I did, but wanted to get more information from me than they gave until they had all the aces.
“Sir, I don’t think he was shot down, the other guys don’t either. Charlie Seales (Holt’s crew chief) was out here and said they didn’t take hit, said Holt just got excited and…”
“Let’s not talk about that now, there may be a board or something. The old man is really pissed.”
I drained the rest of my beer and walked back to operations to check the duty board for my name. It wasn’t there, there was only one mission fragged for tomorrow. A single slick was scheduled to fly back to Nha Trang. The C.O. was on it with one of the Bandit A/C’s and Captain Black as a passenger.
Relieved that I didn’t have to fly tomorrow, I walked back to the beer tent. It was nearly nine o’clock. There were several pilots, air crews and Special Forces recon team members in the tent. In Nha Trang, there was an officer’s club, an NCO club and an enlisted club. Military protocol dictates that an officer, with an invitation can go into an NCO or enlisted club, but the enlisted ranks can never go to the club for the ranks above theirs. It kept the riff raff out of the officers club. Thus the beer tent was officially designated an enlisted men’s club. There was even a sign that said “OFFICERS and NCO’s WELCOME” hanging over the entrance. The profits of course went to the enlisted men’s club in Nha Trang.
I went in and bought another beer and saw Joe Bilitzke sitting with some of the 281st guys. I nodded and returned the hello’s as I walked to Bilitzke’s picnic table. The beer tent was more rowdy than normal. Pulling a team out under fire would normally call for a party atmosphere. Pulling two teams out on the same mission would mean toasts, boasts, songs, jokes, the old man would buy a round or two. The Delta commander would be around shaking hands and buy a couple of rounds himself. There were several small groups and a few solitary drinkers.
I had sat down with my back to the rest of the tent so I didn’t see the team leader from Cowpony approaching me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of a hand and I ducked instinctively. I was still “on” from flying the mission. Years later I was still “on”….but that’s another story.
The hand had held a bottle of Jack Daniels, which Sergeant Howard put down in front of me as he swung around sat down on the opposite side of the table.
“Little jumpy are we sir?” He said with a half grin.
“Shit Howie, what are you trying to do scare me to death? And don’t call me sir.” I had put Howard and his teams in several times when I flew slicks. I had put down suppressive fire to extract him many more times as a gun ship pilot. The NVA had a saying that to avoid the enemy’s air power you had to “get in the enemy’s hip pocket.” Meaning, stay too close for us to fire at them without endangering the friendlies. It was our job to fire between the good guys and the bad guys so the team could gain separation from the NVA and the slicks could pick them up. Howie and I had formed a pretty strong bond, total trust by him of my skill as a gun ship pilot. Total respect by me of his courage and cool. I kept asking him to let me go out with a recon team on a training mission in Nha Trang, he kept telling me I’d just fall down and hurt myself being a clumsy pilot and he didn’t want to have to carry me out. That and “Don’t call me sir.” were kind of running jokes between us. The more I told him not to call me sir, the more he did.
He pulled the cork out of the half empty bottle and took a pull. He passed it to me.
“Thanks for saving my ass again.” Howie had obviously consumed most of the missing Jack Daniels himself.
“Glad I could be there Howie.” I reached for his extended hand and shook it. I made some joke about saving the team and including him by accident.
“Hi Howie.” Joe sat the beers down. “Want a beer?”
“No I’ll stick with my pal Jack tonight.” Howie passed the bottle back to me. Joe sat down next to him.”
I reached out and took another drink from Howie’s bottle.
“So what happened to the Lt. Holt? He get shot down or what?” Howie looked me in the eye.
“I don’t know Howie, what do the E.M. say?”
“Talk is he panicked.”
Joe, reaching for the bottle, “Let’s just say that his inexperience was just slightly exceeded by his stupidity.”
I looked at my old friend I was beginning to feel the effects of the drinks. “Well maybe, I don’t know, I don’t think the old man wants a pilot error aircraft loss. So they want me to say Holt was a shoot down. I honestly don’t know.”
I was beginning to feel numb, the alcohol I was having for dinner was really rushing into my system. “Well, right now I’m getting fucked up. I’d better get out of here before I say something really stupid.
Joe got up, “Roger that, let’s get out of here.”
Howie looked up at Joe and I. “Try not to trip over anything on the way back sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.”
Bilitzke and I walked back to the gunship tent and after a few more beers went to sleep.
The next day the C.O. took off and picked Holt up from the hospital and flew to Nha Trang. He returned late that afternoon. Captain Black flew back with a replacement gunship and a pilot moved over from the Rat Pack. As I recall, Holt never flew another gun ship mission. He was assigned to 281st HQ in Nha Trang and flew admin missions to Cam Rahn Bay for the rest of his tour.
When Cass Park 69 ended we returned to Nha Trang. I went to the Project Delta club and had a few drinks with Howie and some of the other recon guys. I walked back to the 5th Special Forces Group club and joined the Bandits and Wolf Pack celebrating our return from the field. Steve Matthews has placed a picture of that night at the end of this. Holt can be seen and if you look carefully you can make out the band aid on his chin. I’m the guy with the go-go dancer in his lap.
I had dated her for a few months and when all the pilots showed up in the club for the first time in a month she asked where I was. Some wag told her I had been killed and this upset her. Then I showed up later and she was quite happy to see me. Everyone was in on the joke except me.
One of the Bandits, Dave Mitchell I think, made up a song to the tune of “George of the Jungle” to memorialize Holt’s adventure.
Holt, Holt Holt of
the gun ship marking one oh three
Holt, Holt, Holt, of
the gunship, watch out for that tree
WHAM!
We sang endless choruses of it that night
Bill Holt was a young guy, trying his best to do the job he was assigned. He crashed not because he was a coward, but because he made a mistake. There but for the grace of God and a couple of good co-pilots go I and more than just a few other pilots who flew in Viet Nam. When I first arrived in country, Harry Etweiler would be proud to know that I still “didn’t know shit”. More pilots died due to pilot error than pilot terror. I remember one night we got called out to shoot when the A team in the valley between Nha Trang and Dong Ba Thin was getting overrun. I got target fixation and Damn near…but that’s another story.
After my extended tour in Vietnam I transferred to the 17th Aviation Company based in Korat Thailand. Before returning to the world, I flew another six months. At the end I was totally burned out on flying. My childhood dream had been turned into a nightmare in Viet Nam and Thailand. I’ve never flown a helicopter since.
To the best of my recollection the above is true, a few of the names have been changed because I can’t remember the real ones. The radio chatter and conversations, while not exact, are typical of what was said on a mission and afterwards.
I’d like to thank Jeff Murray, Ted Nilson, Don Eliff, and Lee Brewer for helping me remember details of this mission. John Mayhew for providing the after action report for Cass Park 69. Glen Williams for telling me it was okay to write this. Steve Matthews for a little prodding, some editing and for the website that brought us all together. If you are not already there visit his 281st AHC “Intruder” Website at www.281stahc.org.
You can see more of my pictures at: www.281stahc.org/pictures/galer/galer.htm
If you are there be sure to visit the other 281st AHC Association Website at www.angelfire.com/tn3/281stahc_assn.
