My War - Installment 21

"This afternoon I want you to fly Command and Control for me."

"Yes Sir!!"

"The Scouts have uncovered a camp of, what I believe to be, division size. No contact has been made as yet, but I want to be there all afternoon- just in case contact is made. We'll leave here at 1215 hours. We will be using the new '540' model Huey." (The 540 was actually a rotor system that was different from the other Huey models which gave it more lift and speed.)

"Fine Colonel, I'll eat quickly and preflight the ship. I'll wait for you there, Sir."

"Good. I'll see you then."

Ah!! This was great. The old man could evaluate my flying and it just might help me get into the Scout section sooner, if my flying pleased him. We could have had better weather, but I was not about to let it get in the way. The mountains had been almost completely socked in when we left the "506 a short time before. I'd just have to wait and see how it went.

I knew that the Command and Control ship never really did much of anything. The Scouts were the ones that were actively in charge of the operations, because they were so much more intimately involved and accustomed to looking for the enemy and signs of his presence. But, flying with the new "Old Man" would be a chance to prove myself.

The Colonel met me a few minutes before 1215 hours; we took off immediately and headed for the 506 Valley. The clouds east of LZ Hammond base had dropped in the past hour and it looked as though we would have to either fly by instruments or low level contour flight. The Colonel told me he didn't want to fly low level in route because we were not being escorted. I think he was afraid of being shot down. I can't say that I blamed him. The Colonel pushed the intercom button again suggested we go IFR (Instrument Flight Rules).

It had not been all that long since I had my tactical instrument training so it was fine with me. We gained altitude and within a few seconds had disappeared into the thick clouds. There were no navigational aids there in the Central Highlands so the flight would require more thought than normal instrument conditions. Fortunately I was very familiar with the terrain in the area we were flying. I took up a heading which would keep us in the center of the valley which ran in an easterly direction. I kept the ship at five hundred feet just inside the clouds- in that way if the ceiling lifted at all we would immediately know. I could not drift off course because we were flying lower than the mountain tops on either side. I planned on dropping out of the clouds at the mouth of the 506 Valley and then, if necessary, flying contour the few miles up the valley. I had taken notice of our departure time and held my airspeed and course constant so that I would know when to bring her down.

We were within a few minutes of my calculated let down
I banked hard to the left and pushed the airspeed to one hundred and forty knots, (I just kinda' wanted to see what it would do.) and we zoomed into the opening of the valley. The 540 handled beautifully; I wished all the Hueys had this rotor system.

The terrain in the Central Highlands is very beautiful and in many ways unusual. Near the coast the mountains were scattered and didn't really seem to run in ranges like the mountains I was use to in the States. There could be valleys and groups of mountains or curving valley networks which snaked around every which way, they didn’t seem to be the result of plate tectonics, but what did I know? There could even be open flat valleys with small steep mountains singly or in groups- looking as if someone just stuck them there or formed by volcanic action. Further inland the mountains did run in ranges. The mountains were larger with many ridges and all covered with dense jungle - trees reaching well over one hundred feet or more high and with a very dense canopy of foliage on top.

We moved swiftly up the 506 then slowed as we approached LZ Pony, which was a few klicks to the north. The mountain tops to the west were shrouded in thick white clouds. A few low saddles could still be seen where we would be able to sneak over into the next valley where our unit was working, (a saddle is a low dip in a mountain ridge which resembles the curvature of a riding saddle).

The CO radioed to the Scouts that we were on station over the ridge. They came back with a message that no contact had been made, nobody hone, but there was more and more evidence of the camp being close to division size. The grunts had made it over the rim of the ridge and had already come across some small stores of weapons. There were 51 Caliber sniper rifles, mortars, AK-47's, machine guns, some hand guns and lots of ammunition. They had also found baskets of food and clothing, including black pajamas, Ho Chi Min sandals (these are sandals made from old tire tread), and various other hardware type items, like hammers and shovels. The message about the weapons reminded me of the fact, that the enemy weapons could use our ammunition, but we could not use theirs in our weapons - interesting.

The grunt platoon leader Lieutenant Wyjacowski was going to look for a possible LZ along the ridge, with the help of the Scouts. They were looking for an LZ that would accommodate one Huey, so that the caches of items could be hauled to the LZ and loaded onboard a Huey and then taken out. Weapons were not as easily destroyed in the field as were food stuffs.

I had turned the "540" west and started in toward the mountains, carefully moving at tree top level up and across the first saddle that had sufficient clearance for us to slip through. It was important that we stay in the clear, there was one Scout team working in the valley - two ships- plus gunships were in there cruising around, in the event that contact would be made; they could give some close in covering weapons fire. So, there would be quite a bit of traffic moving around in a relatively small valley, in lousy weather conditions. We all needed to be careful.

As I flew into the valley moving the ship very slowly so that I could mentally mark the positions and directions of flight, of each of the ships that were present there. My job would be to, basically, stay out of the way, but keep the CO close enough so that he could take note of everything that was taking place. We could also keep an eye out for a landing zone in the fringe area where we were going to do most of our flying.

I brought our airspeed down to fifteen knots to coincide with the average speed of the Scouts. We roamed along the eastern side of the ridge closest to the "506" Valley and started to look for a Landing Zone. The jungle below us was extremely dense. The tops of the trees seemed to be holding onto the layer of mist which covered them. The mist further limited our ability to see down into the jungle. The Scouts remained lower on the slope, hovering along, conversing with elements of the recon platoon that were located below them.

As we moved along in a southerly direction, I noticed a small clearing at the very top edge of the ridge right at the intersection with a smaller, perpendicularly running, ridge. The spot was halfway level; at least it looked level from where I sat. It did seem to slope slightly downward from its top most edge, not enough to matter though. I pointed it out to the CO as I remarked: If the grunts knock down just a few trees along the edge of the area, I believe a Huey, just, might be able to slip in for a landing.

"Good eye, Rollason."

"Thank you, Sir!"

The CO called one of the Scout ships over to our position and had them mark the proposed LZ with a smoke grenade. He thought that marking it would help the grunts to more easily locate the LZ. In my mind I thought that it was questionable in light of the low visibility conditions that prevailed. We continued to hover over the area to help direct the grunts in. It would take some time for them to work their way to our position, and still more time before they could transport all of the materials which had been seized. We would hover for a short time over the area and then make a run down the ridge to try and see what progress had been made in transporting the goods; plus it was not the wisest thing to hover in one place for too long.

Lieutenant Wyjocowski reported that he could see no evidence that the camp had been inhabited in the recent past, fire pits were stone cold and water logged. Huts were in slight disrepair from, he presumed, the winds of the previous day. We all speculated on why the weapons and ammunition and so forth had been left behind. A stupid thing for the NVA to do knowing we were working in the region. Perhaps it was just a ploy by the enemy, to distract us from doing reconnaissance in other areas. Nobody knew! We were committed at this point in time to gathering what had been found and destroying the camp. There certainly wasn't anything better to do that day. I was enjoying the flying and being involved in the operation. It certainly was more interesting than the waiting game that the Lift section played daily.

We continued our hovering and darting back-and-forth until the first elements of the ground unit, with some of their find reached the LZ. Some two hours had passed up to that point. The Scout team, that had been working the area when we had arrived, had been relieved on station by another team and we, like the first team, were ready to head out, refuel and immediately return.

It was normal procedure, for the Scout teams, when working a specific operation, to be relieved by another Scout team every two hours or so. In that way there would be a Scout team on station at all times. When they were out doing specific reconnaissance of an area a team would go to the nearest POL point and then return and continue their recon.

We radioed our intent to the Scouts on station before going north along the ridge and again slipped through a saddle into the 506 Valley. I remained at tree top level and accelerated down the slop of the mountain; within a few minutes we were at LZ Pony's POL. Our crew chief jumped out and refueled us while the turbine continued at idle. Not shutting down, I was told, was SOP for these small bases. There was very little room and pilots had to refuel their ships quickly to make room for the next in line. The fuel point was a small sloping area along the barbed wire perimeter of LZ Pony. I could easily see that not many ships would fit there at one time. Fuel was sling loaded into these areas in 500 gallon rubber bladders, which were similar in shape to a very wide and large floatation tire without tread. They had a center hole through which a cable could be run. CH-47 Chinook helicopters (large twin rotor helicopters made by Boeing Vertol helicopter, a division of the Boeing Co.) could sling load 3 to 4 of these bladders into an area at one time; and awfully heavy load even for a Chinook. When the crew chief finished filling the tank with JP-4 we immediately lifted off and headed west toward the mountains.

It took the grunts all afternoon to carry the captured items to the proposed LZ. Fortunately for us the clouds had lifted off of the mountain tops and visibility had become somewhat better for the incoming Lift ships. The CO had radioed base and two Lift ships were in route to pick up the cache of enemy goods and weapons that were going to be waiting in the LZ. It had not been determined whether one D-model would do for the load, so two had come just in case they were both needed.

