THE RAZORBACKS

Though the division G‑ 2 didn’t have the faintest idea that a highly complex network of enemy tunnels existed in the backyard of his headquarters, he certainly was right about the Razorback Mountains. They were a thorn in our side.

The Razorbacks was our name; the name for them on the map was Nui Tha La. The Razorbacks were the perfectly located staging area for enemy troops coming down into Vietnam from Cambodia. Their supply trails wound from the Fishhook, the Parrot’s Beak, and the Angel’s Wing through the hills and jungle to this string of low mountains that lay at the northwestern corner of the Michelin rubber plantation. They provided excellent ingress into the Michelin, Trapezoid, and target points to the east, such as Thunder Road; in addition, the southwestern tip was less than a kilometer from the Saigon River above our base at Dau Tieng. That’s where all the enemy sampan traffic was coming from.

Because of the growing strategic importance of the Razorbacks, Darkhorse began to work the area on a regular basis, and we learned a couple of things really fast.

First, the area was indeed a major supply point for enemy forces: The high ground around the southeastern edge of the Razorbacks was the main base for enemy troops that were working out of there into the Michelin, the Trap, and points east.

It didn’t take us long, either, to learn that the Razorback area was hard to scout because of the many natural hiding places for the enemy, and that the whole damned place was hotter than a firecracker as far as enemy activity was concerned.

On early Thursday morning, 11 September, I was sitting in the operations bunker listening to the radios and having a cup of coffee. I was there because I was the designated Scramble 1. Besides that, the ops coffee was a lot better than the stuff they called coffee over at the mess hall.

My old scout mentor and toad‑ swallowing friend, Bill Jones (One Eight), was the scout pilot out on VR‑ 1 that morning, and he and his Cobra were just arriving at their working area for the day at the Ra‑ zorbacks. Jones had a new citw chief with him, a sergeant by the name of James R. Potter. Jones’s gun was Mike Woods (Three Five), and Mike’s front‑ seater was Tom Chambers, a hootch mate of mine.

That’s the team I was listening to on the radios as I sipped my first coffee of the day in the ops bunker. Jones and Woods had just begun working their routine VR‑ 1 scouting patterns down near the southern end of the Razorbacks.

As I listened to them work, I couldn’t hear what Jones was saying, just what the Cobra was transmitting. When a scout was down low, his signal wasn’t strong enough to get out very far, and the Cobra relayed anything important that the scout was saying.

After just a couple of minutes, Chambers came up on troop net to the ops radio watch and very matter‑ of‑ factly reported: “One Eight believes that he has spotted movement below. He’s going to swing back around and make another pass to confirm. ”

The next thing we heard in the bunker was Chambers yelling into the radio, ‘One Eight is taking fire, taking heavy AK‑ 47 fire. He’s going down. One Eight is hit and going down! ”

I jumped to my feet and clunked down the coffee cup. Reaching for my CAR‑ 15, I headed for the door without even waiting for the scramble alert.

As I reached the bunker doorway, I heard the rest of Chambers’s radio transmission. “My God! ” he said, “when One Eight hit the ground, his bird exploded and burst into flames. The Loach is burning and there’s a pillar of smoke and flame shooting up out of the trees. My God, my God! He’s burning up! ”

Those words stopped me cold for an instant. Loaches didn’t explode on impact. I had never heard of an OH‑ 6 exploding and burning on impact. It simply never happened.

I rushed toward my aircraft, yelling to Parker, who was busy cleaning and polishing the bird’s bubble, “Scramble, Jimbo. We’re scrambling north. Let’s get the hell out of here! ”

As I approached the ship, the scramble siren began to whine. People exploded out of their hootches–pilots, door gunners, ARP infantrymen all headed for their ships and a full troop scramble north.

In the case of a downed aircrew, both Scramble 1 and Scramble 2 scout‑ Cobra teams got off immediately to get to the scene and put an aerial cap on the crash site. Willis was my Scramble 2, and his crew chief was Ken Stormer (like Willis, from Texas). We were both cranked and off in less than a minute, leaving our Cobras behind to catch up. It took awhile for their heavily armed and fueled machines to get wound up and airborne. But once in the air, their big engine and blades gave them up to 165 knots of speed, and they caught up and passed the scouts in short order.

