NO ONE CAN anticipate every situation nor carry into the combat theater everything they might possibly need. Thus, soldiers have a long history of improvising the things they need from anything they find at hand. Everything from shelters to fortifications can be constructed from naturally occurring materials or debris on the battlefield. Machines to move cumbersome objects can be fashioned from trees and ropes so long as the soldier has a basic understanding of levers, inclined planes, and mechanical advantage. Men and material can be moved past man-made and natural barriers using primitive bridge-building techniques or fashioning a boat from leaves and a poncho. 

One of the more interesting field expedients that we learned in Officer Candidate School (OCS) helped us keep a jeep on the road even though all but two of its tires had worn out or been shot away. We learned to move the remaining tires to the front axle and lash poles to both ends of the rear axle. With power to the front wheels, the vehicle would drag its rear end like a travois. I have also seen demonstrations of floating a jeep across a river by wrapping it in a tent.

Everywhere I traveled in Vietnam, I saw numerous examples of field expedients. The Signal Corps was especially adept at fabricating radio antennae in any environment, from mountains, to jungle, to the flat regions of the Mekong Delta. Unable to achieve the range they needed using the antenna tower they had been issued, our division signal battalion deployed a blimp, similar to the barrage balloons seen over London during World War II, to raise our radio antennae high enough to reach our far-flung combat and support units. 

REMF found need of field expedients as well. For example, our offices were equipped with Remington desk top typewriters that were ill-designed to cope with the humid environment in Vietnam. There was no attempt to modify them. The ones we used were identical to the typewriters found in any office; they were not even painted Army OD (olive drab). Delicate parts quickly rusted away. The division's maintenance battalion was supposed to support our repair needs, but they were frequently too busy taking care of the combat troops to attend to us. Thus, we learned how to keep them working ourselves.

One of the more delicate parts in the Remington typewriter was a chain used to transfer energy from the operator to the spool that moved the inked ribbon from one spool to the other. Each time a key was pressed, it used a watch-like system of gears to convert the up-and-down motion into a rotating motion, that turned another system of gears and pulleys to turn the ribbon take-up spool. The chain that transferred the movement from the bottom to the type of the mechanism rusted and frequently broke despite our attempts to keep them clean and oiled. Taking one apart we discovered that this chain resembled our dog tag chain and we were able to restore our typewriters to use by adapting one for this purpose.

On one occasion, a typewriter had completely frozen due to rust despite our best efforts at cleaning and oiling it with gun oil every day. In a futile attempt at repair, I disassembled it completely. As I held the basket – a frame holding the keys – I pulled the pin and all the keys dropped into my lap. When the man from the maintenance depot arrived, we handed him a box containing the stricken typewriter – no two parts assembled. I don't think that they appreciated my efforts to help.   

THE FRENCH BUILT many forts in Vietnam when it was their colony. Most were built along the borders and the coasts. The one our division occupied was intended to prevent enemy warships from using the Saigon River to access the colony's principal city. 

It was situated  about 10 miles from the confluence of the Saigon River and the South China Sea. Any ship entering the river would be under its guns during its transit from the mouth of the river to a sharp bend where speed would have to be severely reduced.    

Like all other units that occupied forts built by the French, we named ours French Fort. It looked like a gun position transplanted from the Maginot Line in France. It was squat, solidly built with steel-reinforced concrete, and was topped by a turret mounting two coastal battery guns able to lob large caliber shells at ships far at sea. The barrels had been removed long before we arrived.

Like the Maginot Line, it was, as George Patton once said, "A monument to man's stupidity." For all their forts, France lost their nation in less than six weeks to the Nazis, and they lost Vietnam to the Japanese shortly thereafter. After World War II, the French returned to reclaim their colony and again their forts failed them as they lost to the Viet Minh.

Like Camp Bearcat, French Fort had an antenna array that served the Viet Cong well as an aiming stake to help them direct mortar and rocket fire on our position.   

EVERYONE WORRIES OVER their reaction the first time under fire. No matter how hard the Army attempts to condition you to it in training, no one can truly simulate the reality of someone trying their damnedest to kill you. No one wants to be a coward, and few truly are. But the fear we feel just anticipating deployment, gives us pause. We wonder if we will meet the test of battle or will we flee?

Soldiers survive on just three things: their buddies, their leaders, and their training. No one fights alone in combat; they fight as a team and they die as individuals. There is no room for rational thought; the senses are flooded with sights, sounds, smells, feels, and tastes, all vying for the brain's attention while it is focused on survival. Thus, leaders are expected to stand aloof from the battle and provide competent direction. Soldiers react as they are trained to react, which is why basic skills are repeated until they are reflexive; they can be performed without thinking. 