The grunts were still felling a few small trees when the D-model Hueys arrived on site. The two ships flew around the LZ and surveyed their options for entering the tight spot. The only way into the LZ was to fly from the west across the valley we had worked in all afternoon and then sort of making a zigzag down, flare slightly above the trees and then proceed on in gently lowering into the LZ. One ship circled to the west. The other came across the LZ slowly, to make sure of their plans for an approach. After that last appraisal they turned and moved out into the valley and aligned themselves with the approach path they had chosen. They moved in cautiously and appeared to be doing all right when suddenly they pulled in pitch and rapidly climbed away.

The CO was on the horn immediately to see what was wrong. Both of the pilots felt that it was too dangerous a landing for either of them to successfully accomplish.

The CO did not want to risk them or the ship if they were that uncomfortable with the LZ. The second Lift ship had monitored the radio transmissions and called to tell the Colonel that they were moving in to give it a try. They too surveyed the LZ one more time and made an approach which was aborted. They climbed out and came around for a second attempt. This attempt was also unsuccessful and they expressed much the same feelings that the first lift ship had. The Colonel was perturbed to say the least, but he still could not afford the loss of men and machinery. He called Lieutenant Wyjocowski and had him estimate whether all of the items found would fit into one ship. They also discussed the possibility of trying to destroy everything there on the ground. I personally had the impression from listening to the transmissions during the day that there was one heck of a lot of stuff on the ground that needed to be flown out. During their conversation I decided to take a chance and live dangerously, so I interrupted the CO. I pressed the intercom button.

"Sir."

"Yes, Rollason." seemingly perturbed.

"Sir, I picked the LZ as one I felt I could get into. The '540' is not quite as long as a D-model and I'd like to give it a shot. We have more lift with this rotor system so I don't feel that the load would be too much."

"OK, let's give it a try."

This was my real chance to prove myself to the CO, to vindicate myself in his eyes. We had been viewing the LZ all afternoon, so I was familiar with it. What did we have to lose? Apparently the CO trusted me enough to give the go ahead for this attempted landing, trusting his life to my skill as a pilot.

I moved the aircraft around and started my approach toward the LZ. I could see the ground unit clustered around the edge of the small opening in the jungle, tiny forms hunched into the misty overgrowth. I glance over at the Colonel, he looked nervous as he stared at the clearing. I believe he had not thought much about it during the day because he figured he would not be trying to go into it. As we neared the tree tops the CO's hands froze at his sides, white knuckle time for the C.O., I would be doing this one alone, even though SOP called for both pilots in a Huey to have their hands on the controls during take off and landing. We came in and I gradually reduced airspeed, and then carefully slipped the fuselage into the clearing below the tree tops. I stopped my forward movement, quickly and ever so gently, lowered the helicopter down. As the rotor came to tree top level it trimmed away a few tiny branches and leaves. We continued to settle down for what seemed an eternity and then finally the skids smoothly touched the ground. We had made it.

The helicopter was sitting at a slightly cocked angle, with the tail down slope, but we were firmly on the ground. The grunts immediately started carrying the captured supplies toward the helicopter's open cargo doors.

My War - Installment 20

I found out later that our Scouts had quite a reputation for kills. In fact, their kill ratio was higher than that of our weapons section. It had gotten to the point in our normal area of operation that many times the Viet Cong, unlike the NVA and even sometimes the NVA, would not even fire at a Scout ship. They knew that the Scouts could and would fire back with accuracy or call in artillery or air strikes.

We came in and gingerly sat the skids across one of the dikes; we did that just to steady the ships because there was insufficient solid ground to put all of the Huey's weight on. The grunts jumped out, their weapons bared, ready for action and quickly moved toward the waiting Viet Cong. The VC had neatly piled their weapons together. One of our squads went to collect them. The other squad had already started to approach the VC, who numbered five. They were motioning for the "Charlie" to move toward the waiting helicopters.

The VC, obviously frightened, slowly approached our ship. Three were directed, by sign language, to get on board our ship. The remaining two were to get on to the next ship, which was perched across the dike further down the paddy. The next ship, Jack's would carry the last two and the third ship would carry the seized weapons. We waited while the other ships were loaded and their respective squads back in place. Tom had secured the three VC with rope, having tied them to a seat strut. He sat across from the prisoners, weapon in hand.

The Scouts, during this time, had left their hovering positions and continued to check out the edge of the jungle. The Gunships that had escorted us in remained aloft circling the entire area while we unloaded, took care of our business, and reloaded.

We were all ready for take off. The ships were to take off one at a time because of the terrain. We hadn't really noticed before but the area where the VC had been standing in the rice paddy was in a little cove shaped area of the mountains with steep slopes on three sides. There was only one direction in which to take off, away from the mountains to the east.

We decided, jointly, to take off individually, the flight leader first then Bill and I and so on. We were to climb to five hundred feet, join formation and head for home. John's ship went out first. He climbed rapidly while banking to the right, to circle with the gunships. Bill and I followed the same pattern of climbing and banking. John was one hundred eighty degrees off of our right side and several hundred feet higher when we started our turn.

Jack and Dan's ship followed the same way. As they climbed I looked to my right and watched their Huey from our aircraft's position. We were still climbing. Their helicopter was at approximately three hundred feet when suddenly someone jumped from out of the open cargo doors quickly followed by a second person. Both bodies fell rapidly, feet and arms flailing wildly as the two people gained speed and dropped toward one of the rice paddies. I continued to watch, dumbfounded and amazed, as the two bodies hit the field simultaneously and then sank lifelessly into the mud and water. During the time this was happening a Scout ship raced in to see what was going on. Whether or not the two were dead upon impact had become a moot issue, as a Scout ship let loose with a burst of machine gun fire on the two bodies. We made formation and headed for base, the episode ended.

As we discussed what had happened later that evening we theorized: that the two VC, thinking that they could escape, had misjudged their height above ground and jumped- believing the soft mud would help absorb their impact. At that point it was immaterial as to whether the mud had helped them or not. They had tried to escape; they were fair game. No longer VC suspects. They had become VC confirmed. Case closed.

COUNSELOR ?

I seemed to get along well with the enlisted men in our unit, perhaps my youth made me less threatening to them; or, maybe they saw something in me that they just did not see in the older officers. In any case some of the enlisted men had started to visit me for advice on different matters- Dear John letters from girl friends and wives was one of the common topic - in fact it seemed to be the predominant difficulties which brought them to my door to start with. What I told them must have made some sense because more and more sought me out for advice in the days and weeks that followed. Basically I had told most of the Dear John recipients that they needed to concentrate on their own personal survival, at that moment in time. That particular issue was the only one that they needed to be concerned with just then. I told them that I knew it would be hard, but they should just think of themselves. That was what the letter writers were doing- just thinking of themselves and not being concerned about a future together, or thinking about anyone else. If they could understand this, other things would fall into line. They needed to develop a relationship with God, especially in our situation.

I was glad to be able to relax for a while that evening after my "counseling" session. I lay on my bed and daydreamed about buying a new car when I got home. That notion had started to be a recurring fantasy as I relaxed in the early evening after mess. With the money I was saving I could get any kind of car that I wanted- AM/FM stereo, tape player, air conditioning... Car after car wheeled its way into and through my mind as the bright lantern light threw a hard edged shadow of Jack against the tent’s walls.

At the OPs meeting that night we learned that the actions of the past few weeks had been just a small part of a larger operation called "Thayer II" and that the next day another portion, a B-52 strike, would take place northeast of Bong Son. The strike would go in approximately twenty-five klicks northwest of the coastal fishing village where we had seen action. It was believed that the NVA had a Division base in that area where the B-52 strike would take place. Our scouts would go in to see what damage had been done, if any.

The next morning we loaded and flew to the lager area at Bong Son to wait and see if we would be needed. We could see the clouds of smoke from the bombs and hear the countless, thundering, explosions as the air strike proceeded. The usual lively group of local child hucksters was there and was totally entranced by what was happening north of their village.

After the strike our Scouts were the first to enter the area to investigate. We continued our boring vigil at Bong Son. I had started to take my letter writing supplies along, during these waiting type days, to see if I could take care of some of my writing obligations. There were between fourteen and eighteen people that I had corresponded with initially, that number slowly, but steadily diminished. Most people had better things to do than to write regularly to someone in Vietnam; at least I believed they probably did. The guys that were there at home were probably keeping the girls too busy to write.

I sat in the cargo compartment and tried to scribble out one of my usually cryptic and ill composed letters. There seemed to always be something to distract me from writing, whether it was during the daylight hours or at night in our tent. This time the interruption was a call to bring in the recon platoon.

We loaded our squads and took off for the area of the bombings. They were to go in and check out something more closely. When we got to the area we ended up using bomb craters along a ridge for LZs. The area of the bombing was totally devastated. We did not know how many B-52's had been used in the strike, but we did know that they normally used everything from bombletts to five-thousand pounders in these raids. Trees were blown down everywhere and the whole area was pock marked with craters of varying sizes. The larger trees, those that were still standing, had leaves and limbs blown off. The green of the jungle was mingled with clouds of dust. We dropped off our load and quickly returned to Bong Son. Later we picked them up at the same spot and returned to Little Hong Cong, and then we called it a day. Nothing had come of the bombing- we heard nothing further about it.