I had no more than cleared the Phu Loi perimeter when my VHF radio came to life. It was Tom Chambers calling in to troop operations. I was dumbfounded to hear him say: “Darkhorse Control, this is Darkhorse Three Five. We’ve got movement out of the wreck. It’s one of the crew members–pilot or crew chief, don’t know which. We’re putting down! ”

What the hell’s he doing? I thought. Three Five must be making a low pass because he sure as hell can’t be thinking of putting that Cobra down on the ground!

Woods then proceeded to drop his big bird down to about five hundred feet. He could see that the man staggering around the burning Loach was Bill Jones. He looked dazed and was burned all around his head and shoulders. There was no sign of Potter. They concluded that the crew chief must still be in the aircraft.

Three Five got as low as he could to take a better look. But there was heavy jungle all around the area, and thick black smoke was pouring up out of the little clearing where the Loach was still burning furiously.

Then Woods made a daring decision. He had spotted a small open piece of ground about seventy‑ five yards south of where Jones’s ship had gone in. Knowing that it would take crucial minutes for help from the troop to arrive, and assuming that Sergeant Potter was still inside the burning Loach, Woods didn’t falter for a second. He proceeded to put his Cobra down on the small LZr

Once down, Woods left the aircraft engine running and told Tom Chambers to grab the portable fire extinguisher and go try to find Jones. Chambers left his canopy open, jumped out of the cockpit with the fire extinguisher in his hand, and took off through the jungle.

Woods stayed in the ship and, not knowing if he would be attacked by enemy soldiers, locked the nose turret in the forward‑ only firing position. Woods could then fire the front turret straight ahead by just aiming the helicopter.

After Chambers had been gone a couple of minutes, Woods began to get concerned. He realized that Chambers couldn’t get both Jones and Potter back to the LZ without somebody to help him. So, leaving the Cobra engine running, Three Five jumped out of the airplane and raced through the jungle after Chambers.

By the time they both reached Jones, they could tell that he was very badly hurt. His neck and shoulders were deeply burned. The top of his Nomex flight suit had been completely burned off, exposing charred and blackened flesh.

Knowing that Jones might not be coherent, Woods tried anyway. “Jonesy, it’s Mike. Where’s your crew chief? Where’s Sergeant Potter? ”

Somehow in his agony, Jones was able to mutter, “He… he’s still in the ship… he… he didn’t get out. ”

Chambers rushed over to the still‑ burning Loach. He aimed his little five‑ pound cockpit fire extinguisher at the searing flames fed by the ship’s leaking JP‑ 4, but it was like pissing on a roaring forest fire. Then Chambers looked into the ship. On the floor of the burning crew chief’s compartment was Potter’s body, now fairly well consumed by fire. Knowing that it wasn’t going to make any difference, he emptied his pitiful little extinguisher into the ship anyway. Then, in disgust, he slammed it into the ground. There was no way anybody could help Sergeant Potter.

Chambers turned back to Woods. “So what do we do now? ”

Three Five was struggling to keep Jones’s limp body upright. “We gotta get him back to the ship. Come on, help me carry him. ”

Supporting One Eight under each burned shoulder, Woods and Chambers half‑ carried and half‑ dragged the pain‑ stricken pilot back through the jungle toward their still‑ running gunship.

As they approached the Cobra, Chambers asked, “What are we going to do when we get him to the bird? How are we going to get him out of here? ” The Cobra had only two intandem cockpit spaces, and no place to put a third man inside the aircraft.

“He isn’t going to last if we don’t get him to a hospital right away, ” Woods puffed. “We can’t wait for a Dustoff. We’ll just have to get him in the ship some way and take him ourselves. ”

Chambers had an idea. “The ammo bay door–we can drop the ammunition compartment door and lay him on that. ”

Struggling with the then totally unconscious Bill Jones, Woods and Chambers finally reached the helicopter. As they were trying to get Jones in the Cobra, a CH‑ 47 Chinook helicopter arrived at the scene, having heard the transmissions about the downed aircraft. The “hook” hovered over the airmen and lowered its cable with a jungle penetrator for hoisting personnel. With Tom holding Jones, they were both winched upward into the belly of the Chinook. Woods climbed back into the Cobra and roared into the sky, following the rescue ship to Dau Tieng. He advised operations that they were safe and approaching Delta Tango, but that the crew chief had not been recovered and was believed to be KIA.

