Bunker Duty - Part One

Moving back to Cu Chi and my first few months in Vietnam as a “Peter Pilot,” I learned that there were some duties that were detailed to those of us who had yet become aircraft commanders. One of those was bunker duty, which meant that as one of the junior officers, I would be detailed to the bunker line for an overnight stay. I believe I was, as were most of us who had gone to flight school, wholly unprepared for this, which, of course, made no difference.

I first learned of this extra duty when my platoon leader met me on the flight line after a full day of duty. He opened the door on my side of the aircraft and asked, “What were you doing flying today?”

I gave the simple answer. “I was scheduled.”

He contradicted that by saying, “No, you weren’t. You were supposed to be down today because you are assigned as the bunker duty officer.”

At that point I shrugged and said, “One of the pilots was sick. I happened to be in Operations. I was told to get my gear.”

The platoon leader said that it couldn’t be helped now. I was to get over to battalion operations as quickly as possible. To prove that it was something that needed to be done quickly, I was told to take on of the jeeps. Normally, we just walked, but now, it was imperative that I get to battalion as quickly as I could so I was given a jeep.

It wasn’t all that hard to find battalion operations. I found the operations officer sitting in his office which was paneled in plywood that had been scorched with a touch to bring out the grain of the wood. There was even carpet on the floor. I knocked on the door and he called, “Come in.”

I entered and saw that he was a captain but had no nametag or wings. He tossed his pencil down, stared and then said, nastily, “Where in the hell have you been?”

“Flying.”

“Flying?”

I said, simply, “That’s right.”

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“The flight just got released. No one said a word to me about that until the flight was released.”

“And that’s your excuse?”

“No excuse. Just fact.”

He sat there as if he couldn’t believe what I had said. He picked up his pencil and made a note. Finally, he said, “Tonight, you’ll in the officer in charge of our section of the bunker line. You’ll have to be there by 1830. After dark no one is supposed to approach without proper ID.”

He went on with the instructions but I didn’t get most of it. To him it was routine but to me it was all new. I was trained as an aviator and not an infantry officer. I knew my job as a pilot but didn’t have all that much training in the infantry. True, we’d all be through basic training but it was, after all, basic training. We had spent two weeks on the rifle range learning the Army method of shooting, and we had all thrown grenades. We’d been through physical training, basic hand-to-hand, care and maintenance of the M-14 (which were no longer the standard weapon which was now the M-16) and were taught some other basic skills. But, like many of the others, I knew I wasn’t going on to advanced infantry training. I was scheduled for flight school.

When he finally wound down and asked, “Any questions,” I wasn’t clever enough to escape at that point. I said, “I wonder if it is a good idea that I have this duty tonight after flying all day…”

He broke in. “There is a war on, you know?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

He was sitting in his air-conditioned office with carpeted floor and probably only worried about a stray mortar round once in a great while. Not really the same thing as sitting in the cockpit of a Huey as the windshield disintegrated. Maybe that was his problem. He wasn’t getting out in the war… or maybe he was guilty about his position that protected him from the real danger while the rest of us were out flying around South Vietnam.

Anyway, I said, “I had heard.”

He just said, “You’re dismissed.”

I left the battalion, drove back to the company area and had just enough time to draw an M-16 from supply, borrow another pistol for some reason and round up my steel pot. I learned that the duty officer always had a jeep. I found the sergeant of the guard whose whole job was to be the NCOIC of the bunker line. He knew what it was all about and if I learned nothing from watching all those war movies as a kid (though I was only 19 here), it was to listen to the old hand sergeants who knew all the tricks.

We drove out to the bunker line, with him giving me directions. I was delighted to see a duster parked next to our section. This was a truck with a quad fifty mounted on the rear. I figured if they lit up the bunker line with that, it would be a real deterrent for any enemy assault.

We were on the northern side of the perimeter, facing an open area that extended for what looked like miles. No real cover, except for a low marshy area just outside the last strand of concertina. There was a bridge over part of it but that wasn’t my responsibility. It was flanked by two bunkers with M-60 machine guns and a M-2 .50. Being young, I wanted a chance to blow up the bridge if there was an attack, but the enemy could probably get through the swamp without too much trouble. The bridge was for wheeled vehicles.

Near the center of our section of the line was the command bunker. Our bunkers ran to the right and the left and the soldiers were already there. Some of them had brought lawn chairs and they were sitting there watching the sun go down. They all pulled the duty regularly as well. If there was someone on the line who didn’t know what he was doing, it was me.

The bunker line on a Fire Support Base. Photo copyright by Kevin Randle.

