Low Level Hell

by Hugh Mills

  I knew I had to get somebody in there fast to snatch these guys. It wasn't going to be long before the VC were down on that Cobra. Sinor and Kauffman wouldn't have a chance.

  I got on the radio again to Sinor. “Three One, One Six. They're close, Dino. Charlie's about a hundred meters to your north front and headed your way. They may just want to hug for security, knowing we can't shoot when they get that close in on you, but I want you to stand by while I go up on Guard to see what I can get in here to take the heat off. Stay cool.”

  Before he could roger, I went back up on Guard freq. “Break, break, any aircraft… any aircraft on Guard. This is Darkhorse One Six. I have an aircraft down at the northwest corner of the Iron T; crew is down. Any aircraft vicinity of the Iron Triangle, come up on Guard. Over.”

  A voice came right back at me. I recognized it immediately as one of our Darkhorse snake drivers, Paul Fishman (Three Four). He had been working farther up north that day with scout Bob Davis.

  “I got you, One Six,” he said. “This is Three Four up on Guard. Where are you?”

  “Good to hear your voice, Three Four,” I answered. “I've got trouble. Three One is down. Crew is OK for now but they're in close vicinity to a contact between U.S. and Victor Charlie located about a hundred to a hundred and fifty meters north of their position.”

  “I don't have a grid,” I continued, “but I'm at the northwest corner of the Iron Triangle, about two, check that… about six klicks south of fire base Tennessee, near fire support base Aachen. Do you copy my location, Three Four?”

  “Good copy, One Six,” Fishman came back. “We have your approximate location. We're up in the vicinity of Thunder III right now. We're going to start your way. Where are you in relation to Highway 14, One Six?” I tried to relay our position via landmarks.

  “Roger, One Six,” Fishman came back, “I got you covered. We're on the way, balls to the wall!”

  “One more thing, Three Four, I'm lima lima and too low to make radio contact with the troop. Can you get hold of troop ops and scramble the ARPs? We need help up here fast before Charlie overruns Sinor and Kauffman.”

  “Roger that, One Six. We're en route and I'm scrambling the ARPs. Hang in there!”

  Then my Guard freq crackled again, only this time in a deep Australian accent. “Hello there, Darkhorse One Six, this is Sidewinder One Five, your friendly neighborhood FAC. I hear you've got trouble, Matie. I'm just coming off Dau Tieng with a full load of Willie Pete and guns on board. Can I be of any assistance?”

  “Yep, you sure as hell can, Sidewinder,” I answered the forward air controller in his OV-10. “We've got a helicopter and aircrew down danger close to a VC contact. We may have to do a RESCAP. You got any fast movers you can haul in here to put a cap on this thing?”

  “Well, I don't know, mate. I'm just getting off and haven't checked in with my control yet. Stand by while I query. Meantime, I'm en route.”

  Then I heard Fishman go up on UHF to troop ops. “Darkhorse Three, this is Three Four … in the vicinity of Quan Loi with a message from One Six. Darkhorse Three One has been shot down in the area of grid X-Ray Tango 660290. Crew is down near heavy contact between VC and 25th Division troops. Need to extract immediately before Cobra crew is overrun. Scramble the ARPs. Scramble gun teams 1 and 2. I'm en route and moving out ahead of my scout to make contact.”

  While I waited, I mentally reviewed the situation. Sidewinder was on the way from Dau Tieng and was working on RESCAP. Three Four was on his way from Quan Loi, and scramble teams would soon be underway from Phu Loi. If only any one or all could make it to the crash scene before Charlie got on top of Sinor and Kauffman. This would be close!

  The Australian came back up on the Guard emergency frequency and I heard him call in the blind: “This is Sidewinder One Five off of Dau Tieng at one zero past the hour. A U.S. helicopter and crew are down. Who can help me on a RESCAP operation?”

  I overheard a series of transmissions back to Sidewinder offering help. A flight of four VNAF (Vietnamese Air Force) A-37 Dragon-flies in the area northwest of Saigon was diverting, a flight of four A-7 U.S. Navy aircraft operating somewhere to the northeast was en route, a flight of F-4 U.S. Air Force fighter-bombers operating up on the Cambodian border near the Fishhook was called in, and a flight of Spads, or Vietnamese Air Force A-Is, was diverted from down south around VC Island.

