Medal of Honor

by Matt Jackson

  “Okay, talk me through how you’re going to make your approach to the landing zone,” Ritchie said.

  “I’ll make a right-hand pattern, tight over the landing zone so I can keep it in sight. Land to the south with a tight final approach turn and rapid deceleration,” Zuccardi replied.

  “Sounds good,” Ritchie acknowledged.

  As the aircraft approached the vicinity of the landing zone, Ritchie called for smoke, which was quickly visible from the same location as before. Snake Six-One confirmed that it was Goofy Grape. Zuccardi began his descent in a right-hand pattern.

  “Taking fire, taking fire!” Mondie yelled and opened fire, hitting the area north of the landing zone with M60 machine-gun fire in exchange for green tracers coming up at the aircraft. The pig also opened fire all over the interior, much to Lovelace’s displeasure. Zuccardi increased his power and his turn to get back towards the friendly position while clawing for altitude.

  “Chicken-man, break, break, break, we are in contact!” Snake Six-One was on the radio.

  “Roger, Snake Six-One, Chicken-man is standing by.” Looking back, Ritchie could see North Vietnamese green tracers on the north side of the landing zone being exchanged with red tracers from the south side.

  “Zuccardi, come left,” Ritchie directed. Looking back, he not only saw where the firing was coming from, he could see several water buffaloes that had what appeared to be ammo boxes on their backs. Because of the dense ground brush, Snake Six-One probably couldn’t see this, but an aircraft at some altitude certainly could.

  “Snake Six-One, Chicken-man, over.”

  “Go, Chicken-man.” Sounds of automatic weapons and explosions could be heard in the background.

  “Snake Six-One, I have the enemy location in sight. Request permission to adjust artillery.”

  “Chicken-man, if you can see them, kill them.”

  “Roger, Snake.” Quickly switching to FM 1 frequency while keeping Snake Six-One on FM 2, Ritchie called for artillery support. “Song Be Arty, Chicken-man One-Two. Fire mission.”

  “Go, Chicken-man One-Two.”

  “Song Be Arty, fire mission. Troops in the open,” Ritchie said, giving the coordinates and completing the call for fire request.8

  “Chicken-man One-Two, shot, over,” he heard a minute later, meaning the five 105-millimeter howitzers in support had just fired.

  “Song Be Arty, shot out,” Ritchie responded, indicating that he knew rounds were in the air.

  “Chicken-man One-Two, splash, over” he heard next, indicating that those five high-explosive rounds should be hitting the ground within five seconds.

  “Song Be Arty, splash, out,” acknowledging the rounds were about to impact.

  KABOOM, KABOOM, KABOOM, KABOOM, KABOOM.

  “Song Be Arty, danger close, drop one hundred, right one hundred, over,” Ritchie said, notifying the artillery that they were getting close to friendly troops and adjusting the impact point.9

  “Chicken-man One-Two, roger. Drop one hundred, right one hundred, danger close,” Song Be Arty responded, then a minute later, “Chicken-man One-Two, shot, over.” Thirty seconds later: “Chicken-man One-Two, splash, over.”

  “Roger, splash, out.” The rounds landed, and the water buffaloes with the packs disappeared.

  “Song Be Arty, fire for effect.” And five more rounds screamed in on the target. Green tracers ceased from the enemy position.

  “Chicken-man One-Two, Snake Six-One, cease fire, repeat, cease fire.”

  “Roger, Snake Six-One.”

  “Song Be Arty, Chicken-man One-Two, end of mission, over.”

  “Roger, Chicken-man, understand rounds complete. End of mission.”

  “Roger, Song Be Arty. Nice shooting. Will get you a BDA as soon as the ground elements get in there.” The infantry unit would have to provide the Bomb Damage Assessment for Ritchie to report it.

  This whole time, Zuccardi had been circling the aircraft to the south of the engagement, staying away from the incoming artillery and allowing Ritchie to adjust the rounds.

  “Chicken-man One-Two, Snake Six-One.”

  “Go ahead, Snake.”

  “Roger, Chicken-man One-Two, recommend you make your approach south to north and stay away from the north. We’re moving into the area now, securing the landing zone.”

  Ritchie turned to Zuccardi. “Did you get that?”

