Chapter 42
And the Beat Goes On

T he next day we were back, but this time to LZ Jamie with a six-two package. We were going to be doing combat assaults all day, it appeared, and the brigade was controlling it all. The Third Brigade was a good outfit to work for, and I had done so many times in the past sixteen months. As we were waiting to refuel our aircraft at the refuel/rearm point that had been established, two helicopters landed, but I couldn’t tell what make or model they were. They weren’t Army aircraft but Navy, and painted blue. Everyone’s curiosity was piqued. What the hell was the Navy doing so far from the ocean, which was at least a hundred and fifty miles away? Had they really gotten that lost?

After they shut down, the pilots came over and asked who was in charge.

“In charge of what?” I asked.

“This whole operation,” the lieutenant junior grade answered, attempting to muster some authority. His rank was the same as first lieutenant in the Army.

“That’d be the TOC. I’ll take you up there. I’m Lieutenant Cory. What are you guys doing here?” I asked as we started walking.

“We were told to fly up here and help find cache sites. Normally we’re dropping sonar buoys and listening for subs, but we have the capability to drop magnetometers and pick up metal.”

“How ’bout that? How does that work, and what kind of aircraft is that?” I asked.

“Our aircraft are Sikorsky SH-3As, Sea Kings. We fly off the ship and they direct us to where they think a sub may be. We come to a hover and drop the magnetometers on a cable into the water and watch for a reading on the oscilloscope. If we get a hit, we drop a torpedo.”

“Let me get this straight—you’re going to fly to a point and hover while you drop that thing into the jungle. Is that right?”

“Yeah.” And we continued to walk. I was thinking, Buddy, you have no idea about this, do you? When he was hovering over the water, no one was hiding and shooting an AK-47 up his ass. It didn’t take him long to learn, however. Very first time out, Charlie let him know that there would be no hovering with a magnetometer hanging down into the jungle. They were going to have to develop a new tactic for this to work. And they did. The next day they were back, and while they continued to operate for a couple of more days, the magnetometer was strapped to the wheel struts of the aircraft and they flew at sixty knots over the jungle. Don’t know how effective they were, but at least the Navy was with us in spirit.

A few days later, things didn’t go as well. Coming out of a hot LZ, a door gunner, PFC Kittleson, took a round in the armpit, which wasn’t covered by the chicken plate, and died before he could receive medical attention. A couple of days later, a formal memorial service was held in the afternoon. It was the only time I ever recalled the unit hosting such a service. PFC Kittleson was a very popular kid, and his loss was felt throughout the company. But the missions continued.

“Lieutenant Cory, you have Night Hawk tonight,” the ops clerk informed me as I returned to Lai Khe with a damaged aircraft around noon. “We just got the mission, and you’re the only AC back here with experience flying that mission. You best get some sleep this afternoon. I’ll wake you around eighteen hundred.”

“Okay, but my aircraft is done for today, so it’s going to have to be another with crew.”

“I’ll get with maintenance and see what they have. I’ll try to get it instrument equipped in case you hit bad weather,” he added as I walked out.

At 1800 hours, I was deep in a pleasant dream when it was interrupted by the ops clerk. “Lieutenant Cory, you have a nineteen hundred departure. Specialist Grossman is getting the aircraft ready now.”

“Okay, I’m awake,” I stated as I rolled out of bed and started getting dressed. When I arrived at the aircraft, Specialist Grossman had it ready with the M2 .50-cal mounted and the searchlight and starlight scope in the cargo door. Specialist Jones was on the searchlight tonight with Specialist Leonard on the .50-cal. Grandpa was occupying the copilot seat, which I found reassuring.

“Evening, gents, are we ready?” I asked as I climbed up to inspect the rotor head.

“Everything looks good,” Grandpa came back. “Did you bring any cigarettes?” I ignored him. Grossman gave me a thumbs-up, as did Leonard.

“Okay, we’re going to Song Be to refuel and then out to LZ Jamie to work with Third Brigade. We’ll meet up with Lobo and a flare ship up there. The flare ship is coming from Bravo Company. Not sure who’s flying Lobo tonight,” I explained to the crew. In the Snake Pit, I could see someone preflighting an aircraft and assumed it was our cover bird for the night. The Cobra was a much faster aircraft, so he could launch later and still get to Jamie before me.

The flight to LZ Jamie was uneventful, much to my pleasure. At LZ Jamie, we shut down just as Lobo and the flare ship arrived. When they were ready, the pilots all headed into the TOC for the mission brief.

“Evening, Lieutenant Cory,” greeted the operations officer S-3.

“Evening, sir. Let me introduce the other pilots tonight.” And I proceeded to introduce everyone. Seldom did Cobra pilots meet with operations officers as the Cobra was generally in a support role to the lift aircraft and generally arrived after the mission brief was given to flight leaders.

