SILVER WINGS. Fort Knox, Kentucky, 1967

SILVER WINGS

Fort Knox, Kentucky, 1967

I pressed my way up to the Echo Company bulletin board to see what everybody was reading. Just pinned up, the notice said that the army was looking for more rotary‑ wing aviators and that interested officer candidates who qualified would be given the opportunity to go on to army flight school after completing officer candidate school (OCS).

I was interested enough to reread the last part. It said that any candidate wishing to pursue aviator training had to submit to an orientation flight in an army helicopter to be conducted from the Fort Knox airfield on a specified future date. I had never considered being a pilot, but taking an army helicopter ride didn’t sound too bad.

The only problem was getting the time off to do it. We were about mid‑ course in OCS training at the armor school and our schedules were hectic. But between field problems, inspections, getting demerits, and working off demerits, I signed up.

I had never ridden in a helicopter. I hadn’t even seen many of them down around Hot Springs, Arkansas, where I grew up. Before enlisting in the army, I had belonged to a sport parachuting club. We jumped, of course, from small, propeller‑ type airplanes, so the concept of being off the ground and flying wasn’t all that new to me.

But flying helicopters? The prospect had never occurred to me. Yet becoming an armor officer candidate at Fort Knox, Kentucky, really hadn’t been in my plans, either.

I had enlisted on 1 February 1967 after one semester of college, with the specific objective of becoming an army airborne infantryman. During basic training at Fort Polk, Louisiana, I decided to go on to OCS. I still wanted the infantry branch but got my second choice, armor, instead.

When the appointed day came to take the army helicopter ride, I and another candidate who had indicated interest got our proper permissions, and off we went down to Fort Knox airfield. Reporting at the flight line, we were greeted by a young army captain. He introduced himself as the pilot who would be taking us on our orientation flight, then pointed over his shoulder to the little helicopter sitting on the ramp.

“That, gentlemen, ” he said, “is the army Cayuse Model OH‑ 6A observation helicopter. It is manufactured by Hughes Tool Company, Aircraft Division, and is basically an all‑ metal, single‑ engine, rotary‑ wing aircraft. ”

The helicopter looked brand new. Its fresh olive‑ drab (OD) finish glistened in the sunlight, and was accented by a yellow number painted at the top of the fuselage and a big United States Army painted across the tail boom. But what most caught my attention was the distinctive shape of the little fuselage. It looked like a teardrop, with the cockpit located in the big end of the drop and the back cabin tapering to the tail of the aircraft.

“This helicopter model, ” the captain continued, “is just now coming into the army’s inventory. This one’s just fresh out of the factory, in fact. And if you’ll come with me, we’ll get strapped in and take it for a little spin. ”

As we walked toward the aircraft, the captain continued his enthusiastic but almost textbook description of the OH‑ 6A. “It’s powered by an Allison T63‑ A‑ 5A turbine engine, ” he recited, “that drives both the four‑ bladed main rotor and the antitorque tail rotor. ”

“What does the army use a helicopter like this for? ” the other candidate asked.

The captain seemed glad for the question. “The OH‑ 6A is primarily an observation helicopter–that’s what the ‘OH’ stands for. It’s mostly designed for doing reconnaissance work at very low level. ”

As we got to the ship, the captain opened both the cockpit and rear cabin doors so we could look inside. “The pilot sits in the right front seat, ” he explained, “and the copilot, or observer, as the case may be, sits in the left seat. That’s a little different from most airplanes you might be familiar with, and though I haven’t been to Nam, I understand that the reason has to do with the way the scout pilots fly their observation patterns in combat. ”

The captain pointed to my fellow candidate. “OK, why don’t you sit up front with me in the copilot’s seat., ., ” then, looking at me, “and, Candidate Mills, you can sit back here in the crew member’s seat on the first leg, then swap into the front when we fly back home. ”

We eagerly climbed into the helicopter while the captain explained how to buckle up, and how the guy in the front seat should put on the flight helmet and plug his headset into the aircraft radios. I didn’t have a helmet in the back, but I’d get my turn.

