by Morris Ray
With an ominous foreboding, Doney watched them load and lift-off. It wasn’t just the damned weather that irked him. Russell Bott had been Doney’s Demolitions Sergeant in Panama, and he liked the young man. But Russ was an experienced Recon man and good in the jungle—he’d do all right. Doney sighed, silently wished them well and turned toward the FOB Operations Center. Still, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling.
* * * * * *
Bott sat nearest the door so he’d be the first one out, halfway convinced the pilot would abort due to the shitty weather. Although junior in rank to SFC Stark, Bott was still the most experienced and therefore, the One Zero in charge. As they flew west, the pilot suddenly increased altitude and his passengers’ stomachs churned—the cloud cover was too low to fly between the mountains. There’d been many a rough flight when the men would whisper a familiar prayer, “If I’m gonna die... please God, don’t let it be pilot error!” Bott noticed Willie staring at him and as he rolled his eyes, his buddy grinned back. If these expressions meant anything between them, they weren’t the least bit funnyto the VNSF troops. They sat motionless, their eyes wide, staring straight ahead. Below the small craft, white clouds were fluffy, soft and clean.
Bott and Stark both understood the importance of their mission. Higher command needed some vital information they were certain could be found along the international border, and they put pressure on the Delta Commander to get some boots on the ground quickly. In retrospect, some of the sage old Delta hands said the pilot should have aborted the operation—simply turned back, taken his ass-chewing like a man and drank some beer until the weather improved.
The team experienced a sudden gut-wrenching lurch as the pilot rapidly decreased altitude; he’d spotted a small hole in the thick cloud ceiling. The white void closed around them, then without warning, they popped though it, tree limbs poking through the low-hanging mist like boney fingers, reaching out for an elusive prey. The clouds, only moments earlier serene and white, suddenly became dark and menacing. Bott and Stark realized they were flying almost on the deck; their Vietnamese comrades appeared terror-stricken. Treetops flashed beneath them, barely a few feet below. They held on tightly, eyes searching the jungle floor as the pilot weaved a path between the mountains and the trees, seeking a reference point to pinpoint their location. Then the young pilot, who’d always been dead-nuts on with his navigation skills in the past, made a critical error. He mistook a rain-bloated stream for the river checkpoint he’d been searching for.
The chopper had barely settled when the team unloaded. They scampered into the wet, dank jungle, and instantly disappeared. The pilot shot his craft upward, glad to have blue sky above him once more. It wasn’t until he returned to base well after dark that he cross-checked his reference points. Only then did he realize he missed the LZ entirely and had inserted Team Viper somewhere inside Laos.
Devastated, he argued to return immediately to search for them, but with the wind howling and the rain gusting in horizontal sheets across the runway, getting airborne would be impossible. Any attempt to rescue Team Viper would have to wait until the weather improved.
* * * * * *
Project Delta Commander LTC John Hayes was in a foul mood. One of his teams was lost in Laos. When the MACV Commander found out, there’d be hell to pay. The media would undoubtedly blow up this simple mistake, inadvertently made during a high-risk insertion into an international incident. He could almost envision the headlines: “U.S. Aircraft Lands Combat Troops Inside Neutral Laos.” After spending thirty minutes behind closed doors—pacing, stomping about and cursing the weather, helicopter pilots, reporters and politicians of all ilks—Hayes was unusually subdued when he summoned his staff.
“We have to get those guys out of there and I want ideas on how to accomplish it. No one sleeps until we get it done,” he ordered.
The next day, a Thursday, the weather had changed somewhat—it was worse. A radio-relay plane flying out of Da Nang had arrived on station, flew over the area where Bott and Stark’s team had been dropped off, and reported back that the entire region was socked-in. They couldn’t see a thing—only clouds. No one would be going up anytime soon.
But there had been some good news; Team Viper had made contact with the relay plane and they now knew they were in the wrong area. The requested a FAC ASAP to help establish their exact location as they attempted to move toward the border. Reporting a brief firefight with NVA regulars, they successfully broke contact and were moving east, trying to get back into Vietnam.