November was progressing steadily and most of our time was spent waiting. We were involved in some search and destroy type missions. Search out the enemy's supplies and/or food stuffs and destroy them. The enemy had again seemed to disappear into thin air for a few days so we had nothing better to do. This was the only war we had to fight and we were trying to make the best of it that we could.

On Sunday 13 November 1966 we were doing our usual waiting number when the Scouts hit a veritable jack pot cache of rice. When the recon platoon had finished their tabulations and burned the rice. They had calculated that the find was well over thirteen tons. This find had brought our three week total to 1,626,000 pounds that we had found and destroyed. We also heard that the total number of enemy killed by our unit over the last six months was one thousand enemy dead versus twenty-eight American dead. We never did know the numbers for wounded on either side. It was reported that the death figures were from actual body counts.

The monsoon season, the second of the year, would be starting any day and would stay around for almost one month before letting up. The monsoons would more than likely pose some interesting flying situations for us, especially if we did any flying in the mountains. Most of our flying had been in the flat valleys and farm land, but it seemed pretty obvious to me that there had to be a lot of enemy out there in those jungle covered mountains.

That evening we sat around the tent and played our guitars for a while, a few others had joined us and sang along to our music. I again got caught up in day dreaming about buying a car. Its funny, when I first got there all I had on my mind was all the money I'd save while in Vietnam. Just then all I day dreamed about was spending it. I guess I figured that was what I was saving it for.

I lay down on my rocket boxes and started humming "Gentle On My Mind", all the while thinking about my prospects for the future in the States or where ever. Would I try to put in for Europe, perhaps I would try for Fort Wolters or Fort Rucker. Would I find a girlfriend when I got back or would my love life, luck, with girls continue as before? I was thankful that I did not have a girl friend at that point in my life- one less worry! Thinking of friends reminded me of the letter that had come that day from Buddy. Buddy and I had started to correspond since we were in Vietnam. I had sent a letter to him because I knew where he had been assigned. I finally received a letter in reply. The rotten fart had sent me a picture of him in civvies (civilian clothes) testing the temperature of the water in the swimming pool. He further heaped insult upon injury by telling me that they had real beds with sheets and pillows and the whole nine yards. Well, some people have all the luck. I was happy though. Buddy told me that Katie was doing fine at Texas Women’s University and that they wanted me to be "best man" in their wedding when Bob and I got back to the states. That was great news.

"Gee", I thought to myself, "maybe I'll end up getting married when I get back. Who knows? First I'll have to find some girls that are willing to date someone as crazy as me. Then I'll concern myself with other domestic matters. For now I'll worry about what kind of a car I'm going to buy when I get back."

Oh yea, Buddy's letter. Buddy was with the 128th Assault Helicopter Company. He did not say where they were located, I wondered why. He also told me that Nathan was with the 161st Helicopter Company about forty miles south east of where I was. Nathan's job was to fly some Korean General around. I must have dozed off wondering about my friends from flight school, because the next thing I knew Jack was shaking me awake again for OPs briefing.

C & C

Everything that morning seemed to be shrouded in mist. The normal colors of sunrise were not present; the jungle greenery was softened into hazy dim pastels. As we took off, the grass thatched hootches along the way also had the appearance of a soft pastel drawing.

We settled back and flew the familiar course east from Little Hong Cong, drifting ever so slightly northward and then up the 506 Valley which contained the main north south road- then again banking east northeast and landing at the lager area at Bong Son.

Now, if I were a kid, on a morning like this one....I believe I would try to sleep in. As a matter of fact, the thought had crossed my mind that morning. I guess when you sleep on a grass mat on the floor… the urge to remain there soon passes after waking. Maybe, just maybe, those kids would not show up. We had no sooner landed than the kids were there by our helicopters. I had guessed wrong again.

The sun must have inched its way higher in the morning sky, because light was gradually being added to the scene. The mist of earlier that day was slowly dissipating, revealing the face of the day that lay ahead. The sky was shaded over now by a relatively low hanging blanket of gray clouds. It was going to be a dreary, damp day in the Central Highlands. The first part of the morning was spent sitting in our helicopters, as rain started and then steadily began to come down. The children wearing their conical straw hats, toughed out the weather, by crawling underneath the helicopters for some shelter and continued with their devilment as usual.

We were called out at mid-morning to put the recon platoon in just to the west and over the first ridge of the 506 Valley. The Scouts had located what they thought was evidence of a large camp in that area. We took off, got into a loose formation at lower altitude than normal, and proceeded to cruise down the 506 Valley. We passed over a small outpost there that was set up in the valley as an artillery base and POL (refueling) point. Its name was LZ Pony. Just south of LZ Pony we banked to the west and headed toward the steep mountains that were only a few klicks away. As we were turning we received a message from a Scout ship, call sign, Apache 1-2 (One-two) that there were no adequate LZs over the ridge and the clouds were lowering anyway.We would have to pick out an LZ at the foot of the mountains. The poor grunts would have to go in on foot. We landed in a field bordered by thick hedgerows, which were common to the area. The recon squads, reluctantly, left the relative dryness and comfort of the cargo compartment, entering the rain drenched world that lay outside.

The Lift section was ordered to return to base camp. In the event that contact was made we would already be at a base where we could pick up any additional troops and/or supplies. That decision was OK with us; we could spend some time in the dry mess tent and drink some more coffee, while waiting. The Gunships remained on station with the Scouts and grunts.

We got to base around 1110 hours, then after refueling we immediately went to the mess tent. As I approached the coffee pot the CO motioned for me to join him at his table. I filled my cup with the dark black fluid and quickly joined him. What had I done now?

"Mr. Rollason."

"Yes Sir."

My War - Installment 19

I was not personally aware of any others that might have been wounded or killed that morning. I continued to think of it all as part of the plague caused by the lack of communication which all Lift pilots shared. Maybe they did better not knowing all the details, it seemed they were content in any case.

Our CO had been evacuated with his back injury. He told me, personally, before leaving; that he was going to write me up for the Distinguished Flying Cross for my actions of that day. Almost a year later when I received an award for that day it had been degraded to an Air Medal with "V" device.

At the time, when I was in the heat of the action, the idea of getting an award for what I was doing never ever entered my mind. I had never, up to that point, ever considered decorations; my mind had been totally occupied with the job at hand. If getting awards was based on conscious, conspicuous effort there would be far fewer heroic acts; people would weigh all of the consequences of their actions before they would act. I would find out in years to come, that decorations were cheapened and made almost worthless by the actions of some ranking officers that received high awards for just flying over an area out of reach of weapons fire; usually they would see to it that those with them also got awards. There were also those awards that were politically given. There were also a few units that received awards for performing things that we commonly did every day. But, I suppose that these things are some of the additional corruptions of war.

My guitar came in that day from Phu Cat, in spite of the action and disruptions of the day. To top off the day another surprise arrived. This was a capital day: my direct involvement of the morning, my guitar, and the Coleman lantern, that I had ordered had also arrived. No more sitting in the drab interior of our tent, illuminated only by flickering candlelight. Things were really looking up. I was quite pleased.

At mess that evening I sat with some of the members of the Scout section that had finished early. I clearly stated my intentions, telling them that I wanted to fly with the Scouts. They seemed pleased and interested enough. Apparently they had heard stories about my craziness of that morning and it must have helped to qualify me in their eyes.

The evening seemed to pass by quickly. The sun sank behind Little Hong Kong hill, its shimmering rays resplendent in hues of orange, red, purple, and yellow touched with traces of gold. I was at peace with myself.

Jack had been letting me play around with his guitar for a week or so since I had decided to buy one for myself. One of the enlisted men, Robert Brown, came by and gave me a book of guitar music that had a chord diagram chart in the front. This helped me substantially. As I leafed through the book I listened to Jack strumming away and singing. After polishing the shiny sound box of my guitar, I joined him.

That night at the OPs meeting our suspicions of the day, as to what had happened and what would be going on in the morning, were verified.

We went back to our tent and I wrote to my parents that night and told them that "I had killed my first communist" that day, as if I had really done something for my country.

OVERLOADED, BENT AND JUMPIN

Mornings always came quickly in our unit. They for ever and a day seemed to start off the same. I awoke with the movements of the first Scout pilots and went through what was becoming my morning ritual of washing, shaving and the like. I ate an early breakfast and at the first glimmer of daylight I decided to go and begin my preflight. The air was cool and moist as I walked from the mess tent. All was quiet except for an occasional noise from another pilot or a waking bird in the distance. The rising sun began to give shape to the indistinguishable mass of the countryside. I thought to myself, Vietnam is really a beautiful country; I looked forward to being able to see more of it in the months to come.

