TET 1969 - Part One

 

TET 1969 was practically missed by the news media and the histories of Vietnam make almost no mention of it. Yet, given that I was there when the attack took place at Cu Chi, to me, it was one of the most important engagements of the war.

It began with a rocket and mortar attack. A few of the rounds fell near us, waking us, and sending us scrambling for the bunkers. In case I haven’t provided a complete description of these bunkers let me tell you about them. These were little more than trenches dug about four feet into the ground and covered with a plywood roof that held several layers of sandbags, a series of 55-gallon drums covered with PSP and more sandbags. The theory was that anything hitting the sandbags would detonate in the top layer with the lower layers, PSP, and the bottom layers absorbing the shrapnel.

There was a wood bench in the bottom of the trench, and there were areas, about shoulder high that could be thought of as shelves, though they were just places where the dirt had been dug out. Limited equipment, such as aircraft first aid kits and flashlights that didn’t work were stored there.

There were lights, bare bulbs on a long wire looking like oversized, clear Christmas lights, strung from one end of the bunker to the other. As long as the generator was working, there would be light in the bunker. That little thing, lights, made a big psychological difference and might explain why the engineers on the Titanic worked so hard, sacrificing themselves, to keep the lights burning until just minutes before the ship sank.

When I dived in, there were maybe a dozen men in the bunker, sitting on the wooden bench. I was the only one who brought any weapons, grabbing both my .38 and an M-2 carbine. I was wearing a T-shirt and fatigue pants and had stuffed my feet into my unlaced boots.

About that time, the ground attack horn sounded. We had heard it infrequently for six months, mainly when someone caught sight of what they believed to be an enemy patrol near the perimeter wire. I took a position near one bunker entrance and gave the revolver to another pilot who covered the other. We could still hear an occasional explosion far away. Besides, I felt safe enough in the bunker even though I was sitting, basically, in the entrance.

The ground attack horn continued to blare and given the length of the mortar and rocket attack; it could suggest the enemy was making a serious probe. I didn’t expect trouble because, even if they managed to break through the wire, there were was more than a brigade of infantry on the base camp and most of their company and battalion areas surrounded us. More soldiers could be flown in, not to mention the interlocking fire of the artillery at the fire support bases surrounding Cu Chi, and air strikes that could launched by the Air Force.

I was wondering if I was going to have to defend the bunker with two magazines that I had for the carbine when the operations officer ran around a corner of the closest hootch, skidded to a stop near me and announced, “We’ve got to evacuate the aircraft.”

Someone asked, “To where?”

“Don’t know yet. We just need to get them out of the Nest right now.”

I ran from the bunker, back toward my hootch, grabbed my flight helmet and then ran across the company area, to the small footbridge that crossed the ditch by the road that led to the Hornet’s Nest.

There I met WO1 Lance Overholt, a pilot I had known since flight school. He was still a peter pilot rather than an aircraft commander and suggested, “Let’s get your aircraft.”

I had already planned on that.

We ran into the Nest, between helicopters, until we reached the northern corner where mine was parked. The crew chief, along with another man, were working to get the door guns mounted. I tossed my M-1 onto the troop seat and then ran to the rear of the helicopter so that we could untie the blade. That finished, I climbed into the pilot’s seat, looked back and saw that the door guns were mounted. Both men were in the back, working to load their weapons.

I turned on the battery, the main fuel and the start generator, ignoring the checklist. I looked right and left and yelled, “Clear.”

“Clear back here,” shouted the crew chief.

Overholt nodded and I pulled the trigger under the collective that would start the turbine. My eyes were on the gas producer and the engine temperature gauge. We were doing a hot start and it would be very easy to overheat the engine.

Once the turbine caught and the gas producer had reached forty percent, I let go of the trigger. Overholt, sitting there with his gloves and helmet on, and plugged into the radio and intercoms, put his hand on the throttle. I buckled my seat and shoulder belt, put on my gloves and helmet, and then plugged in.

Over the radio I listened to the communications from our operations bunker, the Cu Chi tower, and a couple of other places. Outside, far over the perimeter, were the lights of some kind of aircraft circling. There were some fires burning on the base, but nothing very big ones.

“We have Charlie on the active runway,” warned the tower.

I said, over the intercom to the crew chief and door gunner, “We have suppression on the active.”

That meant that if we saw movement, the door gunners were cleared to fire. No one from our company should be running around on the runway. If fact, there really should be, at that moment, no friendlies there.

Over the radio, Warrant Officer John Schaeffer said, “I’m off and in orbit behind Puff at seven thousand feet.”

Puff the Magic Dragon

We rarely climbed above three thousand feet, outside of small arms range but this sounded like something Schaeffer would do. He was always somewhere he shouldn’t be, doing something he shouldn’t be doing and inspiring us to follow his lead.

