VIETNAM
HELICOPTER GUNSHIPS-THE ONLY WAR WE HAD
The Only War We Had
By Don Martin - Crocodile Six
Revised / Corrected January 24, 2012
There is nothing quite like the smell of burning human feces in the morning. If
this first sentence offends you, I make no apologies. It may offend you because
you have never been in combat, or if you were in a combat zone you were far
enough in the rear to enjoy modern conveniences.
It reminds me of a Harley-Davidson T-shirt which many riders have worn so
proudly, including yours truly. Of course, the shirt is emblazoned with an
artist's cool rendition of a raucous H-D, but the words thereon say it all.
"If I have to explain, you wouldn't understand!" War is a lot like
that.
War is hell. It is not a place for polite tea and crumpets under a Cinzano
umbrella in Venice, Paris or London. War is the place you hope your children and
grandchildren will never go. War is a place which produces a form of reality
unimaginable prior to engaging in it. It is a place which produces heroes and
cowards, strength and weakness, darkness and eerie light even when the sun is
down, and it can, but does not have to, produce hatred. It also produces love
beyond anything previously experienced and grief which never quite leaves one.
Combat is not the thrilling, exciting, romantic glory-days, legendary, epic
adventures depicted in books and most war-movies. It is just about everything
else. If you seek war as a thrill, I recommend you live at Frontier City, in a
movie-theater, or take up bungee jumping. Yes, war will produce adrenalin by the
quart! Yes, you will be more alert, or so it is hoped, than you have ever been
in your life. It will get your attention in ways you've never dreamed of, not
even in your worst nightmares. You will be able to differentiate between the
smell of burning feces and burning cordite in the morning or at any other time.
The typical day of a helicopter gun-ship flight crew is not like any other
typical day I ever had. It begins with the rising of the sun (or the moon), a
quick breakfast, strapping a lot of “stuff” to your person, and involves
detailed mission briefings, weather-checking, pre-flight inspections of the
aircraft, weapons systems, personal protective gear, communications devices both
installed and non-installed in the aircraft. The day involves an attitude
adjustment, as one is about to depart from a relatively safe environment,
complete with sand-bagged "hootches" (to call them barracks is too
generous) and possibly even running water, but I don't recommend you drink it!
It may include flushing toilets . . . if the wells are working, the water
tower's tank is not dry, and the pressure is up, but that all amounts to a huge
"if."
The day will involve teamwork not unlike one learns in football, basketball or
rugby. No one in the crew or the "fire-team" of two or three aircraft
is more important than the other. Every man is vital to the mission. Survival
and success will depend on knowledge, skill, courage (but not recklessness),
cooperation, a clear head and a steady hand. A lot will depend on the
"fitness" of the aircraft and its navigational, communications and
weapons systems. Perhaps the most important factor in success for crews like
these, the realization that if engaging the enemy in close combat with friendly
forces, you may be feet, even inches away from killing the wrong people! Stark
reality.
That knowledge weighs heavier on one's mind than anything I have ever known in
my 7+ decades on this earth. It is even more stressful than having the enemy
shooting at you and your aircraft. It can be all consuming for some, and there
are those who quickly wash out of the gun-ship crewing business for this one
factor alone, "Who will I hit today, the enemy or my own troops I am here
to support?" Great question with only one acceptable answer!
Once all the routine, but very important preliminary stuff is done, one launches
in an aircraft which is a proven war-horse, a Bell Iroquois (Huey), UH-1C
gun-ship in this case, but an aircraft which is over-worked and probably
over-loaded with fuel and ammo to point that it will NOT hover, at least not on
a hot day with high "density altitude," so it has to be
"ground-taxied,” both backward and forward, on its skids (no wheels) out
to the runway, sans crew chief, door-gunner and machine guns, then very
gradually ground-taxied with ever-increasing forward speed until it reaches
translational lift, shudders as it achieves actual flight, and no more
gracefully than the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina sixty years
earlier!
Once airborne and at cruising speeds, she flies well, handles great, is
"loaded for bear," and literally becomes one with whichever pilot is
on one of the sets of dual controls. These aircraft were pre-Cobra gun-ship,
which replaced the UH-1C, and then later were replaced by the Apache, today's
gun-ship.