As I finished my preflight the Scouts were taking off and the rest of the camp was beginning to stir to wakefulness. I paused and then climbed back toward the inspection platform on the top side of the Huey and quietly contemplated the progress of the early morning. Men were waking and moving about in a seemingly semi-sleep, semi-automatic way. Some were moving about with a purpose, doing their jobs. Others sat, or stood absentmindedly chatting with one another outside of their huts. Still others, in a fantasy world, standing outside their tents or huts practicing quick draw techniques, as if they were in the Old West or something. Each one was moving to his own beat, preparing himself for the day that lay ahead, in his own special way.

From my perch atop the Huey I saw Jack move sleepily from our tent to begin going through his morning ritual before starting for the mess. I clambered down and strode over after him to have some more coffee.

The mess tent was filled with the smells of eggs, bacon, pancakes, syrup, toast and the ever present aroma of the Mess Sergeant's coffee. I decided to have a little snack since I had been there earlier. We sat around drinking coffee and discussing the prospects for that day for some time before we left.

The morning air was still cool on that day in late October as we left the mess tent and headed back to our abode for our flight helmets and other paraphernalia. We took our things to the ships and then looked for First Lieutenant Williams, who had been installed as section leader since Cap. Richardson had been shot and evacuated to the hospital at Qui Nhon.

"Morning John, what's on the agenda for today?"

"Looks like we'll be waiting here for the Scouts to find something for us to get involved in, Sam."

"That sounds as good as anything to do, as far as I'm concerned. Thanks John."

We went back to the mess for some more coffee and played cards while we waited for a call to go somewhere. We were still sitting in the mess tent when lunch time rolled around. It was a pleasant change from our usual field lunch of "C" rations. We enjoyed smelling the food cooking, while we played our card games at the rough wooden tables.

The day was warming up and I could begin to see the rippling waves of heat moving off of one of the temple ruins to the southeast of the compound. The area between Little Hong Kong and Phu Cat and still further along the road heading toward Qui Nhon seemed to be littered with ruin after ruin of old temples or shrines or what ever they were. All were obviously ancient. Most were broken apart a good bit and overgrown with grasses and brush, but they were clearly distinguishable buildings each perched on a little hillock.

About an hour after we finished eating lunch we finally received a call to bring the recon platoon to an LZ just south of where we had made contact the day before. We were quick to respond and within fifteen to twenty minutes had landed and off loaded, in a sparsely planted sweet potato field. The field was located beside a small river which flowed east to the South China Sea.

We were not told what was going on, we did know that the commands were coming from our new CO, the old EO (Executive Officer) of yesterday, Lt. Col. Mendenhal. We heard later in the day that the Col. had selected the LZ on the north side of the river. We were sent back for more grunts. Why? We were not told. There did not seem to be much going on, and we were not going to ask. The old adage “Ours is not to reason why, ours is just to fly and die” went through my head. So we just flew the grunts in.

While in flight back to LZ Hammond we were called back. It seemed that the grunts had been put down on the wrong side of the river. They had tried to ford it, but the apparently, calm, shallow looking stream of water had surprised everyone by its depth and swiftness. Eight men had lost their weapons in the river and all had retreated to the northern shore. We were ordered to pick them up and set them down on the southern shore.

During the interval of time when we were lifting the grunts across the river, we received an order declaring that: "those without weapons were to remain on board." Bill and I landed on the south side of the river. Tom had passed the word to the grunts about remaining on board. We took off and then Bill looked around. Five out of the eight that had lost their weapons were on our ship. While taking off from the south shore we were told to proceed to Bong Son and lager there.

What fun! We were immediately accosted by the child hucksters, even before the rotors had stop turning. Most of the afternoon was spent as usual chewing the fat and swapping stories about the day before. At 1730 hours we took off and went to pick up the remaining grunts from the afternoon mission.

Somehow, perhaps from brigade, more grunts had been brought in to replace those without weapons. There was just one catch. Brigade did not send an extra ship to pull out the extra squad.

There were four full squads, plus two extra men on the ground and only four lift ships. Almost before we landed one squad piled into our ship with the five grunts we already had. With seventeen of us onboard we were not able to lift off with the rest of our section. After they were in the air we pulled in pitch attempting to lighten the load on the skids, and gradually we eased forward. We started to pick up groundspeed and finally hit translational lift and became airborne. We sighed with relief and took up a course for home. We were thankful that it had been a smooth field from which we had made our take off. It could have been a bit ticklish if it had been rough or muddy, causing some suction on the skids. We were thankful too that there had been no fire fight in progress. The only results of the afternoon had been that an enemy cache of rice had been found and the recon platoon had been sent in to destroy it.

A few days later Bill and I were called on a one ship mission to pick up a cache of enemy weapons that had been found about ten kilometers east of Little Hong Kong. I had been bored and was acting foolish. I should have known better. I made a fast approach into the area and flared to land. There was a sudden bump from the tail boom, but the ship responded to the control movements normally. The LZ was secure so I gently sat down and jumped out with Tom to see what was wrong. Bill stayed at the controls.

"Holy smokes! There's a dent in the tail boom, Tom."

I inspected the area of our landing more closely. Behind us, some fifteen to twenty-five feet, was what appeared to be a bush. In actuality it was a mound of dirt with vegetation covering it. When I flared I had brought the tail down on top of that mound and, zap. That quickly, a big darn dent was put on the tail boom. At least it looked big to me.

Boy! What a horse's butt I was. How was I going to live this down? Fortunately Bill backed me up and the dent was just a superficial wound for the Huey. The matter was easily resolved.

The days were passing by rapidly then. I had heard a rumor that the Scout section would be adding a pilot in the near future, either from rotation or...? I wondered.

All of our action seemed to come in cyclic spurts, from what I had seen and gathered by talking with others. We would engage the enemy for a big fire fight and then they would seemingly disappear. Afterwards there would only be sporadic contact, until the next big one.

One afternoon during one of the lax periods the lift section was called in to pick up some prisoners. We lifted off from LZ Hammond and took up a bearing of approximately 300 degrees. We flew toward some very steep picturesque mountains. As we approached the mountains we could see the tiny Scout ships hovering around some flooded rice paddies. These paddies were some of the first I had seen that appeared to be in a productive condition. At least these fields looked like pictures I had seen, from the orient, of productive rice fields. The closer we got the more detail there was to the scene below. There were a number of Viet Cong, in standard black pajamas, with their arms crossed behind their heads; they stood in a line on one of the dikes which separated the rice paddies. There were none of our grunts in the area. I wondered what was going on. It appeared that the Scouts had, literally, flushed the Viet Cong from the jungle, or brush somewhere and herded them out onto the dikes. They were hovering holding them at bay, so to speak, while waiting for the Lift ships to arrive to take custody of them.

My War - Installment 18

   The man that I was giving first aid to was a sergeant.  He was a small fellow with sandy blond hair.  It surprised me to see that he was an older fellow probably in his late twenties or early thirties. Just about all of the others in the recon platoon were very young.  I examined him very quickly and took note of the fact that he had a sucking chest wound, through the lung on his heart side. The holes from the projectile were the same size on both sides, indicating that he had been hit by an armor piercing bullet.  The size of the holes also indicated that it had been a round from something around a fifty-caliber probably a Chinese or Russian 51.  The openings would easily accommodate my thumb.  I could find no other wounds on his body. Mentally I searched for the proper procedure.  I reached for my wallet and quickly withdrew the plastic picture holders, I tore one off.  I cut it in half using my pocket knife and stuck one piece in each of the holes front and back.  I needed a bandage to secure the plastic in the holes, so I cut the bottom of my fatigue shirt off and tied it around him.  Having done that I asked the sergeant how he felt.  He said that he was doing all right and that he could  breathe a little better.  I took him at his word and started to drag him back toward my helicopter, which was some one hundred seventy-five meters away.  Moving him along the ground proved to be a very difficult task.  I would inch backwards eighteen inches at a time and then pull him to me.  This procedure had to be repeated over and over across the seemingly endless meters of old paddies.  We finally made it to the last hedge row between us and the helicopter.  I had glanced back to see that Tom and his wounded man were coming.  They were not too far behind us. 

   From my appraisal of the situation, I decided that it would be useless to crawl along the ground.  We would be in the open, an easy target if we poked along the way we had been going to get to where we were.  I decided to pick the man up and carry him over my shoulder and make a run for the helicopter.  I hoisted him up and got him positioned over my shoulder before I made a run for it.  I zigzagged across the open area of the LZ moving toward the helicopter.  Bullets hit the ground around us in profusion, but amazingly enough, I was not hit, nor was my charge hit by any of them.  In my mind, as goofy as it sounds, I could visualize something like this in a John Wayne movie, not in real life. Our desperate run had paid off; we made it to the helicopter.  I put the sergeant in on the floor, in the aft compartment.  He seemed to be doing fine, even after his bumpy ride on my shoulder.

