Low Level Hell: A Scout Pilot in the Big Red One

^{CHAPTER 7} WHERE IS ONE FIVE?

By May 1969, division G-2 estimated enemy strength in the 1st Division area at ten thousand personnel, with another four thousand people providing logistical support for the field troops.

Our picture of the enemy was getting clearer. With more experience, the scouts could now tell who and what we had found on the ground. We could, for instance, identify the NVA troops, generally natives of North Vietnam, members of the legally constituted, trained, and equipped people’s army of the North Vietnamese government. Outfitted in his green and tan fatigue uniform, including thick-soled boots, Soviet web gear, and Russian-designed weapons, the NVA soldier was a professional—well-equipped, trained, and disciplined. His basic weapon was the Soviet Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle, though many were armed with either the RPG-7 or RPG-2 portable rocket launcher. He was a worthy foe on the battlefield.

The Viet Cong guerrillas, on the other hand, were generally natives of South Vietnam but not sympathetic to the government of the Republic of Vietnam. Their loyalty was to the national liberation movement of South Vietnam, and to the NVA who had come from the north to help them in their cause.

Though many times thought of as wandering guerrilla bands, the VC, in reality, were highly organized in their military resistance efforts. Main force VC units in the 1st Division area included combat outfits such as the Dong Nai Regiment, Song Be Battalion, and the SR-4 (strategic region) battalions of the Thu Due Regiment. In addition, they had their own artillery units, such as the 74th and 96th artillery regiments, along with K33, K34, and K35 arty battalions.

Instead of the highly militarized uniforms of the NVA, the VC normally wore dark blue or jet black pajama tops and bottoms. Sometimes the pants would be to the ankle, but black shorts were common. Unless he had come across a pair of U.S. jungle boots, VC always wore Ho Chi Minh sandals, cut out of vehicle tires.

Many wore scarfs fashioned from strips of camouflage parachute cloth. Larger pieces of this same cloth were tied around the neck and used as capes. The scarf served to hide the head and face and keep away insects; the cape provided excellent camouflage as the guerrilla moved through the terrain. When a VC ran, the cape flapped out behind him like a banner.

The things needed to sustain a VC in the field were mostly carried on his back: generally a lightweight sleeping bag around his shoulders, web pouch or bandolier of ammo across his chest, and a roll of rice around his neck. He carried an AK-47 assault rifle, sometimes a Russian 7.62mm SKS (Simonov) carbine. On occasion, it was an American M-16 scavenged from the field, as well as a supply of U.S. hand grenades.

The main force VC were nearly on a par with NVA regulars in their fighting capability. They were well-organized, employed good tactics, had excellent weapons, and were tenacious as hell.

As an aviator, I noticed one difference between the NVA and VC that held true in most instances. That was in fire control. In scouting over an enemy contact area, if I began to catch ground fire from a considerable distance, it was a probable assumption that I had jumped VC troops. If the fire opened up right under me, you could take odds that the shooters were NVA soldiers. The more battlewise NVA regulars didn’t expose their positions as readily, and realized that waiting to shoot meant a better chance at knocking the low, slow-flying scout ship out of the sky.

The lowest organized component of VC combat troops was the local force unit. The main forces were organized to regimental strength; the smaller VC local force units generally did not exceed platoon and company-sized elements. Though these small units were numbered (C-61 Company, D-368, K-10), many times they were identified by the name of the village or area from which the people manning the unit came, for example, the Ben Cat Company or the An Loc Platoon.

The men and women making up these local forces could be seen around their villages one day doing their jobs; the next day they would be gone, having disappeared to join their VC units for some guerrilla operation. When the mission was accomplished, they’d return as quietly and discreetly as they had left.

The local force VC most often carried older weapons. Being at the bottom of the supply distribution schedule, they had to use whatever weapons were available to them. This included old French MAT-49 submachine guns, U.S. BARs (Browning automatic rifles), Thompson submachine guns, and .30-caliber M-l carbines.

It was very difficult to tell any of the Vietnamese soldiers apart, and nearly impossible to determine individual political persuasions. Only our Kit Carson scouts could positively tell the good guys from the bad.

The NVA and the VC lived the same way in the field. They ate their rice and fish and built bunkers in their areas of operations. Bunkers were important for storing supplies, providing overhead cover, and establishing field bases from which to operate.

As aerial scouts, we were always on the lookout for cooking fires, especially early in the morning when Charlie might be boiling his rice and fish for breakfast. We also looked for their fish traps in the many rivers and tributaries. There was generally someone around to tend the traps, and you could be pretty sure that the “someone” was Charlie.

Most fliers would not have known these details about the enemy. They had no reason to. But scouts were different—we had to know the enemy’s habits and personality. We were down low and slow looking for them every day, and knowing these things helped us locate the enemy.

So I could know Charlie’s ways even better, I arranged with Four Six (ARP leader Bob Harris) to go out into the field with the ARPs on my days off. This way I could actually see enemy bunkers and study how they were built, talk to captured enemy personnel through interpreters, and go into their tunnels and hootches to discover how they lived in the field.

Up to this time, the scout platoon worked in the south around the Iron T, Trapezoid, and Michelin. The terrain around those areas was flat and open, and occupied mostly by VC forces. But, in late May, our services were required up north to help keep elements of the 7th NVA Division under close surveillance.

We all disliked working up north on Thunder Road (Highway 13) around An Loc and Quan Loi because it meant trying to see through triple-canopy jungle. There was also the good prospect of running into the NVA regulars who operated out of nearby Cambodian sanctuaries. The whole area was hot as a firecracker.

From An Loc-Quan Loi it was only about twenty kilometers north and west to the Cambodian border and an area we called the Fishhook. When we worked up there we generally took a flight of six (three scouts and three Cobras) out of Phu Loi and up to Quan Loi early in the morning. Then we’d work out of that base and return to Phu Loi before dark.

Though the entire border area was crawling with NVA, the main problem was the terrain—the tall, layered, dense, and dark jungle. To see anything at all from the air, we had to fly right down on top of the trees, then slow down to nearly a hover—a point where we were easy pickings for the many heavy tripod-mounted .30- and .50-caliber antiaircraft machine guns that the North Vietnamese had dug into the jungle.

On 22 May we were working west out of An Loc-Quan Loi on reconnaissance to provide information on enemy activity to the base camp commander. The VR-1 that day was Bob Davis (One Three). He was down in his search pattern lowin’ and slowin’ away when all hell broke loose. Enemy .50-caliber rounds suddenly came bursting up out of the jungle and tore into Davis’s OH-6.