After securing myself in the seat, I looked around the inside of the ship and was surprised at how little room there was. The captain had said that I was sitting where the crew chief‑ door gunner would sit in combat. If any of those guys was a six footer like me, they must have a heck of a time sandwiching in back with an M‑ 60 machine gun!

I followed what was going on up front by watching through the little window in the bulkhead that separated me from the pilot’s compartment. I couldn’t see much of the magic that the captain was working to start the engine, but the turbine sound soon told me that we were getting ready to go.

The soft whine grew in intensity, and through the glass panel over my head I could see the four rotor blades begin to turn–slowly at first, then accelerating to a circular blur. The sound of the whirling rotors soon drowned out most of the earsplitting engine whine. Then, as if somebody had kicked us square in the seat of the pants, up we went.

Hot damn, I thought, this is all right!

We flew for fifteen to twenty minutes. In the front, the captain was explaining over the intercom what he was doing and what was going on,

It seemed as though we hadn’t anymore than gotten up when we landed again, in a small grassy field out in the country. After the captain shut down the engine, we unstrapped and walked over to a little airport building where we had a cup of coffee and talked. I was having fun asking questions and listening to the captain, but I couldn’t wait to return to the OH‑ 6 for the ride back to Knox, in the front seat this time.

I eagerly climbed into the front seat, hooked the harness, and slipped on the helmet. I felt a tremendous exhilaration, and a fascination with the machine.

I was lost in thought when the captain’s voice popped into my earphones, startling me. He showed me the button on the cyclic stick that I could push to talk back to him, then briefly explained his pre‑ flight checklist and engine‑ starting procedures.

Up again and headed back toward Fort Knox, the captain demonstrated the basic helicopter controls: the collective pitch stick, which made the ship go up and down; the cyclic stick, which controlled the longitudinal pitch of the aircraft; and the foot pedals, which made the ship go right and left. He then explained the purpose of all the buttons on the top of the cyclic stick: the radio‑ intercom, cyclic trim, gun pod elevation‑ depression, armament two‑ position trigger, and two or three others just for spares.

After we reached an altitude of about three thousand feet, the captain came back on the intercom. “OK, Mills, take the controls for a while and see what she’s like. ”

A little hesitantly, I put my feet on the pedals and wrapped my hand around the pistol grip on the cyclic stick. I was thrilled. I was flying an army helicopter!

“Now look at the black ball, ” he said, pointing to the instrument near the upper center of the instrument panel. “What you want to do is keep the black ball in the middle. When it slides out to the left, push a little left pedal until it comes back to the middle. Same to the right. Just step on the ball and keep flying toward the horizon. ”

It worked just the way he said it would, but I found out very quickly that I shouldn’t try to monkey around with the controls. The less I did, the less the aircraft moved around.

All too soon we were back at Fort Knox airfield. Though I didn’t think that I flew all that badly, my fellow candidate in the back cabin was violently airsick when we got down.

But not me. I was feeling good and was extremely excited by the entire experience. I decided on the spot that I wanted to go on to flight school after OCS and learn to really fly the army OH‑ 6 helicopter.

My enthusiasm was duly noted by the captain but quickly forgotten by me. I still had about three months of OCS left, and that demanding schedule left me no time to think about helicopters or wonder whether my application would be approved.

During the last week of OCS, however, I learned that I had been accepted for army flight training. Somehow everything had fallen together. That excitement blended with the deep satisfaction I felt with graduating from OCS.

On 15 December 1967, members of Armor Officer Candidate Class 1‑ 68 passed across the stage of Budinot Hall to receive their commissioning certificates.

It was a proud moment.

Though I had been approved for flight school, my orders hadn’t been cut yet to get me into Fort Wolters for Primary. The lapse gave me time to get in a couple weeks of leave. It was the Christmas season and a great time to be home with my family.

When the orders did come, they were the most unusual I had ever seen. In a couple of short paragraphs, they covered everything I was to do in the army for the next full year–from Fort Knox, Kentucky, to the U. S. Army Primary Helicopter School at Fort Wolters, Texas; from there to Advanced Flight Training School at Fort Rucker, Alabama; then home for leave; and, finally, on to assignment in the Republic of Vietnam.