Before it could get dark, I walked up and down the line and tried to get some idea of the lay of the land. I couldn’t see an advantage for the enemy to attack our section of the bunker line. The ground was too open and there were other avenues of attack that provided them with cover until they hit the first strands of concertina.

I was shown where all the detonators for the claymores were and told the firing sequence in the event of attack. The sergeant pointed out where the claymores were hidden and that someone had checked them just that morning. Somewhere along the line, they found the claymores had been turned back toward the bunkers one day, so it was routine to check them.

Once I had talked to the soldiers, seen the bunkers, and listened to what they had to say, there wasn’t much else to do, except wait to make the first sitrep.

When I finished the report, I saw one of the soldiers standing there. He said, “Sir, we have a problem. There’s a break in the landline and the only way to trace it is to go out, in front of our bunker. None of us wanted to be in front of the bunker without telling everyone we were out there.”

I knew then it was going to be a long night. 

Bobbi the Weather Girl

I suspect that there are very few people who know about Bobbi the Weather Girl and her reports on the Armed Forces Network in Vietnam.

Armed Forces Vietnam (AFVN) had a television station that broadcast, if I remember correctly, from noon until midnight. The programming from the night before was broadcast again beginning at noon the next day. I don’t remember many of the programs that we saw but do remember that The Big Valley was a hit with the Vietnamese who worked at Cu Chi. Glen Campbell’s Good Time Hour (I think that was the name) was another of the shows as was Dean Martin’s. Each late night there was a broadcast of a talk show such as that of Johnny Carson. And for some unknown reason, they also broadcast a show called Julia (if I remember correctly), about a widow whose husband, a helicopter pilot, had been killed in Vietnam. I confess that I do not understand the wisdom of showing that to us… I was especially outraged because of the show’s plot.

Bobbi the Weather Girl

Sometime, about five in the afternoon, there was a news show put together in Saigon, run by GIs and anchored by GIs. Naturally, there was a weather segment and it was Bobbi who ended up doing that segment. She worked for the US government in Saigon and this was just a sort of extra duty which most of us appreciated. She gave the temperature and weather around Vietnam, did the same for the US and then the R and R Centers. The one thing that I do remember is that she got doused by water frequently.

You can watch one of the segments that I suspect might have been filmed by a GI with an old 8 mm movie camera that had sound here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQ8NtlxKiQk

And, you can see a documentary, or an interview with her, made in 1992 at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. that contains more of her doing the weather here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pzmv-dMc2vE

In fact, just type Bobbi the Weather Girl into your search engine and you’ll find many stories about her. Like so many others, it was the highlight of most days. And no, I never met her, but she certainly made a good impression on me and many of my fellow soldiers. 

I Blow a Helicopter Up on a Land Mine

 

My original plan was to post here, in chronological order, my service in Vietnam. That is, it would begin with my entry in country and end with my DEROS some 355 days later. That meant that some of the really interesting events would have to wait until I was appointed an aircraft commander later in my tour. But sometimes things just get in the way.

I have been watching 12 O’clock High on one of those nostalgia channels. I have said for years it was sort of my inspiration into volunteering for the Army out of high school because the Army had a program for high school graduates that sent them to helicopter flight school. Age wasn’t the factor; it was the high school diploma and a sufficiently high score on a battery of Army tests to select those who would have the aptitude to complete flight school. It also required a number of physical tests, such as one to determine if you were color blind or not. Obviously, given the nature of this blog, I was successful in passing those tests, was inducted, and finally, eventually sent to flight school.

My flight school class. I'm second from the left in the second row.

What ultimately inspired this break in my self-imposed chronology was an episode of JAG, in which Harm, as a passenger in a Lear Jet flown by Air Force pilots, found himself sitting in the co-pilot seat. The Air Force lieutenant, who was obviously the aircraft commander, but only a lowly first lieutenant, was outranked by Harm. Those in Hollywood apparently believed that Harm’s superior grade gave him command of the aircraft. Rank, however, has nothing to do with it, and while in the air, the aircraft commander, regardless of rank, was, well, the aircraft commander. Harm, in this case was subordinate to him.

While in high school, I watched 12 O’clock High, and a friend of mine, while we were riding in the back bus to swim meets, would pretend that we were flying B-17s on combat missions. The bouncing around in the bus seemed to simulate the B-17s flying through clouds of flak on combat missions.

For those of you who wish to validate this tale later, I point to the 187^th AHC Unit Incidents section of their website. On May 16, 1969, you can read the sentence that shows I did blow up a helicopter on a land mine. You can access it here:

http://www.187thahc.net/Incidents/incident_index.htm

Just click on 69 and scroll down to May 16, 1969, to read about the incident. I mention this, as I said, for verification.

