Chapter 35
The Hellhole
W hen you were conducting a resupply mission, a good load that was efficient for the trip but left you enough power to maneuver at a hover was thirty of the five-gallon water cans. These would go in on the first trip so that you could adequately judge the conditions affecting the hover hole and so the grunts could fill canteens while you delivered the rest of the supplies and on the last trip, take the empty water cans back out. Generally for a rifle company, it would take three trips to get all their nightly resupply in to them. Water, food, ammo, mail, beer and soda. The last two items were just as important to the grunts as the first two. These guys had few pleasures in their lives, and a letter from home and a cold beer after a long day of humping a rucksack did wonders for morale.
We had been working the Song Be area for one infantry battalion, but around noon we got a call to break off from our resupply mission and join up with two other aircraft from our company at Song Be along with a flight from our sister company. The sister company commander was flight lead, Green One. The company commander had a reputation and was making a name for himself, one that our unit didn’t think too highly of. On the few occasions that I had been around him, it appeared that he had his nose so far up the senior officers’ asses that he was being oxygen-deprived. But, hey, I was just a warrant officer pilot. What did I know? When we joined up with him, he informed us that we were going to be part of a twelve-ship lift and the Chickenman birds would be the last three chalks. As it was twelve ships, there would be two turns and then we would be released to resume our previous missions. Okay by us. The less time spent with this guy, the more we liked it. Formation would be staggered right.
The initial insertion was uneventful, as was the subsequent insertion. As we were following the flight back to Song Be to refuel before we were released, we were flying low-level, still in a staggered right formation. Looking out ahead, I noticed that we were approaching a known river-crossing site and there was brownish smoke drifting up from the trees. The same appearance as if artillery had recently impacted the location.
“Green One, Chicken-man One-Niner, over.”
“Go ahead, Chicken-man.”
“Roger, there appears to be some artillery impact recently up at those rapids on the river up ahead. Have we been cleared by Arty?” At ninety knots, we were approaching the spot quickly.
“Chicken-man, Chalk Two handled the clearance. We’re good.” His tone told me he wasn’t happy with me questioning him about this. It was standard procedure in the division that Chalk Two got clearances from Arty.
“Roger, Green One,” I said. His aircraft was over the smoke now and the flight pressed on. We were coming up on the spot rapidly as well.
Kaboom. Kaboom. Kaboom. Kaboom. Kaboom. Kaboom . Six artillery rounds impacted directly under our aircraft, and I was over it with my two teammates. Six 105 mm rounds impacting all around and under us! Shit!
“Green One, Chalk One-One, we’ve been hit. Master caution looks like a fucking Christmas tree. You took us through a damn artillery strike, you son of a bitch.” It was Lou.
“Chalk One-One, maintain radio silence.”
“Radio silence my ass, you son of a bitch. Shit.”
No comment from Green One.
“Chicken-man One-Two, Chicken-man One-Niner.”
“Go ahead.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, but we’re going to have a hydraulic problem, and some of the electrical is messed up. The bird’s flying, but I’m leaking fuel as well. I’m going to kick his ass when we get down. You asked that son of a bitch if we were cleared. Damn his ass.”
“Chicken-man Two-Three, are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m good but have a busted chin bubble,” Chicken-man Two-Three came back.
“Chicken-man aircraft, stay off the net. You are released, Green One out.”
“Screw you, Green One. I’ll see you on the ground.” Lou was pissed and had every right to be. We all had a right. If one of those rounds had hit a rotor blade, there wouldn’t be any pieces of the aircraft left. All three aircraft could very easily have been blown out of the sky in an instant. We were all pissed, but Lou especially. We followed the flight into the refuel point, and as soon as we touched down, Lou was out of his aircraft and heading for Flight Leader’s aircraft.
“Mr. Price, stop right there,” a voice bellowed. It was our company commander, who, although not in the flight, had heard the whole thing on the radio and was also refueling his aircraft. Lou turned and stared at him.
“Sir, that pompous son of a bitch took us—”
“I know, I heard, as did the rest of the division. Let me handle this.” And the major walked past Lou and towards Green One’s aircraft. Lou started to follow. Turning on his heels, the major told Lou to go back and look after his aircraft, which was leaking fuel. We didn’t know what was said as the two commanders walked away from everyone, but our CO was jabbing his finger in Green One’s chest and close to his face. Green One was attempting to make it a two-sided conversation, but Chicken-man Six wasn’t having any of it. For the next two months, that commander kept a low profile, and no one from any other unit would fly with him.