Green soldiers arrive at their first battle unprepared. They lack trust in their comrades and their leaders, who in turn lack trust in them. Their training is incomplete. The soldiers who came before them have learned and practiced field expedients that no Army training prepared them for. Yet, they must survive. Thus, they are, in the best of circumstances, placed with battle-hardened troops until they are tempered under fire.

Survival is its own reward. Green troops most often greet its arrival with 'the shakes.' The adrenal gland continues pumping 'fight or flight' hormones into the system long after the bullets have stopped flying and the shells have stopped bursting. Euphoria washes away fear. Victor and vanquished alike celebrate life. Innocence is lost.

Battle-hardened troops react with exhaustion. Their automatic reflexes have adapted to battle, the adrenaline abates more quickly, and they become annoyed with the antics of the first-timers. Victories are not celebrated nor losses lamented with as much enthusiasm as they once were. Lost comrades are more quickly forgotten. Innocence is forgotten.

In the end, everyone knows that they risk death when they enter the battlefield. Only after experiencing their first battle,  can they come to accept it. All who survive, survive with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome at some level. "Battle-hardened" is just another way of saying "battle-scarred." 

Veteran units had the luxury of assigning replacements to fight beside experienced infantrymen. The 9th Infantry Division arrived in Vietnam, virtually en masse. Just before I joined them they infused with other infantry units around the country - trading inexperienced soldiers for combat hardened men - so that the green troops could have some experienced men to "steady" them in their first trials by fire. 

I can't lie here. I wasn't a combat soldier and I never participated in a fire fight. I was sniped at on a couple of occasions and had rounds fired at helicopters that I was riding in. The truth is that it's probably a good thing that the Army didn't make me a combat officer. Someone must have looked at me and decided that I was going to get someone killed if I led men in combat. As it turns out, I got mad when someone shot at me and I made some stupid decisions. Of course, that occurred after I received my second Dear John from the same girl. Like I said, I was stupid.   

I WILL NEVER forget my first day in the Army at the Fort Jackson Reception Center, filling out forms, a mountain of them. We were ushered into a large hall filled with old-style student's desks, the ones with an armrest and writing surface on the right side that left-handed writers would have to twist themselves uncomfortably to find a way of using them. underneath was a small shelf to hold their books. 

We were told to stand by the desks and keep our hands in our pockets to prevent us from touching anything. Our forms were wrapped in a rubber band with two No. 2 lead pencils on top. Sergeants patrolled the room ready to jump anyone who attempted to touch them while the Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge (NCOIC) stood at the front repeating threats to anyone who removed his hands from his pockets.

Step-by-step we were directed to place the forms on the shelf below us, sit down, remove the top form only and place it in front of us, fold our hands on top of the card, and not write anything until we had been instructed on the proper method of providing our name, date of birth, Social Security Account Number, and home address. After three recitations of these instructions, we were allowed to proceed with those items only. Annoyed at being treated like an idiot, I took my pencil in hand and began to comply. Feeling the eyes of others on me, I looked to my right and found the person there looking confused and following my every action. I often wondered if he even copied my information rather than providing his own. To my left, another man was holding his hand aloft to ask a question. Then and there I came to understand the Army and its ways.

One of the forms we filled out that day was the request for Home Town Releases that would allow the Army to provide stories to our home town newspapers whenever we completed training, were advanced in rank, or deployed to a new unit. We quickly learned to rescind this permission when anti-war activists began harassing the families of servicemen and women whenever one of these stories were published.

The most insidious form of harassment came in the form of official looking but counterfeit notices of death that were sent to the families of servicemen and women stationed in Vietnam during the war there. Thus, a program designed by the Army to create good will for them turned into a nightmare for our loved ones.

I never denied the right of anyone to dissent with the policies of our government, but I would gladly harm anyone who abused our families in this manner.

THOSE WHO SERVED "in the rear with the gear" took a lot of flak from their brethren in combat even though the rear areas in Vietnam, unlike previous wars, were planted in the middle of the combat theater, and every perimeter was a front line. Regrettably, there wasn't any distinction when we returned home (if we were lucky enough to return). We were all "baby-killers" to the antiwar movement.

Still, the attitude of combat soldiers towards support troops was sometimes understandable. It was motivated partially by envy and partially by real REMF (Rear Echelon Mother F**kers) who didn't have the common sense to remember that they were there to serve the combat soldiers. There were times when support units failed to deliver the guns and butter that the combat soldier needed to fight effectively. Then there were some who were simply mean-spirited SOBs who demanded respect that they did not deserve. These are their stories as I experienced them. 

