by Matt Jackson
Undaunted Valor:
Medal of Honor
by
Matt Jackson
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2019 by Gary J. Bridges
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019919997
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1 August 1970, Lai Khe
Chapter 2 The Game Changer
Chapter 3 Welcome to Vietnam
Chapter 4 Home of the Infantry
Chapter 5 Take No Prisoners
Chapter 6 Settle In
Chapter 7 First Time Out
Chapter 8 Negotiations
Chapter 9 Good Old Days
Chapter 10 Learning to Fly
Chapter 11 Find the Enemy
Chapter 12 Follow the Leader
Chapter 13 Ground Pounder
Chapter 14 Pile On
Chapter 15 Get It In
Chapter 16 Barracks Chatter
Chapter 17 Stand-Down
Chapter 18 A New Sheriff
Chapter 19 Return to the Roost
Chapter 20 No Blade Strikes
Chapter 21 Nothing Changes
Chapter 22 Back in the Saddle
Chapter 23 The Rumor Mill
Chapter 24 Squelch the Rumors
Chapter 25 Oh My God
Chapter 26 Warning Orders
Chapter 27 AO Orientation
Chapter 28 Hell Comes Calling
Chapter 29 Firebase Six
Chapter 30 Abort
Chapter 31 Try as You Might
Chapter 32 Escape and Evade
Chapter 33 Back to Firebase Six
Chapter 34 Night Extraction
Chapter 35 Another Stand-Down
Chapter 36 Introduction to High-Intensity Flying
Chapter 37 Aircraft Down
Chapter 38 Leave No One Behind
Chapter 39 On Wings of Eagles
Epilogue
Citation: Medal of Honor Major William Edward Adams
Citation: Medal of Honor First Lieutenant Brian Miles Thacker
Glossary
Some Gave All
Acknowledgments
Notes
Introduction
Undaunted Valor: Medal of Honor is a follow-on to Undaunted Valor: An Assault Helicopter Unit in Vietnam. Continuing the exploits of Company A, 227th Assault Helicopter Battalion, 1st Cavalry Division, Medal of Honor tracks the company through the days after the Cambodian Incursion and the company’s move north from Lai Khe to Camp Holloway in the II Corps region of Vietnam.
I have attempted to present the events as factually as I can based on information provided by those that were there at the time. I have used the names of those that gave all in the hope that, in some small way, I have honored those individuals. Names of other individuals have been used with their permission. Other names are fictitious as the individuals were unknown or requested that I not use their name. Some names may appear that are similar to individuals at that time, that I was not aware of and in those cases it is entirely coincidental.
In the early years in Vietnam, a pilot with the 227th AHB was the first Army aviator to receive the Medal of Honor. In the period depicted in this book, one member of the company posthumously received the Medal of Honor1. Another individual working with the company and supporting the company in an action also received the Medal of Honor. Two Medals of Honor in such close proximity of time, distance and events is a clear indicator of the intensity of this conflict at that time and location. Another member of the company received the Distinguished Service Cross posthumously for his actions as well. Their stories need to be told some where besides the archives of the US Army Historical Center. This is my small attempt to tell their stories.
South East Asia, 1969
Chapter 1
August 1970, Lai Khe
The southwest monsoon season was in full swing, with late-afternoon showers that seemed to take the oxygen out of the air. CW2 Mike George waited in his aircraft for it to let up after landing but finally said the hell with it and walked back to his hooch. By the time he arrived at his hooch, there was not a stitch of dry clothing on him.
“Anyone seen Cory?” Mike asked, coming through the door of the hooch soaking wet. First Lieutenant Dan Cory had been in the unit for the past eighteen months and had acquired over two thousand hours’ combat flying time. He had previously been a warrant officer and had received a direct commission to first lieutenant. He had also served as a flight leader and the unit instructor pilot.
