by Hugh Mills
Fixated on the battle scene below me, I suddenly realized that I needed to get away from the wire and start looking for any live enemy who might be around. Our infantry in Gela needed answers to some questions: Was the base still under siege? If not, where did Charlie go? How many dead did he drag away? What kind of weapons were out there? Could the base finally come down off full alert?
I moved my orbit out to the tree line. It looked as though Gela had been completely surrounded by the enemy, with the major attack coming out of the northwest. At three two zero degrees, I saw many body drag marks and blood trails leading off into the jungle. The enemy usually tried to recover his dead and wounded from the battlefield by dragging them back along their route of attack. By leaving as few casualties as possible on the field, he hoped to confuse U.S. and ARVN forces as to the extent of his losses.
Following this well-beaten trail off to the northwest, I soon spotted their hastily dug mass graves back in the jungle, and the location of the seventy-five recoilless and .50 caliber that covered their main attack. The guns weren't there now, though; they had been dragged away, too.
The fresh, heavy foot trails through the jungle definitely headed back toward the Michelin. Charlie was probably holed up there by now, licking his wounds.
As I made my orbits, I kept up a constant stream of talk to Sinor on what I was seeing. His front-seater logged it on the map and radioed the information to the infantry ground commander and back to troop operations.
This was the first time I had seen the results of a large unit action, of the enemy coming in after us. The U.S. forces were hunkered down behind the fortifications of their fire support base, which was totally out in the open with no jungle overhead cover whatsoever. The enemy—possibly a unit of the 7th NVA Division's 165th Infantry Regiment, known to be operating in the vicinity of the Michelin rubber plantation—was probably attempting to execute what we called a “hugging” tactic, that is, trying to overpower an installation by quickly charging their soldiers in so close under the artillery that our heavy fire-power was nullified by the extremely short range.
But to no avail at Gela. Caught in the cleared, open area between the fire base outer wire and the jungle tree line, the enemy was pounded by our mortar, artillery canister rounds, and aerial ordnance. The bare earth outside the wire had been pulverized by hundreds, if not thousands, of projectiles, then scorched by napalm from the tac air, and by Phougas drums of jellied gasoline half-buried in defensive positions around the perimeter and pointed to explode liquid fire onto incoming attackers. The enemy bodies beyond the wire looked like ripped and burned rag dolls. Many had made it as far as the wire before being caught in the deadly defensive small-arms fire generated from within the fire base.
God, what a battle! I thought over and over to myself.
Official afteraction reports listed three U.S. soldiers killed in the attack, twenty wounded, and forty-one enemy killed. But forty-one bodies were all the enemy left to be counted; as my observation had confirmed, scores of their dead and wounded had been dragged from the field and left hastily buried just a few yards into the jungle.
I have often heard it said that an aviator fights an impersonal war, that he never sees, hears, or smells the close-up reality of the battlefield. But on 13 May 1969, looking down into that pit of death and devastation at Gela, Crockett and I knew the reality of war.
CHAPTER 7
WHERE IS ONE FIVE?
By May 1969, division G-2 estimated enemy strength in the 1st Division area at ten thousand personnel, with another four thousand people providing logistical support for the field troops.
Our picture of the enemy was getting clearer. With more experience, the scouts could now tell who and what we had found on the ground. We could, for instance, identify the NVA troops, generally natives of North Vietnam, members of the legally constituted, trained, and equipped people's army of the North Vietnamese government. Outfitted in his green and tan fatigue uniform, including thick-soled boots, Soviet web gear, and Russian-designed weapons, the NVA soldier was a professional—well-equipped, trained, and disciplined. His basic weapon was the Soviet Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle, though many were armed with either the RPG-7 or RPG-2 portable rocket launcher. He was a worthy foe on the battlefield.
The Viet Cong guerrillas, on the other hand, were generally natives of South Vietnam but not sympathetic to the government of the Republic of Vietnam. Their loyalty was to the national liberation movement of South Vietnam, and to the NVA who had come from the north to help them in their cause.
