by Matt Jackson
After a minute or so, the reply came. “Yellow One, Doberman Six-One, over.” In the background, Mike could hear machine-gun fire, but not the kind of noise made by the M60 machine gun. Small-arms fire also resounded in the background.
“Doberman Six-One, Yellow One is a flight of two aircraft with ammo and water. Where do you want it?” At the same time, Chalk Three was contacting Dog Breath Six-One with the same question.
“Yellow One, the LZ is hot, repeat, LZ is hot. Over.”
“Doberman Six-One, understood, LZ is hot. Where do you want these two loads? We’re coming in. Two minutes out. Over.” Switching to internal intercom, Mike briefed his crew.
“Smitty, Kelly, here’s the deal. They have a hot LZ, so if we take fire, return fire but be sure of your shots. If we’re not taking hits, start unloading this stuff as fast as you can.” He switched back to company push. “Yellow Two, did you monitor that?”
“Roger, One, I’m following you.”
“Three, this is One. Have you got contact with Dog Breath Six-One?” No response from Three. “Three, this is One.” Again no response, but Mike could see him approaching his LZ.
“Yellow One, Doberman Six-One. I have you in sight, smoke out.”
“Doberman Six-One, I have Mellow Yellow smoke.”
“Roger, but LZ is hot.”
Mike could see the exchange of gunfire, with the north end of the LZ exchanging green and red tracers. On the intercom, Mike told the crew to be ready. They were. Coming in with airspeed and rapidly decreasing altitude, Mike decelerated the aircraft, rapidly pulling back on the cyclic while dropping the collective until the last minute and then rapidly applying power and forward motion on the cyclic to level the aircraft. As the aircraft touched down, he noticed Yellow Two landing beside and slightly behind him. Immediately, the crews started tossing ammo and water off the aircraft and were assisted by grunts that were nearby. Without saying anything, wounded soldiers started loading the aircraft. The crew was back on their guns now and Mike looked to Yellow Two, who also had wounded on board and was coming up on his skids.
“Yellow One is on the go.”
Mike pulled in all the power he could and executed a combat takeoff, which was maximum speed with minimum altitude. To the untrained, it appeared that the aircraft was going to nose over into the ground, and then it was gone.
Climbing out, Mike called to Yellow Two, “Two, are you okay?”
“Roger, One, took some hits. Have you heard from Three?”
“Wait one and let me call him. Three, this is One, over.” Mike held his breath.
“Mr. George, I see him coming out. He’s off to the left and hauling ass over the trees,” Kelly indicated. Mike looked over, and sure enough, Three was at max airspeed and contouring the treetops.18
“Three, this is One off to your right at one thousand, over.” Still nothing from Three, but he did turn slightly to intercept Mike and began to climb.
“Flight, this is One. Let’s get the wounded to Bu Gia Map. I’ll call and let them know we’re inbound.” He switched back to Crescent Six’s frequency. “Crescent Six, Yellow One, over.”
“Yellow One, go ahead.”
“Crescent Six, Yellow One and Two have wounded on board and are heading to Bu Gia Map to unload. I have no contact with Yellow Three but suspect he may have wounded as well. Over.”
“Roger, Yellow One, Medical is standing by for you. What is your status? Over.”
“It appears I have three flyable aircraft but no comms with Yellow Three. Over.”
“Roger, Yellow One. I have eighteen pax for you to take back to Dog Breath Six’s location. They’re on the pad waiting for you.” Mike heard the comments from his crew and could imagine what was being said in the other aircraft.
“Roger Crescent Six, understand another turn of three to Dog Breath Six’s location.”
Crescent did not respond. Mike continued heading for Bu Gia Map. Three had joined up at this point, and using hand signals, Mike had figured out that Three had lost his radios. Turning to Reid, Mike told him to take the aircraft.
“I have the aircraft,” Reid said. Mike grabbed a cigarette from off the center console and took a long drag. It seemed to calm his nerves. He looked behind him. Sitting on the floor were five grunts. All had bandages to some degree. One had an expended morphine syringe stuck through the collar of his shirt and a red M on his forehead. Mike passed his lit cigarette back to the closest man and proceeded to light up four more and pass them back. The looks on the grunts’ faces let him know they appreciated the gesture.