  Sidewinder logged in the transmissions from the reporting flights and assigned them to various altitudes over the contact area. Knowing the basic characteristics and capabilities of each type of aircraft, Sidewinder stacked the flights according to which planes could stay longer and which had to do their thing fast and get out of the pattern. As cool as a cucumber, the Australian sequenced and layered all the air support over the contact point so that he could use each type of aircraft to its fullest capability. I had to hand it to him … he bloody well knew his business.

  As all this was going on, I maintained a tight circle pattern over Sinor and Kauffman. For their own peace of mind, I wanted them to know that I was overhead and keeping an eye peeled for any sign that the bad guys were getting closer to their downed Cobra.

  I really couldn't see what the VC were doing, however, so I decided to make a run up to the last contact point and check out the situation. I radioed Sinor. “Get your heads down and keep ‘em down, you guys. I'm going to spread out my circles, see where the contact is, and try to find the U.S. troops. Be back in a minute.”

  In less than two orbits I saw the ground fight. The VC were withdrawing and moving south rapidly in the direction of Sinor and Kauffman. I also caught a glimpse of another VC force of about fifteen men south of the leading VC element. They looked as though they were trying to swing around and come up in back of the downed Cobra.

  I keyed the intercom. “Get on ‘em, Jimbo. Fire at will. If you can identify the target, fire at will.”

  It was difficult to distinguish between VC and U.S. troops because they were so intermingled on the ground. But I immediately began to hear Parker's M-60 open up in long bursts, and black shirts began falling. He would knock one VC down and without even releasing the trigger go on to another target and put him down.

  “Keep stickin' ‘em, Jimbo!” I yelled into the intercom. But I knew that nothing we could do from our bird would stem the tide of those VC. They were dodging, firing back at their pursuers, and running directly toward Sinor and Kauffman.

  I flipped my radio over to Uniform and called Fishman. “Hey, Three Four, this is One Six. How you doin', man? We're in deep shit down here. How you doin'?”

  “OK, One Six,” Fishman answered. “I've left my scout behind to catch up when he can. I'm hauling ass, coming up on Chon Thanh now.”

  “Hurry!” I shot back. “I'm scared we aren't gonna make it. I've got VC closing in on Thirty-one from their front and possibly their flank. We can't hold ‘em off, and if somebody doesn't get here damned soon I'm not sure we can get the crew out.”

  “How about the friendlies on the ground? Can they get to the crew before the bad guys do?”

  “Negative … negative,” I answered. “No way can our guys leapfrog the VC and make it to Sinor first. Besides, I'm not even sure that the 25th people know we've got a ship down, although they should have seen Three One going down, and sure as hell should have seen our little bird flying around up here. What's your ETA here, Three Four?”

  “Estimate eight to ten mikes, One Six,” Fishman answered. No way, I thought.

  Just then Wayne McAdoo, lift platoon leader, reported in. “One Six, this is Two Six. I have the ARPs on board and am just clear of papa lima. Estimate fifteen to sixteen mikes your location.”

  “Two Six, One Six copies. But you better put a burr under your saddle. I'm afraid we may just lose ourselves a gun crew if we don't shake it out. Sinor and Kauffman have got all kinds of bad guys knocking on the front door!

  “Break, break,” I kept on. “Three Four, I'm going to come up on Guard to the crew. Can you monito
r? I need to tell them what's happening and how I want them to set up for your rocket runs.”

  Then I went immediately to Kauffman. “OK, Thirty-one, here's the good news. ARPs are en route and are about fourteen to fifteen mikes out. Fast movers are en route and Sidewinder will be stacking them over you as they arrive, ETA working. Three Four is en route and will be here in eight to ten mikes, but I gotta tell you that the dinks are falling back your way and are closing on you fast from the northwest.”

  “Damnit! Talk to me, One Six!” Kauffman obviously was not happy with the report. “How close are the bad guys?”

  “Well, the bad news is that I'm beginning to take some random ground fire from Charlie now on the November edge of my orbits over you. They're close, maybe forty to fifty meters to your front. They're getting chased toward you by the 25th.”