By midday, although the winds had subsided, the ceiling and visibility remained at less than 200 feet. Unannounced and undeterred, CPT John Flanagan and SGT Tommy Tucker strode to Flanagan’s small fixed-wing plane, climbed aboard and, to everyone’s amazement, took off into the thick pea soup. They would try to find Team Viper before the enemy did.
Flanagan performed some remarkable flying that day, finally contacting the team and pinpointing their location. They were still inside Laos but close to the Demilitarized Zone—and in the middle of a reported North Vietnamese Regimental headquarters. Returning to base, Flanagan pointed out that Team Viper was nearly 4,000 meters from where everyone originally thought. Flanagan also reported sighting numerous NVA units closing in on their position. If the team wasn’t rescued soon, it would be too late. That night, the winds picked up again and the weather deteriorated even more, keeping all aircraft anchored to the runway. Hayes fumed and paced, and the staff stayed out of his way.
Friday morning dawned with more of the same; thirty-knot winds, overcast skies and dismal rain. The rain, although sporadic, was slammed horizontally by strong wind gusts. Staring at the dark sky, Delta personnel milled about helplessly, pacing and cursing the muck. The men’s thoughts were not only on Team Viper, but with yet another recon team still out in the storm; one led by SSG St. Laurent. They hadn’t been able to make radio contact with him either, and had no clue as to his location. St. Laurent was typical of Delta’s NCO caliber; savvy and jungle smart. If anyone could survive in those conditions, he could. Listening to the radio traffic on Bott and Stark, St. Laurent felt badly, probably worse than he should have. He was the guy who had backed Bott’s bid to become a recon member when no one wanted to take a chance on a demo sergeant.
The FOB staff and the other teams silently milled around the main tent, straining to hear any word about the lost team. The silence was unbearable. Again, John Flanagan had enough. He simply walked over to his small plane, climbed in and took off through a brutal side-wind. Within thirty minutes, he made contact with St. Laurent’s team.
“...just hunker down and stay where you are. We’ve got a team in trouble on ‘the other side,’ and we’re trying to locate them. Try not to stir up a hornet’s nest, because no one can come for a while. Copy?”
“Copy,” St. Laurent replied. “We’ll be right here. Out.”
Flanagan turned his small craft toward Laos.
Another transmission came through from the radio relay plane to the FOB; the room exploded in cheers upon learning that Flanagan had made contact. Then elation quickly shifted to gloom after hearing the news that Viper had taken casualties. Flanagan was returning to refuel, but relayed the battered team had to get out ASAP or they were finished. The Rangers, American advisors and several SF medics were all standing by, ready to go at a moment’s notice—but the weather still wasn’t cooperating.
Hayes finally decided “to hell with it” and made the decision to go. The men hustled to ready a Slick as the pickup aircraft, another as backup, a Hayes Command & Control (C&C) chopper and two gun ships. Without a word, SGT Irby Dyer hoisted his medical bag and double-timed it toward one of the helicopters. He’d man the machinegun and, as a medic, attend to the wounded once they were extracted. Only a few minutes out, the C&C ship made contact with Team Viper. Bott asked if the rescue helicopters had been launched; Stark was so badly wounded he couldn’t be moved. The transmission interrupted briefly, then Bott came back on—they we
re under heavy attack and others were wounded.
Those remaining at the FOB anxiously huddled, listening to the C&C ship’s choppy, one-sided radio conversation with Bott, trying desperately to fill in the blanks left by the loud static interruptions. Their area was still socked in, and they heard the C&C helicopter tell Bott they were having difficulty locating him. Viper reported they could periodically hear a chopper, but through the thick low clouds they couldn’t tell where. A transmission relay to Khe San asked if John Flanagan would come again to help try to pinpoint the team—Flanagan never hesitated. Delta Recon NCO Tom Tucker climbed into the rear seat of Flanagan’s small fixed-wing plane, and together they took off in a vicious cross-wind with fifty-knot gusts. How they made it, no one could explain. By the time Flanagan arrived, the helicopters had only twenty minutes of fuel remaining. Flanagan made contact with Viper and immediately recognized Bott’s voice above the background chatter of automatic weapons fire and exploding grenades. It was evident a vicious firefight was underway.
