by Matt Jackson
“True. Sometime after January first, we become part of the Fifty-Second Aviation Battalion, First Aviation Brigade. We will retain our call sign and unit designation, however. For the immediate future, we will continue our mission of supporting the ARVN units operating in this area, part of the Third ARVN Airborne Division, which is headquartered here and is covering the area from Tay Ninh to Bu Gi Map. They’re also operating on both sides of the border, so expect some cross-border operations. We have US advisors on the ground with these guys and they’re doing a good job of showing these guys how to operate around the aircraft.”
“Are we getting a lot of hours, sir?” Dan asked.
“We’re averaging about six to seven hours a day, so it will be enough to keep you busy.”
“Sounds good to me, sir,” Cory said with a smile.
“Let me ask, Lieutenant, why did you volunteer to come back? You already did eighteen months over here. You’re not married, are you?”
“No, sir, not married. Do have a girlfriend, but she was understanding about me coming back. I’m an infantry officer. This is what infantry officers do, and this is the only fight we have right now. I wanted to get back here to add some credibility to my infantry officer status. Also, I believe the grunts need officers that have their concerns and safety in mind while accomplishing the mission,” Cory explained.
Major Adams stared at Cory for a few seconds before he spoke. “Lieutenant, you’re an idealist, but I can use an experienced pilot. I understand you were the unit’s instructor pilot before you went home, and a flight leader.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about we put you up on a few flights until you get your touch back and get a feel for the AO again and then we’ll make you an AC?”
“Sounds good to me, sir. I recall that when guys had been gone for a time, even thirty-day leaves, their touch was off. I recommended to Major Saunders once that any AC that was gone more than two weeks we should put in the right seat for a couple of missions. I’ve been gone for three, almost four months, so I have no problem climbing back into a right seat for a time.”
“Good. Well, welcome back. I’ll have some additional duties for you shortly that will come through your platoon leader. You’ll also be a section leader, and he’ll cover that with you. Any questions?”
“Just one sir. If no one has it, can I get my old call sign back?” asked Cory
“What was it?”
“Sir, it was Chicken-man One-Niner,” Cory said with a grin.
“I don’t think anyone has that one. Talk to Ops, and if no one has it you can have it again. Tell them to assign it to you now. Any other questions?”
The major stood, and Cory realized that this was the end of this interview. “No, sir, no questions, just glad to be here.”
Major Adams moved behind his desk as Cory came to attention and saluted.
As Cory departed the orderly room, Major Adams picked up the field phone and told the operator to connect him to Operations.
“Captain Beauchamp, sir,” the Operations officer responded.
“Captain Beauchamp, Lieutenant Cory is coming over to see you. Can he get his old call sign back, Chicken-man One-Niner?” the major asked.
“Yes, sir. That call sign hasn’t been assigned since he left. No problem,” Captain Beauchamp stated.
“Okay, assign it to him now, and after a couple of flights you can cut AC orders on him.”
“Roger, sir, anything else?”
“That’s all,” the major stated and hung up.
It was close to evening chow time, and aircraft could be heard returning to the Chicken Pen. Cory figured he would head to the officers’ club for a beer before dinner and meet some of his fellow pilots, new and old guys. The club was dark inside compared to the bright sunlight outside, so it took Cory’s eyes a few seconds to adjust, but when they did, he saw nothing had changed except someone had placed a miniature Christmas tree on the end of the bar. The stone-and-concrete bar was to the immediate right, spanning a distance of twenty feet from the exterior wall to a rubber tree that grew up through the roof. When the club had been built, rubber trees couldn’t be cut down, so the club had been built around the tree. There were ten pedestal tables and forty wood chairs scattered around the room and ten barstools along the bar. The plywood interior walls had been stained brown to show the grain but also made the club rather dark. Single-bulb lights hung from the ceiling with homemade coffee can shades covering them. A large ice chest behind the bar was stocked each day from the ice machine in the unit mess hall. Beer and soda were stored in a CONEX container that was built into the wall. A Vietnamese woman, Sam, was still working behind the bar. About twenty years old and rather attractive, she had been the club manager since the club had been built a year ago. She was not a boom-boom girl, and heaven help the pilot that thought she was. How she’d gotten the job was a mystery to Cory, but she had been hired by Major Bobby Saunders, a previous company commander. She even lived in the company area, as it was well after curfew before the club closed and she couldn’t be walking around the base camp. The Vietnamese woman who was the bartender at the EM club shared a hooch with her.