Mike had been flying all day in the Song Be region, one hundred miles north of Saigon. Days had become somewhat boring since the Cambodian Incursion had ended last month. The North Vietnamese Army (NVA) had not regrouped and weren’t as active in the area as they had been before May 1, 1970, when the 1st Air Cavalry Division along with the 25th Infantry Division and 1st ARVN Airborne Division had made the incursion into sanctuaries in Cambodia in the Parrot Beak and Fish Hook regions north of Saigon. That incursion had destroyed numerous supply dumps, hospitals, transportation hubs and command centers that supported NVA forces in the III Corps area of South Vietnam. The feeling from higher headquarters was that it would take the NVA years to recover before they could launch another major attack into South Vietnam, which would give the South Vietnamese Army time to develop and the US the opportunity to withdraw ground forces from South Vietnam.
Mike’s aviation company was Company A, 227th Assault Helicopter Battalion, part of the 1st Air Cavalry Division. The unit had been located at Lai Khe for almost two years now, having moved down from the Demilitarized Zone, or DMZ, of Vietnam, where it had been since early 1968. Prior to that the unit had been in the central highlands since arriving in Vietnam in 1965. The unit’s aircraft, the UH-1H helicopters, lovingly referred to by everyone as the Huey, or Slicks, were the workhorse of the Vietnam War. Capable of flying at just over one hundred miles an hour and carrying a combat load of six to seven fully equipped infantry soldiers, or grunts as they were called. The aircraft could fly for two hours with a twenty-minute fuel reserve. If all its instruments were working, it could fly in bad weather conditions as well, but seldom did the weather instruments work properly.
“Yeah, I saw him, just before he went home today,” responded CW2 Bill Hess, a pilot walking down the hall in their hooch. Bill was now flying an extension past his required one year in Vietnam, as was Mike.
“What’d you mean he went home?” Mike asked, opening his refrigerator and retrieved a cold soda. Mike seldom drank beer as most pilots did. Originally from Sacramento, California, Mike had been a fireman when he’d joined the Army. He was in his mid-twenties, a bit older than most pilots, and he looked it. You could always tell a pilot was a bit older by his well-developed mustache. Most pilots sported peach fuzz mustaches, but not the older guys. Fellow pilots would joke that Mike looked like a Hollywood actor, Richard Boone, the TV cowboy Paladin from Have Gun Will Travel. Mike did not agree with that assessment.
Bill continued, “I guess the family of the CG’s pilot requested that Cory escort the body home, and they sent him home today. Hell, the clerk came in at oh nine hundred and told him to be on the bird at fourteen hundred to fly to Long Binh and report to Division Rear. I think he left his shoulder holster on your bed and his Ka-Bar knife on Lou’s bed. His refrigerator he donated to Grampa.” General Casey, the division commander or CG, had been killed th
e week before in a helicopter crash while en route to Cam Ranh Bay to visit troops in the hospital. His pilot, First Lieutenant William Michel, had been very close to Cory, and the family had requested that Cory bring their son’s body home.
Grampa, as everyone called him, was WO1 David Fairweather. He was much older than everyone else, mid-thirties, and looked it too as he had been a sergeant first class when he’d volunteered for flight school. He had a respectable-looking mustache, dark with a sprinkle of gray. He had been Cory’s roommate since he’d arrived. He let everyone know if they met his wife back in the States, they best not be referring to her as Grandma.
“Oh shit, we’re going to be hurting for aircraft commanders, then. Cory left today, Gill and Roy left yesterday, and Copenhaver has been medevaced back to the States. We’re down four ACs right away. That isn’t going to be enough ACs. We’re going to be flying our butts off until we can get some of the new guys checked out for left seat.”2 Mike fussed, shaking his head.
“I’m sure Major Sundstrum will be calling a meeting for the ACs to select some candidates. Probably be looking for a new instructor pilot as well since Cory is gone. Do you want the job?” Bill asked Mike. Bill was from Newburgh, New York, and had joined the Army right after high school graduation. He bragged about his ability to play middle linebacker in football as he was built for that position. He talked about a girlfriend back home but had no pictures to pass around. The guys wondered about that. When he opened his mouth to speak, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind where he was from.