The sound of any kind of fire tearing through the bird is frightening, but the sound of .50s finding their mark is terrifying. Especially when you can’t see the gun or its muzzle blast, and have no idea where the fire is coming from.

Fortunately, neither Davis nor his crew chief was hit by the sudden barrage. With some careful nursing, One Three was able to get his ship back to Quan Loi and safely set her down. There were numerous big, ripping slug tears through the cabin and tail boom of the aircraft. It was the first time since I had been in the troop that any of our Loaches had ever been engaged and hit by .50-caliber fire.

Davis told me the general area where he had run into trouble, and I headed out with my gun cover to see if I could find the emplacement. I had no luck at all. Peering down into the deep, dark jungle revealed not a trace of any enemy activity other than a few old foot trails. The score near the Cambodian border quickly became NVA one, Darkhorse scouts zero.

Not long after the incident, Jim Ameigh (One Five) was scouting the same area and found the .50 pit that apparently had fired at Davis. We called those pits “donuts” because they were circular, with a platform of earth left in the center where the gun rested. This way, the firing team could track targets 360 degrees on the tripod without having to physically move the machine gun.

When Ameigh found the donut, the gun was gone. Once the enemy had exposed their position, they didn’t wait around. They knew that U.S. air would be back soon on a hosing down mission.

The incident left us all with an ominous, foreboding feeling about the area. We knew that the entire region to the west of An Loc was infested with NVA, and that the difficult terrain wouldn’t let us find them easily.

On 26 May, we were back up around An Loc-Quan Loi to work a routine VR mission out west toward the Fishhook. Crockett was getting ready to rotate back home, so I was flying again with Al Farrar as my crew chief.

As we pulled out behind Darkhorse Three Eight (Phil Carriss’s Cobra), Farrar keyed the intercom. “Where we headed today, Lieutenant?”

As we passed over the Phu Loi perimeter fence, I heard him arm his M-60. “Just sit back and relax, Al,” I responded. “We’ve got a few klicks to ride up to Quan Loi, then probably on out toward the Fishhook for a little look-see at what the bad guys are up to.”

“I hear it can get pretty hot up there, sir. But, you know, I love flying scouts. I haven’t been a crew chief very long now, but I’m learning real good and getting better every day.”

“How about a little radio fifty-four as we ride, Al?” I said back into the intercom. Without waiting for his answer, I flipped on the automatic direction finder (ADF) so we could catch the armed forces AM radio on the long flight up to Quan Loi. As was becoming my habit also, I took my right foot off the pedal and propped it on the lower door frame outside the aircraft. Finding that I could easily handle level flight with just the left pedal, wiggling my right foot out the door was a comfortable diversion.

“I really have been looking forward to flying more with you, sir,” Farrar said over the music. ‘’Since I’m just learning, I sure would appreciate anything you can do to help me along.”

“If you think you’ve drawn the master card to learn everything on this flight, you’re in deep trouble, Al, because we’re both learning. So, if we cooperate and graduate together, we might get this thing done right.”

“I sure do roger that, Lieutenant.”

As we flew into an area northwest of the An Loc rubber plantation, Carriss in the Cobra broke on VHF to me. “OK, One Six, we’re coming up on the area that Quan Loi wants us to take a look at. How do you feel about it?”

“OK, Three Eight, let’s go,” I responded.

“All right, One Six. I want you to go down on the large open clearing on the crest of the hill at about your four o’clock. Have you got that in sight?”

With my head cocked out the door, I picked up the hill with a valley leading off to the west. “Roger that… in sight.”

“OK,” Carriss followed up, “then begin your runs to the west, working to the north. We’ll call your breaks for you. You’ve got free-fire.”

I keyed the intercom and asked Farrar if he was ready to go to work. With excitement clear in his voice, he came back, “Yes, sir, Lieutenant, let’s do it!”

I kicked right pedal and whipped the cyclic over, forcing the little Loach into a tight right-hand descending turn. We swirled down to about a kilometer away from the hilltop where I was to start my pattern.

Pulling out at fifteen to twenty feet above the treetops, I headed for the hill from zero nine zero degrees so I could pass over that specific terrain feature and start my run in the cardinal direction of west. I headed up the valley at about forty knots, making 360-degree turns over things I wanted to look at again.

As I neared my westerly mark, the Cobra front-seater called, “Western limit, One Six.”

With that message, I did a right turn north for fifty to sixty yards, then another right, heading me back east to work a return search.

As I circled over what looked to be an old deserted bunker, looking for foot traffic patterns, I was interrupted by Carriss. “Hey, One Six, we’ve lost you. Where are you?”

Knowing full well how difficult it was to see me against the dense jungle from fifteen hundred feet, I kidded back, “I’m right down here, Three Eight. I can see you. Why in the hell can’t you see me?”

“Move out into a little clearing for a second, One Six, so I can see if I can pick you up.”

Moving into an area that offered some terrain contrast to the back of my bird, I keyed back, “Have you got me yet, or do you want me to drop a yellow smoke?”

“We’ve got you, One Six. Don’t need a smoke… move back into your pattern.”

On about the third route west, I noticed that we were coming up on what looked like a small valley within the valley. There were fairly high wooded hills on each side that extended from about halfway up the main valley to what appeared to be about the western limit of my search leg. I headed between them, more than a little apprehensive about flying into such tight quarters. I started my three sixties just as soon as I entered the eastern end of the valley.

Though you never knew where you’d find bad guys, this looked like a perfect place for trouble. Besides, my built-in warning alarm was going off in the nape of my neck, telling me I needed to be extra careful in here. I keyed the intercom. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this place, Al. Keep your eyes peeled and your 60 cocked.”

I had no sooner gotten the words out of my mouth when I passed over a fairly heavy wire strung across the valley. A wire? I thought. If it is, it’s sure as hell out of place in the middle of this jungle. I swung around to take another look. “What do you make of that wire that just went under our nose?” I asked Farrar.

“I see it, Lieutenant. Looks like it’s tied to trees across the valley from each other. I don’t know what the hell—”

“You know what I think we got, Al? Could that be a radio antenna?”

Punctuating my question was a tremendous burst of ground fire coming up on the front and left side of the aircraft. Not from just one weapon, but from AK-47s and .30- and .50-caliber machine guns.

As I jerked a hard right turn and tried to dive for the treetops, I screamed into the radio, “I’m taking fire… taking fire!” Farrar’s 60 went off in response.

Just as I turned, I caught new fire from across the valley coming up at me from twelve o’clock dead ahead. I was getting hit… I could feel the hits in the airplane. All the time Farrar’s M-60 kept firing.

“Son of a bitch!” I yelled. “We must have found a goddamned NVA radio station on the end of that wire, or they were just waiting to ambush us!”