Seeing Stu already perched on a barstool, Cory joined him. “I see some things don’t change,” Cory said as he planted his butt on a stool. “Sam, can I have a beer, please?”
Sam looked up as she reached into the ice chest to retrieve a cold one. It didn’t register immediately who this new pilot was. “You new here? You look like guy here before. Where you come from?” she said as she passed over the cold beer. “That two bits,” Sam said, using American slang.
“Yeah, Sam, I’ve been told I look like a pilot that was here, Dan Cory.” Stu sat there with a straight face, but he was laughing inside.
“Yeah, you look like him, but he go home.” Then facial recognition kicked in. “Hey, it you, Lieutenant! What you do here? You go home.”
“Sam, I just missed you so much I had to come back.”24
“You number ten crazy,” Sam said as she threw a wet bar towel at Cory, which missed and landed on the floor. Laughing, he picked it up and handed it to her. Resuming his place on the barstool, Cory turned to Stu.
“So how has the flying been since I left?” he asked.
“Things quieted down for a bit after you left but have started to pick up again. After Cambodia, the gooks were in no position to do much, so the flying was mostly resupply around Song Be. Then we started backhauling people to Bien Hoa as the grunts started standing down while we were flying more missions in support of the ARVNs. Now it’s almost exclusively in support of the ARVNs, and a lot of cross-border operations. Each ARVN unit has a US advisor or two and that’s who we talk to. They get the loads ready. I’ve had to pull liaison with the ARVN brigade headquarters here at Lai Khe a couple of times.”
“How’s that duty?”
“It isn’t bad. Mostly find out what they want for missions the next day and come back and get with Ops to schedule the missions, then back to their headquarters and give them the missions. Seems to be working okay.”
“Well, what all is left here at Lai Khe?”
“Let’s see—us, Lobos, a US engineer brigade headquarters and an MP company as well as the Robin Hoods. Word is that the engineer brigade is pulling out by next week. The Robin Hoods are leaving sometime soon for places unknown. Lobo’s moving to someplace south to fly for First Aviation Brigade, and that’ll leave us and the MP company. Oh, there’s also a US Army dentist with one assistant over at the ARVN compound. He comes over all the time for company and the club. Civilian contractors are manning the fire station and are responsible for all the handover of installation property. They’ve been busy,” Stu went on. As Stu spoke another pilot walked in and took the stool next to Cory.
“Beer Sam, please and one for these two,” Lieutenant Alston Gore said tossing his head towards Cory and Stu. Cory turned to face his new best friend.
“Thank you. Dan Cory,” Dan said extend
ing his hand.
“Your welcome but why thank me?” Alston responded.
“Well you just ordered me a beer,” Cory said with a bit of confusion.
Accepting Cory’s hand, Alston said with a wide grin, “Yea, I ordered you two a beer. Didn’t say I was buying you a beer.” Alston Gore was the Distinguished Military Graduate for the Reserve Officer Training Corps of Cadets at Clemson University, class of 1969. He was from South Carolina and proud of that fact. The rest of the evening was spent catching up on who had left, who had come in, who were the good newbie pilots and who were the clueless ones. Several old pilots Cory had flown with were surprised to come into the club and find him there. “Are you nuts?” he was asked more than once. Mike George had a few choice words when he saw Cory, as did Lou Price. Both had just signed up for their extensions, first for Lou and second for Mike. The three amigos were back together again.
Chapter 20
No Blade Strikes
“Hey, Kelly, what we got today?” asked Dorsey as he approached the aircraft with the two M60 machine guns. Kelly was in the process of checking the engine over with his flashlight before the pilots arrived and conducted their morning preflight.