Released from the flight and refueled, we headed back to our resupply mission. We were already behind schedule, as it was now later in the afternoon. We had one more unit to get supplies to before nightfall. No problem, three turns and we would be easily done before dark. When we got to the log pad, thirty water cans were ready to be loaded along with everything else, to include twenty cases of C-ratios, five boxes of ammo, one mailbag and two mailbags with soda and beer. Piece of cake.
“I’ll take us in the first time and you get the second. Any questions?” My copilot was really new. WO1 Fairweather had only arrived a couple of weeks before and had one resupply under his belt. He was older than most of us, having been a sergeant first class when he’d applied for flight school. We called him Grandpa because of his age. Hell, he had gray streaks in his hair as well as his mustache, and a mighty nice mustache it was.
“Naw, I’m good,” he said, and I took off with thirty water cans. We had a slight breeze blowing that day, but not much. Trees in the area were about two hundred feet high. Flying out to the company, I contacted them on the radio.
“Dog-meat Six, Chicken-man One-Niner, over.”
“Chicken-man One-Niner, Dog-meat Six India. Over.”
“Dog-meat Six, Chicken-man One-Niner is inbound to your location. Pop smoke.”
“Roger, Chicken-man, smoke out.” We started looking for smoke that would give me their exact location. Grandpa saw it first, but we didn’t see a place to land. As we made a pass over the smoke, Grandpa said, “I have someone on the ground.”
“Dog-meat Six, I have green smoke.”
“Affirmative, Chicken-man.”
“Roger, coming around,” I answered back.
“Grandpa, you saw someone on the ground?” I asked him.
“Yeah, next to the smoke grenade. The grenade is in the bottom of a bomb crater.”
“Okay, I’ll come around again and look for it.” Crap, we’re going down a bomb crater for this trip . On the second pass, I saw it out my side of the aircraft. Oh shit, it is a bomb crater, and not a daisy cutter either. The daisy cutter bomb was designed to clear out everything for a helicopter to land. It was a fifteen-thousand-pound bomb with chain welded to the outside, dropped by a C-130 cargo plane. Once dropped, a parachute deployed, allowing for a slow descent of the bomb. At about fifteen feet from the ground it would detonate, cleaning out a very nice landing zone of one helicopter and no crater. The trees all appeared to be about the same height around this bomb crater, and the wind was blowing north to south, but lightly. Still, in an airplane or a helicopter, you want to land into the wind as it allows for slower speed and increase lift, which means less power used. Power is critical at times like this. Several factors come into play. Using pedals can increase or decrease power, as pressing the pedal in one direction reduces the amount of power needed while pressing the pedals in the other direction increases the amount of power needed. Left pedal takes less and right pedal takes more as it brings the tail against the rotation of the rotor head. Unchecked, the natural tendency of the tail is to swing to the right.
As I made our approach and slowed the aircraft to a hover into what wind there was, I checked my power and all was good. Looking down through the chin bubble, I thought someone had to be kidding me, and I eased the aircraft forward at a hover. I was at almost max power.
“Okay, guys, talk me down.”
“You have to bring the tail around to the left about ninety degrees,” Lovelace said.
Peters responded, “Tail clear left.”
I slowly started the pedal turn, applying more power. I was at max power now and continuing to turn. The tail was fighting me in the wind and the engine was creeping above max power limits.
“You’re at forty percent N1,” Grandpa said. We weren’t even halfway through the turn. Shit . I brought the nose back around to the wind and flew out of the hole.
“We need to relook this one. Lovelace, Peters, did you see lower trees back there around the hole that we can come in over?”
“The trees look a bit lower on the north side, sir, but you’re going to have a tailwind up the ass,” Lovelace told me.
“Okay, let’s try that. Might be better than getting in and having to turn it.” I set the approach up again, coming in from the opposite direction. As I came in over the hole, the tail boom was dancing with the wind trying to turn us. Before I came to a complete stop, I had the cyclic back hard, attempting to arrest our forward motion, and I was at full power. This was not working, and I flew us out.
“Dog-meat Six, Chicken-man One-Niner, over.”
“Chicken-man One-Niner, Dog-meat Six India.”
