Surprised at Being Alive: An Accidental Helicopter Pilot in Vietnam and Beyond (7 page)

Then, time began again when I saw trees out the windshield where trees should not have been. Nor were the trees level like they should be, but instead they seem to be planted at a 45-degree angle. Instinctively, as had been drilled into us over and over, I remembered flight school instrument training from Fort Rucker, “When all else fails, level the wings, pull power and climb. Get away from the ground,” so taking the controls away from the AC, I did just that.

Moving my eyes to the attitude indicator, the gauge that shows whether or not your wings are banked, I rolled the aircraft level and pulled an armload of thrust. I sagged under as much “G” as the aircraft could produce, the rotor speed drooping (slowing down) a little under the load. The trees disappeared back into the whiteness, the airspeed stabilized on the positive side showing that we were moving forward instead of backward, and the vertical speed indicator showed 3,000 feet per minute of climb. Finally, passing through 6,000 feet, 4,000 feet above the top of the mountain we’d started from, we broke through the clouds into clear air. With the white blanket below us and blue sky above, I turned the Chinook to the southeast, so that we would be headed toward water, not mountains, and South Vietnam, not North Vietnam.

It was ten minutes before either of us could speak. I flew and the AC just sat there, looking straight ahead. In the back, the crew chattered as usual. All they had seen was white the entire time and had no idea what had happened in the cockpit.

In a few minutes, we found a hole down through the clouds where green was visible, and we descended through it into normal altitudes where helicopters flew. Then, we returned to the PZ and continued our missions in the drizzle and fog: fuel, food and ammo to the firebases: fuel, food and ammo to the firebases, all day long. The missions must be done. It was still raining when we shut the helicopter down ten hours later in the dark at Liftmaster Pad.

We never spoke of what happened.

Good training with luck and superstition thrown in …

8

TRACERS

LAOS ■ MARCH 1971

According to one calculation from the Vietnam Helicopter Pilot’s Association, of the 11,827 helicopters deployed to Vietnam, 5,086 or nearly 43% of them were destroyed. Of the 58,272 names on the Vietnam Memorial Wall, 4,914 are helicopter pilots and crewmen.

T
hey start out so small and soft-looking, tracers do. Tiny little glowing green lights, they drift slowly up from the ground, almost lazy as they rise. then suddenly, they speed up as they get close to you. they speed up and get bigger and bigger. You try not to look at them—you must concentrate on your flying—but you cannot help it, you look. And, as you look, you know that there are four or five bullets between each of the tracers coming for you. When the NVA fired mortars at you while you were dropping off a load on a firebase, it never seemed personal. The mortar crew was just doing their job, dropping the rounds down the tube and both you and they knew that there was very little chance that they would actually hit you. Tracers are different. The gunners are trying to kill
YOU
personally.

The numbers of aircraft involved in Operation Lam Son 719, the incursion into Laos in February and March, 1971, reminded all of us involved of what it must have been like in England during WWII. Literally hundreds of helicopters flying in every direction, C-130s streaming into the runway at Khe Sanh, attack jets passing over on their way to bomb NVA positions along the Ho Chi minh trail. There were more aircraft visible at any given moment than any of us had ever seen at one time.

While many of the helicopters involved in Lam Son 719 were based 15 miles to the east of Laos at Khe Sanh, after the first day of the incursion, we Chinook pilots commuted from Phu Bai, about an hour away, every morning because there just wasn’t room for five Chinook companies there. We would takeoff before sunrise and be at the PZs in time to pick up our pre-assigned missions. Some missions were single ship, others required flights of aircraft bringing in external loads of ammo or water or fuel or food quickly, one after another.

On the evening before the first South Vietnamese troops crossed the border into Laos, every inch of turf at Khe Sanh was covered with helicopters, mostly UH-1H Hueys, AH-1G Cobra gunships, and OH-6A LOACHs (popular name for the Light Observation Helicopter). Because our Chinooks just took up too much room, the plan was for us remain overnight (RON) at Firebase Vandergrift in the valley east of Khe Sanh, about ten miles away.

I had been an AC for several months now. Since I was the only trained flight instructor in the company at the time, the Ops O wanted to move me into the IP position soon. He wanted me to have more total flight time before I stepped up, so I usually had the longest missions. Not necessarily the most dangerous ones, but usually the longest ones. Because my missions ran long that day, I was late getting up to Vandergrift, in fact mine was the last aircraft to arrive before it got dark.

To reduce the possibility of mid-air collisions, we were instructed to follow the only road from Vietnam to Laos, QL9, west from the low lands into the mountains. Once past the Rockpile, an almost vertical rock formation and scene of major combat for the marines a few years earlier, we would turn south for a straight shot into the PSP ramp at Vandergrift. As I made the turn at the Rockpile, I saw a flash from the hillside next to us and as I turned my head toward it, I saw a streak of smoke.