  “Roger, I’ll come in south to north. Not much wind and we’ve burned off some fuel, so we should have plenty of power,” Zuccardi indicated, watching his instruments and his descent.

  Ritchie smiled to himself. Zuccardi’s learning fast and showing he’s a thinking copilot. When they touched down in the landing zone, the Vietnamese grunts could be seen surrounding the landing zone and dragging a couple of prisoners out of the tree line, although they appeared less than coherent, which was typical if one had been on the receiving end of an artillery strike.

  Offloading the supplies, Zuccardi came to a hover and climbed out to resume his flight back to the battalion firebase.

  “Mr. Ritchie, we have to get back to Song Be and get this mess cleaned up. It stinks back here,” moaned Mondie.

  Meanwhile, Lovelace had the Vietnamese soldier pouring what water was left in the empty water cans on the floor and scrubbing it down. Unfortunately, Mondie was getting the spray from the Vietnamese’s cleaning effort. Lovelace just continued to grin as Mondie launched into a tirade. The rest of the day was uneventful as Ritchie and crew continued to perform resupply missions for the Vietnamese troops. The prisoners were never flown back to the firebase, and Ritchie didn’t ask. The Vietnamese airborne unit wasn’t known for taking prisoners. The afternoon’s planned combat assault was canceled.

  A few days later, Ritchie was back at the Third Brigade Tactical Operations Center or TOC, flying missions for the Vietnamese again. Coming up from behind him, Ritchie felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see who it was.

  “How you doing, Mr. Ritchie?” asked the US captain who was the advisor to the Vietnamese battalion Ritchie had flown for a couple of days ago.

  “Doing good, sir. How ’bout you?”

  “Good.”

  “Sir, did you ever report a BDA on that unit that we put artillery on the other day?”

  “Sure did. Nice work, by the way. It appears that what you destroyed with your artillery strike was a North Vietnamese resupply convoy using water buffaloes to carry heavy loads, moving south. That convoy stumbled into our rifle company just as you were bringing in the second sortie of resupply. The Vietnamese battalion commander has requested an Air Medal with ‘V’ for you and your crew. Should come through in a couple of weeks. Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir, and my thanks to the battalion commander.” Ritchie didn’t ask about the three prisoners.

  Chapter 6

  Settle In

  Specialist Jones was lying in his bed reading the latest Zane Grey cowboy novel. Well, at least latest to the unit.

  “Hey, Jonesy, First Sergeant wants to see you,” called out Lockwood, the company clerk. Actually Lockwood was a 67N20, crew chief, but the first sergeant needed a company clerk who could type and the unit was overstocked with crew chiefs. One was even working in the mess hall as a cook. Lockwood got to fly some days but didn’t have an assigned aircraft. Normally each crew chief would be assigned one aircraft. He was responsible for the first level of maintenance for the aircraft at all times as well as the cleanliness of the aircraft. When the aircraft required a higher level of maintenance than what the crew chief was trained for, then he might accompany the aircraft or he might get a day off. Whenever the aircraft flew, the crew chief and the gunner served as the eyes in the rear of the aircraft and kept the pilot apprised of any hazards underneath or to the rear of the aircraft.

  “Well, I don’t want to see him unless he has a seven-day R&R pass for me, and that ain’t gonna happen,” Jonesy responded. He had been pestering the First Sergeant to take his R&R for the past month.r />
  Alfonso Jones, better known as Jonesy, was a crew chief. Those that knew his first name dared not use it as Jones would become very upset. Jonesy had a down day from flying, but not from any “hey you” details the company first sergeant might come up with. Jonesy had been in-country about six months. He was single and hailed from Mississippi—Lower Mississippi, Cajun country.

  Getting up off his bunk and out from under his mosquito net, Jonesy headed out the door, following Lockwood back to the orderly room. Upon entering, he noticed a new face standing beside the first sergeant.

  “Jonesy, this is Private Jim Dorsey, your new door gunner. He’s new in-country. Get him settled in and squared away.” Turning to Dorsey, he added, “Any questions, ask him or your platoon sergeant.”

  “Okay, newbie, where’s your stuff?” Jonesy asked Jim.