An Avoidable Death

As I discussed in my posting on the Rules of Engagement, our division headquarters at Camp Bearcat enjoyed the rare privilege of free unobserved fire in all directions at any time of the day or night. However, there was a rubber plantation to the south of us that had been excluded from this free fire zone by senior officers who, rumor had it, enjoyed the society of the plantation's French owners. Their wishes prevailed until we lost a patrol there. The patrol was denied artillery support when they came under attack by a large concentration of insurgents who were using the plantation as a sanctuary. 

Our new division commander, a former artillery officer, was not pleased and ordered all division artillery to fire TOT (Time on Target – a tactic where cannons of all calibers fire in a specially calculated sequence to have their munitions arrive on the same targeted area at a specific time). We sat atop the berm surrounding the base camp that day, cheering the flight of rubber trees as they were thrown into the air by the massive explosions. I have no idea if we did any damage to the enemy that day, but it is clear that they were served notice that their sanctuary had ended.

The Salute

Exchanging salutes is a sign of respect, not only for enlisted men to show respect for commissioned officers, but also for these officers to show respect for the men under their command. The ritual is initiated by the enlisted man or junior officer whenever his path crosses that of a senior officer while not under cover (not under a roof, inside a building or a covered porch). 

I never had occasion to reprimand a soldier for failing in his duty, but I was riding in a jeep with a senior Adjutant General's officer at our brigade headquarters at Dong Tam, home of the Mobile Riverine Force, when we passed a young soldier who was the very picture of a man returning from combat. He was not physically wounded, but the scars of battle were clearly visible. He was obviously bone tired, dragging his weapon behind him. His helmet was gone, thus violating the general order that a soldier always be “under cover” when not under cover – that is wearing a regulation hat or helmet when out-of-doors. His flak jacket was open and his web belts were loosely hanging from his shoulder. 

This soldier obviously did not see us as we passed and failed to salute.  The senior officer ordered the driver to turn around so that he could go back and berate the young man for his lapse of duty. I tried to hide in the back of the jeep. The driver passed the soldier and pulled to a stop whereupon the senior officer jumped out. I remember the young man looking dazed as he slowly absorbed the fact that his way was blocked by a senior officer, and then slowly raising his hand to salute as the man began berating him for his lapse in military etiquette. The driver stifled a laugh when the soldier explained his actions by saying that he was not accustomed to saluting an officer who had over-taken him from behind and drove past. The officer bellowed that the infraction occurred as we first drove past in the opposite direction.

It was obvious to the driver and myself that the soldier simply had been unaware of the first passing as he was too focused on reaching his bed or maybe getting a hot shower and a meal. We could only speculate on how many of his buddies had been killed or injured in the action he was returning from, and we were embarrassed to be in the company of a senior officer who could not ascertain these simple facts for himself.

The story of this incident soon became common knowledge when we returned to division headquarters, not that I had any part in spreading it, of course.

A Combat Veteran Turned REMF
Although I served as a staff officer at division headquarters, I had the opportunity to put my training as an infantry officer to good use when I was given command of one of our base camp reaction force platoons. However, before this posting was made, I was asked by a friend to accompany him one day as he led his platoon on a mission. Our company commanding officer (CO) was an infantry officer who had served nine months with one of the division's battalions before commanding the 9th Administration Company. While there, he lost most of his men in an ambush.

My friend had received his commission via the ROTC program and served in the division finance office. He had some basic combat training, however, he knew his limitations when he was called to assemble his platoon and rally with the rest of the company at the midpoint of our southern perimeter. There we learned that two Vietnamese civilians had grabbed a case of ammunition, scaled the berm, and headed for the rubber plantation about a quarter mile away. The guard on duty at the bunker about a hundred yards distant merely observed and reported the theft.

The CO deployed us in two lines facing each other and perpendicular to the berm. One line, consisting of two platoons stretched from the berm to the farthest wire tangle about two thirds of the distance to the tree line. My friend's platoon was positioned about a quarter mile from the first line, also perpendicular to the berm. Let me pause to clarify the deployment – you may not believe what you just read. Yes, we had two groups of heavily armed men facing each other and separated by about a quarter mile. The ground between was filled with concertina wire and barbed wire tangles. The ground was clear of vegetation but shallow trenches could have concealed someone. If anyone popped up between us, the firing would have commenced and many of us would have been wounded or killed by “friendly fire.”