Looking at Bill as if he had a third eye, Mike said, “Hell no! New guys scare the crap out of me. Hell, some of these guys are flying with their heads up their ass the way they fly. Have you flown with Captain Vargus? That guy has one thing on his mind—medals.”
“Hey, Mike, let’s get some chow,” Lou called out. He’d just walked in after leaving the officers’ club. “Oh, sorry, didn’t see you standing there. You want to join us, Bill?” This was CW2 Lou Price’s second time in Company A, having served in the unit from 1968 to 1969 before leaving to be a flight instructor at Fort Rucker. After nine months of instructor duty, he felt it was safer to come back to Vietnam and take his chances in combat than put up with student pilots. Originally from California, Lou had an immature mustache that matched almost every other warrant officer in Vietnam, and his hair length barely met military standards, as was pointed out on more than one occasion by the platoon leader.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll meet you over there,” Bill said, heading to his room.
“Let me get some dry clothes and I’ll walk over with Hess in a minute,” Mike responded and headed into his room to change.
The mess hall was a metal building with concrete floors, fluorescent lighting and screen walls from about four feet up to the metal roof eaves. During the monsoon season with typical rain showers, it was hard to hear oneself think over the noise of the pounding rain. One half of the building was the kitchen area and the other half was the dining area, with the two separated by the steam table/serving line. Tables were arranged to seat four but could be pushed together if needed. Several large floor fans lined the walls and moved the air around as there was no air conditioning. The cooks took a lot of pride in what they did, and they did work some miracles. They were cooking by 0500 hours, and the mess hall stayed open until one hour after the last flight came in, which usually wasn’t until 1900 hours. What they served was what the supply system sent them. How it was prepared and served was on them, and they did it pretty good. No one had to pull kitchen police, KP, as the company had hired Vietnamese ladies to perform those duties from profits made at the officers’ and enlisted clubs.
Later that evening, the executive officer, Captain Wehr, came through the hooch and stuck his head into Mike and Lou’s room. Captain Wehr was a very likable guy on his second tour in Nam. “CO wants to see the ACs in the club. Now,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” they both responded, abandoning the unfinished letters they had been writing. Writing letters or reading a well-worn book was about all anyone did in the evening, when not in the club drinking.
When they arrived at the club, the CO, Major Sundstrum, had several tables pushed together and seats for the fourteen aircraft commanders. After each had a beer in hand and was settled, the CO brought the meeting to order. Most right-seat pilots knew what the meeting was about and knew enough to leave and return to their respective rooms, although Major Sundstrum didn’t ask anyone to leave.
Standing up, the major started, “Okay, guys, you know why I called this. We’re down four ACs as of today and no instructor pilot. If anyone wants to volunteer for the instructor position, let me know. If no one volunteers, then I will select. The choice is yours: volunteer; I select; or you guys collectively browbeat someone into taking the job, with my approval. Now for ACs. Of the right-seaters, we have seven that have the time and hours. First is Mr. Dumas with eight months in-country and over six hundred hours. By a show of hands, who’s in favor?” As usual, not one hand went up.
“Oh, come on now. He’s not that bad,” the CO argued.
“I don’t see you raising your hand, sir,” Mr. Sinkey pointed out. Sinkey was a young fellow, as most pilots were. He had attended Southwest Oregon College for one year before joining the Army. With his lean and muscular build, he could easily be taken for a competitive swimmer. The spiral passes he made with a football were hallmarks of a pro. His sense of humor never ceased, or was it immaturity? He was quick-witted and probably a ladies’ man back home.
The CO said nothing but just gave him the stink-eye. Tossing Dumas’s file to the side, he picked up the next candidate’s file.
