19 Minutes to Live - Helicopter Combat in Vietnam

by Lew Jennings

  Copyright © 2017 by Lew Jennings

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Lew Jennings

  4O41 Soquel Drive # A243

  Soquel, CA 95073

  USA

  www.19minutestolive.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of non-fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are real. The author and contributors have done their best to accurately describe the events in the book, however, there may be discrepancies due to the march of time and failing memories.

  Cover Photo by Michael Talton: Rearming an A/2/17th Air Cavalry AH-1G Cobra Attack Helicopter somewhere near the A Shau Valley, Vietnam, 1969. Michael Talton standing left with the submachine gun on his hip, Lew Jennings (author) standing right with the rocket across his shoulders and two armorer crew helping out.

  Back Cover Photo by Michael Talton: Lew Jennings (author), Aircraft Commander, AH-1G Cobra Attack Helicopter, A/2/17th Air Cavalry, 1969.

  Book Layout © 2017 Book Design Templates.com

  19 Minutes to Live-Helicopter Combat in Vietnam/ Lew Jennings. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1548484539

  This book is dedicated to my heroes; the helicopter pilots and crews who served in Vietnam and especially my Brothers-in-Arms, the men of Charlie Troop, 7th/1st Air Cavalry and Alpha Troop, 2nd/17th Air Cavalry and those awaiting us on Fiddler’s Green.

  I would like to thank my fellow pilots and crewmembers for their incredible contributions to this book without which there would be no stories to tell:

  Duane Acord, Dan Bresnahan, Len Constantine,

  Tom Curtin, Dick Dato, Don Ericksen, Keith Finley,

  Don Foster, Chris Genna, Al Goodspeed, Eddy Joiner,

  Bob Larsen, Pat Lynch, Don McGurk, Dick Melick,

  Tom Michel, Keith Reed, Mike Ryan. Mark Stevens and Mike Talton.

  “War is life multiplied by some number that no one has ever heard of.”

  .

  ― SEBASTIAN JUNGER, WAR

  CONTENTS

  KIRKUK, IRAQ 2008

  19 MINUTES TO LIVE

  RUCKSACK AND A RIFLE

  ARMY AVIATION

  FORT WOLTERS

  PREFLIGHT

  PRIMARY FLIGHT TRAINING

  ADVANCED FLIGHT TRAINING

  COBRA HALL

  PRESIDIO OF SAN FRANCISCO

  VIETNAM

  BULLET CATCHER

  SCREAMING EAGLES

  A SHAU VALLEY

  HAMBURGER HILL

  May 10 (Day 1)

  May 11 (Day 2)

  May 12 (Day 3)

  May 13 (Day 4)

  May 14 (Day 5)

  May 15 (Day 6)

  May 16 (Day 7)

  May 17 (Day 8)

  May 18 (Day 9)

  May 19 (Day 10)

  May 20 (Day 11)

  MONTGOMERY RENDEZVOUS

  MONSOON

  ASSAULT 27 DISAPPEARS

  MAI LOC

  HEAVEN’S SWING

  RECON RESCUE

  SPEED CRASHES AGAIN

  GREAT BALLS OF FIRE

  I’M HIT!

  AUSSIE FAREWELL

  THE HELICOPTER WAR

  AFTER VIETNAM

  PROLOGUE

  KIRKUK, IRAQ 2008

  It is cold and clear with temperatures hovering at freezing. The stars are glistening against a dark blue sky, silhouetting the before-dawn twilight. This is the quietest time of day.

  The only interruptions to the silence are the melancholy sounds of calls to prayer being broadcast from the nearby mosque, and measured bursts of automatic weapons fire as the outgoing morning combat patrols “lock and load,” making sure their equipment is in order before they head off into hostile territory.

  A team of Kiowa Warrior helicopters swoops in low overhead. The Air Cavalry or “Cav” is returning from another night mission. One of our own planes comes in for landing too. They have probably been working together with the Cav, finding bad guys before they can do bad things or catching them in the act.