So, with brand‑ new second‑ lieutenant bars on my shoulders, off I went to helicopter school, where I discovered that there was more to flying an army helicopter than watching the little black ball.

I didn’t waste any time after receiving my army aviator wings at the Rucker graduation ceremony. My gear was already packed in the back of my 390 GT, and I immediately headed back to Arkansas for forty‑ five days of leave at home. My Vietnam travel orders would be sent to me there.

Being home was a period of quiet anxiousness for me. Quiet because I didn’t do much, just saw some friends and water‑ skied. Anxious because I was ready to go to Vietnam. It meant a chance to test my newly acquired skills in combat situations, and I was comfortable with that. I had faith in my equipment, in the people who had taught me, and in the caliber of the people I would be flying with. I was ready for the next chapter of my life.

While I was at home, neither Mother nor Dad even brought up the subject of Vietnam. They knew that’s where my orders would send me, and there wasn’t anymore to be said about it. They were very much aware of what the war in Vietnam was all about. It was inescapable. They had been watching it on the TV news for several years.

Mother did, however, ask me one day, “Hugh, how do you keep your head down in a helicopter? ” I remember answering, “With a great deal of difficulty! ” That kind of flippant response was pretty typical of me. I guess it satisfied Mother because she didn’t mention it again.

My Vietnam orders finally arrived, instructing me to report to San Francisco on 30 December 1968 for transportation to USARV (United States Army Republic of Vietnam).

On New Year’s Day, 1969, I was in Saigon, getting off the bus in front of the headquarters of the 90th Replacement Battalion. This was where we would be processed into the country and receive our tactical unit assignments. For the first time, I felt a twinge of apprehension. I knew where I wanted to be assigned: the 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile), the outfit I had seen so much of in all the training films at flight school. I perceived 1st Cav as the premier unit making Vietnam combat history, and setting the pace on aviation tactics and technology. My second choice was the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. Known as the Blackhorse Regiment, this was an old regular army outfit that dated back to action in the Philippine Insurrection, Mexican Expedition, and World War II. It had been in Vietnam since ‘66, and had made a lot of headlines during 1968, when it was commanded by then Col. George S. Patton III.

But after three days of processing at the 90th, when my assignment was finally posted I was bitterly disappointed to read “1st Infantry Division. ” My first thought was, oh my God, what kind of justice would send an armor officer to an infantry division? I was in sheer panic. I wanted desperately to fly scouts, and I didn’t know how I could cope with being assigned to a Slick (troop‑ carrying utility missions) outfit… in an infantry division!

My appraisal of the whole situation worsened that afternoon. My friend John Field, who had also been assigned to the Big Red One, and I were told to be at the personnel loading area at 1400 for transportation to our unit. Sitting there expecting a Jeep and driver to pick us up, we were almost choked to death by a cloud of dust raised by a five‑ ton army cargo truck. When the dust settled, we saw that this five‑ ton was loaded to the gunnels with dirty, smelly army fatigues. By damn, this was a laundry truck!

Then a soldier in the back end hollered, “Are you the officers going to the 1st Division? ” My “yes…” sounded more like a question than a statement. “Well, jump on, ” the soldier yelled. “We’re your ride, just as soon as we dump this load of dirty clothes over at the laundry. ”

We finally rumbled out of Saigon city and headed north and east on Highway QL1 toward 1st Division forward headquarters at Di An (pronounced zee‑ on). “This sure isn’t what I expected, ” I muttered to myself as Field and I jumped off the laundry truck at Di An. I Was still smarting about a brand‑ new cavalry officer–breathing fire and itching to get into the war flying scouts–being assigned to an infantry division. Besides, this place didn’t look much like a forward headquarters to me. I didn’t see anything but rear area personnel running around fighting paperwork.

But there were some encouraging signs. Di An was also home base for an air cav troop of the 3d Squadron, 17th Cavalry, 1st Aviation Brigade. Also, squadron headquarters for the 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry, 1st Aviation Battalion. That meant there were aeroscouts in the squadron’s air cavalry troop!