“Dog-meat Six, we got to lighten the load. The wind is just playing hell with a hover. Going to base and will drop some load and be back.”
“Roger, Chicken-man. Dog-meat Six India out.”
“Guys, when we get back to the log pad, drop fifteen cans off and we’ll try with just that. That should lighten us up by about five hundred pounds. Plus with the fuel burn, we should be okay.” After unloading, we headed back out.
“Dog-meat Six, Chicken-man One-Niner en route.”
“Roger, Chicken-man, do you want smoke?”
“Affirmative, I want to see what the wind is doing.”
“Roger, smoke out.”
“Roger, I have red smoke.”
“Affirmative.” The smoke was drifting up but dissipating quickly when it reached the top of the trees. Indications were that it was coming from the north and blowing south.
“Okay, crew, let’s try a north approach again.” And I turned in, slowing the aircraft and passing over the opening at about five feet above the trees.
“Okay, talk me down.”
“You need to bring the tail left, sir.” Damn, same as last time.
“How much?”
“About ninety degrees.” Nothing had changed.
“Clear left,” Peters said, and I began to make the turn. With every degree of pedal, a bit more power was required. Grandpa was reading off the power settings to me, and I was glancing at the torque gauge to confirm his information.
“Stop turn,” Peters said.
“Clear down left.”
“Clear down right.”
“Clear down front.”
And I began to descend.
“Stop descent. You need to slide right,” Lovelace said.
“Clear right,” Peters responded. I thought about moving to the right, and the aircraft responded.
“Stop,” Peters said. “Clear down right.”
Lovelace came back with “Clear down left.”
Grandpa said, “Clear down front.” I started down another couple of feet.
“Stop,” said Lovelace. “You’re going to have to move forward.”
“Clear to come forward,” said Grandpa. I was so focused on keeping the aircraft stable that I didn’t dare look up at the tip of the main rotor. “Stop,” Grandpa said.
“Clear to come down right and rear.”
“Clear left.”
“Clear forward.”
This continued for a full five minutes. The aircraft was literally sliding under and around tree limbs. Finally I could see a soldier standing on the top of the crater, giving me a stop signal. We were at a hover and not able to put the aircraft down.
“Stop, sir.” I did.
“Sir, we can’t go any lower. We’re at ground level but sitting over a crater that must be fifteen feet deep,” Lovelace informed me.
“Okay, gently kick the water cans out. Try not to rock the boat, please,” I added. They moved into the cabin from their positions and began tossing the water cans out.
“Dog-meat Six, Chicken-man One-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Chicken-man.”
“Okay, I can’t set down, so I won’t be able to backhaul from this location. We’ll kick out each turn. Do not, I repeat, do not have anyone standing on the crater or in the crater. If we lose the engine, I’ll be coming down right on top of them. I got no place to go. Over.”
“Roger, Chicken-man. I have one pack that I need to get out tonight if I can. Over.”
“In this hole, there’s nothing I can do about that. Over.”
“Chicken-man, what can I do to make this better?” Dog-meat Six asked. Using my peripheral vision, I started looking around.
“Dog-meat Six, do you see this large tree off to my right? The one with no limbs except up at the very top?”
“Roger, Chicken-man.”
“If you could blow that tree, that would be a major help. Over.”
“Chicken-man, I’ll have a load of det cord 9 on the next load and blow it.”
“Roger, that will help. Chicken-man is coming out.” And we reversed the process of sliding out from under tree limbs, turning the tail boom and slowly climbing up. As we finally cleared the treetops and nosed over for speed, I turned to Grandpa.
“You got the aircraft.”
“I have the aircraft,” he said. My uniform was soaked with perspiration. My right hand was shaking. Grandpa’s cigarettes and lighter were on the console.
“Can I have one of your cigarettes?” I asked. I knew he was going to say yes, so I was reaching for the pack.
“I thought you didn’t smoke,” he said.
“I don’t.” And I lighted up, inhaling a long drag as I looked upward. Three cigarettes in fifteen months shouldn’t hurt me too much. I wished I had something stronger than a beer right now. Grandpa put us on the log pad, and another fifteen cans of water were loaded, along with a case of det cord.
“Ready to come up,” Grandpa said.
“Clear right.”
“Clear left.”
“Clear up,” we all responded, and he pulled on power. Checking his power, he was satisfied we had enough with this load and we headed back.
“Dog-meat Six, Chicken-man One-Nine. Over.”