“That looked like a rocket,” I remarked to my copilot. then I saw more flashes and as I looked away from the hillside and toward Vandergrift, I could see the result of the 122 MM Soviet Katyusha rockets as they impacted around the base, red flashes turning quickly into black smoke above their impact point. I quickly added power and put the Chinook into a climb as I turned away from Vandergrift. As I orbited at 6,000 feet to the east of Vandergrift, I could also see helicopters that had shut down for the night already turning up as quickly as they could, blades turning to a blur as the rotors reached speed. In less than two minutes from the first rocket impact, the first of the helicopters was lifting off to get clear of the incoming fire. Fortunately, the rockets were as inaccurate as the mortars because the NVA could not use the proper launchers, so all the helos got off without being hit. Over the squadron FM radio frequency came the call for all of us to return to Phu Bai. All those helicopters in the relatively small area of Vandergrift were just too tempting a target. We would leave Liftmaster Pad early the next morning to join the fight.

The next morning after taking off before sunrise, eight Chinooks from Playtex flew into Khe Sanh per the revised plan. We all shut down for a mass mission brief by 101st Division Intel for the at least one hundred other aircrews that would support the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) troops as they crossed the border into Laos. There were so many aircraft involved in the mission that only the aircraft commanders went to the briefing. Copilots would stay with the aircraft and have them “cocked,” ready for immediate start, in the event of a scramble takeoff like the one at Vandergrift the night before.

We knew our individual missions, but the general commanding the operation wanted us to know the situation on the ground. For once, we would have an overview of what the situation was. Intel briefed us that the NVA had this division here, this regiment here, and that division there. these were not VC guerillas; these were regular NVA troops, probably over 20,000 strong. they were equipped as Soviet divisions of the 1950’s had been, complete with tanks and artillery. They had light machine guns, heavy machine guns, anti-aircraft machine guns, anti-aircraft artillery in 37mm and 61mm. We could expect fierce contact. As the Intel officer spoke and pointed to the enemy positions on the large area map, I never saw so many pilots go so quiet before or since.

When the briefing was over I returned to my Chinook. My crew of four gathered around, curious about what had been said. Rather than tell them immediately, I just said, “Eat your lunch right now.”

“But, sir,” my flight engineer replied, “we’ve only got one bag lunch and no C-rats and it’s going to be a long day.”

“Trust me,” I said, “Eat it right now.” My reasoning was that we would quite probably be shot down. If we survived, it might be a very long time before we could get back to friendly lines and get more food. Better to eat it now than lose it in the crash. As we ate, I spread out my map on the cabin deck and told them what Intel had told me. They were very quiet as I talked. The door gunner quickly finished his lunch and started re-checking the M-60D machine guns on each door.

At launch time, all eight Chinooks were ready to go. One after the other we lifted off, moved over to the PZ, picked up our loads and flew into Laos in trail formation, one Chinook following the other at about two minute intervals. Nothing happened that day, nothing at all. It could have been a mission at Fort Rucker back in Alabama. the NVA just watched. They wanted to see what we were going to do. The second day they watched too.

On the third day, the shit hit the fan. In the following six weeks of the operation, 107 helicopters were destroyed and another 600 were damaged. Some units had nearly all new pilots and aircraft at the end, but our resources were so deep in 1971 that even with those losses, there were still 600 helicopters engaged when Lam Son 719 ended.

Now, three weeks after that first briefing, we were taking an ARVN artillery battery 21 miles into Laos, our furthest out firebase yet. By now Khe Sanh had so many helicopters, around 300–400 at any given moment, that we Chinooks had been told to land at another base closer to the border, Fire Support Base (FSB) Airborne, to keep real estate on Khe Sanh free.

I was not supposed to be flying because the next day I was scheduled to go on two week’s leave back to the states. After my flight with the Air America pilot, I walked from the airbase out into town to the North West Orient Airline office and booked my flight from Da Nang to Saigon and then on to Nashville, Tennessee, for 5 march 1971. the war showed no signs of ending and we did not know if any big operations were coming up, so there was no objection to my going from anyone in my chain of command. Even with the chaos of Lam Son 719, no one objected to my going. The war was going to continue and I would be pulling more than my share when I got back anyway.

On the evening of 3 March, the Ops O said to me, “Since you’re going to be off for three weeks how about you fly tomorrow and give someone else a rest?” I readily agreed and now was headed into Laos again on 4 March.

