“How far northeast do you want us to go?” I asked.
“Until
you need to come back for fuel, unless you can find a refuel point out there somewhere.” He thought he was funny.
“Sir, where are the nearest friendlies?” Mr. Beckman, the Cobra AC, asked.
“South of the bridge,” the S-3 responded.
“What’s the enemy situation along the road?” I asked.
“Well, we have vehicle traffic moving on that road, according to sensor readings.”
“What about troops or antiaircraft positions?” Mr. Cosby asked.
“Not aware of any,” the S-3 sort of mumbled.
“Let me understand this. We start at the bridge and follow this road, the only road in this part of Cambodia of any size. We fly northeast until we have to return for fuel. You have no intel except that there’s vehicle traffic along the road. You have no idea about enemy antiaircraft positions or troop concentrations. And if we go down, there’s no way you can get anyone up to help us out. Is this what I’m hearing?”
“That’s about it, Mr. Beckman,” the S-3 said while moving his eyes to the floor. I could see that Mr. Beckman was about to explode, but I cut in.
“Sir, where are the nearest artillery positions and what is their coverage up that road?” I asked.
“The nearest artillery position is here, and they’re 105 howitzers,” said the S-3, pointing at the map.
“You’re shitting me,” Mr. Beckman interrupted. “That unit can only cover ten klicks beyond the bridge. We’ll be out of his coverage in no time.”
“Okay, sir, we’ll give you a call when we lift off. Thank you, sir. Let’s go, guys.” I took Beckman by the shoulder and guided him out of the TOC. Walking back to our aircraft, Beckman was a bit upset.
“Dan, you up for this? You know this could be a shit sandwich for all of us. You’re down low and we’re up high at a perfect altitude for antiaircraft guns. You go over one troop concentration and you’re going to have a hell of a lot of AK fire. I don’t know about this,” he grumbled.
“Look, we got the mission, so let’s be smart and get it done. I’m not going to follow the road. I’ll fly an S pattern up the road from one side to the other, crossing the road each time perpendicular. That’ll give me minimum exposure over open ground. I suggest you guys fly circles clockwise and counterclockwise to switch it up. Flying an S pattern will use fuel and not put us too far up the road. I have no desire to follow that road to Hanoi, so I’m really going to concentrate on the area ten kilometers north of the bridge, within artillery range,” I explained.
After a few more minutes of discussion, we went our separate ways and cranked the birds. There was a bit of apprehension in the aircraft as we lifted off. Grandpa reached in his pocket and put a fresh pack of cigarettes on the center console with his lighter. Three klicks off the firebase, we picked up the road and proceeded to follow it northeast to the bridge. Grandpa had the artillery frequency tuned in as well and had marked on his map the limit of the artillery range for the 105s. Mentally, that was my limit of advance for this night, and I told my crew that as well. I was not flying out of the range of artillery support. Approaching the bridge, I slowed the aircraft to sixty knots and dropped to treetop level while executing the beginning of an S flight pattern.
“Lobo Two-Six, Chicken-man One-Niner, commencing my run.”
“Chicken-man One-Niner, roger, I have you covered. Good luck.”
“Jones, how’s the starlight scope working?” Secretly I was hoping he would tell me it wasn’t and we would have to go back.
“Working fine, sir,” Jones said. Damn. We continued up the road for another five minutes and saw nothing except jungle vegetation and the road.
“Sir, we have houses on the road ahead,” Jones reported.
“What? How many?” I asked.
“Looks to be about six, and they’re big. They’re at nine o’clock now. Your next turn is going to put us right over them,” Jones replied.
“Okay, any lights?” I asked as we started to make a left turn back to the road.
“Didn’t see any. They’re at your eleven now,” he said as I started slowing the aircraft to forty knots. Grandpa was on the radio, calling Lobo to inform him of what we were looking at. As we approached the cluster of houses, they appeared to be on stilts and about thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide. Thatched roofs and bamboo mat sides. One set of stairs up the front of each to a wraparound porch on each house. There were no signs of life, not even chickens or pigs. Just deserted. We passed it by and did not engage. Continuing up the road, we came upon a second village, which looked to be deserted like the last. These appeared to be Montagnard villages. The Montagnards were the indigenous people of the region. These people were generally friendly to US forces but not so with the Vietnamese. Good to know if we went down and had to exercise our SERE training.
Moving further northeast, we came upon a third village. Again I slowed the aircraft to forty knots as I came over the village, almost hoping to take fire as the evening was becoming boring. As I passed over, Jones spoke up.
“Sir, I have someone in the village!”
“Where?” I asked excitedly.