Let's say you are the platoon leader (eight aircraft, circa 35 personnel) and
pilot-in-command of the lead aircraft of a fire-team of two. Your wing-man is
off to the left or right rear and about one to two hundred meters behind you. He
is off-set to avoid flying through the bullets intended for you and your
aircraft. This is a lifesaving tactic, one among dozens which have to be
automatic for the successful gun-driver and crew. No time to "look it up in
a book," as correct, immediate reactions are always a must. It’s not
driver’s education in school.
Your co-pilot may be brand new in country, and may know little more than how to
fly the aircraft, do some map reading, and hopefully skillfully manage the
mini-guns which are really modern-day Gatling guns, but are hydraulically
operated, electrically fired. Training comes quickly in combat. The learning
curve is steep. Sometimes training is in actual combat, but preferably it is a
few days flying over a free-fire area (no civilians, no buildings, no cattle, no
enemy or friendly troops) with an experienced combat-hand, live-fire at
imaginary targets, learning how to make evasive breaks away from enemy fire, how
to support your lead, or lead your wing, how to anticipate enemy locations, and
how to hit the correct targets with the correct ordnance, which has already been
addressed.
Your wing man may be less experienced than you, but it is wise to have one who
is MORE experienced when possible, as his skill, knowledge and quick action may
be what saves your life, not only once, but several times in coming days.
As you approach your stand-by area where you will await a call on the portable
radio you will set up by your parked aircraft, you begin a descent toward the
FARRP (forward area re-arm, refuel point) and the runway, this time at a remote
fire-base called Dak To ("Doc Toe"), you smell that smell, kind of
like the old Lynyrd Skynyrd song! You have been listening to AFRTS-radio out of
Pleiku enroute, the armed forces radio and television service. This is done on
one of the navigational radios, as you don't need it to navigate because there
is no ADF (Omni-directional) beacon at Dak To anyway. You turn down the volume
on Jimi Hendrix , Glen Campbell, The Beatles, Bo Diddly or whomever so you can
hear the instructions from the control tower at this remote, tactical airfield.
When cleared to land for refueling, you approach the runway from the East, and
the smell of burning human feces overpowers you, that is if you are a new guy.
If you've been there a while, it's more like, "Yep, we have arrived at Dak
To!" It is the home of an infantry brigade belonging to the 4th Infantry
Division, also, temporarily, the 173d Airborne Brigade, and selected Special
Forces teams. The burning feces is normal, as there were no real toilets, no
modern-day porta-potties, and the SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) of the time
was to pull out the collection barrels from the backs of the out-houses, douse
the contents with diesel fuel, and set them afire. When they had burned out an
hour or so later, they were pushed back under the holey thrones. Ah, field
sanitation at its weirdest. Dark and dirty work, but someone had to do it. You
won't forget the smell, but it beats the smell of burning flesh, which you have
already experienced and will again. It's war. It's not a day at Oiler Park
watching baseball. War has a taste, feel, smell, sound and a
"presence" all its own. It will never quite leave you. You never quite
leave it, try as you might.
You refuel; re-check weapons and radios, get clearance to re-locate to parking
and beginning your stand-by waiting for something to hit the fan. Nope, you
don't go for joy rides or hunting the enemy, as precious time, fuel, ammo and
actual tactical emergencies dictate otherwise. The enemy will find friendly
forces, including you, and when "it" hits the fan, you will be wanted,
needed, called for, vital to the mission, demanded and well utilized, even loved
by the guys on the ground if you hit the "correct targets." Yes, I
know that is a repeat.
You and your and crews park, prepare for some serious sun-tanning, checkers or
domino games, reading and drinking Coca-Colas, sold to us by Montagnard (Dega)
girls from a nearby "Mountain People's" village. The cokes taste great
and are cool but not cold. They are made locally with real Coca-Cola syrup and
creek water (with perhaps a tad of Agent Orange pollution), no carbonation,
cooled in the creek overnight! The Montagnard people were on our side, and were
in general not fond of the North or South Vietnamese. They are Vietnam's
minority, a good, honorable, tough people, and a great story in and of
themselves for another time.
The "purity test" for the cokes, you say? a) Hold the bottle up to the
sunlight, if you see no foreign matter, broken glass, etc.; first test passed.
b) Smell; if it smells like a coke, it's probably a coke. c) Get your co-pilot
to drink the first few swigs, and observe him! I'm just kidding. We never got
sick from those cokes, and they surely beat warm canteen water.