As the aircraft approached the firebase at Bu Gia Map, medical personnel were standing by, guiding the aircraft down. As the wounded were offloaded, six grunts climbed onto each aircraft. Mike had the flight roll back to flight idle and climbed out of his aircraft, telling Reid he would be right back. Walking back to Yellow Three, Mike came to realize why he hadn’t heard from him. The entire nose of the aircraft was stitched with holes. Mike stood there for a minute looking at the nose and couldn’t believe both pilots were alive. He climbed up on the aircraft commander’s skid. Sinkey looked like he wanted to vomit, so Mike stepped back and gave him plenty of room. When Sinkey finished, his crew chief handed him a bottle of water to rinse his mouth.
“Are you okay, Sinkey?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, must have been something I ate for breakfast,” he replied. Mike knew it wasn’t something he ate but the rush of adrenaline that was kicking in. It had happened to Mike once.
“What the hell happened?” Mike pointed at Sinkey’s instrument panel, which was shot to pieces along with the radios in the center console.
“Going into the LZ on approach, we flew right over some dude with a PKM machine gun and he opened up on us. I was committed, so I really couldn’t do anything. I think a grunt got him once he stood up to shoot at us. Aside from no radios, things seem to be okay. I think we took one through a blade from that whistling sound, but aside from that, not leaking anything and the engine sounds fine. I guess we’re going back in,” he said, looking at the grunts climbing aboard his aircraft.
“Yeah, we’ll take this load into the LZ that I went in on and then back to Song Be to refuel. You good for that?”
“Yeah, we’ll just follow you.”
“No, I want you to move to the two position. That way Ron can keep an eye on you. We’ll go in staggered right once we leave here—okay?” Mike said.
Sinkey gave him a thumbs-up and Mike headed back to his aircraft, stopping long enough to tell Fender of the change in position. Arriving back at his aircraft, he climbed in and directed Reid to take them out.
“Okay, you have the aircraft. Same LZ as before and hopefully same touchdown point. You got it,” Mike said.
“I got it,” responded Reid, and off they went, climbing to altitude. Looking over his right shoulder, Mike saw Sinkey coming into the two slot in the flight.
“One, this is Three, flight is up.” It was Fender’s voice, Fender having taken over the three position.
“Roger,” Mike responded. He switched frequencies. “Crescent Six, Yellow One is off Bu Gia Map, inbound to your location.”
“Roger, Yellow One, contact Dog Breath Six.” Switching to the FM frequency, Mike made the call. “Dog Breath Six, Yellow One.”
“Yellow One, Dog Breath Six, south end is secured. North end is still hot. Smoke will mark touchdown, over.” Small-arms fire could still be heard, but only sporadically and no machine-gun fire.
“Dog Breath Six, understood. Two minutes out.” He switched to company push. “Flight, south end of LZ is secured, north end is not. Smoke to mark our touchdown point. I’m coming out with an immediate left turn to avoid the north end. How copy?” Mike had forgotten that Three—now Two—had no radios.
“Three, roger. Remember, Sinkey’s radios are shot. He’ll just follow you.”
“Roger, Three. Stay close.” Reid began his approach, getting low and fast over the trees. With all the smoke fro
m the fight, it was easy to see where the landing zone was. As Reid passed over the south end, he began a rapid deceleration, knowing that Two and Three were right beside and behind him.
“Taking fire!” Smith yelled opened up with his M60, shooting behind the aircraft. Kelly followed suit with his gun.
“Three is taking fire,” Fender reported as his gunners were hosing the area behind him as well. Two had remained quiet as his radios were not working, but his gunner was firing as well.
“Dog Breath Six, Yellow One, we are taking fire on approach. You have bad guys to your south. Yellow One is short final.” And the flight landed and began a quick offload, with the grunts exiting the aircraft before it even touched the ground. The grunts had been trained that the aircraft was to stay no longer than three seconds in the LZ, and under fire, the grunts didn’t want to be on a landing aircraft more than two seconds.