  Many here at this sprawling military base are either just getting in from their patrols or just getting up to do their part to help out. The whole place will be a living, breathing beehive of activity by the time the sun comes up, all focused on one mission: bringing freedom and peace to the Iraqi people… and staying alive in the process.

  It’s my first time “down range”, the term soldiers use to describe being here in the “sandbox”. I’ve only been here two weeks and have already flown 33 missions with duty days up to 16 hours – like it was when I was a young combat helicopter pilot in Vietnam – except now I’m 62 years old, and this is Iraq.

  I’m in a very select fraternity of pilots. Most are military retirees like myself hailing from all four Services and the Coast Guard. All volunteers. All combat experienced and well trained. Most in their 50s. Some, like me, in their 60s and even 70s. (Our Chief Pilot is 73.) All are expert at what they do.

  Our mission is to find the bad guys. And, at that, we are very, very successful.

  I can’t tell you how we do it, or what kind of tactics and technology we employ. That’s classified. I can tell you, however, we save lots of lives every day.

  When you hear or read that insurgent attacks are at their lowest since the beginning of this war or that some key Al-Qaeda leader has been killed or captured, we probably had something to do with it.

  My mission is flying support for our operations over here, ferrying people, supplies and equipment in and out of Iraq and to our bases around the country. I consider it an honor and a privilege and hope, in some small way, to help bring this conflict to a close and our troops home soon.

  While I miss my lovely wife Anneke, my wonderful children and grandchildren, and holiday camaraderie with friends and family, this is where I need to be this Christmas morning.

  Wishing you and yours a very Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and a Joyous Holiday Season. –Lew

  Matthew 5:9 “Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.”

  I wrote that note on my first of many combat support assignments in Iraq, where I flew 777 missions over the next two years. What I didn’t reveal was that our base had been attacked over 20 times that December.

  When I was invited to join an incredible group of gray-haired, mostly retired military professionals, to fly secret Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance (ISR) missions in some pretty dangerous parts of the world, I immediately went to my own family to get their permission, or at least willingness, to allow Grandpa one final adventure after nearly a lifetime of service. To them, I owe immense gratitude.

  And, to those friends and family who were concerned or upset that I was off to yet another war zone, I can only say that this experience was one of the most gratifying of my aviation career. I truly believe our ISR flights in Iraq helped save thousands of lives of our troops, coalition forces, and innocent Iraqi civilians.

  When given the opportunity late in life to save lives on the battlefield once again, I jumped at the chance.

  My name is Lew Jennings. I’m a retired US Army Officer, former airline pilot and business executive.

  I was active military duty for 20 years with the US Army from 1967 to 1987 and served in Vietnam and Europe, at various bases in the United States and throughout the Pacific with the US Navy and Marine Corps. My combat experience included 726 helicopter combat missions flying Cobra Gunships in Vietnam, for which I was awarded over 50 combat decorations, including three Distinguished Flying Crosses and 36
Air Medals.

  The war in Vietnam was known as The Helicopter War. There were very few roads in Vietnam and much of the terrain didn’t allow the use of typical military modes of transportation like trucks, tanks, or other armored vehicles. The helicopter became the primary way to get troops into combat, to resupply them, to move cargo and equipment for them, and to evacuate the dead and wounded.

  Over 12,000 helicopters would be used in Vietnam by all the US Armed Services, accumulating over ten million flight hours. In the process, 5,086 would be destroyed and 2,202 Pilots and 2,704 crewmembers killed. Helicopter crews would account for nearly ten percent of all the casualties of the war in Vietnam.

  I was a Cobra helicopter gunship pilot in two Air Cavalry units in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970.

  This is my story. I am honored to have served.

  CHAPTER ONE

  19 MINUTES TO LIVE

  I had dreamed of flying since I was a toddler sitting on my mother’s lap, watching my father crop dusting pineapple fields in Hawaii. My Dad was an Aviation Electrician’s Mate with the Coast Guard at nearby Barbers Point Naval Air Station. He maintained the radios and electronics for the Coast Guard search and rescue aircraft there and flew crop dusters when he was off duty.

