An Assault Helicopter Unit in Vietnam (Undaunted Valor 1)

Game Changer

The president had ordered that all forces be withdrawn from Cambodia by the end of June. On that day, I was Yellow One for a six-two working out of Bu Gia Map, where a firebase had been established at the old Special Forces camp. We were scheduled to insert a rifle company around noon from the firebase and extract the final elements of the division later that day from Cambodia to the firebase. As the rifle company wasn’t ready for insertion, I instructed the flight to shut down. Blue Max arrived with two aircraft and shut down as well. Seldom did we meet Blue Max pilots, as they would arrive to support the mission in flight to the LZ and leave for their next mission without

a chance to meet. The front seater was brand-new in-country, first mission. The back seater was an older pilot that would be rotating home soon. As we were talking, the sound of an AK-47 could be heard in the distance, along with the sounds of an approaching CH-47 Chinook helicopter. A grunt came out from the TOC and signaled me to come in.

“Sir,” I said upon entering and seeing the battalion commander looking over the map.

“Change in plans, Lieutenant Cory. The CH-47 just took fire here.” He indicated a location on a ridge due west of our location. “We’re going to insert a rifle company here. It’s the only clearing, as the ridge is covered in bamboo.”

“Sir, we can go in there with six aircraft in staggered trail formation. Landing should be south to north, paralleling the ridge and in line with the valley. I know exactly what clearing that is. And you’re right, it is the only clearing. Charlie may have it zeroed in for mortars. This could be a trap,” I responded.

“Let’s set H-Hour for half past the hour, and we’ll give a six-minute artillery prep with a white phosphorous to clear the tubes, just in case he’s there waiting.”

“Sounds good, sir. I’ll brief my crews, and we’ll be off as soon as the grunts arrive.”

As I finished the briefing for the pilots, the grunts began arriving. They were traveling light with light rucksacks, which made placing seven on each aircraft easy, leaving us with plenty of power. At the appointed time, we lifted off and the artillery opened with the prep. Flight time to the LZ was only about eight minutes, as it was just down in a valley below the firebase and the ridge on the other side that the fire had come from. At H minus two, the artillery fired the last round. The slicks were about three hundred feet above the trees. Blue Max nosed over into their gun run from one thousand feet.

“Jesus, what is that!” came a cry over the radio.

“Blue Max is down!” came another call.

“What the hell was that?” another aircraft called.

“Yellow One, get out of there!”

“Chalk Two taking fire. Smoke out.”

“Chalk Three taking fire. Smoke out.”14

“Flight, Yellow One, abort. I say again, abort. Return to PZ. Chalk Two, take the flight back to PZ.”

“Yellow One, roger. Where are you going?”

“Yellow One is going to look over Blue Max.” The aircraft broke formation and accelerated in a tight turn to locate the downed Blue Max. It became obvious very quickly where he was, as the column of black smoke rising from the bamboo marked his spot. Passing over the location at one hundred feet, it was apparent that neither pilot had survived the crash, as the tail boom was separated from the aircraft by some distance and the nose was caved in. The body of the aircraft was on fire from burning fuel and exploding rockets. A flight crew’s worst nightmare is burning to death in a crash. A quick look indicated that neither pilot had burned to death; they had died on impact. We returned to the PZ, where the other ACs were standing waiting for word. It wasn’t good. The remaining Blue Max and the two Cobras from Lobo were expending every rocket and minigun they had on board at the top of the ridge that the fire had come from.

“Who saw what took him out?” I asked after we shut down.

Mike spoke first. “I never seen anything like that. It was some sort of rocket that came off the ridge. Son of a bitch streaked up and hit him about four feet down the tail boom. Took it right off. The rotor head came off and just flew away like a giant fan. His nose went low and he just fell. Son of a bitch. Damn!”

“Christ, those guys never had a chance,” another pilot spoke up.

“Are you sure it was a rocket? An RPG?” I asked.

“Shit, no. I’ve seen RPGs and this was not that,” said Ron Fender, who’d had an RPG round come though his windshield when Mr. Young had been killed. “This thing had a white smoke trail like I’ve never seen before. It was more of a missile than a rocket,” he added. “It initially wasn’t even coming at him, and then it turned on him. An RPG wouldn’t do that. This was a missile.”

The grunts were leaving the aircraft and forming up. Seeing their company commander, I approached him. “Where are you going?”

“We’re going to hump down to the aircraft and then up that ridge and see if we can find them. We’re real sorry for you losing those guys. Never seen a Cobra go down before. What the hell was it that got him?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t see it from where I was. The guys tell me it was some sort of missile. I hope you find the little bastards. They really set us up for this one. They were gunning for a Cobra.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Look, they fire an AK-47 at a CH-47. Nice and loud and he’s coming in here fast and low. They know there are six UH-1s here and two Cobras, possibly four. They know that the LZ is the only usable LZ over there. So they’re up on the ridge overlooking the LZ. We fire the artillery around the LZ but don’t cover the ridge as it doesn’t offer any direct fire on the LZ, and the artillery is to protect the assault on landing. They knew the UH-1s would be below the ridge on the approach, but the Cobras would be making their run from up high, and a missile shoots up, not down. An RPG would be fired down and not leave a white smoke trail. We walked right into their ambush.”

“Have you ever seen a missile fired before?” he asked.

“No, and I hope I don’t see another. This is going to change things. I need to get up to the TOC.” I walked off. At the TOC, the battalion commander offered his condolences and told me that a report had been sent to higher. He said Blue Max was coming in force to work over the ridge. A lot of good that was going to do at this point. The shooters were long gone. We were on standby for any other missions until we had to depart for our last lift, which would be the final extraction out of Cambodia that the president had ordered.