Before Dog Breath Six could respond to Mike’s last call, the flight was airborne and departing the LZ.
“Chicken-man Yellow One, Crescent Six, over.”
I hope he’s calling to tell me we’re released. Mike keyed his mike switch. “Crescent Six, Chicken-man Yellow One, over.”
“Chicken-man Yellow One, thank you for your support today. That’s all I have for you. You are released. Be safe. Crescent Six out.”
Mike breathed a sigh of relief. Switching to the company push, he said, “Hey, Three, we’re going to Song Be to refuel and then home.”
“Sounds good to me,” Fender came back.
“Smitty, Kelly, did you monitor?”
“Yes, sir,” they came back in unison.
“That cold free beer that Mr. Reid is buying tonight is sure going to taste good,” Kelly added. Reid and George looked at each other and just laughed.
Chapter 16
Barracks Chatter
Dorsey, Jonesy, Lovelace and Lockwood were sipping cold beer, engaged in a friendly poker game at the community table in their hooch. If they weren’t playing poker, they would be reading a well-worn novel or writing letters home. Those were about the only three activities to do besides sleeping and drinking beer. Of course, drinking beer could be done with the other activities, except sleeping. Television didn’t exist in the forward areas, such as Lai Khe.
“I’ll take two,” Lockwood said, tossing a pair out of his hand. He dealt two cards for himself.
“Has anyone seen the guard roster for tonight?” asked Mondie, looking over at the platoon bulletin board. He was not in the card game but working on some college correspondence course.
“I think the other sections are pulling it tonight, so Sergeant Evans didn’t post it here. Let those limp-dicks pull it tonight,” Lockwood added as he tossed a script dollar into the center of the table. “I raise you a dollar and call.”
“Ha—three of a kind. Read them and weep, ladies,” Dorsey said as he reached over to retrieve his winnings. Disgusting comments were made about Dorsey’s luck tonight. So far he was a whole ten dollars ahead, after an hour of playing. No one got rich or sent to the poor house in these games of chance.
Over in the EM club, the “brothers” were playing their boom box at max level and the music was pure Motown. With so much racial tension back home in the States, it was amazing that very little was evident here. What disagreements did occur were generally over simple things that would occur between two individuals in a stressful situation, regardless of the color of one’s skin. There just wasn’t any room for racial tension in the combat zone, and especially in units where your life might depend on the man next to you regardless of skin tone.
Francis, a door gunner and brother, came through the door, laughing his ass off. Francis was from LA and from the pictures, he had style and grace as well as a fine wardrobe and some very attractive playmates. Four or five constantly changing photos of attractive women graced the wall above his bed. The guy was smooth. Everyone turned to see what the commotion was about.
“Anyone seen my camera?” Francis asked, tossing his stuff around.
“Whatcha need it for?” asked Jonesy, looking over his shoulder while holding his cards close to his chest.
“Oh man, Mr. Ritchie and that new pilot, Reid, are over at the EM club and dancing. They heard the music and came over. Mr. Ritchie is half shit-faced and rotates home tomorrow, so he’s buying. Mr. Ritchie has them shit-kicker cowboy boots on and is really cutting up with some foot stomping. And that guy Reid, he ain’t got no rhythm, but he sure thinks he can dance. He’s funny as hell. Ah, there it is.” And with that, Francis was out the door.
“Okay, I got to see this,” said Lockwood, standing up and tossing his cards on the table.
“I might as well join you as I ain’t winning any money tonight. Just feeding Dorsey here.” With that, Jonesy, Lovelace and Lockwood got up and headed for the club. Dorsey pushed back and headed for the refrigerator. Mondie came over and took a seat.
Dorsey asked, “Want a beer?”
“Sure, why not? I got no desire to see two pilots make fools of themselves. They do that enough while flying.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Dorsey said as he handed a PBR to Mondie and sat back down.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Do you ever get scared in formation? I mean, they fly awfully close to each other. That rotor blade is like right in front of my face.”
“Yeah, they do fly close and it does look scary, but that’s a lot better than not being close. And watch what happens when things get hairy. Trust the pilots to not run into each other. They won’t, at least in formation and in the air. Sometimes they come close when hovering in a hot LZ, but it’s up to us to keep them from running into each other and other things when they’re in the LZ.”
