Low Level Hell

by Hugh Mills

  As we passed over an open area just to the south of Lai Khe, I caught a glimpse of movement below. We were no more than three-quarters of a mile out of Lai Khe; I was surprised an enemy soldier would be messing around so close.

  I radioed One Seven. “Come right on my wing. I think I've got a dink underneath me.”

  Willis and I skidded into a tight right-hand turning maneuver over the spot where I thought I saw movement. Sure enough, there was an enemy soldier prone on the ground, amidst a few three-foot-high bushes that made up the only possible cover in this otherwise open area. When he saw us overhead, he made the mistake of jumping up and heading toward some other nearby scrub, firing his AK-47 at us from the hip as he ran. But in this relatively open area, he really didn't have anywhere to hide.

  With Rod tight on my wing, we swooped down over him at about eight to ten feet off the ground, firing short bursts from our miniguns. The enemy soldier dropped dead in his tracks.

  As we headed in to Lai Khe, I got on the radio to an ARVN force that was headquartered just to the south in the village of Ben Cat. I told them about our enemy soldier and suggested that they mount a recon party with their adviser and sweep the area.

  When we got the ARVN recon report later that day, Willis and I were surprised to learn that they didn't find just one enemy soldier, but three more KIA. From the information gathered by the ARVNs at the scene, it became apparent that a group of four enemy scouts had been observing and reconning around the division fire base at Lai Khe. I saw only one of them, but the other three were nearby, and when our minigun rounds dropped the one, we got the other three without even knowing it.

  The next day we were scheduled to work Thunder Road in support of the supply convoys that were running hot and heavy between Lai Khe and Quan Loi. We had learned in the briefing that enemy forces were deployed along a line from the Razorbacks north to the Parrot's Beak, with the presumed intention of moving east and hitting our Thunder I, II, III, and IV fire bases to disrupt our supply convoys.

  Before first light on the fifth, and before we were even near takeoff time from Phu Loi for our early morning VR, just such an enemy attack was thrown against Thunder III. The fire base was located about ten kilometers north on Highway 13 from Lai Khe and was occupied by our 2/2 Mechanized Infantry soldiers. The enemy attack was very well planned and executed, and was launched at first light. Charlie was obviously aware that our aeroscouts, who probably would have detected their movement, didn't fly in the dark.

  The fighting was nearly hand to hand. The situation at the base got so bad at one point that the enemy actually got through the perimeter wire and was headed with satchel charges directly for the operations bunker. The only thing that stopped him was our Zippo tracks (Ml 13s with flamethrowers), which formed the base's interior defensive line. Zippos were not stationed on the outer perimeter of bases because they were susceptible to Charlie's RPG fire. But as the inner defense, they were devastating. And they were on this night. The sappers running for the ops bunker were burned alive as they charged directly into the nozzles spraying flaming jellied gasoline.

  With the work of Cobra gunships and the 2/2 guys in the fire base, the attack was repelled. A sweep of the base the next morning found twenty-three NVA dead inside the perimeter wire. All indications were that a hundred or more had been killed trying to get to the wire, but all those enemy bodies had been dragged away by their comrades.

  Even in the teeth of his Thunder III defeat, Charlie wasn't through for that Saturday, 6 September. He struck again later in the day a mile north of Thunder III. There, a battalion-sized enemy force attacked U.S. armored personnel carriers that were moving a small reconnaissance party down Highway 13. A couple of hours after that, and just another mile up the highway, an outposted unit of Bravo Troop, 1st of the 4th Cav (our sister ground troop), was hit.

  The enemy didn't seem to care that they were engaging us in broad daylight, and along a two-mile stretch of our main supply route, where we had massed armor and mechanized forces. The determined Charlie didn't seem to care, either, about the manpower losses he was taking in such attempts to cut Thunder Road.

  In one day, on that little stretch of highway, in those two blatant attacks, the enemy lost more than sixty soldiers. Add those to his losses in the abortive attack on Thunder III, and it became apparent how badly the enemy wanted to stop our flow of supplies north.

  The next day, in his continuing battle for Thunder Road, Charlie gave us the surprise of our lives. He not only made our G-2 information look bad, but he slapped us back hard while taking a terrible toll on Darkhorse troop.

