Low Level Hell

by Hugh Mills

  As I jerked a hard right turn and tried to dive for the treetops, I screamed into the radio, “I'm taking fire … taking fire!” Farrar's 60 went off in response.

  Just as I turned, I caught new fire from across the valley coming up at me from twelve o'clock dead ahead. I was getting hit… I could feel the hits in the airplane. All the time Farrar's M-60 kept firing.

  “Son of a bitch!” I yelled. “We must have found a goddamned NVA radio station on the end of that wire, or they were just waiting to ambush us!”

  Meeting the new fire head-on, I instinctively pulled another hard right. Fortunately I still had forty to fifty knots of speed to help get our asses out of there. However, my last right turn headed us right back into another blanket of enemy fire, coming up again from the opposite side of the valley. Also, I had caused Carriss to abort his rocket run on the targets because I had pulled right in front of him. He had to yank up his nose to avoid hitting me.

  I had let go a blast of the minigun and Farrar was still giving them hell, his 60 blazing. He was leaning out of the airplane, down under the tail boom, and shooting 60 lead out behind us.

  Going like a bat out of hell, I pulled away from the ambush kill zone. “Hit ‘em,” I yelled at Carriss. “Hit the bastards! I'm clear … I'm clear!”

  “Did you get a smoke out?” asked Carriss.

  “Shit,” I muttered, and looked back at Farrar. His eyes were as big as billiard balls. “Lieutenant, sir, I ain't going back in there for nothin'. If you're going back in there, you can just let me out.”

  I keyed Carriss back. “No, we didn't get a smoke out.”

  “Ah-h-h, One Six, I think I spotted the source of your fires. I'm going to roll in and put some rockets down. What have you got down there?”

  “I've never seen an enemy radio station before, Three Eight, but I think I've got one. While you expend your load, I'm going to start a spiral climb to altitude.”

  “Roger, One Six. I'm in hot.” I watched Carriss break for his run.

  Coming into fifteen hundred feet of altitude, I began to have trouble with the aircraft. Scanning the instrument panel, I saw that my turbine outlet temperature (TOT) gauge was running in the yellow and pushing the red line at nearly 749 degrees centigrade. Torque pressure was low and dropping. It was obvious that some of the enemy rounds had gone through my engine combuster. I wouldn't be able to stay in the air much longer.

  As Carriss came back up after his run on the ambush targets, I told him I was going to have to get back to Quan Loi and put the ship down. There wasn't any question that I had taken a bunch of hits.

  He wanted to escort me back to base, but I suggested that he stay on the NVA radio station and bring in some artillery and tac air. Carriss argued, but I assured him that I could already see the “plantation strip” (our name for the Quan Loi base runway) and that I really thought I could nurse the Loach in. He pulled back toward the target to set up some big stuff.

  When the airplane was down safely at plantation, Farrar and I counted nineteen bullet holes in the ship. The rotor blades were hit. The nose was hit. The belly was hit. The tail boom had been hit, and there were about four rounds through the crew compartment, any one of which could have gone through Farrar.

  Damn, I thought as I crawled underneath the Loach's belly, we just about got our asses shot off! Once again, I was amazed at the little OH-6's ability to take that kind of punishment and still get us back to base in one piece. But it was obvious that there was no way this aircraft would fly again in the shape she was in.

  Farrar was still contemplating the four holes near his seat position, and I could see that his hands were shaking. His head was also shaking, but when he saw me he started laughing.

  I looked down at my own hands. My whole body was shaking like a leaf. We both stood there on the tarmac, shaking and laughing uncontrollably.

  Farrar broke the moment. “Son of a bitch, sir. You know a man could get killed doing this.” I threw my arm around his shoulder and we walked away to see if we could hitch a Huey ride home.

  I had been platoon leader of the Outcasts less than a month, gaining more confidence every day in my aircraft, in my scouting ability, and in my scouts. But the stress had a way of building, also. Though I was getting shot at almost every day, I never got used to it. But getting shot at was usually the way a scout found the enemy, and finding the enemy was our basic job.

