Finally Captain Thrill told the ground units to fall back 200 yards so he could use rockets and machine guns without endangering them. Before he got the okay that all the ground units had moved, he started his gun runs and blasted the zips lying down in the tall elephant grass. It was a miracle no ground Marines got killed by this loose cannon. He shot the living shit out of the high grass the 7th Marines had marked with their WP mortar round. He bitched and complained about my M-60 not working and how I was an idiot. I sat there and had to listen to his bullshit.
He then landed the chopper at our base, but instead of parking it, he drove it over to the ordnance bunker. He got Gunny Sergeant Bang to personally show us all the different 2.75 rockets available to a gunship, as if this was an ordnance problem. If he wanted special rockets loaded, he needed to request them. It wasn’t the responsibility of the crew chief or the gunner. Captain Thrill believed we could park by the ordnance bunker and personally go in and pick and choose our rockets. No way, Jose! Gunny Sergeant Bang then told Captain Thrill he had to order his ordnance the night before, and that helicopter crews didn’t go into the ordnance bunkers as if they were shopping in the PX. One dropped 2.75 rocket and we could all get blown to Kingdom Come. This pissed off our hero, Captain Thrill, who then decided to see if I could remove the gas piston from my M-60 barrel. I had had a year of experience cleaning, taking apart, and reassembling the M-60. I took out the gas piston and it was spotless and inside the barrel correctly.
Gunny Sergeant Blast inspected the M-60 barrel and found that it was not machined properly. Apparently it had never been test-fired, simply dumped in a box and shipped to ’Nam. Whoever made that barrel should have been taken out and shot. It could have cost a Marine’s life, especially the life of a grunt gunner on the ground. Did I get an apology from Captain Thrill, who had called me just about every name in the book? He simply called it bad workmanship, said the government should more carefully review whom they buy their barrels from, and walked out.
Corporal Cross and I had the extreme displeasure of having the Dynamic Duo with us on five occasions. Whenever something went wrong it was our fault. We made a solemn vow that whenever Captain Thrill came out to sign for Lucky #7, Corporal Cross would squirt the main rotor with hydraulic fluid, then down the chopper for repairs. Thus Captain Thrill would have to pick another bird to use and abuse. The crew chief has the final word on whether a helicopter is airworthy or not. One time, Corporal Cross downed the bird for a full ashtray, and almost got busted when Captain Thrill found out about it. In short, we both had had enough of Captain Thrill and Lieutenant Seeker, and decided to let them annoy some other crew.
About six months after we had flown with them, we were surprised to learn that Captain Thrill was to receive a Distinguished Flying Cross and Lieutenant Seeker a Silver Star. Believe it or not, this was for a shoot-out that Corporal Cross and myself were on. We were dumb-founded to learn that they never took our statements, and later we had to stand in 108 degree heat and listen all about their daring deeds.
The award was total bullshit. It seems that the grunt ground commander wrote them up. All Corporal Cross and I got were dirty M-60s to clean and a lot of backtalk. We couldn’t for the life of us remember a day we got into anything serious with these two clowns. The roughest day we had with them, we came back with only two bullet holes in the chopper. It is always amazing what two bullshit artists can pull off. There’s an old saying: “It takes a bullshit artist to know one.” I rest my case!
THE DAY OF THE GENERAL
One day we got stuck with the boring mission of taking a helicopter up to III MAF Headquarters to pick up a Brigadier General by the name of General Robbins. He wanted to tour the lower part of I-Corps from Da Nang to Quang Ngai City. This required a slick helicopter with doors for VIP transport, armed with one M-60, and one gunbird as escort. A new Captain named Captain Buzz drove the slick. He was a rather small guy but had a big smile and a hard handshake. You saluted the Captain and then shook his hand. He was okay and reminded me of a kid I knew in grammar school.
We drove to III MAF Headquarters, General Robbins got in, and the sightseeing tour was on. He wanted to see our base at Chu Lai, so we made a stop, and then he decided he wanted the real tour. He asked Major Moose if we could park the slick and pick up another gunbird and head out to where the bad guys were.
We were all quite surprised and happy with this change. He sat in the rear of Lucky #7 gunbird and the Major showed him how we had redeveloped the area around Chu Lai. The General was amazed at all the bomb holes and burnt-out villages, and the hill where we had dumped Agent Orange. The Major had a story for every location. It was like a living history tour of Gettysburg National Park, except this was the Marines’ handiwork. We had just about blown the shit out of every village within ten miles of our base. The General said it must have been a busy season or, as the Major put it, open season on the local VC sloop heads.
We flew up the coast past our base to the provincial ARVN Headquarters at Tam Ky, where the First Marine Air Wing kept bladders of JP-4 fuel, M-60 ammo belts and our 2.75 rocket supply in metal Conex boxes. Since we were low on fuel, we needed to land and gas up. We also all had to take a leak, so we stood in a line and pissed.