“Moving right along, how about Captain Wehr?” He had more than enough hours and had been in the unit for three months. Everyone raised their hand. “Thank you,” Major Sundstrum said.
After going through the stack of eligible candidates, the CO had three new aircraft commanders. To be eligible for consideration, pilots had to have four hundred hours of combat flying, generally four months in-country and a vote of confidence from the majority of current aircraft commanders.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll fly with each of them and sign them off for AC until we get an instructor pilot, which I expect will happen in the next twenty-four hours,” the major announced, meaning that the pilots would have to choose someone pretty damn quick.
After the CO left, the discussion turned to who the new instructor pilot would be. As far as the warrant officers were concerned, there was a likely choice, CWO2 Barstow. He was on his second tour and had been a flight instructor at Hunter Army Airfield. He had been an AC for a month and had been in the unit for two months, just long enough to learn the area of operations. He had even been an instructor for some of the newest pilots when they had gone through Huey transition in the second half of Advanced Flight Training. As all eyes turned to him, he began objecting.
“Hey, not me. I’ve done my time with instructor duty. One of you guys needs to take on that responsibility,” he protested.
“But, sir,” Mr. Bailey chimed in, “you have all the prerequisites and the experience. You’re the best choice for the job.” Bailey didn’t really need to address him as sir, as rank amongst warrant officers was like virtue amongst whores, but the effect was notable.
“No, I don’t want the job and that’s final,” Barstow continued to protest.
“All those in favor of Mr. Barstow, raise your hand,” directed Lou. In truth, most guys thought Lou should be the instructor pilot, but he was halfway through his second tour. He also kept the fact that he had been an instructor at Fort Rucker pretty quiet, so it was known only to a few people. Of the fourteen ACs, fourteen hands were raised.
“Looks like you’ve been elected, Rick,” Captain Beauchamp said. “I’ll tell the CO.” Captain Beauchamp was the senior platoon leader in the company as well as an AC. A field artillery officer, he also served as the Operations officer for the unit.
“Son of a bitc
h!” Barstow fumed. “You guys railroaded me on this one. God help you if the old man puts any of you up for a check ride with me.” Standing and picking up his beer, he headed for the door. “I’ll tell the CO right now. Might as well get it over with,” he mumbled over his shoulder as he departed.
Looking over at Lou, Captain Beauchamp smiled. “You know, Lou, if he ever finds out you were an IP at Rucker, he’s going to be unmerciful on you.”
Smiling back, Lou said, “Hey, sir, what’s he going to do? Bend my dog tags and send me to Vietnam?”
“There are fates worse than that,” Captain Beauchamp said as he pushed back from the table. “It’s late and I got a letter to write, so I’ll see you ladies in the morning. Night, all.”
“Night, sir” was heard as everyone started finishing their beers and leaving as well. Even though the NVA had taken a beating in Cambodia two months before, that didn’t mean that combat operations in III Corps were over with. Not by a long shot.
Chapter 2
The Game Changer
As usual, the Operations clerk moved through the hooches at 0430 hours, waking up pilots for the missions assigned to the unit for the day. Specialist Brown had learned over the course of his time as Ops clerk not to get too close to the pilots when waking them up. Everyone reacted differently to being told to wake up at 0400 hours. He was assisted frequently by the unit’s pet rooster, who would start crowing right outside the officers’ hooches at the same time.
“Mr. Bailey, sir, time to wake up.” After a thirty-second pause, he repeated, “Wake up, sir.” Finally, frustrated, he snapped, “Hey! Mr. Bailey, get your ass out of bed. You launch in one hour,” and Mr. Bailey’s boot landed on the bed.
The word was never to touch a sleeping person, but you could throw stuff at them. The Ops clerk habitually received mumbling and grumbling from the pilots as they rolled out of bed and attempted to find boots and pants and move outside for the ritual morning piss. Specialist Brown continued down the hall, waking more pilots. At least I can head straight into the mess hall after I get the last of them up, he was thinking.