   I squinted looking back across the LZ. Tom had followed my lead having put his man on his shoulder, he was moving across in a fashion similar to mine, bobbing and weaving across to the waiting helicopter.  He put his man in on the back floor beside the first. I took a look at him.  He did not seem to be doing very well.  He was in a great deal of pain from a gun shot wound from a large caliber weapon (Probably another 51 Cal) in the lower abdomen.  (The enemy was smart enough to use a caliber that was slightly larger than what we used. Therefore, they could use our ammunition, but we could not use theirs.)  There was nothing we could do for him.  I could smell the stench from the ruptured intestines, as the fluids oozed from his abdominal wound.  With a wound like that there was nothing that we could do for him, except try to stay the flow of blood and get him to the medical field unit a soon as possible. 

   As I examined both men I had been almost oblivious to the bullets that continued to hit the ground around the helicopter. Some hit the helicopter as I jumped into the right front seat.  Another officer came running from the north of the LZ. He was a pilot that I did not know and was therefore newer than me. He climbed into the vacant left seat.  Again I looked and did not recognize him.  In the bustle and commotion of the fire fight he introduced himself and asked me if he could fly co-pilot for me.  "Fine," I said.  He sat in his seat and did nothing.

   I started spinning the turbine over for the start, anxious to get the wounded back to a medical unit of some sort.  The starter motor whined and the rotors began turning.  There was only one problem the flame in the turbine engine had not ignited properly.  I would have to abort the start and try again.  I continued to crank the turbine over as I cut off fuel, according to the abort start procedure.  I began the start procedure over again.  The turbine caught and started to burn, we were in business.  The RPM started to climb as the bullets continued to hit around the helicopter.  The turbine and rotor RPM gradually came up to speed and I hurriedly took off to the north and climbed as rapidly as I could, while taking up a heading for LZ Hammond's medical helipad.

   At altitude we were able to relax a little while in route to LZ Hammond.  The man that was flying co-pilot for me had introduced himself as Captain Allison Smithson.  He had not been checked out in the Huey and had been riding along that morning as part of his check out, since nothing of any consequence was going to be happening.

   "Pleased to meet you, Captain," I said.

   "Do you mind if I fly some," he asked.

   "No, not at all," I replied.  Who was I to contradict a Captain, only being a lowly Warrant Officer.  "I'll take care of the radios while you fly, Captain."

"Thanks," he said.

   We continued cruising as fast as the ship would fly toward LZ Hammond.  I radioed ahead relaying what had happened, just in case they had not heard.  Smith seemed to be doing just fine, in straight and level flight, so I relaxed until we came within sight of the Med-Evac pad.  Captain Smithson flew as I called in telling the medical people what to be ready for. We started our approach.  I kept my hands lightly on the controls just in case something out of the ordinary would happen; it was also SOP (Standard Operating Procedure).  As luck would have it, something did.  This guy was a good pilot at all. In fact, he was terrible at making an approach.  He seemed to have no control of the ship while trying to descend for a landing.  I thought to myself that he must be an ROTC product.  I tactfully took over control of the helicopter and landed on the medical pad.  The Corpsmen at the 15th MED EVAC unit unloaded our wounded quickly and we immediately took off.  We had received a call, on the FM radio, that we were to pick up another squad at our Troop LZ, then take them back into the area we had just come from.  Things had livened up even more after we had taken off from the fire fight. 

   We went to our LZ, loaded as rapidly as we could, took off and headed back to the fire fight.  I asked the Captain if he would do the radio work while I did the flying.  I reminded myself that I was the command pilot of the ship.  It didn't matter if the man in the left seat was a general; I was in charge.  Captain Smithson acknowledged my command and graciously mentioned that he felt better with me in control, especially since we were going back into a very hot area.

   Within a matter of fifteen minutes we were coming up on the area of the fire fight.  I observed what was going on and made the decision as to where I was going to put the squad in and how I would go about it.  I had noticed some of our men motioning for us to come in at one spot.  I turned the ship and started an extremely fast (Hot) approach into the LZ.  The gooks were popping off what seemed like thousands upon thousands of shots at us as we rapidly came down to deposit reinforcements.  They shot frantically hoping that the ship would crash into our own men.  The grunts bounded out of the helicopter and took cover.

   Again I pulled collective pitch and made the Huey climb as fast as possible to get out of the effective reach of the weapons that were being fired behind us.  We reached altitude and I asked Captain Smithson to call our unit and tell them that we would have to refuel before we could pick up the second load of troops.  They acknowledged the transmission so we proceeded to the POL to refuel.  The day had turned out to be quite exciting.

   We took on fuel with the turbine still running and went as fast as we could to pick up the waiting grunts.  I figured that there were lives hanging in the balance.  The more men that we could get into the area the better chance we would have of keeping everybody alive. 

   While we had been flying, the only other lift ship in operation had been flying identical missions, bringing in more troops.  We had been operating on our own, moving troops and evacuating wounded while almost all of the command had been either shot down or wounded.

   Captain Smithson radioed that we were on our way from the POL.  I pulled in pitch and rocketed away from the POL, landing at our pad in less than a minute.  My adrenalin level was high, I was doing things automatically; the machine I was flying was an extension of me, just the way it was supposed to be.  The level of activity, since I had been shot at and wounded, was at a fever pitch, and I loved it.  The flying was terrific.  I knew what was going on, because what my ship was doing was what was going on.

   The troops were eager to climb into the helicopter as soon as we landed.  I hardly let the helicopter settle onto the ground.  I kept it light on the skids so that I would be able to pull in pitch and lift off as soon as the last man was in.

   We climbed back to altitude, where I again pushed the Huey for all it was worth, tipping the air speed indicator to over one hundred and twenty knots.  We again approached the area of the fire fight. We surveyed the area to see if these men needed to go into another field in the vicinity or back into the same LZ we had put the others in on our last flight.  While we were contemplating our next move we received a call to put them in the original LZ, then go back to LZ Hammond and await further orders on the action.  "Oh crap", I said. "Here we go again, to the waiting game." 

   We came in from the north again flying toward the enemy.  Our troops were therefore located on the enemy’s north side.  The automatic weapons fire had not let up since our last approach into the area.  We could see the tracers that came close to the helicopter and watch as bullets tore open some of the Plexiglas windscreen.  We came in fast and low trying to keep as little as possible of the ship pointed at the enemy and brought the skids close to the ground.  Captain Smith had not touched the controls since his trouble on the MED EVAC pad....so I prayed that I would not be hit while bringing in the grunts.  The grunts hopped out even before I had a chance to put it down. They were anxious to help their friends.   The helicopter swayed from side to side as the grunts hopped out from the two open doors in the back.  Tom signaled over the intercom to hit it and I pulled in as much power as I could, lifted, and did a pedal turn away from the enemy as we again climbed back to altitude and headed for Little Hong Kong and LZ Hammond to await our orders.

   The time was 1315 hours when we landed.  We shut down and headed for the mess tent.  The Executive Officer met us on the way to the mess tent and proceeded to chew me out for only wearing half of my fatigue shirt.  I wondered what in the name of heaven he could be talking about.  Surely he had been on the radio and knew what was going on- that the CO had been shot down, Captains Richardson and White had been wounded, that the weapons section leader had been shot down and so forth.  Everything had happened very quickly and I supposed that he may not have known what was going on.  I told him and then he seemed to let up a little.  Captain Smithson and I went to eat lunch and relax, that is after I put on another fatigue shirt.

Most of the Lift section pilots were already present in the mess tent when I arrived to load my tray with food.

   As I walked from the mess line to find a table the Executive Officer came up to me and started hassling me about whether I had shaved that morning.  I did not know whether he was joking or not, but I wasn't taking any chances.

   "Yes, Sir," I replied.  "I shaved at about 0400 hours this morning, Sir!"

   "Well, shave again after mess Mr. Rollason."

   "Yes Sir!"

   I strolled over to sit with Jeff and hopefully eat my lunch without further, malarkie from the brass.

   "Isn't this a crock of bull?  I spend the whole morning enjoying myself and the excitement just to come back to the reality of the EO.  What a bummer!  Did you hear that crap; he wants me to shave twice a day now, if I'm here where it's convenient, that is."

   "I shave about once a week, whether I need it or not," said Jack.

   I could not decide whether Jack was lucky or not.  I, while growing up, had always looked forward to having a beard and having to shave and other adolescent fantasies.  It all seemed bizarre to me that this was really happening....they said it would....I just did not want to believe it.

   I was brought back to the reality of lunch by someone, who had not been flying that morning, asking me what all had happened.  I started to relax, relating what had happened as far as I was concerned.  I talked and ate enjoying my story. I got to the part where Captain Smithson had almost bought the farm on the 15th MED EVAC pad and I got a little carried away, almost making fun of him.  Captain Smithson overheard my remarks.  Captain Smithson approached me later-alone-and reprimanded me.  I apologized and, fortunately, the matter was dropped.  I believe that he felt we were both blowing off some steam from the morning.  We continued our conversation exchanging bits of information which we knew.  I knew that the CO's ship had been shot down, but I was not aware that he had suffered, what was described as, a compressed back from his crash landing.