As I sat talking to the assignment officer at the Di An headquarters hootch, I must admit that my attention was divided. As he talked to me, I nodded my head, but in fact I was looking over his head at the information board on the wall behind him. An organizational chart was posted showing the air units assigned to the 1st Aviation Battalion at Phu Loi, the base where Field and I had been told we were being sent. The chart showed Delta 1/4 Cav–D Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry Regiment. That meant a platoon of aeroscouts had to be operating out of Phu Loi. Things were looking up. Maybe the 1st Infantry Division wouldn’t be that bad after all.

As I stared at the wall chart, I realized I had heard about the 4th U. S. Cavalry. At OCS some of its Vietnam exploits had been used as study examples. I remembered that this outfit had been in Vietnam since 1965 and had chalked up quite an impressive combat record. It was one of the first units to prove armor effectiveness in Vietnam’s II Corps tactical zone. No question, 4th Cav was actively showing all the boldness, dash, and aggressiveness that had marked every generation of cavalrymen since 1855, when that regiment had come into being.

Bringing my attention back to the assignment officer, I asked if he had any information on the 4th Cav at Phu Loi.

“That’s the Darkhorse unit. They’re the air cavalry troop for the 1st Division, ” he responded.

“How about their scouts? ” I shot back.

“Their scout platoon over there is called the Outcasts. They fly the Loaches. The troop’s also got those new Cobra gunships and a platoon of Hueys. ”

I heard only what he said about the Loaches–the light observation helicopters, OH‑ 6As. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, I am still alive for flying scouts after all.

The next morning, John and I threw our gear into the back of a Jeep that had been sent down from Phu Loi to get us. We headed north out of Di An toward Highway 13. That highway–really nothing more than a two‑ lane jungle dirt road–was a well‑ known north‑ south artery that I would come to know later as Thunder Road. It wound north through the heart of 1st Division’s assigned operational area.

We passed a lot of Vietnamese villages, nothing more than little knots of dilapidated shacks–hootches, as I would soon be calling them. They stuck up like matchboxes all along the side of the road. Children, cows, and chickens roamed through their living areas. Little kids were everywhere, waving and yelling to us as we passed. Most of them were wearing at least one or two articles of somehow‑ garnered American GI clothing–a bush hat, jungle boots, or maybe a khaki T‑ shirt. After about half an hour’s ride, we pulled into the main gate at Phu Loi. An MP with an M‑ 16 rifle looked up from the long line of Vietnamese civilians he was checking. Then he nodded to our driver and waved us on.

Field and I looked at each other, puzzled by what the MP was doing. Our driver explained: “ID card check. They’re hootch maids and other civilian workers that work here on post. They arrive in the morning and then leave right at the stroke of 1600. You’d think they belonged to a labor union or something the way they clear out of here right at four o’clock. ”

The Jeep squealed to a stop at the headquarters building, 1st Aviation Battalion, and the driver ushered us in to the executive officer. “Two new pilots for you, sir, ” said the driver. Then he got back in his Jeep and sped off.

“You men have a seat, ” the XO said. “The Old Man is tied up right now, but he’ll see you in a minute. ”

Four or five clerks were sitting around pounding typewriters, and somewhere down at the other end of the room we heard a radio playing rock music. We were amazed–it sure didn’t seem as though we were in the middle of a war.

Obviously amused at the just‑ in‑ country, newbie look on our faces, one of the clerks finally volunteered, “That’s AFVN, Armed Forces Vietnam Radio, down in Saigon. Pretty good stuff, huh? ”

Before either one of us could mumble an acknowledgment, the executive officer reappeared at the door of the battalion commander’s office and waved us in.

Once inside, we snapped to attention, came to smart salutes, and, in our best military manner, said, “Sir, Lieutenants Mills and Field reporting to the commander for duty. ”

The lieutenant colonel returned our salutes and walked around his desk to shake hands and offer us a seat. “On behalf of the 1st Division, ” he said, “welcome to Vietnam. ”

“Thank you, sir, ” we replied, almost in unison.