“Not sure, but I suspect it’s a resupply for the ARVNs again today. Really doesn’t make a difference who we’re flying for or what we’re flying. It’s just another day closer to going home. Let’s get loaded up. Here comes Mr. Fender,” Kelly indicated as he mounted his gun. Kelly’s normal AC was Mike George, who was on his thirty-day extension leave in California.
“Morning, ladies,” Mr. Fender said as he tossed his helmet into the AC seat.
“Morning, sir,” Kelly responded.
“Who you flying with today, Mr. Fender?” Dorsey asked.
“Today we have the privilege of flying with Mr. Reid.”
“Isn’t he that crazy dude that thinks he can dance and comes over to the EM club to dance with the brothers?” Kelly asked.
“I think he is,” responded Dorsey, adding, “Brothers say he can’t dance for shit.” About this time, Mr. Reid came walking up, calling Fender’s name as it was still dark and he wasn’t sure which aircraft was Fender’s for the day.
“Over here, Reid,” Fender called out.
Mr. Reid apologized for being the last one to the aircraft and began his preflight right away while Fender checked the rotor head. Once that was completed, the pilots climbed into their seats and strapped in.
“Okay, crew, here’s what we have for today. We’ll be doing some insertions around Loc Ninh for the morning, and if nothing else comes up, we’ll be heading home in the early afternoon. The weather today is going to be crappy, so keep your eyes open for low-flying fast movers. Any questions? If not, let’s get going.” And with that, Mr. Reid started the engine and the crew took up their positions, clearing the aircraft as they pulled out of the revetment and took the runway.
The morning lift missions were routine. No enemy were encountered and no enemy contact was expected. Departing Loc Ninh to return to Lai Khe, everyone heard the mayday call over the radio. The voice had a Vietnamese accent.
“Mayday, mayday, King Bee Two, go down…”
The pilot gave his coordinates, which Fender wrote down. He looked at his map. “Come to a two-twenty heading. This guy isn’t that far away,” Fender said, looking out front and glancing back to his map.
Kelly was the first to spot the UH-1H helicopter lying on its side in a large clearing.
“Mr. Fender, there’s a bird at our ten o’clock,” Kelly reported over the intercom.
“I got it.” Fender took the aircraft, turning sharply towards the downed Huey and establishing a tight orbit over it. Movement could be seen in the cockpit, but no one was in the open ground or approaching the aircraft.
“Okay, it appears that someone is alive down there. How ’bout we go get them?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah,” Kelly responded, with Dorsey echoing his comment.
“Fine by me. Let’s go,” Mr. Reid said. And with that, Fender lowered the collective and began a diving turn towards the downed aircraft. As they continued down, whiffs of smoke appeared. Something was burning. The crash site was littered with stumps and surrounded by tall trees. As they came to the crash site and their approach slowed, small-arms fire from the tree line commenced. Dorsey and Kelly both engaged with the M60 machine guns, silencing some fire only to have fire from another location engage. About thirty feet from the crash, Fender spotted an area big enough to set the aircraft down without shoving a stump into a fuel cell. Upon touching down, Dorsey jumped out and ran to the crash. Kelly, who had silenced the enemy fire on his side of the aircraft, moved over to take Dorsey’s gun and continued to engage the tree line.
Reaching the downed aircraft, Dorsey found four individuals. The crew chief appeared to have a couple of broken bones but was the easiest to retrieve, so Dorsey grabbed him in a fireman carry and ran back to his aircraft. Being a fairly strapping six-foot-one-inch fellow, he had no problem picking up a Vietnamese soldier who was all of five foot two and one hundred pounds and tossing him into the aircraft. Sprinting back to the crash, he retrieved the other non-pilot crew member, who also just had a broken leg.