“Here’s what we have for you tonight.” He pointed at the map of the area. “We have indications of vehicle movement on this road and want you to check it out. Start where this bridge crosses the river and go northeast.”

“How far northeast do you want us to go?” I asked.

“Until you need to come back for fuel, unless you can find a refuel point out there somewhere.” He thought he was funny.

“Sir, where are the nearest friendlies?” Mr. Beckman, the Cobra AC, asked.

“South of the bridge,” the S-3 responded.

“What’s the enemy situation along the road?” I asked.

“Well, we have vehicle traffic moving on that road, according to sensor readings.”

“What about troops or antiaircraft positions?” Mr. Cosby asked.

“Not aware of any,” the S-3 sort of mumbled.

“Let me understand this. We start at the bridge and follow this road, the only road in this part of Cambodia of any size. We fly northeast until we have to return for fuel. You have no intel except that there’s vehicle traffic along the road. You have no idea about enemy antiaircraft positions or troop concentrations. And if we go down, there’s no way you can get anyone up to help us out. Is this what I’m hearing?”

“That’s about it, Mr. Beckman,” the S-3 said while moving his eyes to the floor. I could see that Mr. Beckman was about to explode, but I cut in.

“Sir, where are the nearest artillery positions and what is their coverage up that road?” I asked.

“The nearest artillery position is here, and they’re 105 howitzers,” said the S-3, pointing at the map.

“You’re shitting me,” Mr. Beckman interrupted. “That unit can only cover ten klicks beyond the bridge. We’ll be out of his coverage in no time.”

“Okay, sir, we’ll give you a call when we lift off. Thank you, sir. Let’s go, guys.” I took Beckman by the shoulder and guided him out of the TOC. Walking back to our aircraft, Beckman was a bit upset.

“Dan, you up for this? You know this could be a shit sandwich for all of us. You’re down low and we’re up high at a perfect altitude for antiaircraft guns. You go over one troop concentration and you’re going to have a hell of a lot of AK fire. I don’t know about this,” he grumbled.

“Look, we got the mission, so let’s be smart and get it done. I’m not going to follow the road. I’ll fly an S pattern up the road from one side to the other, crossing the road each time perpendicular. That’ll give me minimum exposure over open ground. I suggest you guys fly circles clockwise and counterclockwise to switch it up. Flying an S pattern will use fuel and not put us too far up the road. I have no desire to follow that road to Hanoi, so I’m really going to concentrate on the area ten kilometers north of the bridge, within artillery range,” I explained.

After a few more minutes of discussion, we went our separate ways and cranked the birds. There was a bit of apprehension in the aircraft as we lifted off. Grandpa reached in his pocket and put a fresh pack of cigarettes on the center console with his lighter. Three klicks off the firebase, we picked up the road and proceeded to follow it northeast to the bridge. Grandpa had the artillery frequency tuned in as well and had marked on his map the limit of the artillery range for the 105s. Mentally, that was my limit of advance for this night, and I told my crew that as well. I was not flying out of the range of artillery support. Approaching the bridge, I slowed the aircraft to sixty knots and dropped to treetop level while executing the beginning of an S flight pattern.

“Lobo Two-Six, Chicken-man One-Niner, commencing my run.”

“Chicken-man One-Niner, roger, I have you covered. Good luck.”

“Jones, how’s the starlight scope working?” Secretly I was hoping he would tell me it wasn’t and we would have to go back.

“Working fine, sir,” Jones said. Damn. We continued up the road for another five minutes and saw nothing except jungle vegetation and the road.

“Sir, we have houses on the road ahead,” Jones reported.

“What? How many?” I asked.

“Looks to be about six, and they’re big. They’re at nine o’clock now. Your next turn is going to put us right over them,” Jones replied.

“Okay, any lights?” I asked as we started to make a left turn back to the road.

“Didn’t see any. They’re at your eleven now,” he said as I started slowing the aircraft to forty knots. Grandpa was on the radio, calling Lobo to inform him of what we were looking at. As we approached the cluster of houses, they appeared to be on stilts and about thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide. Thatched roofs and bamboo mat sides. One set of stairs up the front of each to a wraparound porch on each house. There were no signs of life, not even chickens or pigs. Just deserted. We passed it by and did not engage. Continuing up the road, we came upon a second village, which looked to be deserted like the last. These appeared to be Montagnard villages. The Montagnards were the indigenous people of the region. These people were generally friendly to US forces but not so with the Vietnamese. Good to know if we went down and had to exercise our SERE training.

Moving further northeast, we came upon a third village. Again I slowed the aircraft to forty knots as I came over the village, almost hoping to take fire as the evening was becoming boring. As I passed over, Jones spoke up.

“Sir, I have someone in the village!”

“Where?” I asked excitedly.

“Right in the middle of the buildings. He’s just standing there.” Grandpa had his grenade launcher cocked and loaded and was peering down as he was talking to Lobo. I slowly brought the aircraft back around.