Willis and I overheard this message just as we reined in over the site of Jones’s crashed Loach. Given the situation, our first mission responsibility was to get down out of altitude and put an aerial cap on the area surrounding the crash.

I keyed the intercom to Parker, “OK, Jimbo, we’re going lima lima. Watch your ass. We just lost a scout down here so we’re going to have bad guys. You’re clear to fire… anything that moves, take ‘em out! ”

“Gun is hot, sir. I’m ready! ”

I saw him tense up and lean farther out into the slipstream as he set his M‑ 60.

With Willis tight on my tail, I went into a descending right‑ hand turn that would put me down about a hundred yards from the smoke of Jones’s downed bird. Then I made a fast ninety‑ knot pass over the wreck to check it out before taking up a scouting orbit around the site.

A feeling of surprise and shock shot through me as I swept over the still‑ smoldering OH‑ 6. I just couldn’t believe that Jones’s Loach had burned on impact. That was the surprise. The shock came when I saw what the fire had done to the ship. The interior of the bird was pretty much burned out. The tail boom had separated and was lying on the ground. The blades were off and also on the ground. The cabin section around the engine and fuel cell was completely burned away, and the front of the bubble was broken and largely melted down onto the ground.

Then my eye picked up the worst of all: Potter’s arm and helmeted head hanging out of what used to be the back cabin of the airplane. “Shit, ” I whispered, and my face involuntarily grimaced. “My God… no! ”

Not attracting any ground fire on the first fast pass, I told Willis to stay on my tail for another run over the crash, this time lower and slower.

We came around again and headed back into the clearing at about forty knots and maybe ten feet off the ground. Just as we neared Jones’s smoldering ship, some of the ordnance on board began exploding. There were sharp cracks from some of the M‑ 60 rounds. Then a big burst from one of the Willie Pete grenades went up right in front of my bubble.

Damn, I scolded myself, what a dumb shit I am not to remember that there was live ammo on board! With no alternative, I flew right through the billowing white phosphorous smoke while yelling over the radio to Willis. “Veer off, One Seven! Take it out wide! We’ve got ordnance going off in the wreck! ”

Rod’s reaction was instantaneous. He peeled his OH‑ 6 off my tail and whipped around the wreck. He obviously didn’t want his next shootdown to be the result of getting hit by our own bullets.

Then I hit UHF again for a report to my gun, Dean Sinor. “Three One, this is One Six. One Eight’s bird is still burning, and there’s some ordnance going off out of the back cabin. We confirm Charlie Echo KIA. The Loach is pretty much burned up. We’ve got no sign of enemy contact. The area is cold at this time. ”

Sinor’s “Roger, One Six” was practically smothered by the unexpected voice of the troop CO, Major Moore. He was apparently nearby in his C and C ship.

“One Six, ” he bellowed, “this is Six. What’s it like down there? Can you pin the bastards down? ”

“Six, this is One Six. We’ve got the aircraft capped. The pilot is out. Charlie Echo is KIA. No current activity… no sign of enemy activity at this time. The area is cold. ”

“OK, One Six, find a place to put the ARPs down. They’ll be coming up on the contact area right away. ”

Acknowledging the Old Man’s request, I went over to take a look at the LZ where Woods had put down to recover Jones. It looked fine. There was no sign of the enemy, so I had Parker pop a smoke in the clearing to mark the LZ. Then I began orbits around the landing zone to see if the smoke attracted attention from any enemy who might be nearby.

Still nothing. I began to think that whoever clobbered Jones must have departed in a hurry. The area seemed completely free of any sign of enemy troops.

My radio came up again, just as I saw the slicks carrying the ARPs come in over the trees and begin their run into the LZ.

“OK, One Six. ” It was Major Moore again. “This is Six. I’m going on the ground to supervise recovery operations. ”

Well, I’ll be damned, I said to myself, I thought I saw five Hueys instead of just four drop down into that LZ. The Old Man must have ordered his C and C ship to slip in with the four ARP birds when they went into the landing zone. What in the hell is the major doing? All this to “supervise” the recovery of one friendly KIA?