  As he zoomed low over the rows of pineapples in a beautiful Stearman biplane, he would pull nearly straight up, do a slow half roll, turn, drop, and zoom low again, his wheels seeming to touch the very tops of the fruit. I was thrilled with it all and wanted to be just like him.

  Dad encouraged me with his love of aviation. He had me flying gliders by the time I was twelve. I earned my Pilot’s license at age 19 at the San Jose (California) Municipal Airport in 1966.

  I was working fulltime and attending community college at night. My draft classification was IA, and I knew in the back of my mind that I could be called to serve in the military at any time.

  The following year, in the spring of 1967, I thought the worst day of my life had arrived. I received my notice to appear for induction into the military. I was 20 years old.

  The Vietnam conflict was escalating rapidly and the draft was in full force. Young men had to serve at least two years in the Army or Marine Corps. They could sign up or “enlist” for a longer term for specialty training or join the Air Force or the Navy. Most draftees trained as Army infantrymen and served in combat units carrying a rucksack and a rifle.

  As I stared at my induction notice, I decided that if I had to serve, I would rather fly high with the Air Force than be an infantryman on the ground carrying a rucksack and a rifle into combat. I headed straight to the Air Force recruiter’s office to sign up.

  With my head held high and Pilot’s license in hand, I strutted into the recruiter’s office. “Hi, I’m Lew Jennings. I have a Pilot’s license and I want to fly high with the Air Force.”

  The recruiter just stared at me for a moment, then, stifling a smile, said, “Okay, son. Are you a college graduate?”

  “No,” I replied. “I’m too young.”

  “Well then,” the recruiter continued, “if you don’t have four years of college, I’m afraid you can’t fly high with the Air Force.”

  I was starting to feel a little nervous.

  “We do have plenty of other great jobs for you in the Air Force though, if you qualify,” he started explaining.

  I told him I only wanted to be a Pilot.

  “Tell you what then. Why don’t you go next door and talk to the Navy!” he said, as he escorted me out of the office.

  “Blue Angels! Hell, yes!” I thought and rushed next door.

  As I entered the Navy recruiting office, there was a Chief Petty Officer at a desk to the right and a Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant to the left. Both of them looked really sharp in their uniforms with lots of stripes on their sleeves and ribbons on their chests.

  “Hi, I’m Lew Jennings,” I announced. “I have a Pilot’s license and I want to fly in the Navy.”

  They looked across at each other. The Chief smiled. The Gunny just rolled his eyes.

  The Navy Chief looked me up and down and then asked if I had four years of college.

  “No, I don’t have four years of college. I’m too young. That’s what I explained to the Air Force!”

  “Well, son, if you don’t have four years of college, you can’t fly with the Navy or the Marine Corps either.”

  My lip started to quiver and my legs were getting weak. Visions of the Army with a rucksack and a rifle were filling my head.

  Then, the Marine Corps Gunny, who had just stared at me without a smile, rose from his chair, came over and put his arm around my shoulder. As any Marine will tell you, he would only do that if you were not in the Marine Corps; otherwise, you would be in for a real ass chewing. The old Gunny must have been taking some pity on me.

  “Son, if you’re really set on being a Pilot, why don’t you go next door and talk to the Army.”

  “The Army?” I stuttered as I tried to keep my composure. “Do they have airplanes?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “Well, they have these things that fly called helicopters,” he replied, “and they need a lot of Pilots.” He smiled for the first time.

  Little did I know that it was reported in the media at the time, that the average life expectancy of an Army Helicopter Pilot in combat was only 19 minutes!

  I thanked the Gunny and the Chief as I left the Navy recruiting office and reluctantly headed next door to see the Army.

  As I entered the door, there was a Staff Sergeant directly ahead, sitting at a desk with an American flag on a stand and recruiting posters behind him. One of the posters depicted helicopters filling the sky, flying soldiers into combat.

  “Hi, I’m Lew Jennings. I’m a Pilot and I want to fly in the Army.”