As you tan, drink your coke, read a magazine, all the while awaiting the squelch
(rushing noise) to break on the PRC-25 radio with a caller requesting gun-ship
support at some fire-base or a patrol location, probably within five miles of
where you sit, and certainly no more than 15 - 20 miles away, UNLESS it is a
special operations mission “across the fence” to places the President said
we were NOT flying. Almost as stressful as worrying about shooting the wrong
people in the heat of battle, the awaiting of the breaking of that squelch with
an urgent plea for guns, AND NOW; well, that's right near the top of the
stress-scale, or as we called it, “the pucker factor.” It works on one with
surprisingly nerve-wracking results. It is a never-forget feeling, about which I
still dream.
Once called upon, strapped in, and flying toward the target area (in less than
two minutes), making radio-contact with the friendly troops on the ground; the
nerves, fear, doubts and stress go away! Strange. I am eternally grateful for
that. Calm comes over one as one realizes, "This is my job, I took an oath,
I am well-trained to do this, my fire-team is great, and those guys below need
us." Another thought in my weird mind of that era was, "Hey, Martin,
it's the O. K. Corral. You are Wyatt Earp, they are the bad guys, and you are
going to win this shoot-out." It worked; we did win, every single time. I
also admit with no shame that another thought would come to me as we approached
a target area. "God be with us. I know this is not my day to die, and I
hope You feel that way too, Lord. In Jesus' Name, Amen." Never had thoughts
like that? Then you have not been in combat. No atheists to be found in foxholes
or cockpits.
In this story, I am avoiding the gory details. Suffice it to say, that for some
missions, such as Thanksgiving Day, 1967, at Dak To, Ben Het, Hill 875, we
"hot refueled and re-armed" at least five times and flew 12+ hours
without ever shutting the engines down. We and other gun crews used up almost
the entire Dak To ammo dump's supply of 2.75" rockets, 40mm grenades, and
mini-gun ammo in a single day. We took turns eating C-rations and taking care of
Mother Nature's call while the other three crew members on each aircraft did the
refuel, re-arm work, rotating after each set of sorties. Yes, I had turkey on
Thanksgiving Day, turkey-loaf in an olive drab can, doused with Tabasco, wolfed
down in about 90 seconds! Others ate ham and Lima beans, which we affectionately
called “ham and muthas.” Some had “beanie-weenies,” similar to Van
Camp’s pork and beans. We all came home addicted to Tabasco sauce!
The battle at Dak To and nearby vicinity in November and early December 1967 has
been historically, officially declared the largest single battle of the
twelve-year war in Vietnam. It was even bigger, bloodier and more costly in
American lives than any of the various single battles of the Tet Offensive in
February 1968, for which we flew dozens of missions.
Task done, friendlies secure for the time being, enemy dispatched or chased
away, you revert to your stand-by stress awaiting the squelch to break! The
nerves return as you think about where you just were and what you were doing.
The calm somehow escapes though it is deathly quiet for the moment. You sit way
too close to the jungle and whatever lurks therein, quite likely North
Vietnamese scouts or snipers, but hopefully not a whole battalion of troops
ready to make big bonfires of two Crocodile gun platoon helicopters! You are not
even inside the military-perimeter-proper, rather a quarter-mile away on a dirt
runway hastily built on a ridge-line with a jungle-mountain-top as back-drop.
Your side-arm on your hip and rifle under your aircraft-seat are hardly
fear-invoking to a platoon of North Vietnamese infantrymen.
We often jokingly said, "Well, it isn't much of a war, but it's the only
one we have!" Usually someone would chime in with, “Everybody’s got to
be someplace!” The former quote was in reference to those who would say the
Vietnam War didn't quite measure up in the minds of some older combat veterans,
despite the fact that the infantrymen in Vietnam saw more days of real,
front-line combat than infantrymen in any other war in which the USA has
engaged. Similarly, we helicopter crewmen flew more hours in actual combat than
U. S. pilots of any other war. Nope, not much of a war, but the only one we had
(at the time), and we fought it with skill, valor and compassion for others,
especially our fellow Soldiers, whom we grew to love more than our own brothers
back home. We flew, fought, were wounded, bled, laughed and cried together. We
became a family, still are today. War produces a lot, mostly bad, awful, tragic
results, but such love for fellow warriors never goes away, not even in 40 to 50
years, and I know it never will. I salute my combat-brothers whom I love and my
enemies whom I respect and never hated, as there is no room for hatred in my
heart. War changes people, but it never changes God’s commands.
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Don Martin, Major, Master Army Aviator / Paratrooper, retired, 645 Morningside
Drive, Seminole, Oklahoma 74868, (405) 395-2201 / [email protected]