Meeting the new fire head-on, I instinctively pulled another hard right. Fortunately I still had forty to fifty knots of speed to help get our asses out of there. However, my last right turn headed us right back into another blanket of enemy fire, coming up again from the opposite side of the valley. Also, I had caused Carriss to abort his rocket run on the targets because I had pulled right in front of him. He had to yank up his nose to avoid hitting me.

I had let go a blast of the minigun and Farrar was still giving them hell, his 60 blazing. He was leaning out of the airplane, down under the tail boom, and shooting 60 lead out behind us.

Going like a bat out of hell, I pulled away from the ambush kill zone. “Hit ‘em,” I yelled at Carriss. “Hit the bastards! I’m clear… I’m clear!”

“Did you get a smoke out?” asked Carriss.

“Shit,” I muttered, and looked back at Farrar. His eyes were as big as billiard balls. “Lieutenant, sir, I ain’t going back in there for nothin’. If you’re going back in there, you can just let me out.”

I keyed Carriss back. “No, we didn’t get a smoke out.”

“Ah-h-h, One Six, I think I spotted the source of your fires. I’m going to roll in and put some rockets down. What have you got down there?”

“I’ve never seen an enemy radio station before, Three Eight, but I think I’ve got one. While you expend your load, I’m going to start a spiral climb to altitude.”

“Roger, One Six. I’m in hot.” I watched Carriss break for his run.

Coming into fifteen hundred feet of altitude, I began to have trouble with the aircraft. Scanning the instrument panel, I saw that my turbine outlet temperature (TOT) gauge was running in the yellow and pushing the red line at nearly 749 degrees centigrade. Torque pressure was low and dropping. It was obvious that some of the enemy rounds had gone through my engine combuster. I wouldn’t be able to stay in the air much longer.

As Carriss came back up after his run on the ambush targets, I told him I was going to have to get back to Quan Loi and put the ship down. There wasn’t any question that I had taken a bunch of hits.

He wanted to escort me back to base, but I suggested that he stay on the NVA radio station and bring in some artillery and tac air. Carriss argued, but I assured him that I could already see the “plantation strip” (our name for the Quan Loi base runway) and that I really thought I could nurse the Loach in. He pulled back toward the target to set up some big stuff.

When the airplane was down safely at plantation, Farrar and I counted nineteen bullet holes in the ship. The rotor blades were hit. The nose was hit. The belly was hit. The tail boom had been hit, and there were about four rounds through the crew compartment, any one of which could have gone through Farrar.

Damn, I thought as I crawled underneath the Loach’s belly, we just about got our asses shot off! Once again, I was amazed at the little OH-6’s ability to take that kind of punishment and still get us back to base in one piece. But it was obvious that there was no way this aircraft would fly again in the shape she was in.

Farrar was still contemplating the four holes near his seat position, and I could see that his hands were shaking. His head was also shaking, but when he saw me he started laughing.

I looked down at my own hands. My whole body was shaking like a leaf. We both stood there on the tarmac, shaking and laughing uncontrollably.

Farrar broke the moment. “Son of a bitch, sir. You know a man could get killed doing this.” I threw my arm around his shoulder and we walked away to see if we could hitch a Huey ride home.

I had been platoon leader of the Outcasts less than a month, gaining more confidence every day in my aircraft, in my scouting ability, and in my scouts. But the stress had a way of building, also. Though I was getting shot at almost every day, I never got used to it. But getting shot at was usually the way a scout found the enemy, and finding the enemy was our basic job.

The army TO&E (Table of Organization and Equipment) called for ten scouts in the platoon. Six, or possibly eight, however, were all we ever had. A typical combat flying month would usually add up to between 130 and 160 hours in the air for each scout pilot. It meant that each scout was flying an average of five hours a day. Everyday. Thirty days a month!

It was tough—flying constantly under pressure, constantly in fear—and it took its toll. It was a constant game of trying to second-guess the enemy. It was a constant worry—about your airplane, about your crew chief, about learning your scouting craft well enough to survive.

The aeroscout platoon worked wherever it was needed within the 1st Division’s geographical area of tactical interest. For about ten days in the early part of June ‘69, the Outcasts were called upon to provide scout cover for the Rome plowing work that was being done for the opening of the Song Be Road, officially known as Highway 1A.

The initial roadbed was built by the French sometime during the nearly hundred years of their Vietnam occupation. Highway 1A started down around Phu Cuong (just west of our base at Phu Loi), and ran generally north up along the western extremity of War Zone D. It wound its way up through Dogleg Village and Claymore Corners (another American-named landmark so-called because it formed a giant intersection where highways 2A, 1A, and 16 all came together just east of Lai Khe), then over the Song Be River bridge just north of Claymore Corners, on up through Phuoc Vinh and Dong Xoai, and finally to Song Be somewhat south of the Cambodian border. From altitude, the narrow little red dirt road looked like a rust-colored snake, slithering up through the jungle, rubber plantations, and Vietnamese villages along the way.

For a distance of eighty to ninety kilometers, the jungle crowded right up to the road on both sides, which put any military or civilian traffic under constant enemy surveillance and potential ambush attack. To open the Song Be Road for our supply convoys and civilian traffic, it was necessary for the 1st Engineer Battalion to put out land-clearing companies to remove jungle growth for about two hundred yards on both sides of the road.

The Outcasts’ job was to sweep ahead of the Rome plows, chaperon the tanks and armored personnel carriers (APCs), and scout for enemy mines, bunkers, and spider holes. The Rome plows could take a good deal of punishment, but the APCs were soft bellied and didn’t take too well to running over mines. The scout platoon was to work this mission under the operational control (opcon) of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, whose headquarters at the time were located at fire support base Bunard, way out in the boondocks northeast of Dong Xoai.

I was called up there to get a briefing on the specifics of the scout assignment from elements of the regiment’s command group. They were to direct me to where the regimental commander (none other than Col. George S. Patton III) wanted our air cav unit to work, since*the aeroscouting mission was being split between us and the 11th’s own Blackhorse troop.

On the appointed day, Dean Sinor (Three One) and I flew up as a team to FSB Bunard. It was 5 June. Since a fire support base was a crowded, busy place, Sinor got on the radio as soon as we had Bunard in sight to get our landing instructions. “Blackhorse Three, this is Darkhorse Three One. We’re a flight of two coming up on station for a briefing. Where would you like us to put down?”

“Ah… OK, Darkhorse, this is Blackhorse Three. We’ve been taking a lot of fire this morning from the jungle. Recommend that you make a spiraling descent right into the base camp. No long approaches because we’ve got a bunch of sniper fire down here.”