  The army TO&E (Table of Organization and Equipment) called for ten scouts in the platoon. Six, or possibly eight, however, were all we ever had. A typical combat flying month would usually add up to between 130 and 160 hours in the air for each scout pilot. It meant that each scout was flying an average of five hours a day. Everyday. Thirty days a month!

  It was tough—flying constantly under pressure, constantly in fear—and it took its toll. It was a constant game of trying to second-guess the enemy. It was a constant worry—about your airplane, about your crew chief, about learning your scouting craft well enough to survive.

  The aeroscout platoon worked wherever it was needed within the 1st Division's geographical area of tactical interest. For about ten days in the early part of June ‘69, the Outcasts were called upon to provide scout cover for the Rome plowing work that was being done for the opening of the Song Be Road, officially known as Highway 1A.

  The initial roadbed was built by the French sometime during the nearly hundred years of their Vietnam occupation. Highway 1A started down around Phu Cuong (just west of our base at Phu Loi), and ran generally north up along the western extremity of War Zone D. It wound its way up through Dogleg Village and Claymore Corners (another American-named landmark so-called because it formed a giant intersection where highways 2A, 1A, and 16 all came together just east of Lai Khe), then over the Song Be River bridge just north of Claymore Corners, on up through Phuoc Vinh and Dong Xoai, and finally to Song Be somewhat south of the Cambodian border. From altitude, the narrow little red dirt road looked like a rust-colored snake, slithering up through the jungle, rubber plantations, and Vietnamese villages along the way.

  For a distance of eighty to ninety kilometers, the jungle crowded right up to the road on both sides, which put any military or civilian traffic under constant enemy surveillance and potential ambush attack. To open the Song Be Road for our supply convoys and civilian traffic, it was necessary for the 1st Engineer Battalion to put out land-clearing companies to remove jungle growth for about two hundred yards on both sides of the road.

  The Outcasts' job was to sweep ahead of the Rome plows, chaperon the tanks and armored personnel carriers (APCs), and scout for enemy mines, bunkers, and spider holes. The Rome plows could take a good deal of punishment, but the APCs were soft bellied and didn't take too well to running over mines. The scout platoon was to work this mission under the operational control (opcon) of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, whose headquarters at the time were located at fire support base Bunard, way out in the boondocks northeast of Dong Xoai.

  I was called up there to get a briefing on the specifics of the scout assignment from elements of the regiment's command group. They were to direct me to where the regimental commander (none other than Col. George S. Patton III) wanted our air cav unit to work, since*the aeroscouting mission was being split between us and the 11th's own Blackhorse troop.

  On the appointed day, Dean Sinor (Three One) and I flew up as a team to FSB Bunard. It was 5 June. Since a fire support base was a crowded, busy place, Sinor got on the radio as soon as we had Bunard in sight to get our landing instructions. “Blackhorse Three, this is Darkhorse Three One. We're a flight of two coming up on station for a briefing. Where would you like us to put down?”

  “Ah … OK, Darkhorse, this is Blackhorse Three. We've been taking a lot of fire this morning from the jungle. Recommend that you make a spiraling descent right into the base camp. No long approaches because we've got a bunch of sniper fire down here.”

  Sinor rogered that and then asked me how I felt about going in. Even fro
m altitude I could tell there wasn't much room down there for a couple of birds to just drop in. So I keyed him back: “You know what, Three One? Why don't you go on in first and take all the room you need. I can put my bird down anywhere, but you'll have some trouble shoehorning that gunship inside the concertina wire. Then, after you're in and shut down, I'll just drop on into whatever space is left.”

  Sinor made a high overhead approach and circled down into an open area right in the middle of the fire base—the only space big enough to take his fifty-two feet, eleven inches of rotor-turning Cobra.

  When he was in and shut down, I searched the camp for a spot where I could light. My Loach had a turning diameter of just over thirty-four feet, so I was looking for about a forty-foot niche inside the wire.

  I spotted a small bare dirt area in between where Sinor had put down and what looked like a tent pitched out the backside of an armored personnel carrier. It would be tight, but that's all there was.

