by Hugh Mills
Though the motto on the new patch was Low Level Hell, the scout platoon was flying high. We knew our business. We all had miniguns strapped to our birds. We were scouring the countryside and finding the enemy every day. We were killing enemy every day. We hadn't lost a single man in the platoon as the result of combat action. And the Darkhorse reputation was spreading—we were a pretty damned hot bunch of fliers.
Our increasingly cavalier attitude didn't prepare us for what was about to happen.
A few days later, on 24 June, Jim Ameigh (One Five) and I were the scouts for two hunter-killer teams that had left Phu Loi early that morning to work an area around the Quan Loi airstrip. Captain Mike Woods (Three Five) was my gun pilot, and we worked for about ten hours with Ameigh and his gun, reconning from Quan Loi and An Loc in the south, on up Highway 13 to Loc Ninh in the north. We ended the operation about 1700, and the four of us met at Quan Loi for the flight back down Thunder Road to our base at Phu Loi.
On that day I was flying with an observer pilot in the left front seat instead of a crew chief in back. Artillery 1st Lt. Dwight Cheek had just recently come into the unit and was flying with me as a scout pilot in training. He already knew the OH-6 pretty well, having taken advanced training in the Loach and served some time as an OH-6 instructor pilot before coming to Vietnam.
Ameigh's door gunner for the day was an experienced young crew chief by the name of Jim Slater. On the ride home from Quan Loi, both Ameigh and Slater were especially elated because they had made contact with enemy patrols that day and had scored confirmed kills—Slater out the back door with his M-60, and Ameigh with his minigun.
As we climbed out of Quan Loi, Woods in the lead Cobra got on the artillery frequency and asked for a status report.
Quan Loi artillery came right back. “Roger, Darkhorse. Quan Loi is cold … negative outgoing fires. Contact Lai Khe artillery north Thunder Three for Lai Khe advisories. Lai Khe arty is currently shooting 105s to the south and southeast. Good day.”
With Ameigh's bird tight on my left wing, we headed down Highway 13 at eighty to ninety knots. As we approached Thunder One, Woods called up again, asking arty status from Lai Khe artillery.
They responded: “OK, Darkhorse flight of four, we've got 105s shooting out of Lai Khe, max ord three thousand feet. You are cleared direct to Phu Loi as long as you stay along the highway, and under two thousand feet for a safety buffer.”
Three Five rogered that with the comment that the guns were running at slightly under fifteen hundred feet and the scouts were down on the deck at a hundred feet or so off the ground. Ameigh and I were low because it was beginning to get dark, which gave us the opportunity to scout the road and maybe catch a bad guy planting a mine or digging a spider hole.
A couple of kilometers north of Lai Khe, Ameigh and I saw a group of our M-551 Sheridan tanks and M-113 ACAVs that were getting loggered in for the night. They were on the west side of the road and, in size, looked like about a troop or squadron-minus of armored cavalry.
As we flew over the tanks, Woods radioed from his fifteen-hundred-foot position. “Hey, One Six, Three Five. You guys are going to have to either turn on some lights or come up to altitude. I'm having trouble seeing you.”
We knew he didn't expect us to turn on our navigation and anticollision lights. The large red-flashing anticollision light mounted on the belly of the OH-6 was so visible that we called it the “target.” Woods really wanted us to come up and get into formation with the snakes.
I came up on UHF to Ameigh. “One Five, this is One Six. Let's take it up to altitude and get on the gun's wing.” I waited for him to come back, or, at a minimum, respond by twice breaking squelch with his transmit switch. But nothing. I heard nothing back.
I was ready to key Ameigh again and repeat the message when Mike Woods broke back in. “One Six, where is One Five? I don't see your wingman. I say again, I do not see One Five. Is he with you?”
I twisted in my seat to look back where Ameigh's ship ought to have been, yelling, “One Five, this is One Six. Where are you? Come on, goddamnit, where in the hell are you?”
No response. I kicked right pedal, pulled full power, and slammed the cyclic right. Coming hard around in a tight descending, decelerating turn, I scoured the sky for Ameigh's bird. Nothing. He wasn't there.