  Early on that day, Chuck Davison, an Outcast scout pilot, was heading from Phu Loi up to FSB Thunder I to relieve me and Rod Willis on our VR operation. As Davison passed over the same spot where Rod and I had killed four enemy troops a couple of days earlier, he spotted another NVA. Seeing an enemy soldier that close to division HQ shocked him, and he was unable to get a shot before the man quickly dropped out of sight into a spider hole. Not knowing what to think, Davison continued to circle around the area where he thought the hole was. His crew chief, Clinton “Red” Hayes, dropped hand grenades and sprayed a little 60, but failed to see any other enemy.

  Then, just as Davison was about to abandon the search and head on to Lai Khe, the enemy soldier popped back out of the hole and emptied an entire magazine of a U.S. M-16 rifle on full automatic right into the cockpit of Davison's Loach. Bullets crashed through the aircraft and into both of Chuck Davison's arms, instantly disabling him. Davison crashed practically on top of the spot where he had seen the enemy soldier.

  Though painfully hurt in the crash—he was rammed in the kidneys by the butt of his M-60—Hayes crawled out of the wreck and pulled Davison out with him.

  Davison's accompanying Cobra, of course, rolled and fired, but he couldn't get close with his rockets because he had no contact with his downed scout. An emergency radio was in Davison's survival vest, but it had dropped out somewhere when Hayes pulled him out of the Loach.

  The gun's next reaction was to immediately call back to the troop and scramble the ARPs to the scene. Willis and I heard the transmission, and we flew off at flank speed to put a cover over the crash area. As we hit 120 knots down the road toward the scene, we could see Davison's Cobra circling over the area. I radioed him and asked what the situation was.

  The gun came back: “The scout is down, the crew is out of the aircraft, and they've got enemy all around them.”

  Our first responsibility was to locate and cap the crew. We went straight to the crash site, pulled a skidding right turn, and found Hayes and Davison immediately. We could see that Davison was badly injured. Hayes was obviously scared and looked to be in pain himself. As Willis and I took up station right over them, Hayes looked up and gave us a weak thumbs-up.

  Within minutes, the slicks bearing the ARPs showed up. Rod left to put them down into a nearby LZ. Shortly thereafter, the aerorifle platoon (now led by infantry Lt. Doug Veitch) was at the crash and tending to the crew.

  As a medevac came in to get Davison and Hayes, Major Moore in his C and C ship suddenly appeared on the scene. Apparently he wanted to discuss the situation with his new ARP platoon leader.

  As I circled overhead, a tactical conference was going on. Major Moore, Doug Veitch, and the rest of the ARP platoon were all standing around talking as though they were out on a training camp maneuver.

  Suddenly VC popped up out of holes all around the gathered group and began firing RPGs and automatic rifles, and throwing grenades. The enemy fire came so quickly and with such intensity that no one had a chance to shoot back. All they could do was hit the ground and hope they didn't get cut in two by the barrage of fire that had seemingly come out of nowhere.

  Major Moore and the entire ARP platoon were standing on top of a major underground enemy tunnel system, located just a few thousand yards from our 1st Division field headquarters in Lai Khe. The enemy's cunning was perfect. We'd expect their tunnels
to be located in more remote jungle areas, or in hillier spots. But right under our noses within a stone's throw of our division HQ? Right under a wide-open field with only scrub brush to provide cover for the entryway spider holes? Never! But there it was.

  After incapacitating over fifty percent of the ARP platoon, the enemy disappeared back down into their spider holes. With no bad guys to shoot at, my first concern was to put a cap over the ARPs while they attempted to restore order. Then it took about forty minutes to shepherd the hard-hit unit away from the ambush site and back to the LZ where slicks returned them to base.

  For us to learn of this enemy tunnel network cost us the following casualties:

  Maj. Charles L. Moore, troop CO—hurt as he hit the ground diving for cover.

  Lt. Douglas S. Veitch, ARP platoon leader—frag wounds in chin, hands, both thighs and legs.

  WO Charles W. Davison, scout pilot—multiple bullet wounds in both the right and left upper arms.