  I went into a high overhead approach by spotting my ship directly over the point where I wanted to put down. Kicking the OH-6 over on her side, I entered a hard right-hand descending spiral. I continued falling out of trim until I was over the little bald spot next to the tent attached to the APC. Then I leveled off into a wider turn, flared, pulled pitch, and dropped the Loach to the ground right on the money.

  Red dust swirled. Objects blew. I didn't see much with all the junk blowing, except to notice that my rotor wash had popped the tent loose from its moorings.

  With ropes and stakes flying, the wind blast blew the tent and its belongings like a rumpled paper sack up over the top of the personnel carrier, then deposited the mess, inside out, at the other end of the APC. It looked like a huge pile of dirty clothes at a Chinese laundry.

  When the dust settled, I looked over toward the APC. Two soldiers were sitting in lawn chairs, scowling at me. One had a huge mustache; which was twitching with anger. The other man had a great shock of gray hair, now totally askew from having his tent blown off the top of him.

  I didn't immediately recognize the soldier with the mustache. But the gray-haired man … oh, shit! Though I had never met him, I knew exactly who he was: the regimental commander of the hard-fighting Blackhorse 11th ACR, George S. Patton III.

  As I shut down, the enlisted man with the big mustache got up out of his chair, put on his helmet, and walked toward my ship, looking as though he was going to eat me alive. I could hear him screaming as he got closer. “Goddamnit, Lieutenant, I guess you realize that you just blew away the regimental commander's tent!”

  Just then I recognized the sergeant. His name was Wolf, and I remembered him from Fort Knox. He had been my first sergeant in the recon company at Knox after I graduated from OCS.

  By this time, I had my helmet off and he recognized me. “How in the h-e-e-1-1 are you, Lieutenant?” he said, the anger leaving his face. “How ya been?”

  Realizing that I was probably in trouble anyway, I responded sarcastically: “Fm OK, but the regimental commander ought not park his goddamned tent in my landing zone.”

  “You want me to tell him that, Lieutenant?” said the sergeant major, smiling.

  “You're damned right,” I answered, thinking so far so good.

  But the sergeant major was going to have the last laugh. He turned around and walked back to Colonel Patton. “Colonel, that young helicopter lieutenant out there wants to know why you got your goddamned tent in his landing zone.”

  Patton exploded with laughter. “Bring that obnoxious son of a bitch up here!”

  That was my introduction to George Patton. Though the son of famed General Patton of World War II, George III was well known in his own right as an aggressive, fearless, and hard-hitting leader. He was also a man with a very much appreciated sense of humor.

  The Outcasts were closely involved in the Song Be Road mission until it was completed ten days later on 15 June. On that day, and in conjunction with the Big Red One's fifty-second service anniversary, a Song Be Road completion ceremony was held at Phuoc Vinh.

  As our final assignment, I was asked to go up for the ribbon cutting, primarily to set up a couple of VR teams to cap and fly cover for the ceremony. It was a big occasion. Both Vietnamese civilians and allied military forces would now be able to traverse the full length of the road with much improved security.

  I returned to Phu Loi that afternoon about 1500. After four straight hours of flying, I was ready for a shower and quiet dinner at the O club. I walked in my hootch door and parted the beaded curtains that separated Bob Davis's and my bunk areas from the rest of the hootch. I immediately noticed that my fan was running, my TV was playing, and perched right in the middle of my bunk was a black-haired lieutenant of infantry.

  He had his boots off. He was scratching his bare foot with one hand, drinking a Coca-Cola out of my refrigerator with the other, watching my TV, and cooling his damned self with my fan! There were no possessions guarded more jealously than a man's fan, TV, stereo, and certain refinements of his bunk area. In fact, these items of luxury were so coveted by the pilots that they were actually willed to successors should the owner depart the country or be killed in action.

  With as much composure as I could muster, I demanded, “Just what in the hell are you doing here?”

  Completely unperturbed by my blast, the man responded, “I'm new to the troop. I'm assigned to this hootch, and I'm looking for a place to drop my gear.”