  “I’ve just got these two duffle bags.” One duffle bag contained all of Dorsey’s worldly possessions, such as additional uniforms, underwear, and socks along with a shaving kit. There were no civilian clothes in either bag. The second contained an extra pair of jungle boots, mosquito net, field suspenders, web belt, ammo pouches, canteen, canteen cup, canteen case, first aid kit, butt pack, gas mask, flak jacket, steel pot liner, steel pot helmet, steel pot helmet camouflage cover, steel pot helmet camouflage cover elastic band, poncho, and poncho liner.

  Picking up one bag each, Dorsey and Jonesy started walking across the company area. The entire company area was under rubber trees, which provided almost total shade over the hooches—the same hooches Jim had seen since arriving in-country. The rubber trees stood in neat rows as they had been planted several decades ago by French planters. The trees stood about fifty feet tall with fairly straight trunks, two to three feet around. Branches started about thirty feet up and fanned out over the hooches with broad dark green leaves. Rubber trees were considered sacred by the US government as the government had to pay the plantation owner for any damaged trees. The enemy knew this and hid in the rubber tree plantations, knowing the US couldn’t fire artillery or air strikes into the plantation areas. The plantations covered hundreds of square miles in the area north of Saigon and around Lai Khe. As they walked, Jonesy conducted a tour, pointing out each feature and location as they went.

  “You know where the orderly room is. Over there is Flight Operations. Out in the Chicken Pen is Maintenance and the arms locker, where your weapons are stored. We’ll go by there later. The mess hall is that all-metal building back there,” he said, indicating far to the rear of all the hooches. “Those hooches over there are the officer hooches, followed by the warrant officer hooches. That metal building with the parachute over it is the officers’ club. Our club is that hooch over there with the parachute over it.”

  “Those are cargo chutes, aren’t they?” Dorsey asked, noticing the extremely large size. “We don’t drop cargo that big, do we?”

  “Nah, we don’t wear parachutes and we don’t drop cargo with parachutes. Lieutenant Cory, a pilot that was here, liberated those two chutes off the airfield at Song Be. Putting them over the clubs added a nice touch to the appearance of each and some additional shade.”

  Continuing the tour, Jonesy explained, “The aid station is that hooch over there. You’re going to have to take your medical records over there and get a medical clearance to fly. It’s nothing like the pilots’ physicals. Basically, can you see the chart with both eyes open and standing on one foot?” Jonesy joked. Stopping next to a hooch, Jonesy opened the door. “Welcome to your new home.”

  Dorsey’s new home was an open bay with seven beds on each side of a central walkway. Fluorescent lights hung from the exposed ceiling beams down the center aisle. Each bed was covered with a mosquito net and had a footlocker at the foot of the bed. Against the wall, a single wall locker was adjacent to the head of each bed. Some homemade bookcases made out of ammo boxes stood next to a couple of the beds. At the far end of the room stood a homemade card table, a community refrigerator and some well-worn lawn chairs.

  Tossing Dorsey’s duffle bag on a bed, Jonesy said, “You can take this bed—he rotated home the other day. Be sure to hang your mosquito net. If you need help, just ask. The company area is pretty free of rats and mice, thanks to the company’s Burmese python that’s occasionally released in the hooches to take care of those critters. When not roaming through a hooch, he’s kept in a pen by the orderly room,” Jonesy explained. The company mascot, a rooster, knew to stay well away from that pen.

  “Insects are another matter,” Jonesy went on to explain. “Mosquitoes are kept under control by frequent spraying of the entire Lai Khe area. You will have to take two malaria pills, however, and one will give you the shits, but you don’t want to catch malaria. Cockroaches are another story. They’re big, plentiful and have no consideration for climbing on you when you’re sleeping. Back home we called them palmetto roaches. The mosquito nets are to keep them off you primarily. Leave a pack of cigarettes out and they’ll eat every last one in the pack in a night. Not the whole cigarette but a bite out of each one. During the day they stay out of sight, but with the lights off, they take over the hooch,” Jonesy explained as he reached in the refrigerator for a beer.

  “Got a question. Why is Maintenance out in a chicken pen?” asked Dorsey, starting to empty one of his duffle bags.