Let me also clarify the fact that, in all probability, the Vietnamese who stole the ammunition had escaped into the tree line long before our deployment – at least I hoped they had because I didn't want anyone to pop up and start the shooting.

My advice to my friend was to keep his men low to the ground and tell them to keep their heads down if the shooting started. Don't shoot back otherwise they would only encourage their own men to keep shooting at them.

I decided to get out of there and see if I could do any good. I had heard that a road paralleling our berm was somewhere about a mile deep into the rubber plantation, and I felt that if we moved quickly enough, we might be able to reach it before the two men carrying a heavy case of ammunition between them. Thus, we could lay an ambush before they got there. I had my friend radio the CO for permission and took four volunteers with me into the rubber plantation. 

Tall grass filled the area around the trees and I led the men in single file through it. I was moving quickly to get ahead of the men we were seeking until I came upon what appeared to be an eggplant growing wild in the grass. I stopped. Suddenly, I realized that I could come upon anything hidden in that grass unexpectedly. It gave me pause, especially considering that I had no radio or pre-arranged support. Oh, what the hell, I continued as soon as the men following me caught up. 

We hadn't gone far after that when a runner sent by my friend reached us and said that we better turn back. The CO had spotted movement in the rubber plantation and was bringing the whole company on line to “recon by fire.” Think about it. Do you have the picture? We were that movement.

Thank God, my friend was paying attention and sent the runner. We escaped the fire zone just moments before the whole company, including to M60 gunners, opened up.

I was hopping mad; literally, I was jumping up and down in front of the CO while he stammered some lame excuse about forgetting me and my volunteers. Noticing that I had torn my pants leg and cut myself on some barbed wire during my headlong rush to get away, he offered to recommend me for a Purple Heart. That only made me angrier.

Luckily my friend pulled me away and the CO was soon sent home. One less Mother F***r to contend with.

These men, the officers who denied artillery support for men in combat, who demanded rituals of respect when they were not warranted nor deserved, or who did not have the courage to face a man while assassinating his character; these were Mother F***rs. There were others. 

WHEN IT CAME to strategies for winning the war in Vietnam, the only thing certain was change. Changes in the political winds back home. Changes in commanders in Vietnam. Changes in enemy strategies and tactics. Changes in the seasons. Winning the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese was one of those fleeting strategies that came and went with these changes. The objective was to win the support of the civilian population, support that would translate into denying sanctuary for the enemy and encourage civilians to report enemy activity with greater alacrity. The tactics of this strategy included civic action programs such as MEDCAP (Medical Civic Action Program) visits, that I believe were sometimes effective. Propaganda programs, especially those without substance, were, at best, counter-productive.

My involvement in civic action came in a remote village somewhere between Camp Bearcat and the Mobile Riverine Base at Dong Tam on the Saigon River. A sergeant, three enlisted men, a Vietnamese interpreter and I, crowded into a single jeep to visit this village. We had built them modern latrine facilities that the Viet Cong countered by lobbing mortar rounds the night before our visit. We arrived to find the village chief comforting a mother holding a child who had suffered a grazing head wound from a piece of shrapnel. We sent mother and child back to the hospital at our division headquarters accompanied by my sergeant and one enlisted man to drive. That left me with two enlisted men and the interpreter, and about thirty members of a Popular Defense Force (PDF) platoon. We mounted a patrol to check the perimeter of the village and its rice paddies to insure no enemy was lurking nearby.

The PDF was a ragtag group of local militia dressed in odds and ends of uniforms. Their weapons were equally eclectic. One carried a Browning Automatic Weapon that was as long as he was tall. I spent several minutes with him examining it. It was the first of its kind that I ever held, and I am something of a gun nut. However, I was concerned with these men about whom I knew nothing. I arranged them in a double file with my men and I in between. I whispered to them that if we got into a firefight, they were to keep an eye on the PDF.

The village chief and I conversed with the help of the interpreter as we swept the area. He wanted to expand the area they were farming, but could not effect his plan unless we altered the boundaries of the free-fire zone encircling his village and its holdings. Unfortunately, I had not come prepared with a map to chart this area and had to make notes that I could later use to explain his plan at our tactical operations center. Fortunately, my interpreter was a farm boy. Many of the interpreters who served our forces came out of Saigon and could not relate well to issues in the rural areas. He stopped often to examine the crops and explain them to me, giving the village chief the impression that his concerns were receiving a fair hearing. At the end of the day, when my jeep returned with a bandaged infant and its mother, as well as my sergeant and driver, we shared a moment with the villagers. The chief offered me a durian; a great honor, according to the interpreter, as it is considered the king of fruits in Asia and could fetch a significant price at a Saigon market.