The Major made it into a contest, warning that his piss would go farther than the General’s, Corporal Cross’s and mine, and he did indeed out-piss us all. General Robbins said he had had enough of yes men at III MAF, and wanted to see for himself areas he only read reports about or saw on tactical maps. Corporal Cross got out the gas pump and hooked it up to a 50-gallon drum. I started pumping gas and Corporal Cross held the fuel line. This was a labor-intensive process, but necessary. Usually we took turns pumping the gas in.
I looked over my shoulder and saw a group of 20 or so guys in black pajamas running across a field toward our two refueling choppers. They were shooting their weapons, and we figured this was some type of ARVN drill or practice and that they were shooting blanks. It seemed inconceivable that we would come under attack in a secure ARVN base surrounded by a minefield, walls and miles of barbed wire. As the zips got closer, we could hear the 7.62 x 39 bullets crack by our ears. This was no training operation—these were real bullets! It was a broad daylight attack inside an ARVN compound, and there was not an ARVN soldier in sight to help us.
It was absolutely unbelievable—like fighting VCs inside Fort Dix. How the hell did they get into a base where an army of South Vietnamese soldiers lived and trained? We were clearly going to have to do all the fighting, while the well-armed ARVN cowards equipped with M-16s sat on their asses listening to their Sony boom boxes.
We had to get our act together very quickly. I handed the gas pump to the General, who started pumping JP-4 fuel as Corporal Cross and I opened fire on the charging VCs. Both gunbirds opened up with four M-60s blasting away. We killed a lot of them and stopped their bold attack. We dropped the pump, and the General jumped in the back. Usually helicopters taxi down a runway then gradually take off, but we needed to take off quickly. Lucky #7 got revved up like a dragster at Atco Speedway. We had to get up enough thrust to get over an electrical power line. The Major told us all that if we didn’t clear the wire, our skids would catch it and we would crash and burn. He said a prayer and so did I, and we went for it.
We took off loaded down with a full fuel tank, a complete load of ammo and rockets, and the extra weight of an additional passenger—the General. We cleared the power line by one foot. While all this was going on, the remaining VC were shooting at our bird and Corporal Cross and I were busy spraying them with M-60 fire. Through the grace of God, the other gunbird also cleared the power line, and we both circled for a rocket run on what was left of the VCs.
The only trouble with this move was that it would piss off the ARVN General in charge of the fort if we blew up part of his marching field and outer buildings. We asked the General what he wanted us to do. He was still in shock about what had just transpired. “We better haul ass ou
t of here and forget it ever happened!” he exclaimed. We figured we had killed or wounded at least 15 VCs. The General got an exciting afternoon ride, we got a great shoot-’em-up, and the Major was right—you couldn’t trust any Vietnamese, North or South. Period! Everyone was amazed that I had handed the gas pump to the General and that he had pumped gas while we shot at the zips.
We landed back at the base, switched the General back into the original slick, and Captain Buzz drove him back to III MAF Headquarters. The General thanked us and said we all deserved a medal for bravery, but we had better keep the mission secret because he was officially not allowed to go to a dangerous area. He said we all would get in a world of shit if III MAF Headquarters found out what had happened.
We saluted the General and he left with a big smile on his face saying he owed Klondike a favor and to call him when we needed it. A week later, to our amazement, both Corporal Cross and I received personal thank you letters on the General’s official stationary, once again thanking us for an exciting day and for saving his life. I sent my letter home to my father in the States and he had it framed. What the Marine Corps needed were more Generals like General Robbins. He was a stand-up guy!
THEY DIED WITH THEIR BOOTS ON
We got an urgent call one sunny day to send two gunbirds out to save a company of Marines who were pinned down by heavy machine gun fire. Our next-door neighbor, Squadron 263, launched two CH-34 Med-Evac helicopters to take the wounded out. We were to suppress the machine gun fire coming from a fortified tree line, and make sure the landing zone was safe for the choppers to land and pick up the wounded. The grunts marked the tree line with a 60mm Willie Peter mortar round, and we made repeated rocket and machine gun runs on it. The zips were not your stock 327 VCs; they were well-armed North Vietnamese Army troops. They were dug in, and the rocket and machine gun runs had no effect on them. They simply went into their tunnel system and hid.
We flew low and took a lot of fire. After both gunbirds got hit numerous times and the Marines were still pinned down, Major Moose decided to call in fixed-wing F-4 Phantom jets from our old buddy Oxwood. In about five minutes, 1-1 and 1-2 came over. We marked the tree line with red smoke and the Major called in the compass direction. The first F-4 came in and dropped its load of 500-pound bombs; the second came in and dropped its canisters of napalm. One canister didn’t go off, but skipped across the ground like a flat stone skips across a lake and headed for the Marines, who were a good 400 yards away. They saw it coming and got up and started running for their lives. I saw five Marines running as fast as they could with all their gear on in 110 degree heat. The napalm hit them and they disappeared into a ball of fire and smoke. I could smell the smell of burning flesh and the five Marines ceased to exist.
Me on patrol looking for Paddy Hopping Hawkins. Notice the bi-pods on M-14 rifle with magazines taped together.
The landscape at Chu Lai, showing our muddy bunkers.