He sat back down at his desk, picked up our personnel jackets, and gave them a quick look. “You men have come to a good outfit. You both fly Hueys, I see. ”

We both nodded, but I was still hoping he would pick up on my prior request for scouts and OH‑ 6s.

He asked us some general background questions and quickly scribbled something in his notebook. “Lieutenant Field, you’re an infantry officer, so I’m going to assign you to the 1st Aviation Battalion. You’ll go to A Company and fly in our lift unit, the Bulldogs. It supports the entire division. ” I could tell that John was happy with his assignment.

“Lieutenant Mills, ” he said after a moment, “because you’re an armor officer, I’m going to send you across the runway to D Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry. ”

I couldn’t hide the smile that cut across my face as he continued. “D Troop operates as part of the division cavalry squadron, but it is actually detached from the squadron and attached to the 1 st Aviation Battalion over here for support and administration.

“Being an armor officer, ” he went on, “you really belong in an air cavalry reconnaissance outfit… and I understand they have some pilot vacancies over there where you can put your qualifications to work right away. ”

Damn, I thought. Things are falling into place! I fairly well floated out of the battalion commander’s office, thinking that I had just beaten the odds. Going to the 1st Infantry Division was going to be OK after all!

John and I said our good‑ byes and headed off on our own. A Jeep from the “Quarter Cav” picked me up, and on the way over to the troop the driver gave me a little background on the airfield. “This basic northsouth runway here at Phu Loi was actually built by the Japanese. They used it as a fighter strip during World War II. Ain’t that somethin’, sir? ” He grinned. “Way back in World War II. ”

As soon as we were on the air cav side of the runway, I noticed a big change in the way things looked. At least the drab paint color changed. Back on the battalion side, the numeral 1 was painted big and red everywhere; it represented the division’s shoulder patch insignia. Here everything was painted red and white, U. S. Cavalry flag colors. I mean everything–the signs, the hootches, even the rocks on the ground that outlined the walkways. I said to myself, here’s the good old cavalry pride and spirit; I’m really going to like this place!

In front of the flight operations building, a large concrete sign announced Troop D (Air), 1st Squadron, 4th U. S. Cavalry–Darkhorse. I liked the name Darkhorse. It had pizzazz and said something about the flair and fighting spirit of the troop.

On the runway I saw a lineup of sleek, new AH‑ 1G Cobras and OH‑ 6A scout ships. These were the first Cobras I had seen up close, but I knew that the armament they carried was awesome. They had the firepower to ruin the day of anyone on the receiving end. Their 7. 62mm miniguns could pump out four thousand rounds a minute. Then there was the 40mm grenade launcher, and the arsenal of 2. 75‑ inch rockets under each stubby little wing. That aircraft was like a flying tank!

The troop first sergeant, Martin Laurent, met me at the door of the orderly room and relieved me of my duffel bag. The troop commander–Major Cummings–was right there also to shake my hand and introduce himself, then he pointed me into his office. Offering me a seat, he settled himself behind his desk. After studying me for a moment, he broke the silence. “Where you from, Mills? ”

“Arkansas, sir… Hot Springs. ”

He nodded and picked up my file that First Sergeant Laurent had laid on his desk. “I see you’re an armor officer and right out of flight school. Do you have any special qualifications we should know about? ” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“No, ” I responded, “I’m basically qualified in utility aircraft with training as a gunship pilot. I’m not qualified in the Cobra, but I certainly would like to fly scouts. I’ve wanted to be a scout pilot ever since I first saw the OH‑ 6A. ”

The major pushed even farther back in his chair, stroked his chin a couple of times, and then wrung his hands together. I could tell that this was not what he had in mind. “I appreciate knowing your feelings, Lieutenant, ” he frowned, “but I don’t have any vacancies in the scouts right now. What I do need is a lieutenant in the slick platoon. ”

Damn, I thought.