  I had barely gotten the words out of my mouth when the Sergeant leaped out of his chair, extended his hand, and with a big smile simply asked; “Are you a high school graduate?”

  I said, “yes,” and he immediately exclaimed; “no problem! If you want to be a Pilot, we can make you a Pilot. Sit right down here son,” as he pointed to a chair by his desk. Wow, what a change!

  What followed was a whirlwind of paperwork and explanations about the Warrant Officer Rotary Wing Aviator Course. The Army needed Pilots, only a high school diploma was required, followed by a few tests and a physical examination, and I would be on my way to a career as an Army Helicopter Pilot. I was ecstatic and couldn’t sign the papers fast enough.

  With the paperwork completed and visions of flying helicopters firmly planted in my brain, I started to get up to leave.

  “Hold on!” the Sergeant commanded. “There’s something I need to emphasize before you leave.”

  Uh oh. I didn’t like the tone of his voice.

  “In the Army, you are a soldier first and a Pilot second.” He was being very serious.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  “That means you are a soldier first and always. You will be sent to Fort Polk, Louisiana for Basic Combat Training as an Infantryman before you attend flight school. Then, if you fail flight school, you will be sent to Vietnam with a rucksack and a rifle.”

  I was in shock. My worst nightmare! What was I getting myself into?

  “Not to worry,” he said with the same sly grin that the Marine Corps Gunny had shown before. “You’re already a Pilot and shouldn’t have any trouble getting through flight school.” With that, he sent me on my way and said he would be in touch.

  As I got in my car, time came to a standstill. Wow! What the hell had I gotten myself into? I guess I had better tell my father.

  I broke the news to my dad, Wilson Jennings, that I had signed up to become an Army Helicopter Pilot. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. He was furious!

  My father was retired Coast Guard. He had served in the Merchant Marines as a young man, then in the Coast Guard and Navy during World War II, continuing his active duty in the Coast Guard after the war. His last assignment was Comm
and Master Chief of the Coast Guard Air Station at San Francisco where he retired in 1957.

  Dad had come from a long family lineage of service to the country. Three of his brothers had served with distinction in the Marine Corps. He was really upset that I had joined the Army, although he calmed down when I told him I had been turned down by the Air Force, Navy and Marines and that the Army was my only option for flight training.

  After a week or so, my father called me up and asked that I meet him at the airport in San Jose, California where I had learned to fly. He had arranged for my first helicopter flight so I could get a taste of what I was in for with the Army.

  I sat in the helicopter marveling at the visibility provided by the plastic bubble surrounding us, trying to understand the mechanics of how it flew. A stick between your legs was called a cyclic to control movement forward, backward, left and right. That seemed pretty simple. Then, another stick down on your left side called a collective, you pulled up and down to make the helicopter go up and down.

  Okay!

  And, the collective stick had a throttle grip at the end of it like a motorcycle. Anytime you pulled up or down on the collective, you had to add or decrease throttle to keep the rotor blades overhead spinning at the right speed.

  Hmmm, this is getting complicated!

  Then, you had pedals for both feet like rudder pedals in an airplane, but not called rudder pedals in a helicopter; they are anti-torque pedals. In a helicopter, the pedals change the pitch or angle in the tail rotor blades to make the tail go left or right, or to keep it steady as you pull up and down on the collective, while rotating the throttle and moving the cyclic.

  Wow, this is really complicated!

  Needless to say, when the instructor asked me to try to keep the helicopter at a stationary three-foot hover, I lost control within seconds.

  My father knew what he was doing that day. He wanted to make sure I was humbled with a taste of how hard it was to fly helicopters. I even entertained the thought that it might be an impossible task.

  It wasn’t long before I got the call from the recruiter to start my processing. Just as he had described, I took all the written tests, received a flight physical, appeared before an acceptance board, and received orders for my first assignment; Basic Infantry Combat Training at Fort Polk, Louisiana—the much-dreaded Boot Camp. And, if I successfully completed flight school, I would maybe have 19 minutes to live as an Army Helicopter Pilot in Vietnam!