I flew several large circles, looking around the immediate area. He had been right there on my wing; now he was gone. Not a sign of him anywhere.
Mike Woods on VHF and I on UHF both appealed to Ameigh to come up on either frequency. Nothing.
On about my fourth circle around the area, I caught sight of a wisp of white smoke trailing up out of the jungle. A cold chill went through me. I moved directly over the smoke and tried to see through the trees. Suddenly I was nearly overcome by the smell of CS gas. The stream of smoke coming up from the jungle floor was riot gas, apparently from a burning CS canister. All the scout OH-6s carried CS canisters.
Eyes heavily watering from the gas fumes, I looked down and saw a hole in the jungle with tops of trees chopped off all around it, as if a giant woodsman had taken a blunt ax and splintered them away.
It was getting so dark that seeing all the way to the ground was almost impossible. But something white caught my eye. Straining through the faint light I could tell that it was definitely the open engine cowl door of an OH-6. The inside engine compartment of all OH-6s is painted white. And the only OH-6 not accounted for at that moment was Jim Ameigh's.
“Three Five, One Six. I've got the bird—he's down in the jungle. No apparent fire, but a CS gas canister must be popped. I see no sign of life. The aircraft is on its side. I can't see very well, but I think the bird's engine is still running because I can also smell JP-4 exhaust.”
By this time Woods was circling above me and had informed Darkhorse ops at Phu Loi that Ameigh was down. He keyed me and asked, “Do you want me to scramble the ARPs?”
“Negative, let's hold on that. There's no lima zulu to put ‘em down. It's getting too dark and it's too far from Thunder Road to put them in there and expect they'd find the bird out here in the jungle. We gotta do something quicker than that.”
“OK, I roger that, One Six. How about those tanks we just passed back on Thunder. Do you suppose they could get in here to the wreck?”
“I don't know, but it's worth a try,” I answered. “Let's get over to them.”
Woods gave me a steer. The tanks we had passed were about two kilometers to the north and west. I also needed a frequency to talk to them. Since Cobras worked with all the ground units routinely, Three Five came right back with the FM push and call sign.
I hit it immediately. “Tanker, Tanker, this is Darkhorse on fox mike. Any unit in vicinity Thunder Road south of tango one [FSB Thunder I], please come up this push and talk to me.”
Almost immediately a voice answered. “This is Tanker Six. What do you need, Darkhorse?”
“Tanker Six, this is Darkhorse One Six. We've got a downed bird just south and east of your logger location. Aircraft with pilot and crew chief down. I cannot get to them. I need you to bust a trail through the jungle. Can you do it?”
Immediately and unhesitatingly, Tanker Six responded. “Roger, stand by. Is that you in the little bird?”
“Yes, I'm in the little bird with a heavy gun team over me.”
“Roger, Darkhorse. Lead on. I'll get my guys up on our frequency, and I'll follow you on this push.”
Tanker left the frequency momentarily as I circled low overhead. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose amidst the armored vehicles below. Tank crewmen who had been lounging around on the backs of their vehicles and ACAVs in all states of dress and undress sprang up, donned flak jackets, grabbed M-16s and helmets, and disappeared into their armored vehicles.
In just seconds, engines were fired up and the column began moving out of its night defensive position. The lead Sheridan steered right up onto Highway 13 and toward me where I was now hovering just south of their logger area.
/>
As his column formed up on the road, Tanker came back on the FM frequency. “Darkhorse One Six, Tanker Six. What are the circumstances of the crash? Do we have enemy ground fire?”
“Negative, Tanker Six. If we had enemy ground fire, I did not hear it. Circumstances are unknown why the bird is down. Two souls on board, a pilot and a gunner.”
“Roger, Darkhorse. We'll follow you and try to bust a trail to the site.”
I headed off south down the road with the armored column following, sending up a swirl of red dust. When I reached a point on the road that was approximately ninety degrees and adjacent to the crash site, I pulled up and hit the radio to Tanker. “I'm going to leave you here. I'll hang east and go directly to the downed bird and hover over it. You can aim on me as you come off the road, but I'll be back overhead to correct your steering as you bust toward the site.