“However, ” he continued, “the platoon leader over in scouts is Lieutenant Herchert, and he might be moving over to flight operations one of these days soon. If that happens, I’ll see to it that you get first crack at scouts. ”

After a bit more small talk, the major wound things up. “Mills, I’m assigning you to our lift platoon. Their mission is to airlift our aerorifle platoon using the Hueys. Any questions? ”

“No, sir, ” I said, “I guess I’m the new guy, and I’d better learn what’s going on in the lift section. ” Then, lying through my teeth, I added, “Yes, sir, the lift platoon will be just fine. ” All I could do was hope that the major picked up on my disappointment, and would remember my request for scouts as soon as there was an opening.

As I left the Old Man’s office, I met another lieutenant who was starí ding in the orderly room. He turned to me. “Hi, you the new guy? ”

“Yes, my name’s Mills and I’m going to the lift section. ”

“Great, ” he said. “I’m Wayne McAdoo, assistant platoon leader for the slicks. We’re called the Clowns, or the Flying Circus. Come on, I’ll walk you over to the hootches and help you find a bunk. ”

McAdoo took me across a small drainage ditch to the troop officers’ hootches. As I entered, I noticed that connecting the hootch to the next building in line was a large built‑ up bunker with no exterior entrance. Sandbags covered the whole thing from top to ground level. I was told that, in case of incoming rocket and artillery fire, we could dive into the bunker without having to go outside the hootch. The entrance hole was located right at the foot of my bunk.

McAdoo helped me move my clothes into the wall locker, then suggested that we meet some of the other guys. Bunking across from me was a warrant officer dressed only in ragged cutoff khaki shorts and a pair of shower shoes. He was comfortably propped up on his bunk, listening to the rock music that flooded the room from the stereo player. Warrant Officer Bob Davis was from Barberton, Ohio, and a scout pilot. He had been in Vietnam for only two to three weeks. The more I looked at him, the more I was convinced that I had seen him someplace before. As it turned out, Davis had been in flight school at Fort Rucker at the same time I was.

Everybody in the hootch was friendly, but nobody came rushing up to greet me. They just nodded approvingly, and invariably asked the same question: “Where are you assigned… slicks, guns, or scouts? ” Continuing around the hootch with McAdoo, I next met Barney Stevens, a slick pilot and a warrant officer first class. Then there was 1st Lt. Dean Sinor, CW2. Benny Parker, and, finally, Capt. Don Trent. Sinor, Parker, and Trent were Cobra pilots in the gun platoon.

It became obvious that the pilots didn’t live together in their respective platoon hootches. Every hootch had a mixture of gun, scout, and slick pilots. There was no caste system; every man had the same basic living area, consisting of an army standard metal folding bunk with a book‑ thin mattress, covered with what looked to be a nylon camouflage poncho liner. Every man had a foot locker at the end of his bed, as well as an individual wall locker. And everybody–to a man–had a portable, pedestal fan. In each of the hootches was a small bar space with a hot plate, refrigerator, small storage area, and generally a television and a stereo set with tape deck. Not a bad setup for the middle of a war zone.

The next person I met was Bob Harris, the aerorifle (ARP) platoon leader. He filled me in on the platoon’s job and how his twenty‑ eight‑ man unit of select infantrymen fit into overall troop operations.

Next stop was supply, where the first thing I was given was an APH‑ 5 flight helmet. “It’s supposed to be bullet resistant, ” the supply sergeant told me. Next, I went to the arms room for the issue of a personal weapon. The armorer handed me the pilot’s standard side arm, a. 38‑ caliber model number 10 Smith and Wesson revolver. While he was shoving the. 38 across the counter to me, I was studying the rack behind him, filled with. 45 automatic pistols, 1911 Als, and M‑ 16 and CAR‑ 15 rifles. I was particularly intrigued by the CAR‑ 15; it was a shortened version of the M‑ 16 that had been developed for commando use.

I pushed the. 38 back across the counter. “I really don’t want a revolver. How about one of those. 45 s? ”

He looked a little surprised. “But, sir, not one of the pilots carries a. 45. ”

I grinned at him. “But I’m just not one of the pilots, and I would rather have a. 45. ”

“Lieutenant, you can have whatever side arm you want, ” and he reached behind him for a. 45 automatic and a couple of magazines of ammo.

