“Sir, we’re just going to kick the boxes out of the aircraft and hopefully they’ll open on the way down,” he replied, not looking me in the eye.
“Okay, what’s going on? Something smells about this mission. What are you not telling me?” I asked.
Reluctantly, he explained. “Sir, intelligence says that this location is the headquarters of the Communist Forces in South Vietnam. Their main headquarters. We’re going to drop these and then get out of there. Intelligence believes
there may be 23 mm antiaircraft guns, possibly 37 mm antiaircraft guns as well.”
“Holy shit! A 37 mm has a range of about twenty-five thousand feet, and the 23 mm is up around ten thousand,” I replied, but I was bullshitting. I only knew that these two weapons could reach way up and tag an aircraft.
“Okay, it’s cloudy today, so we can pop in and out of clouds while we do the drop. Will that be sufficient?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. Oh, if you hear a beeping noise on the FM radio, followed by two more beeps about twelve to fifteen seconds apart, make a hard turn before a fourth beep sounds, please,” he pleaded.
“And why is that?”
“The 37 mm are radar tracking, and the beeps are the radar sweeping the target. On the fourth beep it has a lock,” he said.
“You’ve got to be shitting me now.”
“Wish I was, sir. We’re ready,” he replied.
We headed out and I was climbing for all the altitude I could get. We finally got to ten thousand feet, which was a new experience for me and one that I did not relish. At ten thousand feet, the air is thin and the flight controls of the aircraft are very sloppy, requiring large movements of the cyclic to get the aircraft to respond, unlike at ground level, where you just think of movement to get the aircraft to respond. My copilot was glued to the instruments as his side of the aircraft had the primary instruments for weather flying, which we were doing, popping into one cloud after another. When we reached the intended point, the sergeant began kicking the boxes out of the aircraft and gave me a “Let’s get the hell out of here” signal, which I did, losing altitude and changing course several times as we got down to the treetops and entered contour-level flight safely below the altitude that a 23 mm or a 37 mm would fire at a helicopter. To this day, I am convinced that the best use of those Chieu Hoi leaflets was as toilet paper, which I’m sure the NVA appreciated.
Days later, our mission had us fly to the helipad next to the division chemical company. In our mission brief, we were told to have our gas masks with us. I had to look to find mine as I had never used it since arriving in-country six months ago. At the helipad, several large white canisters about the size of fifty-five-gallon drums were lying on the ground. They appeared to be plastic. As I shut down, a lieutenant approached.
“Are you Chicken-man?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, at your service. What you got for us?”
“We have an NVA hospital complex at this location.” He pointed at his map. “At thirteen hundred, an air assault is going in to seize it, landing here.” Again he pointed at the map. “The division commander wants to take this complex with minimal casualties on either side. He’s hoping that if we can get enough CS gas on the complex, they’ll come out with minimal fighting. Our job is to start dropping these canisters as soon as the troops are on the ground and before they move into the complex.”
“Okay, what kind of air defense are we looking at?”
“They don’t expect any,” the lieutenant stated.
“How long you been in-country, sir? Because there’s always some air-defense guns with this type of complex. Someone didn’t give you the whole picture.”
“I’ve been in-country long enough,” he responded, some indignation in his tone.
“Well, sir, I’ve been flying long enough to know that whoever gave you this enemy situation didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”
The aircraft was loaded by chemical-qualified soldiers from Division. These canisters had a timer attached, so when they were dropped from the helicopter, they would explode at a certain altitude, generally a few hundred feet above the ground, and spread CS gas over a wide area.
“Hey, Lieutenant, please do not arm those things until I tell you it’s okay. I do not want them going off in the aircraft,” I stated.
“Mister, I am in charge here and I will arm them when I like,” he replied.
“No, Lieutenant, you are not in charge here. I am! You are a passenger in my aircraft. I am the aircraft commander, and that makes me in charge. Now, if you can’t accept that fact, then your ass can sit here while I take your NCO, who obviously understands this better than you, and we will get the job done without you.”
The lieutenant started to say something, but his NCO, who was a sergeant first class, escorted him off to the side and had a conversation. They came back to the aircraft and climbed in without saying anything. The sergeant did give me a wink, however. Once everything was loaded, we headed to the intended drop point. I was monitoring the flight of helicopters from our sister company that was putting in the troops. We had gas masks; they did not. As I observed their intended flight path and LZ, I realized there was a problem.
“Hey, sir. We can’t drop where you indicated. If I do, I’m going to be gassing those flight crews,” I informed him.
“No! We have to drop at this point. The division commander directed it.” He was panicking.
“Beg your pardon, Lieutenant, but the division commander didn’t direct the drop point, only the target. We’re going to drop but allow the wind to carry the gas over the target and not gas the flight,” I told him.
“No! I want this drop—”