As was my habit, though I’m not sure why, as aircraft commander, I would always fly the first mission of the day. As one of the senior aircraft commanders at the time, I was paired with an FNG. The co-pilots were not assigned to a crew, the philosophy being that they would be exposed to many different pilots and would gain experience from all of them and not pick any bad habits.

187th AHC "Crusaders" on the ground waiting for the next mission.

We made the routine pick up of infantry soldiers and were taking them to the LZ. I glanced at the co-pilot and said to him, “I’m not telling you what to do, but it is a good idea to put the sun visor (on the helmet) down to shield your eyed in case something comes through the windshield.”

Everything was fine and we hit the RP and then the IP and were inbound. There had been no arty prep, and we were landing in rice paddies that provided no cover for the enemy. Just before we touched down, there was a tremendous explosion just in front of the aircraft. Without thinking, I executed a hovering autorotation and we hit the ground. The soldiers bailed out of the cargo compartment, scattering rapidly.

To the left, I saw one of the helicopters pull slightly forward of his position in the formation and the door gunner leaped out, running toward us. To the right, the crew chief was out and coming toward us.

Over the radio I heard someone saying, “I know where the RPGs are coming from.”

I’m thinking if the first one was that close; I don’t want to hang around for the second.

Trail said, “Lead. You’re down with nine. Explosion in the center of the flight.”

There must have been other chatter on he radios, but I don’t remember any of it. I just glanced at the instrument panel, noticed that all the instruments were in the green, so I rolled the throttle back to 6600 rpm. There were no major vibrations from the shrapnel in the rotor blades.

Lead said, “On the go.”

I picked up to a hover, kicked the pedals right and left to ensure I had control, and pushed the cyclic forward. I saw the door gunner from that other aircraft skid to a halt, and then turn to run back to his helicopter.

I continued to climb out, thinking that I would rejoin the flight and they realizing that when we touched down in the PZ, none of the soldiers are going to want to climb onto my aircraft. The chin bubbles were broken, the nose was slightly caved in, and the pedals on the co-pilot side were broken off.

I keyed the mic and said that I was going to take the aircraft to Cu Chi. It was the closest airfield. I broke away from the formation and could see the big column of smoke that seemed to always be on the perimeter of Cu Chi, which was visible for miles and what we used as a nav aid.

I called the tower and said, “This is Crusader 617, extensive combat damage. Requesting straight in approach.”

The tower asked, “Are you declaring an emergency?”

I had thought that was clear, but said, “Yes.” I wanted all the emergency equipment out there in case I rolled the aircraft up into a little ball.

I reported that I was and that I was on final. The tower said, “You’re coming in downwind?”

At that point I didn’t care because the wind as the least of my problems. I just “rogered,” them and shot the approach to a hover. Everything was still in the green and I turned off the active runway and landed in the maintenance of the three quarter cav (3/4 Cavalry Regiment), if I remember correctly. I shut down and then wondered what in the hell we were going to do.

It was then that a jeep rolled up and a colonel and lieutenant got out. I don’t know who they were. The colonel didn’t say anything to me, but pointed at the broken chin bubble and told the lieutenant to get up into the pilot’s seat and dangle his feet out through the broken Plexiglass. At that point I had a life-sized picture of the colonel, at home, showing the picture and telling the harrowing tale of his adventure in saving the aircraft.

We, which is to say, my flight crew and I, were taken to battalion headquarters. I was told that Spare Two, which had been standing by at Tay Ninh, would be brought down. I was going to take over that aircraft and standby at Cu Chi until the flight was released. Spare One, which had originally been on standby at Cu Chi had been launched when I left the formation.

We made it to the mess hall for lunch. While we were eating, a captain approached the table and told me that the battalion commander was disappointed… my boots were not properly shined. I’m thinking, I’ve just blow up a helicopter, I’m lucky that the worse injury seemed to be a slight headache and a ringing in my ears, and the battalion commander was more worried about the luster on my boots… not to mention that we didn’t shine our boots. We paid someone else to do it.

Frankly, I don’t remember anything else about this. I don’t know how the crew for Spare Two got back to Tay Ninh. I don’t know why we were assigned to take over rather than the crew for Spare Two just standing by instead.

When I got back to Tay Ninh, I had to fill out a “hit report.” That was sort of fun. Number of hits? One. Damage? Well, it was quite a list because the front was slightly caved in, the pedals were broken on the pilot’s side, the chin bubbles were gone, the windshield was cracked and the air frame was bent. That helicopter would never fly again.

On the other hand, I was scheduled to fly the next day after the flight surgeon cleared me. He said the headache would go away and the ringing in my ears would stop. Besides, we were short of aircraft commanders at the time.