Sinor rogered that and then asked me how I felt about going in. Even from altitude I could tell there wasn’t much room down there for a couple of birds to just drop in. So I keyed him back: “You know what, Three One? Why don’t you go on in first and take all the room you need. I can put my bird down anywhere, but you’ll have some trouble shoehorning that gunship inside the concertina wire. Then, after you’re in and shut down, I’ll just drop on into whatever space is left.”

Sinor made a high overhead approach and circled down into an open area right in the middle of the fire base—the only space big enough to take his fifty-two feet, eleven inches of rotor-turning Cobra.

When he was in and shut down, I searched the camp for a spot where I could light. My Loach had a turning diameter of just over thirty-four feet, so I was looking for about a forty-foot niche inside the wire.

I spotted a small bare dirt area in between where Sinor had put down and what looked like a tent pitched out the backside of an armored personnel carrier. It would be tight, but that’s all there was.

I went into a high overhead approach by spotting my ship directly over the point where I wanted to put down. Kicking the OH-6 over on her side, I entered a hard right-hand descending spiral. I continued falling out of trim until I was over the little bald spot next to the tent attached to the APC. Then I leveled off into a wider turn, flared, pulled pitch, and dropped the Loach to the ground right on the money.

Red dust swirled. Objects blew. I didn’t see much with all the junk blowing, except to notice that my rotor wash had popped the tent loose from its moorings.

With ropes and stakes flying, the wind blast blew the tent and its belongings like a rumpled paper sack up over the top of the personnel carrier, then deposited the mess, inside out, at the other end of the APC. It looked like a huge pile of dirty clothes at a Chinese laundry.

When the dust settled, I looked over toward the APC. Two soldiers were sitting in lawn chairs, scowling at me. One had a huge mustache; which was twitching with anger. The other man had a great shock of gray hair, now totally askew from having his tent blown off the top of him.

I didn’t immediately recognize the soldier with the mustache. But the gray-haired man… oh, shit! Though I had never met him, I knew exactly who he was: the regimental commander of the hard-fighting Blackhorse 11th ACR, George S. Patton III.

As I shut down, the enlisted man with the big mustache got up out of his chair, put on his helmet, and walked toward my ship, looking as though he was going to eat me alive. I could hear him screaming as he got closer. “Goddamnit, Lieutenant, I guess you realize that you just blew away the regimental commander’s tent!”

Just then I recognized the sergeant. His name was Wolf, and I remembered him from Fort Knox. He had been my first sergeant in the recon company at Knox after I graduated from OCS.

By this time, I had my helmet off and he recognized me. “How in the h-e-e-1-1 are you, Lieutenant?” he said, the anger leaving his face. “How ya been?”

Realizing that I was probably in trouble anyway, I responded sarcastically: “Fm OK, but the regimental commander ought not park his goddamned tent in my landing zone.”

“You want me to tell him that, Lieutenant?” said the sergeant major, smiling.

“You’re damned right,” I answered, thinking so far so good.

But the sergeant major was going to have the last laugh. He turned around and walked back to Colonel Patton. “Colonel, that young helicopter lieutenant out there wants to know why you got your goddamned tent in his landing zone.”

Patton exploded with laughter. “Bring that obnoxious son of a bitch up here!”

That was my introduction to George Patton. Though the son of famed General Patton of World War II, George III was well known in his own right as an aggressive, fearless, and hard-hitting leader. He was also a man with a very much appreciated sense of humor.

The Outcasts were closely involved in the Song Be Road mission until it was completed ten days later on 15 June. On that day, and in conjunction with the Big Red One’s fifty-second service anniversary, a Song Be Road completion ceremony was held at Phuoc Vinh.

As our final assignment, I was asked to go up for the ribbon cutting, primarily to set up a couple of VR teams to cap and fly cover for the ceremony. It was a big occasion. Both Vietnamese civilians and allied military forces would now be able to traverse the full length of the road with much improved security.

I returned to Phu Loi that afternoon about 1500. After four straight hours of flying, I was ready for a shower and quiet dinner at the O club. I walked in my hootch door and parted the beaded curtains that separated Bob Davis’s and my bunk areas from the rest of the hootch. I immediately noticed that my fan was running, my TV was playing, and perched right in the middle of my bunk was a black-haired lieutenant of infantry.

He had his boots off. He was scratching his bare foot with one hand, drinking a Coca-Cola out of my refrigerator with the other, watching my TV, and cooling his damned self with my fan! There were no possessions guarded more jealously than a man’s fan, TV, stereo, and certain refinements of his bunk area. In fact, these items of luxury were so coveted by the pilots that they were actually willed to successors should the owner depart the country or be killed in action.

With as much composure as I could muster, I demanded, “Just what in the hell are you doing here?”

Completely unperturbed by my blast, the man responded, “I’m new to the troop. I’m assigned to this hootch, and I’m looking for a place to drop my gear.”

“Well, this ain’t the place, soldier,” I shot back in a caustic tone of voice. But I realized that the guy had probably been waiting around in an empty hootch for two to three hours hoping someone would show up to help him find an empty bunk. Besides, I kind of liked his manner.

“Hey, there’s an empty bunk right outside the beaded curtain. I’ll help you move your gear, then after I shower up we can go down to the O club and catch dinner and a movie.”

By this time he was on his feet and sticking out his hand. “My name is Rod Willis, Lieutenant Rod Willis. Are you a scout pilot?”

I shook his hand. “Well, yes… I’m Hugh Mills, One Six. Are you assigned to the scout platoon?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t easy.”

I liked Willis almost from the start. I got him introduced around the club and showed him the troop plaque lineup behind the bar. Each of the pilots in the troop had a plaque with his name and call sign on it. When a new guy came into the unit, his plaque was made up and put at the bottom of the group on the left side wall behind the bar. Plaques for the senior pilots were hung on the right side of the bar. As people DEROSed or otherwise left the troop, their plaques were taken down and everybody else moved up higher in the pecking order. Willis took a lot of kidding that night as he became the lowest man on the totem pole—a very visible position.

After supper, Bill Jones, Bob Davis, Willis (now to be the new One Seven), and I went back to the hootch and talked scouting for a couple of hours. Though Willis didn’t do an awful lot of talking, we learned that he was an air force brat. His father, a thirty-year veteran (a senior master sergeant), and the family had lived all over the world. He had followed exactly the same army career path that I had: enlisted, basic training, OCS (infantry), flight school, and Vietnam.

When he processed into Vietnam, he was assigned to pilot Hueys in the 1st Division. He told us how he practically begged on bended knee to get the S-3 to change his orders from jockeying ash and trash to flying combat missions in the scouts.