  Sfc. Harold R. Goatcher, ARP—shrapnel wounds in the right hand.

  S. Sgt. James A. Broach, ARP—shrapnel wounds in the neck.

  Sgt. Louis J. Baer, ARP—shrapnel wounds to the left knee.

  Sgt. Russell H. Clark, Jr., ARP—deep shrapnel cut on his back.

  Sgt. Thomas A. Maklary, ARP—frag wounds in both legs.

  Sp. Robert A. Hawkins, aid man—shrapnel wounds on his left side.

  Sp4. Clinton T. “Red” Hayes, scout crew chief—multiple cuts and bruises on the shoulder and right hip.

  Pfc. Daryl J. Fisher, ARP—shrapnel wound of the left knee.

  Pfc. Ronald C. Head, ARP—right leg broken, left arm broken, multiple frag wounds in legs and arms.

  Pfc. Clarence Holloway, Jr., ARP—broken ear drum, frag wounds in the neck and right arm.

  Pfc. Terry D. Houck, ARP—frag wounds in right arm, left leg, and thighs.

  Pfc. Jerry F. Kolasinski, ARP—left leg broken and multiple frag wounds in the lower body.

  Pfc. Robert A. Krehley, ARP—shrapnel wound in the stomach.

  Pfc. David L. Littlefield, ARP—frag wounds in the left leg and right arm.

  Pfc. Daniel P. Morrison, ARP—frag wounds in upper back.

  Pfc. Larry W. Roop, ARP—frag wounds in left arm and leg.

  Ho Van Tau, Kit Carson scout—multiple frag wounds in the back.

  Hoang Van Nguyen, ARVN interpreter—frag wounds in the left thumb.

  Nguyen Van Chinh, Kit Carson scout—bullet wounds in the head and stomach.

  7 September 1969, a bad day for the ARPs and the entire Darkhorse troop.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE RAZORBACKS

  Though the division G-2 didn't have the faintest idea that a highly complex network of enemy tunnels existed in the backyard of his headquarters, he certainly was right about the Razorback Mountains. They were a thorn in our side.

  The Razorbacks was our name; the name for them on the map was Nui Tha La. The Razorbacks were the perfectly located staging area for enemy troops coming down into Vietnam from Cambodia. Their supply trails wound from the Fishhook, the Parrot's Beak, and the Angel's Wing through the hills and jungle to this string of low mountains that lay at the northwestern corner of the Michelin rubber plantation. They provided excellent ingress into the Michelin, Trapezoid, and target points to the east, such as Thunder Road; in addition, the southwestern tip was less than a kilometer from the Saigon River above our base at Dau Tieng. That's where all the enemy sampan traffic was coming from.

  Because of the growing strategic importance of the Razorbacks, Darkhorse began to work the area on a regular basis, and we learned a couple of things really fast.

  First, the area was indeed a major supply point for enemy forces: The high ground around the southeastern edge of the Razorbacks was the main base for enemy troops that were working out of there into the Michelin, the Trap, and points east.

  It didn't take us long, either, to learn that the Razorback area was hard to scout because of the many natural hiding places for the enemy, and that the whole damned place was hotter than a firecracker as far as enemy activity was concerned.

  On early Thursday morning, 11 September, I was sitting in the operations bunker listening to the radios and having a cup of coffee. I was there because I was the designated Scramble 1. Besides that, the ops coffee was a lot better than the stuff they called coffee over at the mess hall.

  My old scout mentor and toad-swallowing friend, Bill Jones (One Eight), was the scout pilot out on VR-1 that morning, and he and his Cobra were just arriving at their working area for the day at the Ra-zorbacks. Jones had a new citw chief with him, a sergeant by the name of James R. Potter. Jones's gun was Mike Woods (Three Five), and Mike's front-seater was Tom Chambers, a hootch mate of mine.

  That's the team I was listening to on the radios as I sipped my first coffee of the day in the ops bunker. Jones and Woods had just begun working their routine VR-1 scouting patterns down near the southern end of the Razorbacks.

  As I listened to them work, I couldn't hear what Jones was saying, just what the Cobra was transmitting. When a scout was down low, his signal wasn't strong enough to get out very far, and the Cobra relayed anything important that the scout was saying.