The ARPs had hardly deployed out of their Hueys when Major Moore’s voice came over the radio. In a very matter‑ of‑ fact way he said, “One Six, this is Six. I’ve got movement, and they’re all around us. ”

Dé jà vu! I thought. They’re surrounded again, and the Old Man–again–is down there in the middle of it! I hadn’t seen anybody or anything hostile around that area, and I had been orbiting over it for the last ten to fifteen minutes.

Well, we looked and looked. We fired all kinds of miniguns and rockets. The ARPs shot off their weapons like crazy. But nothing. We never did find anything that could have caused Major Moore to think he was being attacked. And thank God for that. We sure didn’t need a repeat of the recent ARP disaster at the Lai Khe tunnels.

By noon that day the ARPs had done all they could do on the ground. With Sergeant Potter’s body finally recovered from the wreck, I put my bird down in the clearing for a couple of minutes so the ARPs could transfer some of Jones’s gear to my ship to take back to the base. There was Jones’s fire‑ blackened chicken plate, his charred helmet, and codebook. The way that stuff was burned I couldn’t imagine what Jones must have looked like.

The ARPs had also pulled the fire‑ damaged minigun off the bird and dragged it back to the LZ. They put it aboard one of the Hueys to take back to Phu Loi to keep it from possibly falling into enemy hands.

But the burned, twisted hulk of One Eight’s ship was left in the jungle. There was no way that mess of scorched and melted junk could ever be put back together to fly again.

As I lifted back out of the jungle to head home, I took a long last look at Jones’s wrecked aircraft. Was Jones hit by hostile ground fire, or could something else, such as impacting a tree, have brought him down? As I tried to think of an explanation, the radio broke my spell. It was Bob Harris, and he solved the mystery of Jones’s crash.

“Hey, One Six, ” he called, “this is Four Six. When we removed the Charlie Echo’s body, we found that he had been shot in the head with an AK‑ 47 round. He was probably KIA before the bird ever hit the ground. ”

That settled that. Jones had received enemy ground fire and was shot out of the air, eliminating the prospect that he might have hit a tree or gone into a “Hughes tailspin” (an OH‑ 6 design characteristic that might force the bird to become uncontrollable and spin into the ground under certain conditions when a right, decelerating turn was made at low speed).

Four Six continued. “And we found out why One Eight’s Loach burned. When it went into the ground, it hit a tree stump that impacted the right rear belly of the ship. It impaled the fuel cell, split it open, and allowed burning JP‑ 4 to flow forward over the bulkhead and down One Eight’s shoulders and neck. ”

“My God, ” I cringed, “so that’s how it happened! ” That explained, also, the areas of Jones’s body that were burned so horribly–his head, neck, and upper body.

The ARPs had hardly gotten back to base from the crash when the troop scramble siren wailed again.

I had arrived back at Phu Loi just ahead of the rifle platoon, grabbed some lunch, and settled in at the ops bunker to monitor the radios. When I was not out flying myself, I often checked in at the ops bunker to listen to the scouts work. This afternoon we had a couple of afternoon VR teams out reconning in the vicinity of the western Trapezoid. It was still Thursday, 11 September, although the tragedy of the morning made it feel as though the day was already a month long.

I had just taken my first sip of coffee when the voice of one of our crew chiefs broke out over the air. Crew chiefs normally did not transmit outside the ship, but apparently Red Hayes, in his excitement, had keyed his transmitter instead of just the intercom as he talked to his pilot, Pony One Six.

“Sir! I’ve got dinks underneath me. They’re all over! ” Then there were the sharp reports of Hayes’s M‑ 60.

Over the rattle of Hayes’s machine gun, Pony One Six’s voice came through: “OK, I’m coming around to the right in a three sixty. ”

Not again, I thought. Pony One Six had just made what I considered a bad tactical mistake for a scout pilot in combat. To pull an immediate right three sixty before his OH‑ 6 was out of the line of sight of the enemy ground troops would bring the Pony Loach right back over the same track in which the enemy contact had been initially made. I silently hoped that it wouldn’t cost him.

Then Hayes talked to his pilot again. “Lieutenant, ” he said, “I’ve got a red smoke ready to drop, but you’re too far off to the side of the contact point. Come around… come around again. ”

Even though the Darkhorse scout pilots had told him many times to never–never EVER–come back into an enemy contact point the same way, in a predictable flight pattern, Pony One Six immediately hauled another hard right 360‑ degree turn. Again, right over the watching enemy’s head.