The kinds of questions Willis asked that night showed me what kind of pilot he would be. “You guys fly real low, don’t you?” “How often do you make enemy contact?” “How many kills are you getting?” “How much damage are the scouts doing to the enemy?” “How soon can I get transitioned into Loaches so I can get at the bastards?”

This guy’s naturally aggressive style was perfect for the scouts. He acted and talked like an individualist, and individualists were what the scouts were all about. Plus, he didn’t have a wife and family back home to worry about.

At about the same time that Willis came into the unit, we also got a new Darkhorse troop commander, a cavalry major by the name of Charles L. Moore. Not having met the man, I didn’t know what to expect when the new CO called a meeting of all the platoon leaders in his private hootch after supper on the day of the change of command ceremony. Before the meeting, though, I did find out that Moore was a second tour veteran, had actually served as the Darkhorse XO during his first tour, and had good familiarity with troop organization and operations.

At precisely 1900, we all walked into Major Moore’s hootch, snapped crisp salutes, and reported to the new commanding officer. The first thing that came across about him was that he was supercharged to the aggressive position, and somewhat spring-loaded to the pissed-off position. In other words, he was very aggressive, said exactly what he was thinking, and wanted it damned well understood that the mission of the troop was to seek out and destroy the enemy.

“It’s our cavalry heritage,” he said, “to find the enemy wherever the sons a bitches are. When we find ‘em, we’re going to kill ‘em. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” we responded simultaneously.

“And starting tomorrow, I’m going to be flying C and C on as many of your missions as possible, so I’ll be there right on top of the contact to make whatever tactical decisions need to be made. Is that understood?”

Major Moore’s attitude was like a breath of fresh air to me. I decided then and there to show him Joe Vad’s new Outcast patch design.

Vad (Nine) was a rough, tough, street fighter from Brooklyn, New York. He didn’t care too much for the plain rectangular cloth patch that all the Outcasts wore over our right jacket pocket, so he had sketched a new design that he thought better typified the scout platoon’s fighting spirit. It was a blood red disk with a big skull and crossed cavalry sabers in the middle. At the top was the word OUTCASTS’, at the bottom written on a scroll were the words, LOW LEVEL HELL.

I had been waiting for the right opportunity to show the design to Major Cummings. As soon as Major Moore saw Vad’s artwork, he approved it. He ordered patches be made and sewn on scout uniforms as soon as possible.

Though the motto on the new patch was Low Level Hell, the scout platoon was flying high. We knew our business. We all had miniguns strapped to our birds. We were scouring the countryside and finding the enemy every day. We were killing enemy every day. We hadn’t lost a single man in the platoon as the result of combat action. And the Darkhorse reputation was spreading—we were a pretty damned hot bunch of fliers.

Our increasingly cavalier attitude didn’t prepare us for what was about to happen.

A few days later, on 24 June, Jim Ameigh (One Five) and I were the scouts for two hunter-killer teams that had left Phu Loi early that morning to work an area around the Quan Loi airstrip. Captain Mike Woods (Three Five) was my gun pilot, and we worked for about ten hours with Ameigh and his gun, reconning from Quan Loi and An Loc in the south, on up Highway 13 to Loc Ninh in the north. We ended the operation about 1700, and the four of us met at Quan Loi for the flight back down Thunder Road to our base at Phu Loi.

On that day I was flying with an observer pilot in the left front seat instead of a crew chief in back. Artillery 1st Lt. Dwight Cheek had just recently come into the unit and was flying with me as a scout pilot in training. He already knew the OH-6 pretty well, having taken advanced training in the Loach and served some time as an OH-6 instructor pilot before coming to Vietnam.

Ameigh’s door gunner for the day was an experienced young crew chief by the name of Jim Slater. On the ride home from Quan Loi, both Ameigh and Slater were especially elated because they had made contact with enemy patrols that day and had scored confirmed kills—Slater out the back door with his M-60, and Ameigh with his minigun.

As we climbed out of Quan Loi, Woods in the lead Cobra got on the artillery frequency and asked for a status report.

Quan Loi artillery came right back. “Roger, Darkhorse. Quan Loi is cold… negative outgoing fires. Contact Lai Khe artillery north Thunder Three for Lai Khe advisories. Lai Khe arty is currently shooting 105s to the south and southeast. Good day.”

With Ameigh’s bird tight on my left wing, we headed down Highway 13 at eighty to ninety knots. As we approached Thunder One, Woods called up again, asking arty status from Lai Khe artillery.

They responded: “OK, Darkhorse flight of four, we’ve got 105s shooting out of Lai Khe, max ord three thousand feet. You are cleared direct to Phu Loi as long as you stay along the highway, and under two thousand feet for a safety buffer.”

Three Five rogered that with the comment that the guns were running at slightly under fifteen hundred feet and the scouts were down on the deck at a hundred feet or so off the ground. Ameigh and I were low because it was beginning to get dark, which gave us the opportunity to scout the road and maybe catch a bad guy planting a mine or digging a spider hole.

A couple of kilometers north of Lai Khe, Ameigh and I saw a group of our M-551 Sheridan tanks and M-113 ACAVs that were getting loggered in for the night. They were on the west side of the road and, in size, looked like about a troop or squadron-minus of armored cavalry.

As we flew over the tanks, Woods radioed from his fifteen-hundred-foot position. “Hey, One Six, Three Five. You guys are going to have to either turn on some lights or come up to altitude. I’m having trouble seeing you.”

We knew he didn’t expect us to turn on our navigation and anticollision lights. The large red-flashing anticollision light mounted on the belly of the OH-6 was so visible that we called it the “target.” Woods really wanted us to come up and get into formation with the snakes.

I came up on UHF to Ameigh. “One Five, this is One Six. Let’s take it up to altitude and get on the gun’s wing.” I waited for him to come back, or, at a minimum, respond by twice breaking squelch with his transmit switch. But nothing. I heard nothing back.

I was ready to key Ameigh again and repeat the message when Mike Woods broke back in. “One Six, where is One Five? I don’t see your wingman. I say again, I do not see One Five. Is he with you?”

I twisted in my seat to look back where Ameigh’s ship ought to have been, yelling, “One Five, this is One Six. Where are you? Come on, goddamnit, where in the hell are you?”

No response. I kicked right pedal, pulled full power, and slammed the cyclic right. Coming hard around in a tight descending, decelerating turn, I scoured the sky for Ameigh’s bird. Nothing. He wasn’t there.

I flew several large circles, looking around the immediate area. He had been right there on my wing; now he was gone. Not a sign of him anywhere.