  After just a couple of minutes, Chambers came up on troop net to the ops radio watch and very matter-of-factly reported: “One Eight believes that he has spotted movement below. He's going to swing back around and make another pass to confirm.”

  The next thing we heard in the bunker was Chambers yelling into the radio, ‘One Eight is taking fire, taking heavy AK-47 fire. He's going down. One Eight is hit and going down!”

  I jumped to my feet and clunked down the coffee cup. Reaching for my CAR-15, I headed for the door without even waiting for the scramble alert.

  As I reached the bunker doorway, I heard the rest of Chambers's radio transmission. “My God!” he said, “when One Eight hit the ground, his bird exploded and burst into flames. The Loach is burning and there's a pillar of smoke and flame shooting up out of the trees. My God, my God! He's burning up!”

  Those words stopped me cold for an instant. Loaches didn't explode on impact. I had never heard of an OH-6 exploding and burning on impact. It simply never happened.

  I rushed toward my aircraft, yelling to Parker, who was busy cleaning and polishing the bird's bubble, “Scramble, Jimbo. We're scrambling north. Let's get the hell out of here!”

  As I approached the ship, the scramble siren began to whine. People exploded out of their hootches—pilots, door gunners, ARP infantrymen all headed for their ships and a full troop scramble north.

  In the case of a downed aircrew, both Scramble 1 and Scramble 2 scout-Cobra teams got off immediately to get to the scene and put an aerial cap on the crash site. Willis was my Scramble 2, and his crew chief was Ken Stormer (like Willis, from Texas). We were both cranked and off in less than a minute, leaving our Cobras behind to catch up. It took awhile for their heavily armed and fueled machines to get wound up and airborne. But once in the air, their big engine and blades gave them up to 165 knots of speed, and they caught up and passed the scouts in short order.

  I had no more than cleared the Phu Loi perimeter when my VHF radio came to life. It was Tom Chambers calling in to troop operations. I was dumbfounded to hear him say: “Darkhorse Control, this is Darkhorse Three Five. We've got movement out of the wreck. It's one of the crew members—pilot or crew chief, don't know which. We're putting down!”

  What the hell's he doing? I thought. Three Five must be making a low pass because he sure as hell can't be thinking of putting that Cobra down on the ground!

  Woods then proceeded to drop his big bird down to about five hundred feet. He could see that the man staggering around the burning Loach was Bill Jones. He looked dazed and was burned all around his head and shoulders. There was no sign of Potter. They concluded that the crew chief must still be in the aircraft.

  Three Five got as low as he could to take a better look. But there was heavy j
ungle all around the area, and thick black smoke was pouring up out of the little clearing where the Loach was still burning furiously.

  Then Woods made a daring decision. He had spotted a small open piece of ground about seventy-five yards south of where Jones's ship had gone in. Knowing that it would take crucial minutes for help from the troop to arrive, and assuming that Sergeant Potter was still inside the burning Loach, Woods didn't falter for a second. He proceeded to put his Cobra down on the small LZr

  Once down, Woods left the aircraft engine running and told Tom Chambers to grab the portable fire extinguisher and go try to find Jones. Chambers left his canopy open, jumped out of the cockpit with the fire extinguisher in his hand, and took off through the jungle.

  Woods stayed in the ship and, not knowing if he would be attacked by enemy soldiers, locked the nose turret in the forward-only firing position. Woods could then fire the front turret straight ahead by just aiming the helicopter.

  After Chambers had been gone a couple of minutes, Woods began to get concerned. He realized that Chambers couldn't get both Jones and Potter back to the LZ without somebody to help him. So, leaving the Cobra engine running, Three Five jumped out of the airplane and raced through the jungle after Chambers.

  By the time they both reached Jones, they could tell that he was very badly hurt. His neck and shoulders were deeply burned. The top of his Nomex flight suit had been completely burned off, exposing charred and blackened flesh.

  Knowing that Jones might not be coherent, Woods tried anyway. “Jonesy, it's Mike. Where's your crew chief? Where's Sergeant Potter?”

  Somehow in his agony, Jones was able to mutter, “He … he's still in the ship … he … he didn't get out.”