Though many times thought of as wandering guerrilla bands, the VC, in reality, were highly organized in their military resistance efforts. Main force VC units in the 1st Division area included combat outfits such as the Dong Nai Regiment, Song Be Battalion, and the SR-4 (strategic region) battalions of the Thu Due Regiment. In addition, they had their own artillery units, such as the 74th and 96th artillery regiments, along with K33, K34, and K35 arty battalions.
Instead of the highly militarized uniforms of the NVA, the VC normally wore dark blue or jet black pajama tops and bottoms. Sometimes the pants would be to the ankle, but black shorts were common. Unless he had come across a pair of U.S. jungle boots, VC always wore Ho Chi Minh sandals, cut out of vehicle tires.
Many wore scarfs fashioned from strips of camouflage parachute cloth. Larger pieces of this same cloth were tied around the neck and used as capes. The scarf served to hide the head and face and keep away insects; the cape provided excellent camouflage as the guerrilla moved through the terrain. When a VC ran, the cape flapped out behind him like a banner.
The things needed to sustain a VC in the field were mostly carried on his back: generally a lightweight sleeping bag around his shoulders, web pouch or bandolier of ammo across his chest, and a roll of rice around his neck. He carried an AK-47 assault rifle, sometimes a Russian 7.62mm SKS (Simonov) carbine. On occasion, it was an American M-16 scavenged from the field, as well as a supply of U.S. hand grenades.
The main force VC were nearly on a par with NVA regulars in their fighting capability. They were well-organized, employed good tactics, had excellent weapons, and were tenacious as hell.
As an aviator, I noticed one difference between the NVA and VC that held true in most instances. That was in fire control. In scouting over an enemy contact area, if I began to catch ground fire from a considerable distance, it was a probable assumption that I had jumped VC troops. If the fire opened up right under me, you could take odds that the shooters were NVA soldiers. The more battlewise NVA regulars didn't expose their positions as readily, and realized that waiting to shoot meant a better chance at knocking the low, slow-flying scout ship out of the sky.
The lowest organized component of VC combat troops was the local force unit. The main forces were organized to regimental strength; the smaller VC local force units generally did not exceed platoon and company-sized elements. Though these small units were numbered (C-61 Company, D-368, K-10), many times they were identified by the name of the village or area from which the people manning the unit came, for example, the Ben Cat Company or the An Loc Platoon.
The men and women making up these local forces could be seen around their villages one day doing their jobs; the next day they would be gone, having disappeared to join their VC units for some guerrilla operation. When the mission was accomplished, they'd return as quietly and discreetly as they had left.
The local force VC most often carried older weapons. Being at the bottom of the supply distribution schedule, they had to use whatever weapons were available to them. This included old French MAT-49 submachine guns, U.S. BARs (Browning automatic rifles), Thompson submachine guns, and .30-caliber M-l carbines.
It was very difficult to tell any of the Vietnamese soldiers apart, and nearly impossible to determine individual political persuasions. Only our Kit Carson scouts could positively tell the good guys from the bad.
The NVA and the VC lived the same way in the field. They ate
their rice and fish and built bunkers in their areas of operations. Bunkers were important for storing supplies, providing overhead cover, and establishing field bases from which to operate.
As aerial scouts, we were always on the lookout for cooking fires, especially early in the morning when Charlie might be boiling his rice and fish for breakfast. We also looked for their fish traps in the many rivers and tributaries. There was generally someone around to tend the traps, and you could be pretty sure that the “someone” was Charlie.
Most fliers would not have known these details about the enemy. They had no reason to. But scouts were different—we had to know the enemy's habits and personality. We were down low and slow looking for them every day, and knowing these things helped us locate the enemy.
So I could know Charlie's ways even better, I arranged with Four Six (ARP leader Bob Harris) to go out into the field with the ARPs on my days off. This way I could actually see enemy bunkers and study how they were built, talk to captured enemy personnel through interpreters, and go into their tunnels and hootches to discover how they lived in the field.
