Shot Down

 

The 269^th Combat Aviation Battalion was made up of two combat assault helicopter companies; 116^th AHC (Hornets) and the 187^th AHC (Crusaders), as well as a Chinook transportation company, the 242^nd (Muleskinners). There were other units assigned and then reassigned to other units before I arrived in Vietnam. While I was in country there were only the three companies. The area of operations (AO) ranged from near the southern border of II Corps, all of III Corps, and deep into IV Corps. It all depended on the missions, the units and where there was a need for helicopter support.

I had been an aircraft commander long enough that I was no longer assigned to the middle of the flight. I had been deemed competent and others were now flying in Chalk Three or Chalk Eight. On this mission, to extract the Mike Force from the mountains near Song Be Special Forces Camp, I was in Chalk Four. There had been no reports of the enemy in the immediate area. Contact had been broken, and it was time to return the Mike Force to Song Be. In other words, we weren’t expecting much in enemy fire, if any at all.

Song Be Special Forces Camp. Photo copyright by Kevin Randle

We flew over the camp, toward the mountains and up over the ridge line. We were flying Delta Model Hueys, which were weak compared to the Hotel Models flown by the Crusaders.  That meant we didn’t have the power that the H-Models had and we were now operating at a higher-than-normal altitude in high humidity, not to mention a nearly full fuel load, all of which made things even more problematic.

We crossed the ridge line and began the approach to the PZ. It was a crappy PZ, studded with broken tress, brushes, and other debris that could be sucked up in the rotor wash the penetrate the rotor disk, damaging the blades. It was the only place large enough for us to get into as a flight and one that had a defensible perimeter.

The gunships led us in and then buzzed around the periphery of the flight, searching for the enemy. As we touched down, it became clear that the enemy hadn’t completely disengaged. One side of the PZ erupted in small arms fire. I couldn’t see the muzzle flashes, but I could hear the AKs and the .30 caliber machine guns.

Trail said, “You’re down with ten.”

As the firing picked up the Mike Force soldiers began to crawl over one another to board the helicopters. Mortars began to explode with a distinctive crump. I saw a fountain of dirt off the right, at the edge of the PZ, too far to do any real damage to the flight. There were others falling around.

The gunships rolled in, first with mini guns and then 2.75-inch rockets. There was now more smoke and clouds of dirt and dust to the right.

Over the radio I could hear the ground mission commander giving orders to the Green Berets with the Vietnamese, directing the fire. The air mission commander was attempting to coordinate the suppression with the gunships. Our door guns, for the most part, were silent. Friendlies in the line of fire.

Trail said, “Lead, you’re loaded.

“On the go.”

Lead lifted off and began to climb out, turning the left as soon as he was clear of the trees, climbing up and over the ridge.

Chalk Two wasn’t quite as lucky. He was overloaded and under powered. He broke right, down the slope, picking up speed in a slight dive so that he could climb out and turn left.

Chalk Three apparently had no trouble and followed Lead to the left.

It was now my turn and as I climbed over the trees, we were hit with enemy fire. I could feel the rounds striking the aircraft. I was losing power. I watched as the rotor speed fell and the engine RPM wound down. I pushed the collective down. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to make it over the ridge. I didn’t have the power. I thought that I would follow Chalk Two, diving away to the right but couldn’t see him.

One of the enemy rounds stuck the bundle of wires for the commo. The Fox Mike began to cycle with a tuning squeal that went on and on blocking me ability to talk to the flight. I could hear nothing on the Fox Mike except that squeal, but the Uniform was still working.

I slipped down in the seat slightly. There was a two-inch gap between the top of the armored seat and the bottom of my helmet. I was trying to cover that gap.

Over the radio I heard someone say, “The AC’s dead. The ACs dead.”

Hornet Six asked, “Who’s going down?”

I reached over and turned off the Fox Mike to stop the noise. I was looking for the aircraft that was going down because I wanted to land near him for the mutual support. I couldn’t see anyone in front of me. I was unaware of what was happening with the rest of the flight. Over the radio I could hear the gunfire. It kept increasing in volume.

I said, “Four trying to gain rotor RPM,”

There was the ripping sound of the mini guns from the gunships. I couldn’t hear any mortars falling.  I was now far enough from the PZ, that those explosions were lost in all the firing.

I heard, “Lead you’re off with ten. Fire Received.

“Who took fire?”

Someone, I don’t know who, said, “Everyone.”

“Chalk Four. What’s your status?”

I glanced at the engine instruments again. They had crept back into the green during the dive. The rotor speed had recovered and the engine was operating at full RPM. I turned to the left, pulled in some pitch and began to climb out, to get over the ridge line.

Once I cleared the ridge, I rolled over, again diving slightly, to build up the rotor RPM again. I knew that we were getting close to the Special Forces camp. I could tell that we weren’t going to quite make it. I was still losing altitude and now had no real way to recover it. The engine was losing RPM. The engine must have taken a round or two.

I landed about a klick short of the Special Forces camp. I didn’t think we’d make it to their airstrip, and I didn’t want to attempt a low altitude autorotation. Landing under power is always better. Besides, we were far enough away from the PZ and basically under the protection of the Special Forces camp, that it made sense.

