Low Level Hell Read online

  “That, gentlemen,” he said, “is the army Cayuse Model OH-6A observation helicopter. It is manufactured by Hughes Tool Company, Aircraft Division, and is basically an all-metal, single-engine, rotary-wing aircraft.”

  The helicopter looked brand new. Its fresh olive-drab (OD) finish glistened in the sunlight, and was accented by a yellow number painted at the top of the fuselage and a big United States Army painted across the tail boom. But what most caught my attention was the distinctive shape of the little fuselage. It looked like a teardrop, with the cockpit located in the big end of the drop and the back cabin tapering to the tail of the aircraft.

  “This helicopter model,” the captain continued, “is just now coming into the army's inventory. This one's just fresh out of the factory, in fact. And if you'll come with me, we'll get strapped in and take it for a little spin.”

  As we walked toward the aircraft, the captain continued his enthusiastic but almost textbook description of the OH-6A. “It's powered by an Allison T63-A-5A turbine engine,” he recited, “that drives both the four-bladed main rotor and the antitorque tail rotor.”

  “What does the army use a helicopter like this for?” the other candidate asked.

  The captain seemed glad for the question. “The OH-6A is primarily an observation helicopter—that's what the ‘OH' stands for. It's mostly designed for doing reconnaissance work at very low level.”

  As we got to the ship, the captain opened both the cockpit and rear cabin doors so we could look inside. “The pilot sits in the right front seat,” he explained, “and the copilot, or observer, as the case may be, sits in the left seat. That's a little different from most airplanes you might be familiar with, and though I haven't been to Nam, I understand that the reason has to do with the way the scout pilots fly their observation patterns in combat.”

  The captain pointed to my fellow candidate. “OK, why don't you sit up front with me in the copilot's seat., .,” then, looking at me, “and, Candidate Mills, you can sit back here in the crew member's seat on the first leg, then swap into the front when we fly back home.”

  We eagerly climbed into the helicopter while the captain explained how to buckle up, and how the guy in the front seat should put on the flight helmet and plug his headset into the aircraft radios. I didn't have a helmet in the back, but I'd get my turn.

  After securing myself in the seat, I looked around the inside of the ship and was surprised at how little room there was. The captain had said that I was sitting where the crew chief-door gunner would sit in combat. If any of those guys was a six footer like me, they must have a heck of a time sandwiching in back with an M-60 machine gun!

  I followed what was going on up front by watching through the little window in the bulkhead that separated me from the pilot's compartment. I couldn't see much of the magic that the captain was working to start the engine, but the turbine sound soon told me that we were getting ready to go.

  The soft whine grew in intensity, and through the glass panel over my head I could see the four rotor blades begin to turn—slowly at first, then accelerating to a circular blur. The sound of the whirling rotors soon drowned out most of the earsplitting engine whine. Then, as if somebody had kicked us square in the seat of the pants, up we went.

  Hot damn, I thought, this is all right!

  We flew for fifteen to twenty minutes. In the front, the captain was explaining over the intercom what he was doing and what was going on,

  It seemed as though we hadn't anymore than gotten up when we landed again, in a small grassy field out in the country. After the captain shut down the engine, we unstrapped and walked over to a little airport building where we had a cup of coffee and talked. I was having fun asking questions and listening to the captain, but I couldn't wait to return to the OH-6 for the ride back to Knox, in the front seat this time.

  I eagerly climbed into the front seat, hooked the harness, and slipped on the helmet. I felt a tremendous exhilaration, and a fascination with the machine.

  I was lost in thought when the captain's voice popped into my earphones, startling me. He showed me the button on the cyclic stick that I could push to talk back to him, then briefly explained his pre-flight checklist and engine-starting procedures.

  Up again and headed back toward Fort Knox, the captain demonstrated the basic helicopter controls: the collective pitch stick, which made the ship go up and down; the cyclic stick, which controlled the longitudinal pitch of the aircraft; and the foot pedals, which made the ship go right and left. He then explained the purpose of all the buttons on the top of the cyclic stick: the radio-intercom, cyclic trim, gun pod elevation-depression, armament two-position trigger, and two or three others just for spares.