  “OK, OK, One Six,” Kauffman replied. “If it looks that bad, why don't you come in and get us? Land and pick us up in the Loach.”

  “Look,” I came back, “if I have to do that, I will. But I'd rather stay up here and try to keep Charlie off your backs until we can get some help in here.”

  Worry showed in Kauffman's voice when he answered. “We roger that, One Six, but we aren't having any fun down here. Sinor's finally got his piece out of his sock … if that doesn't hold ‘em off, maybe it'll scare ‘em to death.”

  “Listen, here's what I want you to do. I need you to move away from the aircraft a little to your rear and get yourselves flat on the ground. Get your butts in defilade because when Three Four comes in here, I'm not even going to bring him around for a look-see pass. Fm gonna have him lay some rocks square between you and the bad guys, right from his in-bound run.”

  Kauffman really sounded worried now. “How's Three Four gonna see where we are? We could end up with his rocks right in our laps!”

  “Relax, Larry, don't worry so much,” I consoled. Kauffman had just recently lost a wad of money in a hootch poker game bluff, so I needled him. “I wouldn't dare let the dinks or a few little 2.75 rockets take down a poker player as good as you.”

  “Fuck you, too,” Kauffman said, but at least he chuckled.

  I keyed the UHF to Fishman. “Three Four, we aren't gonna make it. The way it looks, you're going to get in here about the same time as the bad guys. I'm going to swing around to the north and try to work on the dinks with the M-60 and my minigun. Maybe I can persuade some of the little folks that they don't want to come down on our crew.”

  “OK, One Six,” Fishman acknowledged. “I'm pulling max power.”

  “I won't be able to hold ‘em long with my firepower, so just as soon as you can see our general area, holler and I'll throw out some smoke. I'll put out two smokes and I'll want you to lay rocks in between the two markers for protective fire to the crew.” I knew that he'd be on the scene as fast as he could. He was probably pulling 130 to 140 knots in a fully loaded heavy hog.

  I continued to fly right-hand orbits over the downed Cobra. Every second or third circle, I swept out north where I could hear the sound of ground fire over the whine and chop of my Loach engine. Each time I came around over the enemy, Parker opened up with his M-60, and a couple of bad guys would drop. I couldn't line up a minigun shot because I couldn't be quite as selective with that weapon and there were too many friendlies down there.

  Those 25th Division guys must have wondered just who that little scout ship was and why it kept swooping in, killing a few enemy troops and then swooping out again. They probably still didn't realize that a downed Cobra with a grounded crew was out there just to their immediate front.

  As I looked down, though, it was evident that the VC were falling back fast. They may not have known either that a Cobra was down. Other than throwing a few potshots up at me, they were obviously most concerned with covering their own asses from behind. The U.S. troops were hot on their heels.

  This is it, I thought as I watched the firefight below. No way will the ARPs get here in time to cover Sinor and Kauffman before the dinks are down on them.

  I keyed the intercom. “We're out of time, Jimbo. I'm going to swing around to land and pick up the crew.”

  Without a sign of reluctance, Parker came right back. “OK, Lieutenant, I'm set, but it's going to overload the hell out of us. We haven't used up much ammo or fuel.”

  Parker was right. Every time we took a scout bird off the ground, we were at or over max gross weight because of all the fuel and ammo we crammed aboard. We never knew what we would be flying into, so we wanted to be able to scout and fight as long as possible.

  “I know,” I answered Parker. “We'll be putting another four hundred pounds in here with those two guys plus their weapons and body armor. We'll just have to dump everything out the door that we can get along without, and then hope to hell that the Loach will get us up out of there!”

  Just as I was pulling around to go back and land, my radio snapped to life. “All right, One Six, this is Three Four. I'm just coming up on being able to observe your general area. Get your smoke out so I can shoot.”

  I touched my radio transmit button twice to let Paul know that I acknowledged. Then I pulled the Loach around in a sweeping right-hand turn. I keyed Parker again. “Get me a red … correction, get me two red smokes ready. We're going to mark the limits for Three Four's rocks.”