   The Lift section leader Captain Richardson had, in fact, been shot on the ground while taking pictures.  It had happened at the start of the shooting - he had been on a line with me and the position that had fired on me.  He was wounded by being in the wrong place at the right time.  The Scout section leader had been shot down, but had not been wounded or hurt at all.  The Weapons section leader had also been shot down and had suffered minor injuries.

   Speaking of wounds and injuries, I was beginning to notice mine.  My wounds were what I considered to be superficial in nature, not worth mentioning, especially after having seen men critically wounded. There were lots of people, of all ranks, that got Purple Hearts for ridiculous non-combat wounds such as getting cut while opening a tin of food or in some cases, for just being there in the vicinity of the action. But, I was young and naive and full of noble thoughts.

   I treated the wounds to my own satisfaction, in my tent that afternoon, and let the matter rest.

   We spent the remainder of the afternoon waiting at LZ Hammond for further orders and/or information on the operation of the morning.  Here we were again after having had a taste of what was actually going on, to be almost totally shut off. I found it to be totally frustrating. "Well, doze ar' da' breaks, fella'."  I mumbled to myself.

   It was late afternoon when we were called in to get the grunts.  It had been a long and a slow afternoon for me, because I felt that I had a hand in starting the operation, but was excluded from almost everything else that had happened.

***

   Even though we had started the day with only three Lift ships in operation, we had all four up and flight ready for the extraction that would inevitably take place that afternoon.

   We had been gathering bits and pieces of information all afternoon and had found out that it had been theorized that we had stumbled upon some district meeting of NVA Officers and their Red Chinese advisors.  According to the count we heard, there had been forty-five NVA killed and one Red Chinese advisor during the action of the day.  We had caught them basically unprepared and with their pants down.

My War - Installment 17

     BOOM BOOM Brrrupppp rat-tat-tat-tat Brrruppp rat-tat-tat. BOOM Brrrupppp, brrruupppp.

Our singing was only periodically interrupted by the sound of incoming mortars and small arm's fire, and then our 105's and mortars returning fire.

   I slept like a rock that night.  I was getting used to all of the noise and racket. My rocket box bed was turned into the most comfortable bed that I had ever had in my life; maybe the reason was that when I went to sleep I was just too damn tired to notice anything.

SUPRISE MEETING

   A woke up when the Scouts started their, early morning, wandering around the compound.  I felt rested and was actually looking forward to the day's activities.

   I finished my toilet and went to the mess tent and had an early breakfast with the Scout pilots.  I talked to the White (Scout) section leader and told him that as soon as there was an opening I would be happy to have my name put on the list to fill the vacancy.  He said he would be happy to have me when the time came; he indicated that he had heard good reports about me.  I sat in the mess tent for a while, drinking coffee as the Scouts left to go preflight their helicopters for first light missions.  My thoughts were occupied with those of flying the OH-13's in recon missions.

   As the first rays of the morning sun started to break through the blackness of the pre-dawn morning, I left the mess tent, headed back to the tent to wake up Jack.  I tired to rattle him awake, gave up and then thought better of it and decided to go preflight my helicopter.  I could have the jump on everyone else.  I could hear the camp coming awake as I meticulously examined the helicopter in the faint luminance of early morning. I climbed up to examine the rotor hub, swash plates and push-pull tubes. From my perch I had a view of the entire camp as the men went about their early morning routines; each man in his own little world of habit.

   I finished my preflight and then checked our rations supply before going to the "shitter".  By that time of day most of the men were at or around the mess tent.  As I approached the "shitter", I noticed that one of the stalls was occupied.  Not a hard thing to notice, being that it was out in the open for everyone to see.  As I approached the occupant of the stall, who happened to be reading a comic, I noticed a snake slithering up toward him.  I had been quite the snake catcher in my youth.  I use to catch garter snakes and sell them to the other kids that I knew from school. So, almost without thinking, I moved up and simply grabbed the snake behind the head.  It had been just as easy as when I was a kid.  I had grabbed the snake just when it looked as if it was ready to slither into the guy's pants, which were in folds around his ankles.  The guy almost seemed to hover up and off of the "shitter" when he realized what was happening.  His face had turned a ghostly white. 

   "Sir”, he said with a southern drawl, "that's a Bamboo Viper that ya got thar." 

   I didn't realize when I had caught the snake just what kind of snake it was.  The thought of the snake being poisonous had never even crossed my mind.  After I knew, I tightened my hold on the snake considerably.  If my memory served me correctly the Bamboo Viper was the snake that was referred to in stories from our IPs as the "Three Step", because that is about how far someone would get after being bitten.  Well, while I had the darn thing I was not going to let the opportunity to show it off pass me by.  I left the "shitter" and made for the mess tent.

   There was a group of enlisted men just outside the tent jabbering when I arrived with my snake.  For some reason the snake was very inactive.  Perhaps it had something to do with the amount of pressure I was exerting on its neck, just behind the head.  Nobody believed that the snake was alive because it just hung there limply. 

   "Hey, Mr. Rollason, where'd you get the dead snake?" said one fellow.

   "You can't scare us with that old limp bugger," said another.

   "Sir, can I have him to make a hat band when you are through playing with it?", was another remark.

   I was insulted to say the least.  I threw the snake on the ground in front of the group and watched, amused, as the large group hastily scattered in a split second.  Chalk up one for me. I believe I had made my point. 

I borrowed a machete from someone nearby to dispense of the snake.  It turned out to be a great piece of showmanship.  I took the big blade, the snake had revived instantly and was moving quickly in the direction of the fleeing group of hecklers. I cautiously moved toward the snakes head, raised the machete and threw it trying to cut off its head from a safe distance.  I believe the snake was probably a bit perturbed by then.  The sharp broad end of the blade landed with pin point accuracy, hitting the snake directly behind the head, slicing through and sticking upright in the ground. To top it off the snake died.  No, it did not just die.  It died instantly.  It did not even squirm which was a total surprise to me.  That totally lucky move elevated me in the eyes of the enlisted men that were gathered around watching, my fame spread throughout the unit and on to others.

   With my bit of a circus-like performance over I retired to the "shitter", to contemplate what had just occurred.

   I met Captain Richardson as I was leaving the "Shitter".  He told me that it looked as if it was going to be a pretty slow day.  We had one ship that was down for repairs, so the other three that were flight worthy would, later that morning, take three squads of the recon platoon up to a place just southwest of the '506' valley.  We were going there so that they could blow up a deserted tunnel complex.  The "shitter" was turning out to be a great meeting place.

   Later in the morning was not very much later.  At approximately 0845 hours we were at our ships, the grunts that were going to blow up the tunnels eagerly climbed onboard.  The Vietnamese Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Regular Army were great tunnel builders.  I found it incredible that they could make such complex tunnel systems in areas where the water table was so high.  We were told that the morning would be a piece of cake.  Scout ships had gone briefly flown over the area and saw no apparent activity.  Gun ships would be in the area just in case something did come up; I kind of think that they just wanted to be around so they could get in some extra flying time.  They, like us, did not get to fly a whole lot.

   We took off with the recon squads and assumed a course for our ships toward the '506' valley which was just about fifteen kilometers southwest of  Bong Son.  Even the troop commander, Lt. Colonel Anderson was in the air that morning, keeping a watchful eye on everyone.  We flew in formation; the only difference was that we were in an even sided "V" with one of our ships missing.  We made a pass across the prospective LZ, checked out the wind direction and made an uneventful approach from the south.  The only thing that bothered me was that our approach was made coming in over what had been reported to be a abandoned village.  The village did appear to be abandoned, but it gave me an uneasy feeling as I maneuvered over it on final approach.  There were the usual hedge rows surrounding the LZ and we did not draw fire, so I put my apprehension to rest.

   We off loaded the troops and shut down. They moved off to the north, almost carelessly marching toward the area of the tunnel complex, which I assumed was in the hills in the direction they were moving.  We were ordered to shut down our helicopters and report to Captain Richardson at his ship.

   The village looked to be in pretty bad shape, at least what I could see of it from my position.  The thatched roofs were in disrepair, their dried leaves torn by time and the elements.  There were some small ragged holes in some of the walls.  The field in which we had landed had not been farmed in quite some time.  It was covered with some old stubble that was brown and dry and kind of trampled down looking.  I presumed that it was old rice stubble.

   We rallied around Cap's helicopter; he told us that we were going to set up our own perimeter of defense around the LZ (Landing Zone) while the grunts were in the hills blowing up the tunnels. 

   "Rollason, you take the southern edge beside that deserted village.  Roberts, you take the west side.  You other fellows split up and take the other sides and some of you guard the ships.”

   "What weapons should we use, Cap?", I asked.  "I have the ship that has two machine guns.  Do you mind if I set one up on my perimeter?"