“Chicken-man One-Nine, popping smoke. Over.” Dog-meat had anticipated our request. Good, we were thinking alike.
“Dog-meat Six, I have Goofy Grape.”
“Roger, Chicken-man One-Nine.”
Grandpa brought the aircraft around and lined us up. We had no choice but to repeat my approach. I was as nervous as a cat in the middle of a dog pound.
“Clear right.”
“Clear left.”
“Clear front.”
I was looking to the front as Lovelace and Peters cleared us on the sides and behind. Grandpa started working us down.
“Stop. Need to come forward,” Lovelace said.
I was watching the main rotor. I honestly couldn’t tell how much room we had to go forward.
“Clear to come forward,” I said. I was watching the tips of leaves on the closest branches. I started to see movement in the leaves, and still we moved forward.
“Stop,” I said as I saw a leaf disappear from touching the main rotor.
“Clear to come down on right.”
“Clear left.”
“Clear forward.”
And we continued working our way down. Instead of taking two to three minutes, it was another five-to-seven-minute ordeal. Again we were at a hover as the aircraft was carefully unloaded.
“Clear up right.”
“Clear up left.”
“Clear up forward.”
And Grandpa started our upward climb ever so slow and careful. When we cleared the trees, I took the aircraft. Grandpa sat back and started breathing again. We landed at the pad, the aircraft was quickly loaded and I headed back.
“Dog-meat Six, Chicken-man One-Nine, over.”
“Chicken-man One-Niner, Dog-meat Six India, popping smoke.” We knew where the LZ was but still wanted a reference on the wind. As I slid over the top of the hole, the large tree that was causing some of our problems was lying across the bomb crater.
“Dog-meat Six, thanks much, that’s going to help.”
“Roger, Chicken-man.”
“Okay, crew, here we go.”
And the process started all over again. It was a bit easier this time with the large tree down and some fuel burned off, but we still took about five minutes to work our way down. This trip was C-rations and ammo.
Finally Lovelace said, “Another two feet and we’ll be on the tree across the Carter. Clear down, down, down.” And I felt the skid touch. I still had to keep the aircraft light as putting the full weight of the aircraft would bend the skids and cause an accident, but being light at least stabilized us from sliding side to side. Grunts were able to walk on the log and established a human chain, passing empty water cans along to the aircraft. The cargo was tossed out the other side into the crater. At last a grunt climbed in with his gear, smiling and giving me a thumbs-up. He must be going home.
“Chicken-man One-Nine, you are good to go. Thank you much for today.”
“Dog-meat Six, I still have one more run with beer and mail.”
“Chicken-man, you can forget that for tonight. This is not the best PZ.”
“Dog-meat Six, I said I have one more run. You call, Chicken-man hauls. We’ll be back in fifteen mikes.”
Mr. Fairweather made the last run, and it was a repeat of the previous runs. I wanted this last run for the fact that the grunts deserved their mail and beer, and it would give Grandpa more experience at balancing the aircraft on a log in a tight hover hole. As the last mailbag was unloaded along with the last bag of beer and soda, I said to no one and everyone, “Dog-meat Six, Chicken-man One-Niner is out of here. Coming up.”
Grandpa laboriously worked our way back up, turning the tail around branches, sliding the main rotor over limbs, and working upward. Power was more than plentiful now as we were low on fuel and had no cargo, except some empty ammo cans and some trash. As I cleared the treetops, I took the controls.
Lovelace was generally quiet, but this time he came over the intercom. “Mr. Cory, sir, that had to be the worst hover hole I’ve ever been in. We didn’t tell you, but there was a time on the first and second trip in that I couldn’t see sky because of the overhang.”
“Oh, stop bullshitting, Lovelace. It wasn’t that bad,” I said.
“He’s not bullshitting,” Peters added. “Please never take us into another one like that.”
“Guys, you could have just told me we couldn’t do it and I wouldn’t have. You don’t like it, then it’s your fault,” I responded and looked over at Grandpa.
“This shit is going to make me old before my time,” Grandpa joined in.
“Grandpa, you’re already old,” I told him.
“Up yours. Get your own cigarettes.” He glared at me with a grin.
We returned to the log pad and were released for the day, as it was after sunset by the time the aircraft was unloaded. We were tired, and I felt emotionally drained. I didn’t sleep well that night as I was flying this hellhole again.