Chalk Five touched down about fifty yards behind me. I thought he was there to pick us up, but that wasn’t the case. When he approached me, he said, “I thought you were leaking fuel. I could smell the JP-4 but the bottom of my aircraft looks like Niagara Falls.”

About that time a couple of vehicles from the Special Forces camp arrived. The two sergeants looked over the damage to the aircraft. One of them traced a bullet that had hit the side of my aircraft and traveled up, into the engine. He opened the access panel and found part of the bullet embedded in the engine which explained the power loss. He dug it out, examined it and asked, “Can I have this?”

I looked it over. I thought it was just part of an armor piecing round. Nothing special about it, but the sergeant wanted it. I said, “Sure.”

The rest of the flight had landed on the airstrip outside the camp and were taking off again, heading back to pick up the rest of the Mike Force. That went off with only a little enemy fire and just a couple of mortars. In and out quickly. I don’t think anyone took any hits.

My crew, and that of Chalk Five, rode back to the Special Forces camp. The members of the Mike Force walked. It wasn’t all that far for them.

I don’t remember how we all got back to Cu Chi, but will assume that we rode back in one of the slicks. At the debriefing that night, I don’t remember any of this coming up, except that I was told to be a little quicker on the radio. I mentioned that the Fox Mike had been shot out so that I couldn’t make the normal radio calls until I switched over to the Uniform.

The question came up about who had said that the AC was dead. Turned out it was my co-pilot. He’d seen me slump down in the seat and thought that I had been hit. I looked at him and said, “But I was flying the aircraft. Why didn’t you take the controls?”

He said, “You seemed to know what you were doing.”

That brought a laugh from the other pilots because that made no sense.

At that point the SIX (meaning, of course, the company commander whose call sign was Hornet 6) moved on to other issues.

TET 1969 - Aftermath

 

Bien Hoa wasn’t all that far from Cu Chi but by the time we arrived, it was getting light. Once we had landed, lined up on the side of an asphalt strip, we were told to meet at the mess hall. I was feeling uncomfortable because I had taken off with in only a T-shirt. The crew chief supplied a field jacket with Spec 4 strips on it. I thought nothing about the rank as we all headed toward the mess hall.

We found a table set up for four in the officer’s side and sat down. The mess hall was a little nicer than ours at Cu Chi. For one thing, rather than huge, floor mounted fans that were supposed to circulate air, they had air conditioning. The mess hall was done in a cherry looking wood, but I didn’t pay enough attention to know if it was actual cherry or plywood that had been stained cherry.

I noticed that some of the officer’s assigned there looked at me strangely, wondering what a Spec 4 was doing on the officer’s side, but I was sitting with three warrant officers, including Schaeffer and Overholt. They probably figured I was the crew chief or something and let it slide. I was fully prepared to tell them the situation, if they had asked, but no one did.

As we ate breakfast, which seemed better than those we got at Cu Chi, but was just a reflection of the new surroundings, the activities of the night, and the fact that it wasn’t our mess hall, Captain Downs circulated among the tables, giving us the news.

He said, “Muleskinners got hit last night. Charlie came through the wire near them and ran through the revetments tossing satchel charges into the Chinooks. Blew up a bunch of them.”

“How many came through the wire?” asked Shaeffer.

“Maybe a platoon, maybe a little less.”

“We got them all?”

One-six grinned and said, “There are a couple still running around inside the wire. Got everyone a little jumpy.”

“I hope we’re in no hurry to get back,” I said.

“We’ve got a couple of ass and trash missions to fly, but the early morning operations have been changed. Got the grunts in the field around Cu Chi. They just walk out the gate to begin their search.”

After we finished eating, our platoon leader, two-six walked over and asked me, “You ever been to the Air America pad?”

“You mean at Ton Son Nhut?”

“Yeah.”

“Once. I think I know where it is.”

“You have to enter through the main control tower and not Hotel Three,” he said, meaning that I’d have to land on the airfield proper rather than flying into the helipad near the biggest PX in the world just on the edge of Ton Son Nhut.

“We’ll all head back to Cu Chi, you’ll need to refuel and then fly over to the Muleskinners to pick up a flight crew and take them to Saigon. They’re going to pick up a new Chinook.”

“Okay.”

“Who’s your peter pilot?”

“Overholt.”

This surprised him. Normally, the junior aircraft commander was paired with the senior peter pilot, putting as much experience in the cockpit was possible. The problem here was that Overholt and I had been in flight school together, he’d arrived in country and at the company a week before I had, yet I had already made aircraft commander and he hadn’t. Although I wasn’t supposed to know, they, meaning the platoon leader and the other aircraft commanders thought that Overholt might resent the situation. They just didn’t want to put us together. Last night’s activities had overruled that concern.

“Okay.”

Once we finished eating, we strolled back out to the aircraft to await instructions. Flight lead, by default, was Downs. He rode up in a jeep, walked toward the nose of his aircraft and waved a hand over his head, telling us to crank.