As I bent forward intently listening–but unable to do a damned thing to help–I heard Hayes scream back at his pilot, “No, Lieutenant, break left… break left. LEFT, sir! ”

Pony One Six apparently then jerked a hard left to get the ship over the contact point and allow Hayes to throw the smoke. But the smoke still wasn’t where Hayes wanted it, and Pony pulled another hard left turn–making the third time he had brought the ship in from northwest to southeast right in the enemy’s clear line of sight. That’s all Charlie needed. The enemy immediately sent up a barrage of AK‑ 47 fire that pounded into the little OH‑ 6.

To his horror, Hayes suddenly saw Pony stiffen in his cockpit seat, slam his head back into the bulkhead that separated the pilot from his crew chief, then slump forward in his seat, dropping his hands from the plane’s controls. The next thing Hayes remembered was awakening in the wrecked ship on the ground, with excruciating pain in his leg… and the almost deafening quiet of the jungle.

Without even hearing Pony One Six’s gunship call back to ops control for a full troop scramble, the siren screamed and we all ran for our ships again. Helping another downed scout was our highest response priority.

Scout Bob Calloway (One Zero) happened to be working another VR near the spot where Pony One Six and Hayes had gone down. One Zero was vectored in to put an immediate cap over the crash scene until the rest of the troop could mount up and fly to the site. What Calloway saw when he arrived over the crash was Red Hayes sitting on the ground near the wrecked plane attempting to ease an obvious leg wound and cradling the limp body of his pilot across his lap.

When the Loach crashed, it had hit the trees, fallen to the ground, and nosed over, leaving the helicopter upside down. When Hayes regained consciousness, he realized that his knee and ankle were seriously hurt, but he succeeded in cutting Pony’s seat belt and shoulder harness so he could get the pilot out of the ship in case of fire.

As Calloway circled over the wreck, he realized that Hayes did not have a survival radio and could not talk from the ground. But it was obvious that the crew chief and pilot were hurt. Minutes later, the ARPs were put down on a nearby road and moved over to the wreck site. They secured the area, determined that Pony One Six was KIA, and executed the evacuation of the downed crew.

Pony One Six’s ship had taken an AK‑ 47 armor‑ piercing round up through the cockpit floor. The projectile entered the pilot’s left thigh, tore through the femoral artery, and traversed up through the stomach, lungs, and finally into his heart, where the bullet fragmented. The Pony platoon leader was dead the instant Hayes saw him stiffen in his seat.

Just three weeks earlier, Pony One Six had been shot down after becoming fixated over a contact area and presenting his airplane as a target the enemy could not miss. Red Hayes was Pony’s crew chief that day also, and he had tried desperately to warn the pilot that he needed to speed up and get out of the enemy’s line of sight. But, for some reason, Pony wouldn’t take Hayes’s advice–on either occasion.

All of us in Darkhorse felt the loss of the Pony platoon leader. It made it worse to realize that his death might have been avoided if he had just given more credence to the scouting lessons that combat experience had taught the Darkhorse scout pilots.

If there was a bright note for that ugly day, it came that evening when we all got back to base. We learned that Bill Jones, though in dangerous condition with second and third degree burns over his upper body, was still alive and had been transferred from Dau Tieng to the evac hospital in Long Binh.

A day or so later I decided that I couldn’t wait any longer to go down to see Bill Jones. Willis, Davis, and I piled into my bird and headed down to Long Binh. When we arrived at the hospital we asked directions to the intensive care unit, shushing Willis as he remarked rather loudly on the notable physical assets of several of the nurses.

Finally finding the ICU, I walked up to the nurses’ station. “I’m Lieutenant Mills from the Quarter Cav, and we’re here to check on one of my pilots. He was brought in here two days ago with burns. His name is William Jones. ”

“Yes, ” she said, “Warrant Officer Jones is down in the last bed on the right. ”

With Davis behind me–Willis was lagging back at thé nurses’ station–I walked down to where the nurse had directed me. I looked at the person in the bed and immediately said out loud, “No, that’s not Bill Jones. ”

The guy didn’t look anything like Jones. His head was twice again as big, and so was his body. Besides, the man in the bed was black.