   "Just use your side arm.  Nothing's going to happen.  This area's considered to be secure, believe me, you'd feel pretty silly having to carry all of that back after this is all over.  You're new and maybe a little nervous.  Your sidearm will give you plenty of protection from what ever is in this area," replied the Captain.

   "Yes Sir," I said.

Even though I would have felt better with a little more fire power, I left to take up my position at the hedge row that just happened to be beside the village.  The position was easily over one hundred meters from my ship.  I ambled along kicking the dried stubble and looking about; it just did not feel right to me.  I could not put my finger on it, something was wrong.  I looked back and saw the other pilots nonchalantly strolling around the LZ.  Some were taking in the scenery, others walked around like tourists taking pictures, acting as if they were on a Sunday outing.  Seeing them acting in such a casual manner did nothing to quell my apprehension and feelings of foreboding.

   Upon reaching the hedge row I gazed across to the village, I was the only person from our unit that was in such close proximity.  I stared from building to building; it almost looked as if the disrepair were a planned thing.  It was all too neat.  I moved a little closer to the hedge row trying to keep concealed, but carefully trying to see more.  The air was still and moist it seemed hotter than usual, almost stifling in a way. There was something awfully strange about the scene.  It was deathly quiet.  The usual noise of birds was not even present.

   As I panned my eyes across the buildings for the hundredth time I caught a glimpse of a man in an olive drab uniform.  "Oooh shit!"  I had been told that NVA officers wore uniforms like that.  My heart was pounding in my chest.  I couldn't yell, I had no radio; there was no way to tell the others without giving away my position.  I did not know what was going to happen.  If I yelled maybe the whole thing might open up and they'd be shooting at us from every direction. I could have been wrong; it could have been just that one man.  I moved cautiously along the hedge row and watched the man disappear into one of the huts.  Just as I was turning to move again a machine gun opened up on me.  I dropped to the ground behind the hedge.  I could feel my blood pounding through me.  It was then that I noticed that I had been wounded by a glancing shot in the right side.

   During the time that I had been moving toward the hedge row our CO had landed in the north end of the LZ. With the shooting starting up heavily, he had called one of the squads back from the tunnel mission.  They had been milling about and were not very far from the LZ.  He instructed one of the squads to move toward the village to check out the situation.  At that time most of the fire was being directed toward me.

   I moved cautiously on the ground and slowly rose up to peer through the hedge row, toward the area where the shooting had come from.  Ever so carefully, I peeked through the brush, moving my eyes back and forth over the area quickly, like I use to do when deer hunting. As I strained my eyes to look, I saw someone peeking out from that same hut.  I raised my weapon, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger, shooting at his forehead, the most prominent target I had.  He dropped to the ground, dead!  I was not sure how much time had passed; it could not have been very long, no more than a few minutes. Automatic weapon's fire could be heard all over the place by then.

   I turned at the sound of someone yelling my name in the distance and noticed the CO, motioning me to move over to his location.  I crawled cautiously toward him, using the hedge rows to cover myself from the firing.  Within a few minutes I was by his side.  The "Old Man" had sent in a squad to check things out.  Two men, in that squad, had been wounded, seriously, both within a minute or two of the NVA firing on me.  The squad leader had radioed the information to the CO.  He ordered me and my crew chief, to go in and pull out the wounded.  After telling me what he wanted the CO turned and started toward his helicopter, probably wishing he had never landed. 

   My crew chief had moved from the openness of the LZ to the hedgerows near the CO when the shooting had started.  He and I started to crawl into the area which the CO had pointed out to us.  We moved as fast as we could along the ground keeping as flat as possible.  During the first few minutes of our crawling the CO's helicopter took off.  He must have radioed to the gun ships in the area because they were making rocket runs on the village as Tom and I crawled in.  I looked up and back over my shoulder silently cheering the rocket attacks...."plaster those rotten yellow bastards," and things like that....I then continued to move along toward the wounded.  I stopped once more, at the sound of the gun ships, to look over my shoulder and watch another gun ship strafing with machine gun fire and popping off rockets.  Tom was in front of me at that time.  As I was looking at the gun ship, some rockets flashed from the pods and one nose dived straight for me.  While I had been watching, Tom had been moving ahead faster than I.  It looked as if the rocket was going to hit me.  I tried to haul ass, in a crawling position, as fast as I could go.  I stopped and covered the back of my neck and head with my hands, as best I could.  There was a deafening explosion just behind me.  The noise quieted as pieces of debris fell around me. I looked back to see a small crater in the vicinity of where I had been. 

   Tom waited for me to move ahead to where he was stationed at another hedge row.  As I moved close to him he told me that the rocket had hit almost exactly where I had been.  In the heat and excitement of the moment I had not noticed that I had picked up some fragments from the rocket in my posterior.  It seemed I was not having a good day.  Tom and I continued crawling ahead toward the wounded. 

   During our movement Captain Richardson had been wounded on the ground while trying to get back to his ship.  The Scout section leader, Captain White, had been shot down.  The Company Commander had been shot down, along with some of the gun ships.  There were two lift ships left that were flight worthy, one having been seriously damaged while on the ground.

   When Tom and I finally got to the first wounded man, the fire fight had intensified considerably.  There was almost a continuous rattle of bullets and explosions all around us.  I told Tom that I would take care of the first guy.  I told him to move up to administer first aid to the second man that had been wounded.

My War - Installment 16

"See you later, Cap."

   I walked back to my tent slowly and picked up my flight helmet, camera, and notepad and then started shuffling along to my helicopter to do a preflight.  Johnson, the crew chief was already at the aircraft.  I thought to myself that he must live in the darn thing.  Well, maybe he did?

   I began my preflight while Johnson finished with a few odds and ends. As I climbed up to inspect the rotor hub, push pull tubes and swash plate assembly, I noticed that he was loading some "C" rations and extra drinking water.   Everything was within tolerances up on top.  I climbed back down and finished just as Bill came walking up to the ship.

   "Well, I wonder where we're headed today." Bill asked.

   "Three guesses; the first two don't count.  A little earlier I saw Cap Richardson at the “Shitter,” he said “we were headed back to the lager area at Bong Son air strip."

   "Hmmm, sounds as good as any place to go, I suppose," Bill replied.

   "Everything's loaded like you asked, Sir," said Johnson.

   "What's he talking about, Sam?" asked Bill.

   "I suggested that he replenish the "C" rations and water supply, that's all, just like we said yesterday."

   "Good idea Sam, I'm sorry I forgot," said Bill.  "Let's hop in and relax for a few minutes before the others arrive," Bill suggested.

   "Fine with me," I said, “I feel like I've been up all day already."

   As we sat in our ship, the sun came up painting the subtle purplish shadows of the morning into the more solid forms of the jungle that surrounded our camp, out past the green line.

   Within a few minutes Captain Richardson came ambling out toward his ship followed, a few minutes later, by the remainder of his Lift pilots.  For some reason they looked like a group of men coming to the field each with their own basketball in a special bag for some weird game of some kind.  Our flight helmets were round and we carried them in grey helmet bags with handles attached. They definitely looked like they should be basketball bags.  It just struck me funny.

   Within approximately fifteen minutes later we were all cranking up our turbines preparing to lift off, Recon Platoon on board, heading to our lager area at Bong Son.  It appeared that we would have another boring day sitting by the airstrip being hustled by the local kids.

   As we flew close to the lager area, I noticed a few naked women bathing in the river illuminated by the reflection of the glistening morning sunlight. I could easily distinguish their female forms in the bright glow of the morning light.  I wished I could break formation and swoop down to totally enjoy this natural scene.  How many thousands of years had these people, and their ancestors, used these rivers in the same manner.  What would these people do with our democracy, or with Russian or Chinese communism?  It sure puzzled me.  We were just fighting so they could make their own natural choices, right?  I couldn't help but think that their choice would be, "Let me the hell alone, everybody just leave me to myself so I can live in peace and farm my small fields, fill my own rice bowl, enjoy my life and my family the way it was meant to be."

   "Sam, Sam, what's wrong?"

   "Oh, nothing, I’m just day dreaming while looking at those naked women over in the river.  You did see them, didn't you?"

   "Not really," replied Bill.  "That's all you younger guys think about."

   "Bill, you’re full of crap.  My thoughts contained more than your gutter thinking.  I was doing more than just admiring their physical forms."

   We came in on final approach, and then hovered over by some trees, as usual, to take advantage of the shade they would soon provide.

We had no sooner landed than the pint-sized peddlers began to assemble around our helicopters.  I caught myself philosophizing again. All these kids had ever known was war; even long before the Americans had become involved.  Probably the only life their parents could remember had been one of war too.

   We sat around in the shade smoking cigarettes, which we got free from the cigarette companies, and swapped stories and jokes, hoping, and not hoping, for something to happen.  Johnson always seemed to be busy checking over the helicopter, checking hydraulic lines, or push pull tubes, control linkages or something.  At least he had something productive to do when not riding with us.

   I looked down at my watch and noted that it was almost 1145 hours.  My stomach had not deceived me.  While thoughts of a good lunch danced in my mind, I noticed Captain Richardson walking briskly toward our helicopter.