The Navy Corpsman I nicknamed “Corpsman Cure-all” in front of his hospital at Marble Mountain. He put 18 stitches in my head.
A white CIA Huey that came in for a free refueling.
Me standing next to an M-48 tank. Note the Confederate battle flag.
My dog Prince, who the ’Yards ate for lunch.
Jungle Survival School.
Me in front of Marble Mountain’s water buffalo that “Punchy the Monkey” turned on.
The bunker from hell that took almost a month to build, only to fill with water.
Me, complete with wet pants inside my hootch—monsoon season at Chu Lai.
Christmas cards I had personally made. Note one bullet in my helmet, meaning we will fight to the last round.
Gunbird 16—my seat on right side behind pilot. Notice my gunner belt, helmet, extra boxes of M-60 belts, flak jacket, outside M-60 barrels and a box of C-rations. We are ready to go!
Me with my helmet on and big smile. We all lived through a hard day.
Guarding the beach at Ky Ha.
One of my first pictures as a door gunner, early 1966.
Me with my Seabee buddy drinking 33 Tiger beer in the village on the island.
Coming in for a carrier landing after a misson.
Getting ready to ride with Major Misery—not a happy event.
The sad day I received my Dear John letter.
My white Russian R&R friend from Hong Kong.
The LST that washed up on the rocks at Chu Lai.
The same LST after the Navy cut it up.
Me on boat getting ready to visit the island where the Marines had a rocket base.
A village complex in the free fire area—chock full of bad guys.
Taking enemy fire on the ground near Tam Ka, an ARVN compound.
The day I made my famous swim out to the Navy hospital ship Sanctuary.
Me in Australia at a Hawaiian party.
Me dressed as a pirate in Australia.
The village is on fire.
Gunbird 16—recovered after we got shot down.
Me after an exciting day putting covers on outboard M-60’s. I am wearing a new flak vest with plates in it.
Going down low and slow looking for VCs.
A village complex near Quang Ngai—VCs were dug in by the river. F-4’s had just dropped napalm on them.
Flying over village before attack—we took small arms fire and popped a smoke grenade.
Me at Dong Ha, five miles from the DMZ. I’d just gotten back from saving a Recon team on top of a cloudy mountain.
Award ceremony at Ky Ha. Note all the air medals to be awarded that happy day.
After I’d just completed my 240th combat mission.
Getting my last two air medals in 1969, two years after I left the service. My father is standing behind me. Picture was taken at the Marine Corps Reserve Center in Philadelphia. (The last time I wore my uniform.)
We immediately called off the air strikes and went low to see if any of the five had survived. The grunts who walked over the area found only the bottoms of their jungle boots. Friendly fire killed a lot of Marines, and in this case it was a freak accident and there was no one to blame. Both of Oxwood’s Phantom jets left the area, their pilots very saddened by what had transpired. We flew over the tree line and saw that the 500-pound bombs had killed about a dozen NVA, whose various body parts were lying in a huge crater.
We signed off with Land Shark Alpha and returned to base. Both Corporal Cross and I were filled with grief for what we had just witnessed. War is hell. No one had ever imagined anything like this could happen, but in close air support sometimes it gets a little too close. I saw tears in Major Moose’s eyes as he turned off the engine and walked away. It took us a while to get this event out of our minds. From this time on, we took extraordinary precautions to make sure the ground troops were a safe distance away.
THE NUNGS
Not every soldier who fought for the Republic of Vietnam was a worthless ARVN. There were some very good Ranger outfits and then there were the Nungs, Vietnamese troops of Chinese extraction hired by US Special Forces to serve as personal bodyguards and to man special strike units and recon teams. They were the finest indigenous forces in Vietnam. If I ever became a Mafia don, I would have Nungs guarding me. They were professional killing machines who showed no emotion or feelings. The CIA paid them in gold for VC and NVA ears, and they earned every penny. All they wanted was dead gooks’ ears, and at $50.00 apiece they made a fortune.
Of course our friends in the spotless white Air America Huey from the CIA would deny the $50.00-an-ear story, but it is true. The Green Berets usually took the Nungs out in Army Hueys, but once in a while my outfit had the pleasure of dropping off one or two of them out in the boondocks. They were usually placed near the border with Laos near the Ho Chi Minh Trail. They carried a lot of stuff with them in huge backpacks. Some carried AK-47s and some carried World War II era grease guns. We put them into the landing zone, then came back and picked them up in five or six days.
I had
the privilege one day of dropping off two Nungs in the middle of I-Corps. We returned five days later and both men had around 50 Charlie Cong ears hanging around their necks. Both were all smiles as we flew them straight to Da Nang Air Base and MAC-V Headquarters. A ball-less wonder from the CIA, dressed in the usual Hawaiian shirt, escorted them into a debriefing room, where they counted the ears and paid the gold coins out. All this was classified, but most Marines in the Air Wing knew about the Nungs and wished we had them defending our airbase at night. For once in their backstabbing lives, the CIA got what they paid for—professional killers who were not afraid to perform their duties.
LBJ's Hired Gun Page 17