Mike Patterson came through the door, having just finished working on his aircraft. Tossing his flight gear on this bed, he asked, “Any more beer left?”
“Yea, have this one I just opened and I’ll grab another,” Mondie offered.
“Thanks,” Mike responded and pulled a chair up to the poker table.
“Have you ever seen a midair?” Dorsey asked, looking first at Mondie and then Patterson. Patterson was from Gastonia, North Carolina, and had been single and fresh out of high school when he’d joined the Army. He’d gotten married between basic training and reporting to Fort Rucker for crew chief training. Not a lot of married guys volunteered for crew chief duty, or door gunner. At one hundred and thirty pounds and five foot nine inches, Mike didn’t relish the idea of carrying a rucksack that weighed sixty percent of his body weight through the jungle.
“Yeah, I was in a midair,” Mondie said, taking a pull on his beer and leaning back.
“So was I,” Patterson added, “Twice.”
“What, you guys have been in midairs! What happened? How did you live through it? Was anyone hurt?” Dorsey asked rapid-fire.
Looking up at the ceiling and rocking back in his chair, Mondie started to explain.
“I was crewing for Captain Butta back in August sixty-nine. A new pilot, Mr. Wood, was copilot that day. Don’t remember exactly how many aircraft were in the flight, but the PZ was a one-ship PZ, so we were in a left-hand orbit, trail formation, waiting for each aircraft to go in and come out before the next aircraft went in. We had a couple of Lobo Cobras covering us. We watched the aircraft before us spiral down and enter the PZ and watched him start to come out. That’s when Captain Butta told Mr. Wood to start his descent and a left turn. I was on the left side, and as I looked down and back, there’s this rotor blade pointing right at me and I’m eyeball-to-eyeball with the front seater in a Cobra. He had flown under us for some reason and was attempting to bank away from us as we began our descent. Our skids clipped his tail rotor. As soon as I saw him, I screamed and we banked sharp to the right, but it was too late. The Cobra started shaking and going down until he crashed in some low brush. Our skid was hanging off, so we got out of there and headed home. Another Huey, I don’t recall who, went to the Cobra, and the crew
chief rappelled down and got the pilots out. One had a broken leg, and I don’t know about the other. They both lived, I do know that.”
“How did you land with a skid hangin’ off? You couldn’t land,” Dorsey asked with a shocked look.
“Jim Barry from the Avionics Shop came out and met us in the revetment. Captain Butta hovered the aircraft over him while he disconnected the skids and then attached a new skid. He didn’t know we were almost out of fuel as we were hovering over him. If the engine had quit, it would have been all over for him,” Mondie explained.
“What about you?” Dorsey asked, looking at Patterson.
“I was flying in a two-ship insertion. We were lead, and as we started to depart the PZ, a couple of guys opened fire on us. The Peter Pilot in the other aircraft panicked and flew into us.19 No one was hurt, but the aircraft were messed up. A CH-47 had to come in and haul 277 out of there. We had to replace the main rotors and tail boom. That’s how we got our name, Chicken-man Rotary Connection,” Patterson went on to explain.
“Did you land in the same LZ?” Dorsey asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“We sure as hell weren’t going anywhere with the tail boom practically cut off. We got out and the grunts went after the gooks. We took the guns off the aircraft and set up a perimeter, waiting for the grunts to come back and secure the two birds. We got ahold of another Chicken-man aircraft and he called for our extraction,” Patterson said.
“What about the second time?” Dorsey asked.
“That was right here. I was flying with Mr. Lyle in a two-ship formation and we were on the runway for takeoff. Mr. Fender was the number two aircraft, and when we started to take off, his copilot was a bit too fast and ran over us. The rotor blades mixed and it made a hall of a noise. We set down right on the runway and had the birds towed back to Maintenance. The next day they were both up with new blades. I can tell you the CO was pissed.”
“Oh crap, I wouldn’t get back in another aircraft after that. I don’t like flying anyway. That would just do it for me.”