  “Well, this ain't the place, soldier,” I shot back in a caustic tone of voice. But I realized that the guy had probably been waiting around in an empty hootch for two to three hours hoping someone would show up to help him find an empty bunk. Besides, I kind of liked his manner.

  “Hey, there's an empty bunk right outside the beaded curtain. I'll help you move your gear, then after I shower up we can go down to the O club and catch dinner and a movie.”

  By this time he was on his feet and sticking out his hand. “My name is Rod Willis, Lieutenant Rod Willis. Are you a scout pilot?”

  I shook his hand. “Well, yes … I'm Hugh Mills, One Six. Are you assigned to the scout platoon?”

  “Yes, but it wasn't easy.”

  I liked Willis almost from the start. I got him introduced around the club and showed him the troop plaque lineup behind the bar. Each of the pilots in the troop had a plaque with his name and call sign on it. When a new guy came into the unit, his plaque was made up and put at the bottom of the group on the left side wall behind the bar. Plaques for the senior pilots were hung on the right side of the bar. As people DEROSed or otherwise left the troop, their plaques were taken down and everybody else moved up higher in the pecking order. Willis took a lot of kidding that night as he became the lowest man on the totem pole—a very visible position.

  After supper, Bill Jones, Bob Davis, Willis (now to be the new One Seven), and I went back to the hootch and talked scouting for a couple of hours. Though Willis didn't do an awful lot of talking, we learned that he was an air force brat. His father, a thirty-year veteran (a senior master sergeant), and the family had lived all over the world. He had followed exactly the same army career path that I had: enlisted, basic training, OCS (infantry), flight school, and Vietnam.

  When he processed into Vietnam, he was assigned to pilot Hueys in the 1st Division. He told us how he practically begged on bended knee to get the S-3 to change his orders from jockeying ash and trash to flying combat missions in the scouts.

  The kinds of questions Willis asked that night showed me what kind of pilot he would be. “You guys fly real low, don't you?” “How often do you make enemy contact?” “How many kills are you getting?” “How much damage are the scouts doing to the enemy?” “How soon can I get transitioned into Loaches so I can get at the bastards?”

  This guy's naturally aggressive style was perfect for the scouts. He acted and talked like an individualist, and individualists were what the scouts were all about. Plus, he didn't have a wife and family back home to worry about.
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  At about the same time that Willis came into the unit, we also got a new Darkhorse troop commander, a cavalry major by the name of Charles L. Moore. Not having met the man, I didn't know what to expect when the new CO called a meeting of all the platoon leaders in his private hootch after supper on the day of the change of command ceremony. Before the meeting, though, I did find out that Moore was a second tour veteran, had actually served as the Darkhorse XO during his first tour, and had good familiarity with troop organization and operations.

  At precisely 1900, we all walked into Major Moore's hootch, snapped crisp salutes, and reported to the new commanding officer. The first thing that came across about him was that he was supercharged to the aggressive position, and somewhat spring-loaded to the pissed-off position. In other words, he was very aggressive, said exactly what he was thinking, and wanted it damned well understood that the mission of the troop was to seek out and destroy the enemy.

  “It's our cavalry heritage,” he said, “to find the enemy wherever the sons a bitches are. When we find ‘em, we're going to kill ‘em. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” we responded simultaneously.

  “And starting tomorrow, I'm going to be flying C and C on as many of your missions as possible, so I'll be there right on top of the contact to make whatever tactical decisions need to be made. Is that understood?”

  Major Moore's attitude was like a breath of fresh air to me. I decided then and there to show him Joe Vad's new Outcast patch design.

  Vad (Nine) was a rough, tough, street fighter from Brooklyn, New York. He didn't care too much for the plain rectangular cloth patch that all the Outcasts wore over our right jacket pocket, so he had sketched a new design that he thought better typified the scout platoon's fighting spirit. It was a blood red disk with a big skull and crossed cavalry sabers in the middle. At the top was the word OUTCASTS', at the bottom written on a scroll were the words, LOW LEVEL HELL.

  I had been waiting for the right opportunity to show the design to Major Cummings. As soon as Major Moore saw Vad's artwork, he approved it. He ordered patches be made and sewn on scout uniforms as soon as possible.