Mike Woods on VHF and I on UHF both appealed to Ameigh to come up on either frequency. Nothing.

On about my fourth circle around the area, I caught sight of a wisp of white smoke trailing up out of the jungle. A cold chill went through me. I moved directly over the smoke and tried to see through the trees. Suddenly I was nearly overcome by the smell of CS gas. The stream of smoke coming up from the jungle floor was riot gas, apparently from a burning CS canister. All the scout OH-6s carried CS canisters.

Eyes heavily watering from the gas fumes, I looked down and saw a hole in the jungle with tops of trees chopped off all around it, as if a giant woodsman had taken a blunt ax and splintered them away.

It was getting so dark that seeing all the way to the ground was almost impossible. But something white caught my eye. Straining through the faint light I could tell that it was definitely the open engine cowl door of an OH-6. The inside engine compartment of all OH-6s is painted white. And the only OH-6 not accounted for at that moment was Jim Ameigh’s.

“Three Five, One Six. I’ve got the bird—he’s down in the jungle. No apparent fire, but a CS gas canister must be popped. I see no sign of life. The aircraft is on its side. I can’t see very well, but I think the bird’s engine is still running because I can also smell JP-4 exhaust.”

By this time Woods was circling above me and had informed Darkhorse ops at Phu Loi that Ameigh was down. He keyed me and asked, “Do you want me to scramble the ARPs?”

“Negative, let’s hold on that. There’s no lima zulu to put ‘em down. It’s getting too dark and it’s too far from Thunder Road to put them in there and expect they’d find the bird out here in the jungle. We gotta do something quicker than that.”

“OK, I roger that, One Six. How about those tanks we just passed back on Thunder. Do you suppose they could get in here to the wreck?”

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try,” I answered. “Let’s get over to them.”

Woods gave me a steer. The tanks we had passed were about two kilometers to the north and west. I also needed a frequency to talk to them. Since Cobras worked with all the ground units routinely, Three Five came right back with the FM push and call sign.

I hit it immediately. “Tanker, Tanker, this is Darkhorse on fox mike. Any unit in vicinity Thunder Road south of tango one [FSB Thunder I], please come up this push and talk to me.”

Almost immediately a voice answered. “This is Tanker Six. What do you need, Darkhorse?”

“Tanker Six, this is Darkhorse One Six. We’ve got a downed bird just south and east of your logger location. Aircraft with pilot and crew chief down. I cannot get to them. I need you to bust a trail through the jungle. Can you do it?”

Immediately and unhesitatingly, Tanker Six responded. “Roger, stand by. Is that you in the little bird?”

“Yes, I’m in the little bird with a heavy gun team over me.”

“Roger, Darkhorse. Lead on. I’ll get my guys up on our frequency, and I’ll follow you on this push.”

Tanker left the frequency momentarily as I circled low overhead. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose amidst the armored vehicles below. Tank crewmen who had been lounging around on the backs of their vehicles and ACAVs in all states of dress and undress sprang up, donned flak jackets, grabbed M-16s and helmets, and disappeared into their armored vehicles.

In just seconds, engines were fired up and the column began moving out of its night defensive position. The lead Sheridan steered right up onto Highway 13 and toward me where I was now hovering just south of their logger area.

As his column formed up on the road, Tanker came back on the FM frequency. “Darkhorse One Six, Tanker Six. What are the circumstances of the crash? Do we have enemy ground fire?”

“Negative, Tanker Six. If we had enemy ground fire, I did not hear it. Circumstances are unknown why the bird is down. Two souls on board, a pilot and a gunner.”

“Roger, Darkhorse. We’ll follow you and try to bust a trail to the site.”

I headed off south down the road with the armored column following, sending up a swirl of red dust. When I reached a point on the road that was approximately ninety degrees and adjacent to the crash site, I pulled up and hit the radio to Tanker. “I’m going to leave you here. I’ll hang east and go directly to the downed bird and hover over it. You can aim on me as you come off the road, but I’ll be back overhead to correct your steering as you bust toward the site.

“Be aware that CS is coming up from what may be a ruptured canister. There is also hot ordnance on board. The aircraft engine appears to still be running, and the bird’s tanks are full of JP-4.”

As if all that made his job any easier, Tanker Six rogered my transmission and sent his lead Sheridan off the road into the jungle.

I flew on over to the crash site, circled a few times trying to see down into the dark jungle hole, then returned to the armored column to see how they were doing. The Sheridan out front was knocking down everything in its path. Trees fell and the low vegetation was being ground to pulp under the heavy tank treads. The ACAVs followed the big M-551 toward Ameigh’s downed ship.

Every once in awhile I keyed Tanker to alter his course a few degrees one way or the other, until the column finally gained a position about forty meters out from the crash site. “OK, Tanker,” I said, “let’s stop the lead track here and put some of your people on foot so your column doesn’t overrun the aircraft. The downed bird is now about forty meters directly to your front.”

The lead tank rolled to a halt. Several soldiers jumped off the 113s and took up positions out front and to the sides of the big Sheridan. Then the column started moving slowly ahead.

It was now very, very dark. I could hardly see the armored column when it stopped again, this time about fifteen meters from Ameigh’s battered OH-6. As the rest of the soldiers poured out of the ACAVs, I moved my bird into a wider orbit around the crash site so the sound of my aircraft would not disrupt what they were trying to do on the ground.

Suddenly my FM radio crackled. “Darkhorse, Darkhorse, this is Tanker. We’re at the bird. The aircraft is still running… say again… still running. It sounds like a full-bore runaway jet engine that could explode any second. What should we do?”

“What’s the condition of the aircraft?” I asked.

“The chopper appears to be on its side, possibly upside down. The rotors have been torn off, and the engine is going max RPMs. Can’t see pilot or door gunner. We’re afraid the whole thing could go up any minute. Can you tell us how to shut down the engine? Need instructions.”

I thought for a second. There was no way I could explain to those soldiers how to get into the cockpit and turn off that aircraft. I had to get down there and do it myself.

I went back to Tanker. “You’ll never find the engine controls. I need to get down there myself. Can you bust me a landing zone so I can put this Loach down?”

“Sure can,” he answered. “How much of an LZ do you need?”

Without any light to help guide me down into a hole in the jungle, I needed a spot at least fifty feet diameter, as close to the wreck as possible. I also told him that my other crewman was a pilot, and one way or another we’d get in and out of there.

Seconds later, the lead Sheridan cranked up and began to neutral-steer where it was. The tank growled, twisted, and turned in the little area, tearing down trees and bamboo. In three to four minutes, there was a landing zone just a few feet from Ameigh’s aircraft. The LZ wasn’t flat, not with all those knocked-down trees and other vegetation forming the floor. But when Tanker asked if his freshly carved lima zulu was OK, I told him to back off his Sheridan and let me give it a try.