When opened, it emitted a strong odor like fried onions to me; like gym socks according to one of the enlisted men. The interpreter demonstrated proper etiquette, by dipping his fingers into a pasty substance that filled cavities in the fruit and licking it with gusto. I dipped a fair portion and smelled it gingerly. I sensed all eyes on me and felt committed to taking the plunge. My expression elicited cheers, laughter, and applause. It tasted to me like fried onions, very sweet and very delicious (I have always enjoyed onions in all forms).

I think that we won a few hearts and minds that day, if only temporarily. 

OUR TWO MOST popular shows on Armed Forces Radio and Television Network (AFRTN) in Vietnam were Vic Morrow's Combat and Bobby, the Weather Girl. I suppose that my friends and I liked Combat because it portrayed a better war. Bobby, the Weather Girl, was the funniest show on the air.

I was happily surprised to find that Bobby has been memorialized on the World Wide Web. You can find more than a half million links on Google. There are even YouTube video clips.

Interestingly, the weather girl that you'll see in the clips is not the same one I watched in 1967. It's the same person, but not the same performer. The girl I watched looked like a deer in the headlights whenever the camera first turned on. She glanced frequently off-camera where, we supposed, her handlers were attempting to distract her; to help her relax. They dressed her in tight sweaters, and when she attempted to point to the DMZ, we were riveted somewhere further south.

I had guessed that she was a Red Cross employee, inasmuch as there was scant reason for young women to be in Saigon at the time. I was glad to learn that she wasn't. (Few who have served in combat theaters remember the “doughnut dollies” with any great affection – but that's the subject for another posting). Bobbie was a Red Cross volunteer, which set her apart from the “paid” girls.

I hope that you'll click on the links that I've provided and learn that Bobbie was an exceptional individual as well as a brave young woman. Stumbling on her story has been one of the greater rewards of building this memoir.

WHENEVER I FLY out of John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California, I take a moment to ask the person seated next to me if this is their first time taking off from there. I think it's only fair to warn newbies. The take off path from John Wayne passes over expensive estates that were built when the airport served small private planes. The land owners became upset when jet airliners began buzzing their homes and they lobbied successfully for "noise abatement" rules. Thus, taking off from John Wayne is something like being launched from an aircraft carrier. Fast acceleration. Steep climb angle. Power back until we reach the coast. The plane feels as though it is about to fall from the sky like a stone when the pilot pulls back on the throttles. I wish someone had paid me a similar courtesy of warning me the first time I flew in a Caribou.

I had never heard of STOL before I rode in a Caribou, and I only rode in it once. Short Take Off and Landing (STOL) is an important feature in a fixed wing aircraft in combat operations. Long, shallow glide paths expose aircraft to ground fire as they leave and approach runways. Then there's the problem of finding anything like a long runway in the combat theater. Unfortunately, no one explained this to me before I took my ride. 

Caribous were operated by the Army during the early years of the Vietnam War to transport medium-sized loads of troops, supplies, and equipment, farther and faster than large helicopters. The Air Force was upset because it felt that the Army was infringing on their mission with the Caribous, and took possession of them in exchange for permitting the Army to provide their own rotary wing (helicopter) support in tactical situations.

Granted, my one and only experience in a Caribou was not the optimum flight to judge. I was the sole passenger on a flight carrying mail to the Mobile Riverine Base at Dong Tam. I was trying to watch the scenery from a small round porthole during takeoff when the cargo shifted and pushed me away. They were just bags of paper and the cargo master apparently was not concerned that there was anything delicate inside. He had forgotten about me.

Forget seat belts; there were no seats. I had hitched a ride on the runway and was invited to make myself comfortable among the bags. I have flown in many small twin-engine propeller-driven aircraft and the Caribou in flight is no more or less comfortable than them. The most alarming aspect of the trip was the landing and my problem could have been alleviated with a little warning.

Dong Tam did not enjoy free-fire around its perimeter and the Viet Cong were able to infiltrate quite close and take pot shots at approaching and departing aircraft. Thus, our pilot choose to begin his descent directly over the airfield. He simply dipped the wing and pointed it at the ground, and we began a rapid spiral. The cargo shifted violently, capturing me in its flow towards the downward most porthole and pressing my face against it. Now I had a view.

Prepared to meet my maker as the ground approached, I was surprised when we suddenly leveled off momentarily. My relief was short-lived as the pilot then pointed our nose at the ground. At least, I thought, he would die before me.