  After we reached an altitude of about three thousand feet, the captain came back on the intercom. “OK, Mills, take the controls for a while and see what she's like.”

  A little hesitantly, I put my feet on the pedals and wrapped my hand around the pistol grip on the cyclic stick. I was thrilled. I was flying an army helicopter!

  “Now look at the black ball,” he said, pointing to the instrument near the upper center of the instrument panel. “What you want to do is keep the black ball in the middle. When it slides out to the left, push a little left pedal until it comes back to the middle. Same to the right. Just step on the ball and keep flying toward the horizon.”

  It worked just the way he said it would, but I found out very quickly that I shouldn't try to monkey around with the controls. The less I did, the less the aircraft moved around.

  All too soon we were back at Fort Knox airfield. Though I didn't think that I flew all that badly, my fellow candidate in the back cabin was violently airsick when we got down.

  But not me. I was feeling good and was extremely excited by the entire experience. I decided on the spot that I wanted to go on to flight school after OCS and learn to really fly the army OH-6 helicopter.

  My enthusiasm was duly noted by the captain but quickly forgotten by me. I still had about three months of OCS left, and that demanding schedule left me no time to think about helicopters or wonder whether my application would be approved.

  During the last week of OCS, however, I learned that I had been accepted for army flight training. Somehow everything had fallen together. That excitement blended with the deep satisfaction I felt with graduating from OCS.

  On 15 December 1967, members of Armor Officer Candidate Class 1-68 passed across the stage of Budinot Hall to receive their commissioning certificates.

  It was a proud moment.

  Though I had been approved for flight school, my orders hadn't been cut yet to get me into Fort Wolters for Primary. The lapse gave me time to get in a couple weeks of leave. It was the Christmas season and a great time to be home with my family.

  When the orders did come, they were the most unusual I had ever seen. In a couple of short paragraphs, they covered everything I was to do in the army for the next full year—from Fort Knox, Kentucky, to the U.S. Army Primary Helicopter School at Fort Wolters, Texas; from there to Advanced Flight Training School at Fort Rucker, Alabama; then home for leave; and, finally, on to assignment in the Republic of Vietnam.

  So, with brand-new second-lieutenant bars on my shoulders, off I went to helicopter school, where I discovered that there was more to flying an army helicopter than watching the little black ball.

  I didn't waste any time after receiving my army aviator wings at the Rucker graduation ceremony. My gear was already packed in the back of my 390 GT, and I immediately headed back to Arkansas for forty-five days of leave at home. My Vietnam travel orders would be sent to me there.

  Being home was a period of quiet anxiousness for me. Quiet because I didn't do much, just saw some friends and water-skied. Anxious because I was ready to go to Vietnam. It meant a chance to test my newly acquired skills in combat situations, and I was comfortable with that. I had faith in my equipment, in the people who had taught me, and in the caliber of the people I would be flyi
ng with. I was ready for the next chapter of my life.

  While I was at home, neither Mother nor Dad even brought up the subject of Vietnam. They knew that's where my orders would send me, and there wasn't anymore to be said about it. They were very much aware of what the war in Vietnam was all about. It was inescapable. They had been watching it on the TV news for several years.

  Mother did, however, ask me one day, “Hugh, how do you keep your head down in a helicopter?” I remember answering, “With a great deal of difficulty!” That kind of flippant response was pretty typical of me. I guess it satisfied Mother because she didn't mention it again.

  My Vietnam orders finally arrived, instructing me to report to San Francisco on 30 December 1968 for transportation to USARV (United States Army Republic of Vietnam).