“And I would also like one of those CAR‑ 15s. ”

“Sorry, sir, the CAR‑ 15s are reserved for the Cobra and scout pilots. ”

“OK, then, how about an M‑ 16? ”

I knew that the armorer was beginning to wonder just what kind of a first lieutenant he had run into. But he reached behind him, pulled out an M‑ 16, and signed it out to me along with the. 45. Most pilots coming into Vietnam for the first time probably didn’t have a real preference as to what firearms they were issued. But I had been around guns all my life–my Uncle Billy had introduced me to guns as soon as I was old enough to hold one. I just felt more secure with a hardhitting. 45 strapped on.

The other equipment issued included flight suits, jungle boots, aircraft crewman’s body armor, and a flare gun. Also a strobe light, survival kit, flight gloves, mosquito net, blankets… plus an item I’d never seen before–a blood chit–a large silk document with a big U. S. flag on it and paragraphs of information in several languages. As the supply sergeant handed it to me, he said, “If you get shot down and have to approach a Vietnamese for assistance, he’ll be able to read one of these dialects and know that you’re a downed American pilot in need of friendly help. ” Oh, sure, I thought.

The rest of that first afternoon was free and I used it to look around the field. Fortunately, I met one of the troop pilots who was about to fly an OH‑ 6A down to the Saigon PX. He asked if I wanted to ride along. I couldn’t jump in fast enough for my first in‑ country flight, and in a scout ship at that. I strapped myself in the left seat and immediately began surveying the instrument panel. It was much simpler than the Huey, which carried all kinds of navigational avionics.

I noticed that the pilot and I were sitting in armored seats, which brought home the fact that I was now in a combat zone. There were tungston carbide plates beneath the seats, in the seat backs, and in a wraparound shield that provided partial armor protection to the pilot’s right side, and the co‑ pilot’s left side. “Chicken plate” was also worn to protect against rounds coming into the aircraft from the front. Of course, that still left your head, arms, and legs as targets of opportunity, but it was a lot better than nothing. Besides the armor protecting the pilot and observer, this combat‑ equipped OH‑ 6 also had armored engine components, such as the fuel control and compressor unit.

I was surprised by the short, amount of time it took the pilot to get the little OH‑ 6 into the air. The pilot’s hands raced through the pre‑ flight checks and engine start procedures. We were cranked, checking the tower for takeoff, and in the air before I would have even gotten around to putting my finger on the starter‑ ignition button.

It was just a 20‑ minute flight down to Ben Hoa, which was the Air Force’s big base at Saigon, located right next to Tan Son Nhut airport where I had come into country just six days ago. The Ben Hoa base was huge. You could probably see one of every kind of aircraft that the United States had in Vietnam at the time.

We landed at a place called Hotel Alpha, a big, open area with a chain‑ link fence around it. Our approach was to the large blacktop pad inside the fence, followed by a short hover into one of the available parking spots.

We checked our weapons with the security guard at the gate and walked across the street to the PX. (In later trips to the PX in Saigon, we would avoid checking our sidearms by sticking them under our clothes and telling the gate guard that we weren’t carrying any. Or we would check them with the guard, but have “spares” conveniently stowed away. The command considered Saigon secure and didn’t want soldiers wandering around with guns and no adult supervision, but we always felt more comfortable having our personal weapons on us. )

We were back to the troop by about 1830, and I had logged my first in‑ country flight. One point three hours of co‑ pilot flying time. Not exactly airlifting troops to a hot LZ in a slick, but a thoroughly enjoyable trip in an OH‑ 6 scout bird!

My first breakfast in Delta Troop ended up being no breakfast at all. Instead, as I was walking up to the mess hall, all hell broke loose. In the stillness of that early morning, there was the heavy thud of an explosion from the direction of the ARP‑ crew chief hootch area. I froze.

It was still very dark, at 5: 30 A. M. that first morning after I was assigned into the unit. Though officers took their evening meal at the O club, everybody went to the troop mess hall for breakfast and lunch. I had just headed up the troop sidewalk from my hootch, and was adjacent to the orderly room.