I turned to Dwight Cheek. “I’m going to set this thing down in that spot the Sheridan just busted, then I’m going to get out of the. ship. When I do, I’d like you to hold it at a hover. We’ll be right on top of a bunch of torn-down trees—no solid ground, no firm footing—you’ll have to be very easy until I can get over and check out the wreck and see if I can shut down that engine. Do you have any problem with that?” Dwight didn’t bat an eye.

I went around to the west and started a run into the LZ at almost a dead hover. Once over the jungle hole, I began to let down vertically, with Cheek and me hanging out the aircraft doors to make sure the tail was clear.

I set her down as lightly as I could on a precarious perch of broken tree limbs and stumps. The little OH-6 began to totter. I lifted her up, turned about three feet to the right, and set her down again.

“OK, Dwight, you’ve got it. Pull in a little pitch and just hold her right here. I’ll be back as quick as I can. Now be ready for a change in weight when I get out of the aircraft.”

I disconnected my helmet and seat belt and slid my right leg out the door. Then I lifted my left leg up and over my cyclic stick, which Cheek was controlling now from his side, and jumped out of the ship.

I landed on a tree limb sticking up about two feet off the ground. Doing a quick balancing act, I worked my way through the branches and into the arms of a couple of troopers who had run over to help me.

They grabbed me and led the way to Ameigh’s smashed aircraft. I could hear the high-pitched whine of the jet engine that was still running wild amidst a white cloud of choking CS gas.

Reaching the wreck, I had to momentarily turn away because my eyes were watering so badly. Tears ran down my face, and my nose and mucous membranes poured. I arm-swiped my face with the sleeves of my fatigue jacket.

All the troopers around me were in the same condition. One of them was trying to get relief by standing with his face up in the OH-6’s rotor wash, trying to flush out some of the CS gas.

I approached the aircraft and could see that the engine cowl on the right-hand side was open and the ship was lying almost on its back. The noise was almost unbearable. With the downed bird’s engine running full blast, the ACAV motors going, and Cheek’s Loach hovering, the nearby armored crewman could hardly hear me yell into his ear, “Get me some help in here. We’re going to try to lift the ship up enough so I can crawl into the left side of the cabin and get at the engine controls.”

The fuel valve control knob and the battery off-on switch were both located on the console circuit breaker panel between the seats. By going into the left side of the cabin, I could probably get at those switches easier because the left seat was vacant. All I would have to do is find the fuel switch and pull it out; that would immediately cut off the fuel supply to the engine and shut it down.

With the help of about five troopers braving the CS gas, we lifted the left side of the aircraft about eighteen inches off the ground. The armor guys held it there momentarily, and I slithered into the cabin. I immediately started feeling around to get a fix on where things were.

It was black as pitch. My initial reaction was that absolutely nothing was where it ought to be in a normal Loach cockpit. Things were torn loose. Everything seemed crushed over on top of itself, accordion style. Finding that fuel cutoff was going to be some kind of trick. Damn! If I could only see something. This mother could go sky high any second!

With the fingers of my right hand, I felt my way up over what should have been the back of the left front seat. Then on to where the console and the circuit breaker panel were between the seats, where, with a little luck, I’d find the push-pull fuel shutoff valve control.

God, it was eerie in there! Everything bashed to hell, Jim Ameigh and Slater in there someplace, in what condition I couldn’t imagine, and the aircraft’s engine running red-line and tearing itself apart.

Groping wildly now, my fingers suddenly touched the fuel valve. I yanked it hard, and to my utter horror the whole switch assembly—valve, cable, and all—tore loose out of the panel and into my hand.

The engine whined on. My eyes burned from CS gas and from the sheer frustration of the ripped-out valve. My thoughts raced, trying to figure out what I could do now.

A last resort occurred to me—try to shut her down at the engine itself. I backed out of the aircraft. The soldiers helped me relift the OH-6 so I could crawl into the engine cowl door.

I really couldn’t tell what I was dealing with in there, but I felt a push-pull tube on the fuel control that seemed to be the throttle linkage. When I pulled and turned it, the fuel shut off. The engine wound down and stopped.

Now I had to get back into the wreck and see about Ameigh and Slater. As I crawled into the rear cargo compartment, one of the soldiers wiggled in behind me. He didn’t have a shirt on, but a medical bag was tied around his neck.

“I’m the medic,” he said. “How many casualties have you got, sir?”

“I don’t know, I can’t tell yet, but the crew chief should be right here.”

Groping in the dark, I suddenly brushed against a leg. I assumed it was Jim Slater’s. He was still strapped into the gunner’s seat, his upper body bent forward where the caved-in engine and transmission had pushed him. With the wrecked aircraft inverted, he was hanging upside down from the roof.

I reached up and held Slater around the waist as I punched the automatic seat belt release. I kept jabbing at the*release but nothing came loose. The damned thing must have jammed. I was frantic. What I didn’t realize was that Slater was also attached to his monkey strap, which was still holding him securely in place.

I moved around to the right and Doc came up into the cargo hold with me. There was about three feet of headroom, with our knees on the ground.

I pulled out my survival knife, and with both Doc and me cradling him, I cut through Slater’s belts. His body fell into our arms like a heavy sack of wheat. We yelled to the soldiers outside to lift the aircraft again so we could pull Slater out.

Dragging him into the open, Doc tried to rip away the top of Slater’s flight suit to start working on him, but the chicken plate was in the way. Doc had never seen a chicken plate before, so I reached down with my knife and cut it loose.

Doc quickly checked all the vital signs, then looked up at me. “I’m sorry, sir, he’s dead.”

It took a moment for the realization to sink in. “OK, then, let’s go back. We’ve still got a pilot in there.”

I knew Ameigh had to be on the right side of the aircraft, which was still against the ground. “Everybody!” I yelled. “I need everybody over here to turn this bird over.” In seconds a dozen or more soldiers were lifting and pushing.

As the aircraft moved, a hand fell out the pilot’s cabin door. I let go of the aircraft and grabbed the hand to search for a pulse. My heart nearly jumped into my throat. I felt a pulse—a strong but irregular beating against my trembling fingertips. “This man’s alive,” I screamed. “Push this thing up… get the airplane up… and be careful as hell!”

Ameigh was still strapped in, but sideways in his seat. The aircraft had rolled over on him. Doc was at my side again as I reached for Ameigh’s seat belt and shoulder harness release. When I popped it, he fell loose into our arms and free of the aircraft.