We flew back to Cu Chi, stopped at POL, which hadn’t been damaged in the attack. The rearm point looked as if it had been hit. There were the remains of the 2.75-inch rockets, the wood from ammunition crates, cardboard, paper, smoke grenades, and other debris was scattered in front. The sign looked as if it had been hit by some of the larger ordnance. The remains still smoked but not everything had been burned.

The smoking remains of the Rearm Point. Photo copyright by Kevin Randle

When the flight took off, out of POL, I broke away from the formation and landed on the Muleskinners’ company pad. As we passed over part of their flight line, I could see the remains of Chinooks in the revetments. Here were huge, twin rotor aircraft, capable of carrying forty soldiers, reduced to a small pile of smoking rubble. There didn’t seem to be enough material in the revetments for a Chinook. Just ash with partially burned rotor blades sticking out at strange angles.

The remains of a Chinook. Photo copyright by Kevin Randle

The Chinook pilots climbed into the back. They didn’t look any worse for wear. They were both in fresh flight suits. One carried a black brief case, flight bag and a revolver in an old west style holster. The other carried a flight bag and wore a shoulder holster with a .45. Neither said a word to me, but one of them talked to the crew chief. With the turbine running, even at flight idle, conversation was difficult.

“They want to know if you know the destination?” said the crew chief on the intercom.

“Yeah. Ask them how everything is.”

A moment later he said, “They lost one man, SP4 Isaac Stringer, Jr. He was killed by an RPG in the maintenance area. They lost a bunch of their airplanes.”

He told the crew chief, who told me, that the VC had punched their way through the wire, blowing up a bunker to do it. They ran toward the Muleskinners’ area, stopping just long enough to blow up the aircraft, and then spread out, over the Cu Chi base camp, looking for targets. Apparently, they had attacked the POL, but the hit the refueling points rather than the storage area and destroyed a couple of hoses which reduced the capacity to refuel aircraft but doing no real damage. They found the rearm point and tried to blow it up, but with only moderate success.

By the time they had moved beyond that, most of the aircraft had been evacuated. The 25^th Infantry, either with their infantry companies or with the military police, had begun searching the camp for the sappers. As we took off for Saigon and the Air America pad, they thought there might be as many as twenty-five or thirty of the enemy still hiding on the camp.

As we took off, I looked back at Cu Chi. I didn’t see much. The fire that always burned on the northeastern side still burned, throwing up a column of smoke that helped us navigate. I didn’t see any real damage, other than that to the Muleskinners’ Chinooks and the minor damage around the rearm point.

It wasn’t long before we had made our way to Saigon, following the standard practice of flying low level to avoid aircraft taking off or landing at Ton Son Nhut, got permission to land directly at the Air America pad, and had touched down. Sitting on the pad was what looked like a brand-new Chinook.

Saigon from the air. Photo copyright by Kevin Randle

The two pilots climbed out, thanked us for the ride, and disappeared toward the hangar. I called the Ton Son Nhut tower to take off, explaining that I was in a UH-1, at the Air America pad, and that I wanted a straight out exit to keep me out of the traffic pattern filled with jet fighters, four-engine transports, and a variety of other fixed-wing aircraft. I had to argue with the tower, operated by Vietnamese who didn’t have the best command of the English language. We finally got our instructions and took off.

We arrived at Cu Chi, refueled, and then headed for the Hornet’s Nest. I parked in the revetment, shut down, and got out of the aircraft. In operations, I learned that the enemy soldiers had all been eliminated. There had been few American or South Vietnamese casualties. The damage had been limited to the Chinooks and the rearm point, through there was some minor shrapnel damage in our company area from the mortars and rockets. That meant something had poked a couple of holes in the corrugated tin of the buildings, ripped up some of the bamboo matting, put holes in some screen, and a few more holes in the tail booms of some of the aircraft.

Our mission on the day after changed slightly, but only because the infantry conducted searches around Cu Chi rather than flying out into the Hobo Woods, the Iron Triangle, or the areas along the Saigon River. We were fully prepared to fly the next day and certainly could have met all our mission requirements. Our only problem was that the pilots had been flying from early morning and had very little sleep the night before. That was not an unusual circumstance.

Of course, TET 1969, was nowhere near as dramatic as that the year earlier. The media seemed to believe that fewer troops engaged and the scale of the attacks had been reduced significantly. In reality, the numbers were about equal, but there weren’t the initial successes of 1968. The news media was surprised in 1968, but, in 1969, they were waiting for something to happen.

Reporters said there was heavy damage at Cu Chi, but I saw nothing to support that idea. Instead, minor damage and disruption, and, of course, the death of Isaac Stringer. About the only difference I noticed was that everyone was armed on the camp. Normally, upon return from the day’s missions, the sidearms and rifles were stored.

The day after that, everything returned to normal, or as normal as it ever got. The reports I read today bear little in resemblance to the facts as I saw them then. While the attack was reported in a long paragraph in a news magazine, the situation, as reflected in that paragraph was less dramatic. The attack, while certainly disruptive to the Muleskinners had no real impact at all on the outcome of the war. It might be classified as a non-event except for those of us who participated. In the history of the Vietnam War, it will probably be little more than a footnote.