Aug 1966, Tay Ninh (Operation 10-66 Phase III). Front, L to R: SGT Johnny Varner (WIA), SGT Eugene Moreau (KIA), SFC Norman Doney, SSG Andre St. Laurent. Rear, L to R: SSG Rolfe Raines, SGT Vincent O’Connor. (Photo courtesy of Norman A. Doney)
“We’re surrounded,” Bott informed him, his voice more calm than it should’ve been. “Willie’s been hit pretty bad...I can’t move him... and I won’t leave him. We’re split from our indigenous guys, and we’re alone. What can you do for me?”
“Keep the key to your handset depressed, and I’ll try to guide in on your signal.”
Guided only by the signal, Flanagan finally flew over Viper’s position, rewarded by Bott’s prearranged codeword.
“Payoff. Payoff.”
“Throw smoke,” Flanagan told him, “so I can guide the rescue ship in.”
Purple smoke wafted up, indicating that Bott’s location was in a thicket of elephant grass at the crest of a small knoll. Flanagan flew low, and when he drew no ground fire, cleared the recovery helicopter to go in. Just as the pilot managed to maneuver his chopper to less than ten feet from Bott’s position, the hillside erupted in automatic fire. Tracers streaked as the elephant grass parted, and NVA soldiers popped from camouflaged “spider holes” that had been concealing weapon emplacements. The vicious fire concentrated on the hovering helicopter—it was literally shot to pieces.
“I’m hit!”
Flanagan flinched at the chopper pilot’s startled cry.
“We’re all hit! Going down...going down!”
The chopper pilot grunted as he took another hit. He watched helplessly as the wounded pilot struggled with the ship’s controls, hopelessly trying to keep it airborne. The chopper strained and shuddered violently as it drifted sluggishly to the left about two-hundred feet, then plunged, struck the ground and dissolved into a fireball. It continued to roll with its cargo of two pilots, two door gunners and Delta Recon medic, SSG Irby Dyer. Flanagan fired a rocket at the enemy’s location, marking it so the gunships could bring them under fire and protect the downed helicopter crew. But with the craft’s condition, Flanagan knew they were all dead. It had been a trap. It was the helicopter they were waiting for, and Viper was the bait. Now, the rescue crew was down too, probably dead. Remaining in contact, he overheard one pilot say the lead gunship had its fire-control system shot out leaving it useless as a gun platform. They would have to return to base.
Bott came back on the radio just long enough to report he had used up all of his and Stark’s ammunition; he was now armed only with the silenced .22 pistol he always carried and two remaining magazines. The radio sputtered loud static and what may have been gunfire, then the transmission faded as it had before.
Back in Khe Sanh at the FOB, they listened to the helicopter pilot’s final words, then the words came that would give them all chills—the ones they all were silently dreading and praying wouldn’t come. The Delta Commander in the C&C ship directed Viper to escape and evade back toward base camp—the helicopters were out of fuel and had to return to Khe Sanh. Viper was alone. Every Recon man fears this the most—being abandoned to fend for themselves. It was gut-wrenching news. Someone whispered hoarsely, “We’ve got to help them.”
Long after the other aircraft departed, Flanagan’s small, single engine plane circled over Bott’s position, reluctant to leave, yet helpless to do anything for the battered team. As a witness to this experience, it would haunt him his entire life; he documented it in his book, Vietnam Above the Treetops.
Bott’s last transmission continued to echo in his mind. “FAC, please help us, we’re hit bad and can’t hold out.”
These last words were spoken by a very brave man who simply wouldn’t leave his wounded friend as ordered. In a fatalistic attempt to forestall the inevitable, Flanagan then expended his last rocket at the enemy emplacements. He flew a wide circle over Viper’s position again and saw no sign of them, only the mashed down grass where they had lain. He circled again above the downed chopper; there were no signs of life, only a small trail of smoke drifting from the twisted wreckage. No movement. No signs of life. Only the silent jungle. Team Viper was gone. His heart heavy, John Flanagan turned his plane eastward toward Khe Sanh; he landed in the raging crosswind again, but it hardly mattered now.