“Be aware that CS is coming up from what may be a ruptured canister. There is also hot ordnance on board. The aircraft engine appears to still be running, and the bird's tanks are full of JP-4.”
As if all that made his job any easier, Tanker Six rogered my transmission and sent his lead Sheridan off the road into the jungle.
I flew on over to the crash site, circled a few times trying to see down into the dark jungle hole, then returned to the armored column to see how they were doing. The Sheridan out front was knocking down everything in its path. Trees fell and the low vegetation was being ground to pulp under the heavy tank treads. The ACAVs followed the big M-551 toward Ameigh's downed ship.
Every once in awhile I keyed Tanker to alter his course a few degrees one way or the other, until the column finally gained a position about forty meters out from the crash site. “OK, Tanker,” I said, “let's stop the lead track here and put some of your people on foot so your column doesn't overrun the aircraft. The downed bird is now about forty meters directly to your front.”
The lead tank rolled to a halt. Several soldiers jumped off the 113s and took up positions out front and to the sides of the big Sheridan. Then the column started moving slowly ahead.
It was now very, very dark. I could hardly see the armored column when it stopped again, this time about fifteen meters from Ameigh's battered OH-6. As the rest of the soldiers poured out of the ACAVs, I moved my bird into a wider orbit around the crash site so the sound of my aircraft would not disrupt what they were trying to do on the ground.
Suddenly my FM radio crackled. “Darkhorse, Darkhorse, this is Tanker. We're at the bird. The aircraft is still running … say again … still running. It sounds like a full-bore runaway jet engine that could explode any second. What should we do?”
“What's the condition of the aircraft?” I asked.
“The chopper appears to be on its side, possibly upside down. The rotors have been torn off, and the engine is going max RPMs. Can't see pilot or door gunner. We're afraid the whole thing could go up any minute. Can you tell us how to shut down the engine? Need instructions.”
I thought for a second. There was no way I could explain to those soldiers how to get into the cockpit and turn off that aircraft. I had to get down there and do it myself.
I went back to Tanker. “You'll never find the engine controls. I need to get down there myself. Can you bust me a landing zone so I can put this Loach down?”
“Sure can,” he answered. “How much of an LZ do you need?”
Without any light to help guide me down into a hole in the jungle, I needed a spot at least fifty feet diameter, as close to the wreck as possible. I also told him that my other crewman was a pilot, and one way or another we'd get in and out of there.
Seconds later, the lead Sheridan cranked up and began to neutral-steer where it was. The tank growled, twisted, and turned in the little area, tearing down trees and bamboo. In three to four minutes, there was a landing zone just a few feet from Ameigh's aircraft. The LZ wasn't flat, not with all those knocked-down trees and other vegetation forming the floor. But when Tanker asked if his freshly carved lima zulu was OK, I told him to back off his Sheridan and let me give it a try.
I turned to Dwight Cheek. “I'm going to set this thing down in that spot the Sheridan just busted, then I'm going to get out of the. ship. When I do, I'd like you to hold it at a hover. We'll be right on top of a bunch of torn-down trees—no solid ground, no firm footing—you'll have to be very easy until I can get over and check out the wreck and see if I can shut down that engine. Do you have any problem with that?” Dwight didn't bat an eye.
I went around to the west and started a run into the LZ at almost a dead hover. Once over the jungle hole, I began to let down vertically, with Cheek and me hanging out the aircraft doors to make sure the tail was clear.
I set her down as lightly as I could on a precarious perch of broken tree limbs and stumps. The little OH-6 began to totter. I lifted her up, turned about three feet to the right, and set her down again.
“OK, Dwight, you've got it. Pull in a little pitch and just hold her right here. I'll be back as quick as I can. Now be ready for a change in weight when I get out of the aircraft.”
I disconnected my helmet and seat belt and slid my right leg out the door. Then I lifted my left leg up and over my cyclic stick, which Cheek was controlling now from his side, and jumped out of the ship.