  Parker pulled two red smoke grenades off the bulkhead in front of him, pulled the pin on both, and held them straight out the cabin door. He threw one straight down on my command. “Now!” I shouted again, and he threw the second grenade straight down, marking each edge of a north-south corridor where I wanted Three Four to aim his rockets.

  With the second smoke out, I broke right, then another hard right in order to cross back over the enemy-occupied corridor. Fishman's Cobra was still nowhere in sight, so I went back up on UHF. “Three Four, One Six. Smoke's out. It's right on top of the enemy. Give me rocks between the two red smokes. South edge of the corridor is the little clearing where the crew is down. You'll be danger close to them. Shoot between the smokes on your approach out of the north as soon as you can.”

  Three Four rogered and I circled back south to take up an orbit just beyond Sinor and Kauffman. Just on the horizon was Fishman's Cobra, a single snake with puffs of smoke beginning to erupt from the rocket pods beneath its wings. Pairs of Three Four's rocks slammed down right between the two red smokes and into the men withdrawing down the corridor.

  Fishman broke out of his run, and I quickly circled back over the corridor to see if his 2.75s had slowed Charlie down. As the smoke and debris cleared, I saw that Three Four's rockets had killed about half of the enemy force. A few of the survivors looked dazed, but the rest were running in a frenzy toward the crew.

  Just then my Guard frequency came back alive with Kauffman's shouts: “Here they come, One Six! We can see ‘em … we can see the little bastards coming! We're going to get the hell out of here while we can!”

  “Negative … negative … stand by, Three One,” I shot back. “I'm coming in to get you. Be ready to jump on board … I'm coming in.”

  Then I let Fishman know my plan. “Your rocks were good, Three Four, but we're in deep shit down here. The Indians are closing in. I'm going to get the crew. I've got no choice … I'm going in to pick ‘em up.”

  “OK, One Six,” Paul came back. “I got you covered. How are you going in?”

  “From east to west,” I answered as I pulled the OH-6 around, “and I'll make a south break after I take the crew aboard. Keep Charlie occupied by putting a few more rocks in his way. Put ‘em same place as last time, only come on down south about forty meters. Don't give us a haircut. We'll be danger close, danger close!”

  Fishman swept around to set up another run on the corridor as I decelerated and started to put down. “Are you ready, Jimbo?”

  “Ready, sir,” he came back in his steady, impassive voice.

  I picked my spot and began to settle down right beside Sinor and Kauffman's Cobra. As I was
nearing touchdown, I heard Fishman's second round of rockets impacting about thirty to forty meters away. Then came the sound of shrapnel zinging through the air all around my ship. Fortunately, none of it caught us or the crew, who by then were crouched down, waiting to jump aboard.

  My skids reached the ground and I waved to the two pilots. Big smiles slashed across their faces as they sprang toward the Loach and piled in—Sinor in the back with Parker, Kauffman squeezing over the mini-gun and into the front left seat.

  As the two jumped aboard, I felt the ship sag. They were both two-hundred-pound guys with their chicken plate on, and the little OH-6 groaned under the new weight. I really didn't appreciate just how much we were over max gross weight until I felt the bird begin to settle.

  I looked out my door at the landing gear and my gut tightened into a square knot as I watched the Loach's skids spread and slowly sink about a foot down into the soft, marshy ground.

  “Son of a bitch!” I cursed. Everybody aboard looked at me as if to say, Well, what the hell do we do now? Good thing Fishman's second rocket pass had slowed the VC or they would have been all over us by that time.

  I pulled up hard on the collective, knowing that I'd need a surge of power to get off the ground. To my horror, nothing happened. The Loach seemed stuck solid in a foot of mud.

  “Come on, baby,” I coaxed. “Get us out of here. Please get us out of here!”

  I pulled on more power. The rotors thundered. The ship vibrated. The engine tachometer climbed rapidly to 103 … 104 … then through 105 to near 107 percent. She was at max power, but the bird still didn't move … not a damned inch.

  I punched the intercom and yelled at Parker. “Dump everything! Throw everything out you can, because we aren't gonna make it otherwise!”

  He reached over and broke off his M-60 ammo belt, then kicked his nearly full ammunition box out the cabin door. Sinor and Kauffman ripped off their chicken plates and threw them out on the ground beside the ship. But it didn't help. We were still stuck.