  On New Year's Day, 1969, I was in Saigon, getting off the bus in front of the headquarters of the 90th Replacement Battalion. This was where we would be processed into the country and receive our tactical unit assignments. For the first time, I felt a twinge of apprehension. I knew where I wanted to be assigned: the 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile), the outfit I had seen so much of in all the training films at flight school. I perceived 1st Cav as the premier unit making Vietnam combat history, and setting the pace on aviation tactics and technology. My second choice was the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. Known as the Blackhorse Regiment, this was an old regular army outfit that dated back to action in the Philippine Insurrection, Mexican Expedition, and World War II. It had been in Vietnam since ‘66, and had made a lot of headlines during 1968, when it was commanded by then Col. George S. Patton III.

  But after three days of processing at the 90th, when my assignment was finally posted I was bitterly disappointed to read “1st Infantry Division.” My first thought was, oh my God, what kind of justice would send an armor officer to an infantry division? I was in sheer panic. I wanted desperately to fly scouts, and I didn't know how I could cope with being assigned to a Slick (troop-carrying utility missions) outfit… in an infantry division!

  My appraisal of the whole situation worsened that afternoon. My friend John Field, who had also been assigned to the Big Red One, and I were told to be at the personnel loading area at 1400 for transportation to our unit. Sitting there expecting a Jeep and driver to pick us up, we were almost choked to death by a cloud of dust raised by a five-ton army cargo truck. When the dust settled, we saw that this five-ton was loaded to the gunnels with dirty, smelly army fatigues. By damn, this was a laundry truck!

  Then a soldier in the back end hollered, “Are you the officers going to the 1st Division?” My “yes …” sounded more like a question than a statement. “Well, jump on,” the soldier yelled. “We're your ride, just as soon as we dump this load of dirty clothes over at the laundry.”

  We finally rumbled out of Saigon city and headed north and east on Highway QL1 toward 1st Division forward headquarters at Di An (pronounced zee-on). “This sure isn't what I expected,” I muttered to myself as Field and I jumped off the laundry truck at Di An. I Was still smarting about a brand-new cavalry officer—breathing fire and itching to get into the war flying scouts—being assigned to an infantry division. Besides, this place didn't look much like a forward headquarters to me. I didn't see anything but rear area personnel running around fighting paperwork.

  But there were some encouraging signs. Di An was also home base for an air cav troop of the 3d Squadron, 17th Cavalry, 1st Aviation Brigade. Also, squadron headquarters for the 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry, 1st Aviation Battalion. That meant there were aeroscouts in the squadron's air cavalry troop!

  As I sat talking to the assignment officer at the Di An headquarters hootch, I must admit that my attention was divided. As he talked to me, I nodded my head, but in fact I was looking over his head at the information board on the wall behind him. An organizational chart was posted showing the air units assigned to the 1st Aviation Battalion at Phu Loi, the base where Field and I had been told we were being sent. The chart showed Delta 1/4 Cav—D Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry Regiment. That meant a platoon of aeroscouts had to be operating out of Phu Loi. Things were looking up. Maybe the 1st Infantry Division wouldn't be that bad after all.

  As I stared at the wall chart, I realized I had heard about the 4th U.S. Cavalry. At OCS some of its Vietnam exploits had been used as study examples. I remembered that this outfit had been in Vietnam since 1965 and had chalked up quite an impressive combat record. It was one of the first units to prove armor effectiveness in Vietnam's II Corps tactical zone. No question, 4th Cav was actively showing all the boldness, dash, and aggressiveness that had marked every generation of cavalrymen since 1855, when that regiment had come into being.

  Bringing my attention back to the assignment officer, I asked if he had any information on the 4th Cav at Phu Loi.

  “That's the Darkhorse unit. They're the air cavalry troop for the 1st Division,” he responded.

  “How about their scouts?” I shot back.

  “Their scout platoon over there is called the Outcasts. They fly the Loaches. The troop's also got those new Cobra gunships and a platoon of Hueys.”

  I heard only what he said about the Loaches—the light observation helicopters, OH-6As. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, I am still alive for flying scouts after all.