I landed on a tree limb sticking up about two feet off the ground. Doing a quick balancing act, I worked my way through the branches and into the arms of a couple of troopers who had run over to help me.
They grabbed me and led the way to Ameigh's smashed aircraft. I could hear the high-pitched whine of the jet engine that was still running wild amidst a white cloud of choking CS gas.
Reaching the wreck, I had to momentarily turn away because my eyes were watering so badly. Tears ran down my face, and my nose and mucous membranes poured. I arm-swiped my face with the sleeves of my fatigue jacket.
All the troopers around me were in the same condition. One of them was trying to get relief by standing with his face up in the OH-6's rotor wash, trying to flush out some of the CS gas.
I approached the aircraft and could see that the engine cowl on the right-hand side was open and the ship was lying almost on its back. The noise was almost unbearable. With the downed bird's engine running full blast, the ACAV motors going, and Cheek's Loach hovering, the nearby armored crewman could hardly hear me yell into his ear, “Get me some help in here. We're going to try to lift the ship up enough so I can crawl into the left side of the cabin and get at the engine controls.”
The fuel valve control knob and the battery off-on switch were both located on the console circuit breaker panel between the seats. By going into the left side of the cabin, I could probably get at those switches easier because the left seat was vacant. All I would have to do is find the fuel switch and pull it out; that would immediately cut off the fuel supply to the engine and shut it down.
With the help of about five troopers braving the CS gas, we lifted the left side of the aircraft about eighteen inches off the ground. The armor guys held it there momentarily, and I slithered into the cabin. I immediately started feeling around to get a fix on where things were.
It was black as pitch. My initial reaction was that absolutely nothing was where it ought to be in a normal Loach cockpit. Things were torn loose. Everything seemed crushed over on top of itself, accordion style. Finding that fuel cutoff was going to be some kind of trick. Damn! If I could only see something. This mother could go sky high any second!
With the fingers of my right hand, I felt my way up over what should have been the back of the left front seat. Then on to where the console and the circuit breaker panel were between the seats, where, with a little luck, I'd find the push-pull fuel shutoff valve control.
God, it was eerie in there! Everything bashed to hell, Jim Ameigh and Slater in there someplace, in what condition I couldn't imagine, and the aircraft's engine running red-line and tearing itself apart.
Groping wildly now, my fingers suddenl
y touched the fuel valve. I yanked it hard, and to my utter horror the whole switch assembly—valve, cable, and all—tore loose out of the panel and into my hand.
The engine whined on. My eyes burned from CS gas and from the sheer frustration of the ripped-out valve. My thoughts raced, trying to figure out what I could do now.
A last resort occurred to me—try to shut her down at the engine itself. I backed out of the aircraft. The soldiers helped me relift the OH-6 so I could crawl into the engine cowl door.
I really couldn't tell what I was dealing with in there, but I felt a push-pull tube on the fuel control that seemed to be the throttle linkage. When I pulled and turned it, the fuel shut off. The engine wound down and stopped.
Now I had to get back into the wreck and see about Ameigh and Slater. As I crawled into the rear cargo compartment, one of the soldiers wiggled in behind me. He didn't have a shirt on, but a medical bag was tied around his neck.
“I'm the medic,” he said. “How many casualties have you got, sir?”
“I don't know, I can't tell yet, but the crew chief should be right here.”
Groping in the dark, I suddenly brushed against a leg. I assumed it was Jim Slater's. He was still strapped into the gunner's seat, his upper body bent forward where the caved-in engine and transmission had pushed him. With the wrecked aircraft inverted, he was hanging upside down from the roof.
I reached up and held Slater around the waist as I punched the automatic seat belt release. I kept jabbing at the*release but nothing came loose. The damned thing must have jammed. I was frantic. What I didn't realize was that Slater was also attached to his monkey strap, which was still holding him securely in place.
I moved around to the right and Doc came up into the cargo hold with me. There was about three feet of headroom, with our knees on the ground.
I pulled out my survival knife, and with both Doc and me cradling him, I cut through Slater's belts. His body fell into our arms like a heavy sack of wheat. We yelled to the soldiers outside to lift the aircraft again so we could pull Slater out.