As Doc and the others started working over Ameigh, I ran back over to Cheek, who was still hovering precariously over the fallen tree limbs of the LZ. I leaned in the cabin door, plugged in my helmet, and hit the intercom button. “Three Five, this is One Six. We’ve got the charlie echo kilo [crew chief-engineer dead]. Charlie echo is kilo. One Five is still alive. Let’s get a Dustoff. Scramble a Dustoff. We’ve got Ameigh still alive down here. Get Dustoff over here as fast as you can.” I rushed back over to Ameigh. “How’s he doing?”

The medic looked up at me. “I don’t know… it’s touch and go.”

I told him I had called Dustoff, but that maybe both Doc and Ameigh could get into the back of my Loach for the short lift over to Doctor Delta (Lai Khe hospital).

Doc quickly turned down my offer. “Negative. I want him in a litter. I don’t want to curl him up—he’s had massive internal injuries.”

“Can you keep him alive?” I pleaded.

“I think I can if we can get a Dustoff in here and not waste any time getting him over to the hospital.”

Doc and another one of the soldiers strapped what looked like a tourniquet around Ameigh’s lower body, then hooked up an IV. Ameigh was a really handsome guy with black wavy hair. Standing there looking into his ashen face, I just couldn’t believe that he had been on my wing one second, then gone without a trace. Now this!

I went back to the hovering Loach and got on the radio just in time to hear Mike Woods say, “One Six, Dustoff is coming off Doctor Delta right now. I need to get your Loach out of there and get Dustoff down in your lima zulu. Will the Huey fit?”

Looking around me, I said, “Yeah, it’s big enough for a Huey, if he’s good. Dustoff can make it in here, but it’ll be tight as hell.”

Then I turned to Cheek. “Dwight, I’m going to go with Ameigh in Dustoff. Can you get this bird out of here, then get up on Three Five’s wing and take this ship home?”

“Sure. Roger. Do you need any help?”

“No, I just need room down here for Dustoff. Get up on Mike’s tail and stay with him. Do what he tells you and you’ll have no problem.”

I backed away and watched the OH-6 climb up into the night. Seconds later, Dustoff arrived and started descending into the jungle hole just vacated by Cheek. Then its light came on, illuminating the whole area in a blinding white glare.

As the ship floated down, the jungle began to rumble and roar. The rotor wash of that Huey blew things all over the place. Soldiers grabbed for their hats and other gear. I saw Doc lean down over Ameigh to protect him from the fury.

The air ambulance couldn’t set down on that pile of torn-up forest any better than we could. So the ship hovered, and a medic jumped out and helped Doc work over Ameigh for three or four minutes. Then Ameigh was lifted onto a Stokes litter and we carried him over to Dustoff.

The crew chief turned to me. “What about your dead?” he asked.

“No time… let’s take care of the living. We’ll come back for Slater.”

He signaled the pilot to get going, and we lifted up into the night. Lai Khe was only a couple of minutes away. We were no more than up when Dustoff s light came on again and we settled down onto the Doctor Delta pad, with a huge red cross painted in the middle of it.

Waiting at the medical pad were five or six hospital people with a gurney. A wooden ramp went directly from the pad over to a Quonset hut with double doors.

The instant Dustoff touched down, Ameigh was transferred to the gurney and a doctor bent down over him with a stethoscope. I followed behind the gurney as it moved toward the double doors. The medical people were all in their gleaming hospital whites; I was still in flight gear with helmet, chicken plate, survival vest, and gun belt.

When they kicked open the double doors, we were suddenly in an operating room with emergency medical equipment all over the place. Still nobody told me what to do, so I stepped aside and watched the flurry of activity. As they lifted Ameigh off the gurney and onto an operating table, I whispered, “God, please save him.”

The team worked feverishly. Then, suddenly, CPR was ordered. I began to feel very nervous, light-headed, and almost nauseous. I steadied myself against the wall. My God, I thought, Ameigh’s not going to make it.

For eight to ten minutes more, the medical team worked over Ameigh. Then, as suddenly as they had begun their lifesaving efforts, they stopped. I heard the lead doctor say quietly to his associates, “OK, that’s it.”

The doctor had apparently noticed me standing nearby. He pulled off his face mask and rubber gloves, and stood motionless over Ameigh for a moment. Then he walked over to me. “I’m sorry, we’ve lost him. There’s nothing more we can do.”

I nodded and looked past the doctor at Ameigh lying there on the table. I felt totally lost. With my flight helmet still in my hands, I turned and walked out the door of the emergency room. There was a bench there, and I sank down on it.

For what seemed like an eternity, I sat there listening to the muffled blasts of artillery shooting into the night out of Lai Khe. I could see flares bursting over the Iron Triangle. I could hear the cracks of small-arms fire in the direction of Ben Cat. Then my world went silent.

For the first time since the ordeal had begun, I realized that my body was drained. All my energy was gone. My senses were dull. I was dead tired.

I don’t know how long I sat there on that bench outside the emergency room before one of the Dustoff pilots walked up and snapped me back to reality. He told me that the hospital had received an FM radio message that Darkhorse was sending its C and C Huey to take me back to the troop.

I thanked him and continued to sit there staring. I smoked a cigarette and thought about what had happened. I still couldn’t believe that one second Ameigh and I were flying and talking together, and the next second he was gone. Irretrievably gone. I just couldn’t believe it!

About fifteen minutes later, the troop C and C landed, and just behind that ship came Dustoff returning from its second trip to the crash scene with Jim Slater’s body. Realizing that there was nothing more for me to do at the hospital, I climbed aboard the C and C ship for the trip back to Phu Loi.

Wayne McAdoo (Two Six) and Bob Holmes (Two Nine) were the pilots, and they wasted no time asking me, “How’s Ameigh? Is he OK?”

“No,” I mumbled. “Ameigh’s dead… Slater’s dead… they’re both dead.”

There was a long pause while my announcement sank in. Then McAdoo turned to me. “What should we do?”

All I could say was, “Let’s go home… that’s all we can do.”

Without another word said, the Huey lifted off from Lai Khe, leveled off at fifteen hundred feet, and headed southeast to Phu Loi.

I sat on the floor with my legs drawn up, my arms folded over my knees, and my head cradled in my arms. The wind rushed through the open rear compartment doors and the Huey’s rotors beat a steady rhythm in my ears.

My body demanded sleep, but the pictures in my mind of Ameigh and Slater kept playing over and over again. Even in the misty fog of my exhaustion, I kept thinking just how fragile life really is. This was my first close-up exposure to death, and it was a deep, hurting shock to my twenty-one-year-old mind.