“Flight, this is one-six. Join on me.” That was Captain Joseph Downs, the first platoon leader we called Dai-uy Downs. Dai-uy, was, of course, captain in Vietnamese.

I had to laugh at his order. It was night. There were aircraft taking off all over the airfield, including the Hueys assigned to the Little Bears of the 25^th Infantry and the LOHs of the Three-Quarters Cav. I had no idea which aircraft, or which formation one-six was flying.

I lifted to a hover, slowly backed out of the revetment, and turned. I saw two of the Stinger gunships on the assault strip and moved toward them as they struggled to take off. I followed them, taking off to the south, watching the shadowy figures running around below. A burst of machine gun fire ripped through the darkness, the red tracers glowing as they floated upward, nowhere near me. Given that the enemy normally used white or green tracers, I though that the red ones were ours… but then, firing could have come from a captured weapon.

From somewhere else, near the northern side of the runway, another string of tracers erupted. These were green, meaning enemy, and much closer. They looked like glowing golf balls tossed at me. The crew chief opened fire, his ruby tracers, flashing down, at the end of the runway.

One-six was on the radio again, demanding that we all form on him, but still hadn’t provided the information needed to find him. There were helicopters all over the place, each taking his own position somewhere south of Cu Chi, on the far side of Highway One, over the open area.

On the ground there was a hell of a lot of shooting. Green tracers, from AKS or RPD machine guns, were bouncing around, some tumbling upwards, others spinning along the ground. Red tracers, from American made M-16s or M-60 machine guns answered, creating something of a light show about a thousand feet below me. There were a few fires burning, on the northern side of the base camp and in the tiny city of Cu Chi.

Over the intercom, I heard, “French fort firing up at us.”

The French forts were triangular-shaped structures built low to the ground and now occupied by South Vietnamese soldiers who had a habit of shooting at everything without regard to its identity. If they could find nothing on the ground to shoot at, they would fire into the sky. The tracers from the French fort were nowhere near us.

Near the edge of Cu Chi, close to the perimeter of the base camp, someone with automatic weapons was firing upward. The green tracers were rising slowly toward us. I figured they were about a hundred yards away. Behind me, one of the door guns opened fired, the red tracers dropping around the source of the green. The enemy stopped shooting at us.

Puff the Magic Dragon suddenly opened fire, the red of the tracers of his mini-guns combining into a long, glowing stream that looked like a ruby colored ray from a science fiction movie. It bobbed and weaved along the ground, touched something that exploded into orange fire and then disappeared.

“Hornet flight, join on me,” insisted one-six, but he still didn’t provide a location.

“All Hornet aircraft, join on one-six, or make your way to Bien Hoa,” announced Hornet Operations.

Someone asked, “How’s the ground attack going down there?”

“I’m safe in my bunker. I don’t know.”

“All Hornet aircraft,” said one-six, “I’m orbiting at three thousand near Cu Chi city,” finally providing the information to find him.

Overholt asked, “We going to join on him?”

I said, “If I can find him. It’ll be easier than trying to find everyone on the ground at Bien Hoa.”

“Sir, we’re taking fire from the right.”

I glanced out the cargo compartment door and saw a stream of red tracers. That didn’t mean that the South Vietnamese were shooting at us, only that whoever it was had American ammunition. It wasn’t all that close either. Someone shooting at the sound of the aircraft.

“Do I return it?”

“No. We don’t really know who is where down there now. If it gets any closer, then see if you can suppress it.”

I spotted four or five helicopters in a staggered trail formation off to the left and turned toward it, wondering if this was the Hornet flight. As I approached, even in the dark, I could see the white hornet painted on the nose of one of the aircraft. I passed them, turned, and rolled over, catching them. I slowed to 60 knots and said, “Three seven has joined the flight.”

“Roger three seven,” said Downs.

I said to Overholt, “You’ve got it.”

Overholt put his hands on the controls and said, “I’ve got it.”

He took over flying while I sat back and studied the situation. The various radios were alive with chatter, from Air Force pilots, Army pilots, operations, other Hornet aircraft, and AFVN, Armed Forces Radio in Vietnam. The Automatic Direction Finder covered the commercial broadcast bands so that we could listen to music while flying. I had the volume set low, but could still hear the rock and roll in the background.

Below me, I could easily see the base camp, outlined in lights. There were fewer fires now and not as much shooting. Most of the rounds were outgoing. Red tracers bouncing along the ground, most of them on the northern side of the base. Some of it was directed into the edge of Cu Chi city and there seemed to be no return fire.

Schaeffer called, telling us that he had left his position on the wing of Puff, and had now joined the flight. One-six asked for another head count and learned that most of the aircraft had found him.

“Turning toward Bien Hoa,” he announced, and the flight began a gentle maneuver.