I went back to the nurses’ station. “Ma’am, you made a mistake. The man in the bed down there is not Warrant Officer Jones. ”

“Well, Lieutenant, ” she answered, “that is Warrant Officer Bill Jones from Delta Troop of the Quarter Cav, and he was brought in here two days ago with burns. ”

“But, ma’am, ” I argued, “Bill Jones is a skinny little guy, and besides that, he’s white”

It was obvious that I had tried her patience. “You don’t seem to understand, Lieutenant, what second and third degree burns can do to a person. You go on back down there; you’ll find out that’s Mr. Jones. ”

Back at his bedside, I studied the person for a moment. The blazing jet fuel that spilled over his upper body had burned away most of the right side of his neck, as well as the right shoulder. The burned areas were charred and had swollen up to monstrous proportions. The distortion was so bad it made the man look twice the size.

I leaned down close and said, “Bill, can you hear me? ”

In a very labored whisper he responded, “Yes, who is it? ”

“It’s Mills, Jonesy. How are you doing? ”

“I feel like shit, ” he answered.

Trying to keep it light I retorted, “Well, Bill, you really look like shit. What happened? ”

He couldn’t even smile. He was obviously in incredible pain. But he did move his head ever so slightly, and then slowly whispered, “I saw movement… and when I came around, I saw people. I don’t know what hit me. ”

“OK, Jonesy, ” I said quietly, “we’ll talk about it later. Look, ol’ friend, there isn’t much that any of us can do for you right now, but the guys are thinking about you and wanted to see how you were doing. ”

His eyes opened a little bit. “Who’s that with you… is that Fox Bravo? ”

“Yes, it’s Davis, and he’s as full of BS as ever. ”

“Who else is with you? ” he whispered.

“Rod’s with us, too. ”

“Bet he’s chasing nurses, right? ”

“Well, yes, ” I stammered. “He’s back at the nurses’ station talking to some girl from Texas.

“We’re going to take off now, Bill, and let you get some sack time. We’ll catch you later and see how you’re doin’, OK? ”

“OK, you guys, ” he said, as though he was already drifting off. “I’ll just see you… later. ”

By that time, Willis had made it down to Bill’s bed. I had never seen him look so solemn. Rod reached down and gently patted the bed sheet. I knew he felt the same way Davis and I did–that we would probably never see Bill Jones again.

Flying back to Phu Loi, not a word was said. All three of us were deep in our own thoughts. We all realized that what had happened to Bill Jones could have happened to us. It could happen to any one of us, any day of the week. Every day, Charlie had his chance to send any one of us back in a body bag.

In a moment of honesty, I think every scout would have admitted that fear was with us constantly. Our ability to fly, in my opinion, came from our ability to recognize that we were afraid, to understand why we were afraid, and to continue to work through the fear.

Scout pilots understood their own mortality. The figures were there: If you were a pilot in the air cav and you were killed, you were probably a scout pilot. That’s the way it was. Sometimes it was a slick pilot. Very rarely a Cobra pilot. Usually a scout pilot.

The key was that we never thought about the odds. We dealt with the prospect of getting shot, getting burned, dying, by never allowing ourselves to think about the consequences. Instead, we rationalized, we immersed ourselves in our own illusions of immortality. Like Bob Davis, who used his sense of humor to wrestle with his own demons. Like Bill Jones, who drank more than he should have.

I had come to the conclusion that when it was time for me to chuck it in, there wouldn’t be a damned thing I could do about it. So I took the pragmatic view that I wasn’t going to worry about something I couldn’t control or influence. I never did totally crazy things, however; I never abandoned reason. But I felt that if I dwelled on the potential of getting hurt or killed, I would start getting too cautious. And when people get too cautious, they make mistakes–mistakes that get themselves and other people hurt. But if I ever wavered from my pragmatism, it was in those moments after seeing Bill Jones that day at the hospital.

We had lost Jim Ameigh. We had lost Chuck Davison. We had lost Pony One Six. We had lost two gallant crew chiefs. And I couldn’t even recognize Bill Jones–my toad‑ swallowing bar buddy, my scout teacher, my good friend.

But tomorrow was another day, and I was VR‑ 1.

^{CHAPTER 15}