My second surprise came when he applied full power to the engines. Unbeknownst to me, he had reversed pitch on the propellers and they were now braking our descent. It felt as though a giant had tied a rope to the tail of the aircraft and holding us aloft like a yo-yo. The load of mail now shifted forward with me in its grasp and I was pressed against the bulkhead separating the cargo bay from the pilot's compartment. There is no doubt in my mind that he was imagining my plight and laughing manically as we plummeted those last few feet.

Our crash was averted when we leveled off and landed with a thump. I don't believe that the airplane rolled forward more than its own length before coming to an abrupt halt, not too dissimilar from running into a brick wall.

I was tempted to walk back to Camp Bearcat.

THE VIETNAMESE PEOPLE had a proud tradition spanning centuries, of defeating invaders. Many coveted the abundance of their home. Chinese. Japanese. French. These aggressors gained toeholds for a time, but all were ultimately defeated, until the Communists came. Although the international community ceded the northern half of their country to the Communists, the Vietnamese were able to withstand their incursion into the south with the aid of the United States. Only after the Americans abandoned them were the Communists able to occupy their land. The helicopter was the tool that made the difference. It provided mobility in a land where all other armies had been mired in rice paddies, jungles, and precipitous mountain terrain.

I lived under the flight path between El Toro Marine Corps Air Station and Camp Pendleton when we first moved to Orange County, California. I surprised my family and neighbors when I named any helicopter that flew near our home simply by the sound of its rotors. The reason was simple. The Marine Corps is still flying most of the same rotary wing aircraft today that I heard every day during my thirteen month tour of duty in Vietnam, and every one of them had a distinctive sound.

I flew in three of the four principal helicopters to serve the Army in Vietnam. My son, who studied aerospace engineering in college, cringes when I tell him of my adventures in helicopters. He believes that they are inherently unsafe close formations of thousands of precision parts all destined to fly apart without warning. To be honest, I never thought of them that way.

I got to know several helicopter pilots in Vietnam. Most were young enough that their parents probably were fearful of allowing them to drive the family car. I can only imagine their fright if they had seen their sons piloting aluminum eggshells over hostile territory.

Working in Awards and Decorations, I had the opportunity to document the courage of many of those helicopter pilots and crews. The division commanding general was authorized to award the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal with V-device (for valor) when merited. Air Medals were also awarded without v-devices for persons who accumulated enough hours flying in combat operations. I accumulated the necessary hours flying as a substitute door gunner to relieve exhausted crews as well as on routine trips to outlying brigade and battalion base camps. I believe that every grunt remembers those men and their magnificent flying machines with great affection for bringing much needed supplies and ammunition or carrying away the wounded in the heat of battle. There were no foxholes in the sky.

I cannot tell you anything about these aircraft that is not covered far better in other websites. I will limit my posting to my experiences with them.

UH1-D Huey

The most ubiquitous of all helicopters, the Huey was a magnificent feat of aeronautical engineering. It greatly simplified flying for the helicopter pilot allowing him to focus more on the mission than the mechanics of flight. It also reduced the time needed to train pilots. Contrary to my son's belief, I can only imagine the safety record of this aircraft. Thousands were flown on thousands of missions with very few mechanical failures.

Weight was the aircraft's enemy. Everything unnecessary was removed, including doors. Passengers sat on canvas seats slung between a simple pipe frame. We sat on our flak vests to keep from being shot in the ass from ground fire. The skin of a helicopter is only slightly thicker than a few sheets of aluminum foil.

We flew at low altitude between base camps to draw fire. Seriously. It was an efficient way of learning if the enemy was operating in the area. On my first mission as a door gunner I was told to watch behind the aircraft. The Viet Cong would duck at the sound of our approach, then stand up and watch us after we passed overhead. You had to snicker when you saw them popping up out of their hiding places after we passed.

My scariest flight during my tour of duty was probably the time I was returning to Bearcat on a Huey with just one other passenger, an elderly Vietnamese gentleman. Our pilot was a warrant officer who looked to be all of nineteen years old; his co-pilot couldn't have been more than eighteen. It was probably the first time either had been allowed out alone (or they might have hot-wired the thing). They were playing grab ass with each other at about 3,000 feet when the aircraft suddenly twisted. I'm not sure if we were hit by a sudden cross wind or if one of the pilots had hit the foot pedal that controls the stinger (the little propeller in the rear that keeps the helicopter from gyrating at slow speeds). I don't think the old man made it home with clean underwear - I didn't.