Returning for the pilots was a different story. Both were hurt and only one was conscious. The copilot was incoherent and babbling in Vietnamese. He had a gash across this throat that was bleeding but not pumping a geyser of blood. When Dorsey got him back to the aircraft, Kelly alternated between keeping direct pressure on the copilot’s throat and firing on the tree line with his M16 rifle. Returning to the crash for the fourth time, Don dragged the unconscious pilot with a nasty leg wound from the burning aircraft and dove back into the UH-1H as Fender was applying power to get out of there. As they were coming out, Kelly and Dorsey were tearing through the four first aid kits on the aircraft when a slapping sound was heard.
“Did we hit a tree?” asked Fender.
“I don’t know, sir,” Kelly responded. “How do the controls feel? I don’t hear any indication that the blade is damaged.”
“You can hear if a blade is damaged?” Mr. Reid asked.
“Yeah, you’ll hear a whistling sound if the skin on the blade is torn or if a bullet passed through it. A lot of times, sound will be your first indication of trouble.
“You want to take it and head for Lai Khe? I’ll call for an ambulance to meet us at the tower and call Maintenance to have someone come look at the aircraft to see that the blades are okay.”
“I’ve got it,” Mr. Reid replied and took the controls. Fender got on the radios and made the appropriate calls. When they landed at Lai Khe, an ambulance was standing by to take the Vietnamese crew. Once they were offloaded, Reid repositioned the aircraft to the Chicken Pen and shut the aircraft down. Captain Head, the maintenance officer, was waiting for them. He noticed the blood and discarded bandages in the cabin.
“What happened?” he asked. Fender went into detail, explaining the rescue and possible blade strike coming out to the crash site. Captain Head examined the blades and found no damage but said he would have the blades tracked to make sure they were aligned.
“Wait here and I’ll send out the guys to track it,” Captain Head indicated, departing to get the equipment and team. Returning to the aircraft, which Kelly and Dorsey were now scrubbing with brushes and water, Captain Head gave Fender the signal to crank the aircraft, which he did. Once the aircraft was at full rpm, the tracking team went to work.
In order to track a main rotor, the main rotor had to be at full rpm, which was 324 rpm. The tracking team had a tall pole with two three-foot-long protruding bars sticking out at a ninety-degree angle on one side, spaced three feet apart, the topmost located at the top of the pole. It looked like a giant letter “F”. A piece of masking tape was positioned between the two horizontal bars. Prior to starting the aircraft, a red magic marker was taped to the end of one rotor blade, pointing outward, and a green marker to the other
. As the rotor turned, the pole with the tape was slowly walked into the rotor blade just enough for the magic markers to make a mark on the tape without breaking the tape. If the two marks lined up, then the rotor blades were considered to be tracking properly. If not, then the aircraft was shut down and adjustments to the rotor blades were made and the whole procedure was done over again until the two marks lined up. In this case, Fender’s rotor blades were tracking. If he had hit something, no damage was done.
“Hey, Mr. Fender—the CO wants to see you and your crew in his office when you finish up here.” It was the 1SG.
“Okay, First Sergeant, we’ll be over in about ten minutes if that’s okay.”
“I’ll tell him, sir.”
Wonder what this is about, Fender thought. When the tracking was completed, everyone walked back to the CO’s office, stopping briefly to help Dorsey clean the guns and put them away. When they entered the orderly room, the 1SG went into the CO’s office and announced their arrival.
“Go ahead and report to the CO.” Being told to “report” had a certain meaning in military jargon. It meant “Don’t go in and be looking for a beer, but go in, come to the position of attention, salute and state, ‘Sir, so-and-so reporting as ordered.’” Once the salute was returned, you were to drop your salute and remain at the position of attention until told to stand at ease. Fortunately, Fender had briefed his crew before they went in, and they all demonstrated the proper military decorum.
After returning their salute, the CO said, “Stand at ease. Specialist Kelly, you’re the crew chief, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Kelly replied.
“Dorsey, you are the gunner, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” If he’s the crew chief and they’re the pilots, wouldn’t I be the gunner? Dorsey was thinking.
“So why didn’t you two clear the aircraft out of the LZ and avoid the tree?” the CO asked. “Tree strikes are serious matters. What were you doing to allow this to happen?” It was obvious that the CO didn’t know the whole story and had only heard that there had been a tree strike.