An Assault Helicopter Unit in Vietnam (Undaunted Valor 1)

This would place our aircraft closest to the tree line as we were Chalk Two for this mission. Specialist Linam was on the left side of the aircraft and Johnson was on the right side, facing the tree line. Russel was almost ready to make aircraft commander, so I decided to let him take us in on the initial assault. I would be ready to take the controls but really didn’t think it would be necessary.

Things started out as usual, the artillery and Cobra gunships doing their thing at the appropriate times. We reached the H minus one time hack, and Russel gave the command, “Door gunner, open fire.”

Specialist Linam depressed the trigger, and nothing! Private Johnson did the same, and nothing! Our damn guns and ammo were so dirty that both weapons malfunctioned. The flight of six aircraft had a serious gap in our coverage because I couldn’t lend any firepower to the suppression.

“Yellow One is taking fire!” Chalk One was being impacted by green tracers, and he was still about four feet in the air. Slowly he started a pedal turn to the left, which began to accelerate. Shit, his tail rotor had been shot out and he had no control over it. As the aircraft continued to accelerate in the left turn, grunts were thrown out and were crawling as fast as they could away from the aircraft. Suddenly a sledgehammer began beating on the side of our aircraft as we were about to touch down. To Russel’s credit, he concentrated on putting us on the ground for the three seconds, but the grunts were already jumping off and engaging the tree line.

“Chalk Two is taking fire!” I reported. I was watching our instruments, especially engine and transmission oil pressure gauges. No master caution light and no fluctuation in the gauges, so we were good. Must have hit the tail boom. Still no fire from my guns.

“I’m hit!” Private Johnson screamed.

Damn, I can’t believe I wished this on him. Bullshit! He deserved this.

“Where are you hit?” I asked.

“In the ankle,” Johnson replied. Now I was pissed. That was a ticket home. He was going to be in the VA medical system for the rest of his life, and from what I had seen of him, he was going to milk that system for the rest of his life.

As we were coming out of the LZ, Yellow One called me to take the flight and lead position. Only Chalk One was left back in the LZ with one-third of a rifle company. Cobra gunships were working the tree line, and I was taking the remaining ships back to get the next turn. We loaded quickly and it was obvious that the grunts knew it was a hot LZ. Johnson was taken out by a waiting medic and ambulance, and that was the last I saw of him. A quick inspection of the exterior of the aircraft by Specialist Linam indicated we’d acquired some extra air vents in the tail boom, courtesy of the NVA. The only important items in the tail boom were the tail rotor drive shaft, which looked like a four-inch metal pipe that ran along the top of the tail boom, and the two cables that controlled the tail rotor. The rest was just hollow. Linam said we were good to go and Russel led the next lift to the LZ, which was still in contact. One of the grunts had been working on Johnson’s gun and had it working, as had Linam, so on this turn, both guns were firing. Chalk One crew were waiting on the ground for us to land, and as soon as the grunts were off, they were on, with their door gunner taking over.

The last turn into the LZ was uneventful, but a couple of prisoners were tossed on my aircraft, with Linam holding a gun on them. I looked back and for the first time saw an enemy that would like nothing better than to shoot me. No remorse in their eyes, just pure hatred. This was the enemy up close and personal. These were NVA soldiers. They were dedicated, disciplined and physically tough. No fat on those bodies. They were as good as our grunts, lacking only the technology that our guys enjoyed. I had seen Chieu Hois with their grins and waves. These were not Chieu Hois. This was the real enemy. An enemy that I would come to respect.

Chapter 24

Shanghai

It was the end of November, and I was looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner the next day. When I came in from flying, the orderly room clerk stopped me.

“Mr. Cory, I have an RFO for you,” he said, handing me a piece of onionskin paper. Clerks typed everything on the original paper with carbon copies underneath, five copies. The world seemed to work just fine with a manual typewriter and onionskin paper, five copies. The RFO was a request for orders, which came from higher headquarters, directing the receiving unit to prepare transfer orders in accordance with the instructions on the RFO. This was my ticket home.

“Yes!” I said with a fist pump. “Where am I going?”

“Sir, you are to report to Fort Ord, California,” he said with a smile. Fort Ord is located in Monterey, on the coast. It’s beautiful there. This was a plum assignment. God had smiled on me.

I am blessed, I thought as I walked into our little officers’ club. “Bartender, set ’em up. I’m buying. Give the rooster a scotch.” About fifteen pilots were sitting there and joined me in the celebration. The rooster was already on the bar, pecking at his glass.

“Hey, Dan. What are we celebrating?” asked Mike. “You find a woman that will sleep with you?”

“Screw you. No, I’ve found an entire town of women. California surfer girls. My RFO came in, and I’m going to Fort Ord,” I said, raising my beer. A cheer went up, and comments about how lucky I was.

“How the hell did you pull those orders? Just about everyone goes to Mother Rucker or

Fort Wolters for flight instructor duty,” Hess interjected. He had just dropped his request for an extension.

“I know, but these just came in. Anyone know what it’s like back there?” I asked. From the back of the room came a voice.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Lieutenant Weed spoke up. We had tolerated each other and been professional, but that was the extent of our relationship.

“Why do you say that, sir?” I asked, keeping it professional.

“I lived near there before I joined the Army. My first assignment was as a training officer there.” To me, that explained a lot about his leadership ability. “When I got there,” he continued, “I come to find that it’s the basic training base for the West Coast. They have very few aircraft and very little flying time, since basic training doesn’t teach airmobile operations. They only get that when they go to AIT. The surrounding towns are Monterey, Pacific Beach and Carmel, all very expensive. High school kids drive Jags and Mercedes while schoolteachers drive Fords and Chevys. You’ll be scraping by on warrant officer pay. Oh, and forget about getting a flying job. Warrant officers there are generally used as mess officers, since they have so few flying positions there. You’ll be placed in charge of overseeing about five or six company mess halls and will only fly on weekends or after hours to get your required hours. Good luck with that assignment,” he concluded.

Now I didn’t know if I should trust Lieutenant Weed’s words or not, but it certainly put a damper on the celebration. I was going to have to do some research on this. I’d joined the Army to fly, not work in mess hall management.

For the next couple of days, I asked around about Fort Ord among other pilots, not only in our outfit but also in other units that I came across. It appeared after a week that Lieutenant Weed had spoken the truth. I was headed to a shit sandwich assignment.

I went to see the major to see if I could get my orders changed.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m on orders to Fort Ord and—”