Up to this time, the scout platoon worked in the south around the Iron T, Trapezoid, and Michelin. The terrain around those areas was flat and open, and occupied mostly by VC forces. But, in late May, our services were required up north to help keep elements of the 7th NVA Division under close surveillance.
We all disliked working up north on Thunder Road (Highway 13) around An Loc and Quan Loi because it meant trying to see through triple-canopy jungle. There was also the good prospect of running into the NVA regulars who operated out of nearby Cambodian sanctuaries. The whole area was hot as a firecracker.
From An Loc-Quan Loi it was only about twenty kilometers north and west to the Cambodian border and an area we called the Fishhook. When we worked up there we generally took a flight of six (three scouts and three Cobras) out of Phu Loi and up to Quan Loi early in the morning. Then we'd work out of that base and return to Phu Loi before dark.
Though the entire border area was crawling with NVA, the main problem was the terrain—the tall, layered, dense, and dark jungle. To see anything at all from the air, we had to fly right down on top of the trees, then slow down to nearly a hover—a point where we were easy pickings for the many heavy tripod-mounted .30- and .50-caliber antiaircraft machine guns that the North Vietnamese had dug into the jungle.
On 22 May we were working west out of An Loc-Quan Loi on reconnaissance to provide information on enemy activity to the base camp commander. The VR-1 that day was Bob Davis (One Three). He was down in his search pattern lowin' and slowin' away when all hell broke loose. Enemy .50-caliber rounds suddenly came bursting up out of the jungle and tore into Davis's OH-6.
The sound of any kind of fire tearing through the bird is frightening, but the sound of .50s finding their mark is terrifying. Especially when you can't see the gun or its muzzle blast, and have no idea where the fire is coming from.
Fortunately, neither Davis nor his crew chief was hit by the sudden barrage. With some careful nursing, One Three was able to get his ship back to Quan Loi and safely set her down. There were numerous big, ripping slug tears through the cabin and tail boom of the aircraft. It was the first time since I had been in the troop that any of our Loaches had ever been engaged and hit by .50-caliber fire.
Davis told me the general area where he had run into trouble, and I headed out with my gun cover to see if I could find the emplacement. I had no luck at all. Peering down into the deep, dark jungle revealed not a trace of any enemy activity other than a few old foot trails. The score near the Cambodian border quickly became NVA one, Darkhorse scouts zero.
Not long after the incident, Jim Ameigh (One Five) was scouting the same area and found the .50 pit that apparently had fired at Davis. We called those pits “donuts” because they were circular, with a platform of earth left in the center where the gun rested. This way, the firing team could track targets 360 degrees on the tripod without having to physically move the machine gun.
When Ameigh found the donut, the gun was gone. Once the enemy had exposed their position, they didn't wait around. They knew that U.S. air would be back soon on a hosing down mission.
The incident left us all with an ominous, foreboding feeling about the area. We knew that the entire region to the west of An Loc was infested with NVA, and that the difficult terrain wouldn't let us find them easily.
On 26 May, we were back up around An Loc-Quan Loi to work a routine VR mission out west toward the Fishhook. Crockett was getting ready to rotate back home, so I was flying again with Al Farrar as my crew chief.
As we pulled out behind Darkhorse Three Eight (Phil Carriss's Cobra), Farrar keyed the intercom. “Where we headed today, Lieutenant?”
As we passed over the Phu Loi perimeter fence, I heard him arm his M-60. “Just sit back and relax, Al,” I responded. “We've got a few klicks to ride up to Quan Loi, then probably on out toward the Fishhook for a little look-see at what the bad guys are up to.”
“I hear it can get pretty hot up there, sir. But, you know, I love flying scouts. I haven't been a crew chief very long now, but I'm learning real good and getting better every day.”