It sounded as though the explosion wasn’t more than forty to fifty feet away. Then I heard screaming and cries of pain, telling even this fresh in‑ country newbie that somebody was badly hurt. My first instinct was to drop into a crouch beside the orderly room, pull out my. 45, and chamber a round.

Moments later a man ran around the corner of the building and suddenly appeared in the dark right in front of me. He looked Vietnamese–probably an enemy sapper who had infiltrated the base area and thrown the grenade I just heard.

My. 45 was up and on him. Shoot, I told myself, and my finger tightened on the trigger. But in that split second I somehow noticed that he was wearing U. S. camouflage fatigue pants, and boots–shined boots. No black pajamas or sandals!

I released the trigger, and the man stumbled toward me and collapsed into my arms. He was bare chested and had small, bleeding pepper marks all over his upper body where he had evidently been hit by shrapnel. He was not dead, but his eyes were closed and he was obviously in shock and in a great deal of pain.

He was Vietnamese all right, now that I could see his face close up. But why was he wearing our pants and boots?

As I was trying to pull him over to the orderly room and prop him up against the wall, Bob Harris came running up from his hootch just around the corner, his CAR‑ 15 at the ready. “What the hell’s going on? ” he demanded.

“I don’t know, but an explosion just went off back in there. ” I pointed toward the ARP hootch area.

Harris leaned down close to the man’s face. “You OK, Toi? What happened? ”

“Holy shit! Is this one of your guys? ”

“Yes, he’s one of my Kit Carson scouts. ”

“Thank God, ” I groaned. “I nearly put a. 45 round right between this guy’s eyes. What do you want me to do now? ”

“You stay right here, and I’ll go around this way and see what happened, ” Harris snapped as he disappeared around the corner.

A few minutes later, I learned that about six of our men had been hurt by what was thought to be an indiscriminate round that the enemy had lobbed into the ARP‑ crew chief hootch area. It had landed between the hootches where the men shaved and got cleaned up in the morning. Toi was one of them, and when he was hit by the enemy grenade shrapnel, he ran. Right into my arms.

In just over one day at Phu Loi, I had already seen evidence of my first enemy fire, and had almost shot one of the ARP platoon leader’s prized Kit Carson scouts–former Viet Cong who became indispensable members of our fighting units and were always in short supply.

For the next four days Wayne McAdoo served as my mentor, showing me things that flight school didn’t teach–such as how to land with your tail rotor shot out, combatlike autorotations, tricks of flying under in‑ country conditions–techniques that were not yet in the books.

I flew more than seven hours in the command pilot’s seat of Wayne’s UH‑ 1D while he sharpened me up for the in‑ country check flight. I wasn’t too rusty, but it had still been about two months since I had actually been at the controls of a Huey.

Shortly thereafter, I was checked out and declared ready for immediate piloting duty in the lift platoon. As it happened, however, there wasn’t yet room for me there. Not for a week or ten days, until a couple of the guys were rotated back home. Without a permanent slick piloting job, I got my only flying duty in C and C. The usual purpose of these flights was to transport squadron and troop commanders to base camps, fire bases, and night defensive positions (NDPs) for conferences with ground commanders. I flew maybe four C and C missions before a regular piloting opportunity opened up for me to airlift the ARPs.

As much as I grew to admire the work done by those guys in the aerorifle platoon, I never did like being a slick driver for them. Every day during that stint, I watched the early morning hunter‑ killer visual reconnaissance (VR) teams take off, heading out to find and engage the enemy. I desperately wanted to go.

The plight of the slick pilot was to sit on the ground and wait. Wait until the scout uncovered some sort of enemy activity that warranted the Cobra relaying the pulse‑ pounding call back to the base: “Scramble the ARPs! ” Sometimes we took the ARPs directly into an LZ, but sometimes the order would be to just move the aerorifle platoon out of Phu Loi to another base closer to the point of action. After getting them to the new location, we’d just shut down the aircraft and wait for the possibility of a later call to move them into the action zone.

So, again, we’d wait. We’d read, sleep, maybe crawl up on the doghouse of the Huey to get a little suntan. And wait.

^{CHAPTER 3}