  The next morning, John and I threw our gear into the back of a Jeep that had been sent down from Phu Loi to get us. We headed north out of Di An toward Highway 13. That highway—really nothing more than a two-lane jungle dirt road—was a well-known north-south artery that I would come to know later as Thunder Road. It wound north through the heart of 1st Division's assigned operational area.

  We passed a lot of Vietnamese villages, nothing more than little knots of dilapidated shacks—hootches, as I would soon be calling them. They stuck up like matchboxes all along the side of the road. Children, cows, and chickens roamed through their living areas. Little kids were everywhere, waving and yelling to us as we passed. Most of them were wearing at least one or two articles of somehow-garnered American GI clothing—a bush hat, jungle boots, or maybe a khaki T-shirt. After about half an hour's ride, we pulled into the main gate at Phu Loi. An MP with an M-16 rifle looked up from the long line of Vietnamese civilians he was checking. Then he nodded to our driver and waved us on.

  Field and I looked at each other, puzzled by what the MP was doing. Our driver explained: “ID card check. They're hootch maids and other civilian workers that work here on post. They arrive in the morning and then leave right at the stroke of 1600. You'd think they belonged to a labor union or something the way they clear out of here right at four o'clock.”

  The Jeep squealed to a stop at the headquarters building, 1st Aviation Battalion, and the driver ushered us in to the executive officer. “Two new pilots for you, sir,” said the driver. Then he got back in his Jeep and sped off.

  “You men have a seat,” the XO said. “The Old Man is tied up right now, but he'll see you in a minute.”

  Four or five clerks were sitting around pounding typewriters, and somewhere down at the other end of the room we heard a radio playing rock music. We were amazed—it sure didn't seem as though we were in the middle of a war.

  Obviously amused at the just-in-country, newbie look on our faces, one of the clerks finally volunteered, “That's AFVN, Armed Forces Vietnam Radio, down in Saigon. Pretty good stuff, huh?”

  Before either one of us could mumble an acknowledgment, the executive officer reappeared at the door of the battalion commander's office and waved us in.

  Once inside, we snapped to attention, came to smart salutes, and, in our best military manner, said, “Sir, Lieutenants Mills and Field reporting to the commander for duty.”

  The lieutenant colonel returned our salutes and walked around his desk to shake hands and offer us a seat. “On behalf of the 1st Division,” he said, “welcome to Vietnam.”

  “Thank you, sir,” we replied, almost in unison.

  He sat back down at his desk, pick
ed up our personnel jackets, and gave them a quick look. “You men have come to a good outfit. You both fly Hueys, I see.”

  We both nodded, but I was still hoping he would pick up on my prior request for scouts and OH-6s.

  He asked us some general background questions and quickly scribbled something in his notebook. “Lieutenant Field, you're an infantry officer, so I'm going to assign you to the 1st Aviation Battalion. You'll go to A Company and fly in our lift unit, the Bulldogs. It supports the entire division.” I could tell that John was happy with his assignment.

  “Lieutenant Mills,” he said after a moment, “because you're an armor officer, I'm going to send you across the runway to D Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry.”

  I couldn't hide the smile that cut across my face as he continued. “D Troop operates as part of the division cavalry squadron, but it is actually detached from the squadron and attached to the 1 st Aviation Battalion over here for support and administration.

  “Being an armor officer,” he went on, “you really belong in an air cavalry reconnaissance outfit… and I understand they have some pilot vacancies over there where you can put your qualifications to work right away.”

  Damn, I thought. Things are falling into place! I fairly well floated out of the battalion commander's office, thinking that I had just beaten the odds. Going to the 1st Infantry Division was going to be OK after all!

  John and I said our good-byes and headed off on our own. A Jeep from the “Quarter Cav” picked me up, and on the way over to the troop the driver gave me a little background on the airfield. “This basic northsouth runway here at Phu Loi was actually built by the Japanese. They used it as a fighter strip during World War II. Ain't that somethin', sir?” He grinned. “Way back in World War II.”