“How about a little radio fifty-four as we ride, Al?” I said back into the intercom. Without waiting for his answer, I flipped on the automatic direction finder (ADF) so we could catch the armed forces AM radio on the long flight up to Quan Loi. As was becoming my habit also, I took my right foot off the pedal and propped it on the lower door frame outside the aircraft. Finding that I could easily handle level flight with just the left pedal, wiggling my right foot out the door was a comfortable diversion.
“I really have been looking forward to flying more with you, sir,” Farrar said over the music. ‘'Since I'm just learning, I sure would appreciate anything you can do to help me along.”
“If you think you've drawn the master card to learn everything on this flight, you're in deep trouble, Al, because we're both learning. So, if we cooperate and graduate together, we might get this thing done right.”
“I sure do roger that, Lieutenant.”
As we flew into an area northwest of the An Loc rubber plantation, Carriss in the Cobra broke on VHF to me. “OK, One Six, we're coming up on the area that Quan Loi wants us to take a look at. How do you feel about it?”
“OK, Three Eight, let's go,” I responded.
“All right, One Six. I want you to go down on the large open clearing on the crest of the hill at about your four o'clock. Have you got that in sight?”
With my head cocked out the door, I picked up the hill with a valley leading off to the west. “Roger that… in sight.”
“OK,” Carriss followed up, “then begin your runs to the west, working to the north. We'll call your breaks for you. You've got free-fire.”
I keyed the intercom and asked Farrar if he was ready to go to work. With excitement clear in his voice, he came back, “Yes, sir, Lieutenant, let's do it!”
I kicked right pedal and whipped the cyclic over, forcing the little Loach into a tight right-hand descending turn. We swirled down to about a kilometer away from the hilltop where I was to start my pattern.
Pulling out at fifteen to twenty feet above the treetops, I headed for the hill from zero nine zero degrees so I could pass over that specific terrain feature and start my run in the cardinal direction of west. I headed up the valley at about forty knots, making 360-degree turns over things I wanted to look at again.
As I neared my westerly mark, the Cobra front-seater called, “Western limit, One Six.”
With that message, I did a right turn north for fifty to sixty yards, then another right, heading me back east to work a return search.
As I circled over what looked to be an old deserted bunker, looking for foot traffic patterns, I was interrupted by Carriss. “Hey, One Six, we've lost you. Where are you?”
Knowing full well how difficult it was to see me against the dense jungle from fifteen h
undred feet, I kidded back, “I'm right down here, Three Eight. I can see you. Why in the hell can't you see me?”
“Move out into a little clearing for a second, One Six, so I can see if I can pick you up.”
Moving into an area that offered some terrain contrast to the back of my bird, I keyed back, “Have you got me yet, or do you want me to drop a yellow smoke?”
“We've got you, One Six. Don't need a smoke … move back into your pattern.”
On about the third route west, I noticed that we were coming up on what looked like a small valley within the valley. There were fairly high wooded hills on each side that extended from about halfway up the main valley to what appeared to be about the western limit of my search leg. I headed between them, more than a little apprehensive about flying into such tight quarters. I started my three sixties just as soon as I entered the eastern end of the valley.
Though you never knew where you'd find bad guys, this looked like a perfect place for trouble. Besides, my built-in warning alarm was going off in the nape of my neck, telling me I needed to be extra careful in here. I keyed the intercom. “I've got a funny feeling about this place, Al. Keep your eyes peeled and your 60 cocked.”
I had no sooner gotten the words out of my mouth when I passed over a fairly heavy wire strung across the valley. A wire? I thought. If it is, it's sure as hell out of place in the middle of this jungle. I swung around to take another look. “What do you make of that wire that just went under our nose?” I asked Farrar.
“I see it, Lieutenant. Looks like it's tied to trees across the valley from each other. I don't know what the hell—”
“You know what I think we got, Al? Could that be a radio antenna?”
Punctuating my question was a tremendous burst of ground fire coming up on the front and left side of the aircraft. Not from just one weapon, but from AK-47s and .30- and .50-caliber machine guns.