   "Bill, Sam, I want you two to fly back to the main base at An Khe and pick up an interpreter.  They will be waiting for you when you arrive at the unit pad.  Refuel and proceed with the interpreter to that seaside village where we worked the other day.  There you will meet with an ARVN (pronounced Arvin) officer who is accompanying two villagers.  Pick them up.  There is an old man and his granddaughter that have agreed to point out some NVA positions in the surrounding area.  The girl's parents were killed yesterday for supposedly not supporting the N.V.A. that had entered the village.  The old man and the girl are pissed off. They've decided to help us out."

   "OK, Cap, when should we leave?" asked Bill.

   "Immediately, everyone is waiting on you two."

   "OK, Cap.  We'll see you later," said Bill.

   "Johnson," I yelled.  "Untie the rotor.  We have a few errands to run.  We need to leave now."

   Johnson had, for once, been relaxing on the ground under the tail boom.  He jumped to action.  Within less than five minutes we were in the airborne and headed for An Khe to pick up the interpreter.

   We landed at the Division base camp's (helicopter) heli -pad, which was located along-side the airstrip. Upon exiting the helicopter we were greeted by a liaison officer, dressed like he had just stepped out from an air conditioned office, or an Army recruitment poster.  He seemed nervous and out of place there on the open airfield.  His low quarter shoes were spit shined, his hair neatly trimmed; he was spic and span in appearance.   He had obviously come from the land of hot water and showers.  How quickly I had forgotten that such things existed.

   The interpreter would be a few minutes late.  We could relax and have some Red Cross coffee and donuts if we cared to. The idea seemed like a good one so Bill and I strolled over to where the Red Cross had a little stand-like affair set up.

   "Would you boys like some coffee and donuts?" asked the homely female Red Cross worker.

   "Yes, please," we replied in unison.

   "Here you are, boys.  That will be seventy-five cents each."

   "Hey, you can take your coffee and donuts and put 'em where the sun doesn’t shine, lady."

   We turned abruptly and walked away headed toward our helicopter.

   "Shit, can you believe that crap?" asked Bill.

   "No, not really," I replied.  "What's all this hype about how great and generous and giving the Red Cross is.  They probably have the concession on body bags over here also.  I'll never give the bastards a dime again."

   When we got back to the helicopter the spiffy liaison man was just driving up with some squirrely looking little gook beside him in a neatly washed jeep.  The gook was either malformed, or had been worked over with an ugly stick pretty frequently.  His eyes were close set, which seemed to over emphasize the slanted appearance, his lower jaw was cocked grotesquely to one side, plus he had a pronounced over bite.

   "Gentlemen, this is Lu Duc, the interpreter you are to transport," said Lt. Spiffy.

   "Hi, Lu Duc," I said.  "Climb on board and we will be on our way."  I motioned for him to climb in.  He bowed slightly and then climbed onboard.

   Lu Duc seemed to barely speak English, but ours was not to reason why.  We took off and headed for the village east of Bong Son.  The trip was a quiet one, no one spoke.  But then Lu Duc had no headset on his apparently malformed head during the ride.  Thank goodness for small things.  It was 1430 hours before we landed at the edge of the village.  Fortunately, and to our delight, the ARVN and his two people were waiting.  The ARVN officer seemed to speak better English than the interpreter.  Just maybe, between the two of them, we would be able to understand what was going on and what was to happen.

Everybody exchanged greetings in Vietnamese for what seemed like an eternity.  Then, finally, the ARVN officer, the interpreter along with grandpa-san and granddaughter boarded the ship.  Johnson gave his headset to the interpreter.  We had brought along two extra headsets for this mission.  We had borrowed them from some other Lift ships.  The ARVN got number two headset and grandpa-san and granddaughter shared the third. 

   Grandpa-san appeared to be ancient.  He was the perfect picture of the ancient oriental sage, complete with drooping, thin, scraggly, Fu Man Chu mustache and wispy very sparse chin whiskers.  Probably, if you looked up inscrutable in the dictionary you would see a picture of Grandpa-san.  The granddaughter, on the other hand, was quite beautiful.  It was hard for me to judge the age of an oriental women.  She could have been anywhere between the age of fourteen to thirty-five, at least to me.  She just might have looked extra good because we didn't see many women.  We had seen the Red Cross women earlier in the day, but they were nothing to write home about.  I was convinced that it would be a real treat to listen to and try to take directions from all these turkeys.

   After some time, trying to decipher what we were being said, we headed for the South China Sea.  We made a slow turn to the north and then casually along the coastline.  Bill was relaxing and I was humming Bob Lind’s "The Elusive Butterfly of Life", the version sung by Glen Campbell, to myself when we were both interrupted by another barrage of gibberish from the aft compartment.  I could readily see that it was going to be a long afternoon.

   Upon approaching the village from the sea side, I could see that the once pretty seaside village was now pock-marked with burned huts, the charred remains of which were scattered about the hillsides.

   We zigzagged across the countryside north of the village while the old man and his granddaughter gesticulated wildly behind Bill.  The ARVN and the so-called interpreter frantically jotted down notes.  We were occasionally asked for coordinates; at least that's what we figured we were being asked for.  Bill would write them down and pass them to the ARVN officer.  We assumed he read them without any difficulty, since numbers are pretty universal.  Tom Johnson seemed to be enjoying himself to no end, chuckling occasionally.  It was, more than likely, the best show he had seen in months.

   We passed the afternoon fighting the confusion that was taking place in the rear of the ship. After a few hours they apparently, that is the interpreter and the ARVN officer, had gotten all the information that they felt they needed or wanted.  The ARVN signaled to us with a hand gesture which, we interpreted to mean that they were ready to return to the village.  We landed on the western edge of the village, where we had picked up our passengers.  Our job, for this part of the afternoon, was almost finished.  All we had left to do was return our little yellow friend to An Khe and then fly back, we hoped, to LZ Hammond at Little Hong Kong instead of having to fly back to Bong Son.  It was late enough in the day that we figured that our duties would conclude with this act.

   All the information that had been gathered during that afternoon would be given to Division.  It would then analyzed, and then with a bit of luck it would gradually filtered back to the units.  I was not sure that Mr. Moto would be capable of passing on any information of significance.  If he did it would take days to drag it out of him.  By that time any information gained would be worthless.

   We returned to LZ Hammond around 2030 hours, glad that the day’s work was over.  It seemed to me that the enemy could not have been in the area we surveyed that afternoon, not unless they were blind, or just did not want to be seen.  If the NVA had been in the area it would have been an excellent opportunity for them to shoot down our lone, unescorted, helicopter as we were flitting about the countryside.

   We came in too late for evening mess, so we satisfied ourselves with "C" rations for another meal that day.  It did not much bother me.  I grabbed an "A" unit, a small juice can of JP-4 fuel for my home-made stove and headed home to my tent to do some serious relax'in.  Jeff was in his usual cross-legged position on his bed, strumming away on the guitar, a broad grin drawn across his tanned face.  He had been making some palm leaf hats earlier in the day; he had learned to make them in his native Florida. He had a few of the hats hanging about the tent pole.  It felt good to be home.  I lighted the home-made stove and started heating my supper.

   As my meal began to warm a top the orange flame of the JP-4, I stretched out on my rocket box bed and enjoyed Jack's music. We exchanged some small talk about the day between songs.  It appeared that I would get my guitar that next day if all went according to plan.  I ate my meal, disposed of the empty cans, washed my face, brushed my teeth, ducked back inside the tent and soon fell asleep while humming "I Left My Heart in San Francisco".  Jeff woke me to go to the OPs meeting some time later.

   We received no enlightenment on the day’s activities during the OPs meeting, but then Bill and I were not directly involved with the other pilots that day.  It sounded like the same old crap;   bits and pieces of information with no substance, nothing to give us the "over-all" picture.  For some ridiculous reason that thought reminded me of the Army's TV show that I used to watch at home called the "Big Picture".  Our class at flight school was filmed by the "Big Picture" staff.   The only useful information which we did hear that evening was that we would not be leaving LZ Hammond until we heard from the Scouts the following morning.  I assumed that the reconnaissance efforts of the next morning must be fairly close to our home base.

   Jack and I left the OPs meeting and returned to our tent.  I was dog tired although I wasn't ready to give in to my exhaustion.  I asked him to start showing me how to play the guitar.  With a flourish he produced a book of guitar chords and diagrams for me to study.  It looked easy enough, I thought.  I just wished that I had the guitar to practice with; oh well tomorrow would come soon enough. In the meantime I enjoyed listening to Jeff.  We sat in the flickering candlelight, my tiredness having passed, and quietly sang some folk songs.

   "Well, it ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe....

   It don't matter any hooooow. 

   And it ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe…...

   If you don't know by now…

   When that rooster crows at the break of dawn....

   Look out your window and I'll be gone…

   There ain't no use in carrin' on. 

   Don't think twice its all right...."