My second scariest flight was while escorting a briefcase containing $40,000 in MPC from Bearcat to Dong Tam. An F4 Phantom fighter jet dove directly in front of us. Obviously, neither pilot saw each other and ours dove to the right just as the Phantom dropped some large bombs and climbed away. Chunks of mud the size of sofas occupied the airspace we had just vacated. Of course, I was more concerned with the briefcase falling out the door at that time. Yes, I caught it.

Chinook

This was our heavy lifter. It was banned from landing near buildings for fear that the downdraft from the rotors would blow them over. It is no surprise that it took its name from the winds that blow off the eastern slope of the Rockies. I once saw a garage blown across a road when I lived in Fort Collins, Colorado. It was surprising smooth in flight. The counter-rotating blades made a stinger unnecessary.  

I remember one evening just before sunset when I was on guard duty and a pilot landed his 0-1 Cessna Birddog on the small airstrip that we provided for the Air Force spotter planes along our base camp perimeter. He was hopping made about the potholes. The division's aviation battalion had agreed to avoid this airstrip, but sometimes operations at the base camp airfield were so busy that helicopters had to use it. The Chinooks blasted potholes into any unprepared surface. Our laterite roads were no match for the force of its downdraft. 

I only flew in a Chinook once. I had to get to My Tho to deliver some classified documents. Checking in with flight operations, I learned that there weren't any aircraft headed there, but a flight of three Chinooks were headed for Dong Tam where I might pick up a ride to my destination. As I ran onto the airfield, I saw a large group of men loading into two of the aircraft. I decided to head for the third one, and became its only passenger. On the flight there, we suddenly peeled away from the other two and began descending. Watching over the shoulder of one of the door gunners I could see that we were about to hover over a fire base to hook onto a load while Viet Cong were attacking. As I turned back to pick up my flak vest and weapon off the seat, I almost stepped through an open hatch where the crew chief was operating the winch. Luckily, he grabbed my ankle and steered me away. (I can only imagine that I am part of another “stupid lieutenant” story in someone's memoir.)  

OH-23G Raven

I have mentioned previously about one of our most decorated airmen, Captain Dale R. (Jack) Spratt in another posting. The one pictured here is the aircraft that I rode from Dong Tam to Camp Bearcat with Jack Spratt at the controls.

Captain Spratt was famous for flying low - some claimed that he had to ascend to get over the rice paddy dikes. As he explained it to me, the engine was far too powerful for the airframe. He assured me that it would never be certified by the FAA for use in the civilian world. That engine sat right behind you head. It was a piston engine without mufflers and assaulted your eardrums with a dreadful noise that made conversation impossible if you weren't plugged in with a headset.

AH-1 Cobra

The Cobra was introduced into the theater of war about the time of the Tet Offensive in January, 1968. I saw my first one shortly thereafter. It landed in front of our division headquarters building near my office. I gave my men a break and we walked over to see it. One of our Assistant Division Commanders, Brigadier General William B. Fulton, went for a ride. We enjoyed watching the crew chief attempting the stuff the general who must have been well above six feet into a cockpit designed for a much smaller man.

The Cobra was an experiment – a successful experiment. It was the promise of better aircraft to follow including the AH-64 Apache. I know that the Marines love their Cobras, but I bet they wish someone would give them the budget to buy the more advanced gunships.   

THE TRIPS MY family took from Baltimore to visit relatives in Pennsylvania when I was a child, long before the Interstate Highway System was built, followed US routes, state highways, and county roads. These intersected at towns and you would see sign posts on Main Street bending under the weight of four, five, six, or more markers for highways sharing the same pavement. The numbered roads split on the other side of town and you would find other highway markers with arrows pointing in the new directions that they meandered going their separate ways. If the roads bore any name it was usually the place they were headed for. For example, York Road exited north Baltimore and headed for - you guessed it - York, Pennsylvania. I guess that's pretty much the way it was in Vietnam, although I couldn't read the signs or understand what the people were saying, and we got lost more than once. 

There were rules for driving in Vietnam. Never stop on a bridge – machine gunners at both ends would fire on anyone who did as they  might be stopping to detonate a bomb. Wait for the engineers to clear the roads of mines in the morning before venturing out and don't be caught on the road at night when the VC were re-mining them. Don't try to look down the rows of trees on rubber plantations as you drive by – they pass too quickly to get more than a glance and you'll only hurt your neck if you try (I tried on my first drive from the reception center at Long Binh to the 9th Infantry Division headquarters at Camp Bearcat).