LLDB (VNSF) MG Doan van Quang (left) presents Vietnamese Jump Wings to Project Delta’s two FAC pilots, USAF 1LTs Flannagan (3rd from right) and Simpson (2nd from right). SFC Donald Roberts (right) looks on. (Photo courtesy of Norman A. Doney)
* * * * * *
Lieutenant Colonel John G. Hayes assumed command of Project Delta in September 1966 as they continued support of the 196th Inf Bde. He weathered the political storm caused by Delta’s insertion into Laos, and went on to serve another three months as Delta’s Commander. Sergeant First Class Arthur Glidden was KIA with CPT Swope while assisting a team in trouble during a FAC over-flight. In December 1966, Delta was deployed to support the 3rd Marine Division near Khe Sanh, in Quang Tri Province. This was the operation where Recon men SGT Russell P. Bott, SFC Willie E. Stark and Ranger Advisor SGT Irby Dyer of the 81st were all lost. Bott was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service Cross; Stark, the Silver Star.
Russell Bott and Willie Stark both remain on Army rolls as missing in action (MIA), presumptive finding of death (PFD), yet some evidence persists that this might not be the case. It was clear from Bott’s radio communication that Willie Stark had been badly injured and that Bott had refused to leave his wounded comrade. Earlier, he’d told the two surviving Vietnamese to leave and evade back toward Khe Sanh. These two Vietnamese were picked up several days later, exhausted but unharmed. During debriefings, they reported after they’d left the two Americans at Bott’s insistence, they remained nearby, but no other shots were fired that day. They related how they hid in the tall grass, and overheard an NVA officer say, “Ah, here you are. We’ve been looking for you.”
Reports from intelligence agents on the ground state the following day Bott had been seen alive, his hands bound, walking northward on trails leading into Laos. Three years later, an agent reported Bott and Stark were in Laos in a POW compound. Unresolved POW issues remain a grave bone of contention for Project Delta survivors, Special Operations Association members, prior service vets and dependents. No one really knows how many American POWs, or their remains, are still in Southeast Asia.
B-52 CO LTC John Hayes (far right) with unidentified Marine chopper pilots working with Project Delta at Khe Sanh during Operation 13-66. (Photo courtesy of Norman A. Doney)
* * * * * *
In March 1967, Delta Recon teams were again inserted in the An Lao Valley to support the 1st Cav Division. Sergeant First Class William C. Roderick was again wounded and evacuated. This time he received a Purple Heart. Sergeant First Class Allen H. Archer, KIA, was posthumously awarded the Silver Star; Walter L. (Doc) Simpson received the Bronze Star for valor.
FOURTEEN
Heart and Soul
&nbs
p; PROJECT DELTA MAY WELL HAVE BEEN THE GREATEST collection of talent and combat skill ever assembled in a small group. A closed society, there was little debate that those belonging to this exclusive club were an unmistakable alliance, analogous to the blending of King Arthur’s knights with Robin Hood’s merry band of thieves. They could easily down voracious volumes of booze and beer, and occasionally fought among themselves with as much zeal as against their enemies, yet rallying to each others’ aid if ever threatened. Names such as Chuck Allen, Norm Doney, Charlie Beckwith, Wiley Gray, Joe Alderman, Moose Monroe and others, became legendary, yet none dominated; all were leaders who stepped forward when situations warranted it, then stepped aside when time to do so. Among these was “Doc” Simpson.
Master Sergeant Walter “Doc” Simpson was an MOS 18D, Special Forces school-trained medic. Simpson, a hard-nosed ex-Marine, was a no-nonsense guy who incessantly kept his conversational tone serious. Gary Nichols described him this way, “...tall and lanky, straight brown hair, his face weather-beaten; he seemed hard pressed to smile.”
Most folks noticed it; “Doc” Simpson never smiled. Some say he laughed on the inside; but if true, it never reached his lips or eyes. Some worried about his stoic expression, whispering that he was just a little too mechanical. But, you never heard that from those who had been with him on patrol. It didn’t matter if he never smiled or showed warmth; Doc Simpson knew Special Forces operations better than anyone, and especially how to conduct recon. Serving nearly three years with Delta’s most experienced and capable, when he spoke, everyone, regardless of rank, listened. Recon was what Doc did, and you’d better think twice before going with him if you weren’t as deadly serious as he was about his profession.