As had become the routine, we had taken off before daylight from Phu Bai to get to Khe Sanh in time to get the mission briefing. We did not have to refuel at Khe Sanh because we had taken on enough extra the night before to cover the flight time from Phu Bai, so we flew directly to FSB Airborne and shut down. The operations officer from the 159th Assault Support Helicopter Battalion (ASHB), our next higher headquarters, was already there waiting for us.

The first mission of the day was simple: insert an artillery battery into the new firebase so that it could provide fire to cover the ARVNs operating further out as they tried to cut the Ho Chi minh trail. The brief was also simple—pick up the guns and ammo, fly to LZ and set them down where the ground guides direct. If you get shot down, try to land at this spot or this spot or this spot. If you see one of your brother aircraft go down, do not attempt to rescue them. The mission must be completed as planned. No one will come to get you until the mission is over, but it shouldn’t be too long. After that first mission, we would all be given individual tasks that did not require all eight aircraft at once.

We would take all eight 105 howitzers in the ARVN artillery unit in one lift. Each load would be mounted on a double sling, with the lower load the ammunition and the upper the 105 howitzers. When we came over the load, the gun and its ammunition would be sitting side by side. We would hookup the sling, climb straight up until the upper load, the howitzer, was off the ground and then slide over until the gun was directly over the ammo. We would then lift higher until the second, lower load was off the ground. When we arrived at the LZ, we would sit the lower load, the ammo, down first and then slide to the side to set the gun down next to the ammo. The idea was that the crew would be able to bring the gun into action almost immediately. Sometimes the gun crew would get onboard the helicopter before we picked up the load and ride to the LZ with us. When they rode with us, we would put the ammo down, the gun down, and then land and let them out to commence firing. This time they did not need to ride because they were already there, having been flown in by Hueys earlier to prepare the gun positions before the howitzers arrived.

I was to be Chalk 2 (Chalk is an Army term indicating your position in a formation flight. Chalk 2 is the next aircraft behind the lead) in the flight of eight Chinooks. We lifted off one by one at about two minute intervals. I could see lead picking up his load as I headed inbound, but just as I was about to start my approach, a flight of Hueys crossed in front of me and I had to turn away. The Chinook that was originally supposed to be Chalk 3 became Chalk 2 and moved in to take my load to keep the process moving smoothly. I became Chalk 3 and, in turn, picked up the gun and ammo that was supposed to be his load. Lead flew in a wide circle to the east of the border as he climbed to an initial 4,000 feet. We all fell in behind him in a very loose trail formation, climbing to match his altitude. When lead saw the last aircraft pick up its load, he turned toward Laos with the seven of us following.

Laos did not look any different from Vietnam. Both were jungle, with mountains on each side of QL9. Around Khe Sanh, both sides of the border were equally scared by bomb and artillery craters. Even so, it seemed as if the air inside the Chinook changed when we crossed the invisible line between the two countries. The gunners became visibly tenser, as they looked out over the barrels of their m60D machine guns. In every aircraft, the pilot not at the controls moved his hands closer to the cyclic and collective so that, should the other pilot be killed, he could take over instantly. Everyone onboard looked around more intently even though the odds of seeing the NVA were very small. The NVA were good at using camouflage and the forest hid them completely. They knew all too well that what can be seen can be killed, like a Chinook flying at 90 knots with a double sling load beneath it.

But they would have to work to kill us while we were en route to the new firebase. As we headed toward Laos, we were steadily climbing to get above small arms range. We kept going until we were past light machine gun range too, but a helicopter cannot fly high enough to avoid anti-air-craft fire from m-1939 37mm and/or the S-60 60mm guns. Our only counter to these weapons was to tune our NDB (Non-Directional Beacon, a homing radio that allows the pilot to fly to a navigation beacon or a commercial Am radio station) to the lowest band and lowest frequency. If the NVA used the Soviet radar that came with these weapons, you would hear a “buzzzz, buzz” sound over the Automatic Direction Finder (ADF) radio. While this did not mean they were tracing you, it did mean that they were painting you on their scope. Upon hearing the sounds, we were to change altitude and airspeed immediately. We were told that the radars were very good in azimuth, but poor in determining range.

That was the theory anyway …

The NVA tried not to use the radar, though. They didn’t use it because we had jets in the air constantly over the battle area that could detect and lock onto the radar signal. As soon as they did, a homing beam-rider missile would be on its way to take the radar out. The NVA could counter that by moving the radar away from the gun, but that made it easier for our aircraft to see their position. So, instead of using radar, they aimed the guns by sight. Both the m-1939 and the S-60 fired a five-round clip and had a practical rate of fire of around 60 rounds per minute, any one round more than enough to take out a Chinook flying at 90 knots. Or any other helicopter, for that matter …