The jeep was our primary transport in those pre-Hummer days. It wasn't your grandfather's jeep from World War II. It wasn't built by Willys. It was a Ford. Unlike the Willys' Jeep, the Ford Jeep had swing axles. These were better suited for traversing uneven terrain, but made the vehicle inherently unstable on roads. I really felt badly for the Military Police who welded sheet metal armor to the sides of their jeeps and mounted an M-60 machine gun on a pylon. Many MPs were killed and injured when these rolled because of their high centers of gravity. Interestingly, I don't have a photo of one nor could I find one in a Google search. Maybe none survived the war.

Every jeep I saw in Vietnam had sand bags covering the floor. I never saw any reports or statistics on the efficacy of these against damage or injury from jeeps striking mines, and I never had a chance to find out for myself – thank God.

Our principle cargo transport was the deuce-and-a-half (two and a half ton capacity truck). Vietnam-eradeuce-and-a-halfs were built by Kaiser and had automatic transmissions that slammed gears on every shift no matter how fast or slow they were being driven. The springs on the rear axle that gave them their capacity to carry heavy cargo made the ride excruciatingly uncomfortable when loaded only with troops. You were likely to get saddle sores on a long drive.

Our small cargo carrier was the three-quarter ton truck – similar in size and capacity to a civilian pickup truck. I had the displeasure of driving one to deliver coffee and pastries to the men on guard duty in my section (I made my driver sit in the passenger seat only because I felt like driving for a change). The steering was unbelievably heavy. I can only compare it to driving a car with power steering when the engine stalls. Maybe worse. However, it had an exceptionally high ground clearance and it would claw its way through mud during the monsoon season that would mire down almost any other vehicle. 

Whenever I had to go on a road trip, the Sergeant-Major would assign a driver. He always assigned Leroy because the old non-com hated me. Leroy was a personable young man of 17 or 18 years of age. Cute. A great smile. The Vietnamese girls loved him. Unfortunately, someone had impressed him with the inherent instability of the Ford jeep on roads and he refused to drive faster than twenty miles per hour – a full ten less than I thought was safe and usually twenty less than I would have preferred so I could get the hell where I was going!The Sergeant-Major invariably grilled my driver when we returned to make sure I hadn't pulled rank and gotten behind the wheel. He could have made trouble for me inasmuch as I didn't have a military driver's license. However, there were a couple of occasions when I did and got away with it.

On one occasion, I went to Saigon to pick up a supply of beer for my men. I had promised them all they could drink in a misplaced attempt at bravado when I tried to quit smoking. I bought a lot of beer. It was only $1.50 a case and I took a trailer to haul it back. Vietnamese children darted into traffic whenever we stopped and set the hand brake on the trailer so we couldn't drive away as they stole cases. I finally had the driver sit atop the cargo and threatened them with his M-16 and I drove until we got out of Saigon.

If you have watched the Great Race on television, you may have noticed a very few contestants who pause to look around at the countries they pass through. Most are too focused on the prize to see the wonders of the places they visit. Incredibly, I met many military personnel who lived abroad who failed to take advantage of the places they were stationed. Once, when I thought I might make a career of the Army, I considered volunteering to return to Vietnam and then requesting assignment to Germany. I asked a fellow officer who had been stationed there what he thought of it. Not much, he opined. The Post Exchange (PX) at the base where he was stationed was inadequate, he complained. The poor man had never ventured off base during the three years he was there. 

As a passenger on road trips in Vietnam, I was able to get a glimpse of Vietnamese life as we slowly passed homes and shops along the road. Leroy gave me lots of time to look. I had him stop occasionally so I could shop or look around. I ate the food without ill effect. Indeed, as I will explain in another posting, I found the cuisine to be the best of all Asian fare. The only unfortunate affair I ran into happened in a shop where I was surrounded by Vietnamese children – preteens - we called them "cowboys." I was unprepared when one placed his hands on my wrist and stripped my watch. Fortunately, he lost his grip and it fell to the floor. I reached it before him and rose back with my watch in one hand and the nape of his neck in the other. I held him at arm's length and glared. I waited until the other children scattered and then dropped him. I doubt if he learned anything other than to be a better thief next time.

One day while returning to Bearcat from Saigon, we got stuck in a convoy that included treaded vehicles – Armored Personnel Carriers (APC) and tanks. After much cajoling, Leroy began passing a few. Seeing oncoming traffic from a jeep when you are behind an armored vehicle is extremely difficult. Sitting on the passenger side, I couldn't help other than to scream and curse at Leroy to put his foot into it and try. This didn't help. What finally helped was a command-detonated mine that exploded just after we passed over a culvert. Poor Leroy couldn't find a way to push the accelerator any further than the firewall. I smiled all the way back to Bearcat.