“Jones, hit the searchlight. Everyone, get ready.”

The searchlight came on, lighting up the town, which wasn’t necessary as the flare ship had dropped a flare and the entire village was bathed in white light. The gentleman standing in the middle of the village was naked except for a loin cloth and a Montagnard crossbow he was holding.

“Sir, should I engage?” Leonard asked.

“No, not yet. We’ll hold off unless we take fire. Grandpa, tell Lobo to hold off, but keep us covered.” As we were at a hover at fifty feet right over the village, people started appearing. First it was just a couple of guys, then women and children. Within a minute, we had maybe one hundred Montagnards standing in the village center, but we didn’t take fire. I was calling this in.

“Wrangler Six, Chicken-man One-Niner, over.”

“Chicken-man One-Niner, Wrangler Six India, over.”

“Wrangler Six, Chicken-man. I have a village with approximately one hundred people that appear to be Montagnards.” I gave him the coordinates. “We have not taken fire, and they’re just standing here. Over.”

“Chicken-man, understand you have a village with one hundred people, is that correct?”

“Wrangler Six, that is affirmative,” I responded.

“Roger, Chicken-man One-Niner, engage.” What did I just hear?

“Wrangler Six, did you just tell me to engage?”

“Roger, Chicken-man, you are to engage.”

“Wrangler Six, you must have misunderstood. These are Montagnard villagers and not, repeat, not November Victor Alphas. We are not taking fire nor hostile actions. Over.”

“Roger, Chicken-man, understood and you are to engage.” Grandpa was looking at me with a shocked expression.

“What are we going to do?” he asked me.

“Not sure, but we’re not going to engage. I can tell you that. Guys, nobody shoots. Understood? Unless we take fire,” I told them. They all responded with an affirmative and I believe a sigh of relief.

“Lobo, Chicken-man One-Niner.”

“Go ahead, Chicken-man.”

“Lobo, are you seeing what I’m seeing in the village?”

“Sure am, and they look like civilians. What are we going to do?”

“We are not engaging. Repeat, not. We did not take fire.”

“Roger, sounds good to us. Let’s continue up the road.”

And we did, which paid off nicely as five minutes later, Jones reported, “Sir, I have a light, very faint, up the road maybe three hundred yards.” Grandpa was flying now, with the road on the left side of the aircraft.

“Grandpa, let’s parallel the road until that light’s at our ten o’clock. Jones, do you still see it?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll bet it’s someone smoking a cigarette.”

“When we get it at nine o’clock, hit it with the searchlight. Leonard, are you ready?”

“Yes, sir. Target will be at ten o’clock.” And he pointed his gun to the ten o’clock position. Suddenly the searchlight came on and there stood a guy next to a truck, smoking a cigarette. Leonard depressed the butterfly trigger on the .50-cal and laid rounds into the truck.

“Lobo, Chicken-man, engage!” My call was unnecessary as Lobo went into a dive as soon as the light came on and was delivering rockets when a secondary explosion occurred on the other side of the truck. On cue and without request, flares began to light up the area. It immediately became obvious that we needed to get out of there as we were sitting over a truck park with several trucks along the road and more under the trees.

“Chicken-man, Lobo, I’m expended.” The number of explosions and the secondary explosions left no doubt in my mind that he had punched off every rocket he was carrying.

“Roger, Flight. Let’s head south back to Jamie,” I called out.

“Song Be Arty, Chicken-man One-Niner, fire mission?”

And we turned the rest of the destruction over to the King of Battle, after we told him where to place his balls. Returning to the TOC, we briefed the S-3 on the mission and told him we were done for the night as the weather was starting to turn for the worse and the flare ship wasn’t instrument equipped to fly in bad weather. We had a good night.

The next day, others did not fare so well. Bill Hess was breaking in a new platoon leader, an RLO, in to flying in Cambodia. The mission was a resupply with fifteen water cans and two priests on board. Chaplains in general and priests in particular were not seen very often going into company locations. Bill was letting the lieutenant make the first approach into a hover hole that was really not much of a problem as it was a natural clearing surrounded by bamboo, which was also surrounding a small metal-roofed house.

“Slow your approach, you’re coming in a bit hot,” Bill instructed the lieutenant.

As the lieutenant started to decelerate, the aircraft experienced a low side compressor stall and began to lose power, settling rapidly. The lieutenant was pulling up the collective, trying to keep from crashing, which only increased the loss of power and the rapid descent. Bill didn’t have time to react as they were running out of airspeed and altitude and were inside the dead man’s curve. They crashed into the roof of the house and rolled over, with the rotor blades chopping bamboo like a giant lawn mower. When things stopped, everyone was hanging upside down and suspended about ten feet in the air on a pillow of bamboo. The biggest fears were fire and being impaled on a bamboo spear when they released their seat belts. Eventually everyone got out okay. It must have been the fact that priests were hard to come by and God did not want to lose two to Bill and the lieutenant.