  “They’re in the Chicken Pen—that’s what we call the area where the aircraft are parked. This is the Chicken Coop where we live. Our call sign is Chicken-man. Well, our official call sign is Drumstick, but everyone knows us by Chicken-man. About every six months, Division headquarters sends down new call signs and we’re supposed to change, but we still use the Chicken-man call sign. Next door is the Robin Hoods, and their area is Sherwood Forest. They’re actually the 173rd Aviation Company of the First Aviation Brigade. On the far side of the Chicken Pen where the Cobra gunships are is the Snake Pit. The Cobra gunships belong to our sister company, El Lobos. Get your stuff unpacked and we’ll go get some chow after we go by Supply and get you some flight gear.”

  As Dorsey was unpacking, a Vietnamese woman—a teenager, really—came into the hooch. She spotted Jonesy and made a beeline straight towards him.

  “Jonesy, you number ten GI. You no pay. You pay now. I no do boots. I no do laundry. You pay, now!” she scolded while thumping him in the chest with her index finger. For a five-footer, she’s a powder keg, Dorsey thought.

  “Okay, Opie, okay. I got your money right here,” Jonesy said, reaching for his wallet.

  “You owe ten dollar. You pay now.” Jonesy was almost laughing as he pulled out his billfold and handed a ten-dollar script note to Opie, who was now eyeing Dorsey. Military script looked like Monopoly bills and was used in lieu of US dollars. About every six months, the script would be changed without warning, and only US military and US contractors could exchange their script for the new script on that day. The next day, the old script was worthless. Vietnamese workers would go crazy trying to get some GI to exchange their script.

  “Who he?” she asked, tossing her thumb over her shoulder.

  “He newbie, Opie.”

  Right away, she was heading over to Dorsey. “I Opie. I do you laundry; shine boots. You pay ten dollar each month. Okay, GI?” Dorsey didn’t know what to say, so he looked at Jonesy for some guidance on this one.

  “Opie is our hooch maid. For ten dollars a month she does your laundry and shines your boots as well as cleans the hooch. She does a good job and keeps the platoon sergeant happy, which makes our life happy,” Jonesy explained.

  “Okay, Opie. I’m Jim.” He shook her hand.

  “Opie do laundry; shine boots. No funny business. No make boom-boom.” She was very serious. Jim looked to Jonesy again.

  “Boom-boom—no sex. No screwing around. The hooch maids are not prostitutes, and God help the guy that thinks they are. If that happens, the CO will kick all the hooch maids out and we’ll be doing our own house cleaning. That will piss everyone off and everyone will be out to kick
your ass. You want a piece of ass, go to the massage parlor on the other side of the base.”

  “Okay, Opie, no boom-boom. I understand. Just boots and laundry,” Dorsey said.

  Opie smiled. “Okay, you number one GI.” She looked back at Jonesy with an icy scowl. “You number ten GI!” And out the door she went.

  “Feisty little thing, ain’t she?” Dorsey commented.

  “Yeah, but she’s good. A lot better than some of them. She’ll make sure nothing gets stolen as well, although these people are pretty honest from what I’ve seen. Opie has a kid, boy. She was married, but her husband was killed by the VC. The kids here go to school up to about the sixth grade and then start working on the base, or turn to farming or some other manual job. They’re not lazy, but there isn’t much opportunity for them outside of the big cities. However, if you see them leaving midday and going home, that’s a clear sign we’re going to get hit that night with mortars or rockets,” he added.

  “How often does that happen?” Dorsey asked with a concerned look.

  “Almost nightly before we hit Cambodia two months ago. Not so much anymore. You done yet? Let’s get over to Supply and get your gear.”

  Dorsey started to grab his hat. “Hey, in the company area or out on the Chicken Pen, you don’t have to wear your hat or carry a weapon. If you leave the company area, then yeah, you have to be in full uniform but not carry a weapon. You leave the base camp, you have to be full up. Got it?” Jonesy explained, and they left the hooch and started across the area.

  “The latrines are over there along with the shower points. Enlisted latrines are on the left and the officer latrines are on the right. I guess the officers’ shit smells better than ours. Warrant officers don’t care as they use either, I think just to piss off the RLOs.”

  “RLOs—who’s that?” asked Dorsey.

  “Real live officers. Those are the lieutenants and captains and the major,” Jonesy explained.