Читать книгу Through the Valley - William Reeder - Страница 13

CHAPTER 2

Pink Panthers

The Army’s airstrip at Camp Holloway, 2,500 feet above sea level, had been carved out of the fields and forests outside Pleiku in the Central Highlands. The camp was dirty and, depending on rain, either dusty or muddy on any given day. Luckily, it was a bit cooler than most of Vietnam because of its elevation. Tin-roofed huts and hangars clustered along both sides of a five-thousand-foot runway constructed of perforated steel planking, or PSP as it was called.

One side of the runway was a regular little town for aircrews and support personnel. The rest was taken up with maintenance hangars, operations shacks, a refueling area, and scores of revetments to protect the parked helicopters. Off a ways was a rearming point and ammo dump. While I was there, the ammo dump was blown up occasionally by rocket or mortar attack. It was always quickly resupplied. The attacks rarely affected combat operations.

On the rust-colored expanse of the base, nothing grew thanks to constant applications of defoliant. A perimeter of earthen berms, pillbox-like fighting positions constructed from sandbags and recycled PSP, and rows of concertina wire surrounded the camp. Guard towers rose above the stretched coils of razor wire. We were an isolated protected enclave, having little contact with the world outside, except for flight missions day and night.

Our crude, tin-roofed sleeping hooches were crammed with stereo tape players, big speakers, small refrigerators, and, most importantly, air conditioners. We had headquarters, mess halls, supply rooms, a medical clinic, a barbershop, and even a small gift shop. U.S. car manufacturers’ representatives clustered around a central store, the PX, ready to help us buy a car at wholesale prices while in Vietnam, to be delivered at home at the end of our tour. We had an officers’ club, too, a necessary place for young men to unwind after flying in the face of death each day.

In addition to the main club, the 361’s small officer’s club, the Stickitt Inn, featured a bar, a few tables, and a hole in one wall so you could dive into a sandbagged bunker during rocket or mortar attacks. We loved it. Camaraderie grew from our flights on SOG’s secret operations. We cemented those bonds at the Stickitt Inn, drinking way too much, telling tall tales, and acting crazy.

Several days after my first combat mission, I was sitting in the Stickitt Inn, drinking and telling war stories with Forrest and a couple of other new pilots. We had flown a few more missions, none as harrowing as the first, which I was recounting.

One of them said, “That must have been a hell of a day. Scary?”

“Not really,” I boasted, but instantly corrected myself. “Yeah, scary as shit, actually,” I admitted. “Scared the fuck out of me. But I did OK. I did it. We do what we’ve been trained to do. No time to think. Just have to do. You know how and you do it.”

I slammed my glass back on the bar. “I survived some hellacious missions on my first tour, too. I was shot up lots, and shot down once.”

Somebody asked, “What happened?”

“Took a thirty-seven-millimeter antiaircraft hit in the right wing attacking a fuel depot hidden under the trees. Classified mission in Laos over the Ho Chi Minh Trail. As I pulled up from a rocket run, wham, the whole right side of the aircraft seemed to explode. We tumbled out of control. The right wing shattered and was on fire. Worked it hard. Got back some ability to fly. Got the fire out. But we were descending fast. Could not hold altitude. I gave the command to eject. The observer went out. I pulled my seat handle right after. I had a very short parachute ride. Got only partial chute deployment before hitting the ground with a thud. We were crashing through the treetops by the time I punched out.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Then I was nearly captured. I ran through the jungle for forty-five minutes while my wingman put down suppressive fire. That earned me the nickname Lightfoot. Got plucked out of the jungle by an Air Force helicopter from the 20th Special Operations Squadron out of Thailand, call sign Pony Express. Spent some time in the hospital there. Eventually I returned to the unit, back to flight duties. We’d lost fifteen airplanes at that point out of eighteen. Thirty crewmembers shot down. Not many of them ever recovered. I was one of the few. Lousy odds. I was scared then, I’ll tell you. If you don’t get scared in combat, you’re a liar. Or nuts.”

I continued. “Only after a tense mission is over does the real fright come. When there’s time to sit and think, you watch it all play in your mind and wonder how the hell you lived through something like that.” I looked at them and grinned. “Enough to drive a man to drink.”

Forrest said, “I thought the war was over. Thought we’d missed the combat and would be bored to tears. The press claims that Nixon’s Vietnamization is working. The Viet Cong guerrillas are beaten. The U.S. is going home. All is quiet in Vietnam. The war’s won!”

“All true. Just not across the border—not in Laos and Cambodia. We’ve seen that the regular North Vietnamese Army is thick over there,” I said.

Someone asked, “What do we do if the NVA come across? There aren’t any American ground units left in the highlands.” I had no answer. I thought, If the shit hits the fan, I’ll be fine. Other guys get killed. Not me. I’m the lucky one.

Across the room, pilots began chanting, “Panther piss! Panther piss! Panther piss!” Two guys came up beside me, grabbed my arms, and led me to a bar stool in the center of the room. They filled a bizarre-looking mug with booze from most every bottle in the place, topped it off with a large plop of unknown gunk from a jug pulled from the refrigerator. The mug was passed around so anyone could add whatever they wanted to the mix (except lighter fluid, brass polish, or any known or suspected poison). The thing was handed to me. The guys by my side grabbed me and stuck their wet tongues deep into my ears. A commanding voice ordered, “Drink the piss of the Panther.”

I stared at the awful looking brew. Pubic hairs floated on top of putrescent goo. All eyes fixed on me. I guzzled. I almost puked, but I chugged it down as they chanted. When I was done, they cheered. Guys patted me on the back. Now I was in the brotherhood of the Pink Panthers. Forrest and the other new guys followed, each downing a mug of Panther piss. One bolted from the room spewing vomit as he ran. I kept mine down, but I felt like shit. The room began to spin. Faces got more surreal with each whirl.

Great guys, these guys, I thought. I ricocheted out of the club back to my hooch, fell into bed, and passed out till morning. This would not be the last of my drunks in Vietnam, but it would be by far the worst.

The next morning, I was front seat to one of our best pilots, Capt. John Debay, on a SOG mission to insert a reconnaissance team. After the insertion, we would stand by at Dak To in case we were needed for a TAC-E (tactical emergency) extraction.

I felt like crap after the previous night, but my head cleared as we did our preflight. We flew to the SOG compound outside Kontum along with another Cobra, and we joined three Gladiator Huey crews who had landed moments before. In the operations hut, we got a detailed briefing from the recon team leader, the One-Zero in SOG parlance.

Three Americans and nine indigenous Montagnard tribesmen, all experienced and dedicated special operations soldiers, made up the team. Montagnards were some of the fiercest, most capable fighters on earth.¹ Besides the One-Zero, the Americans were the One-One, the assistant team leader, and the One-Two, the radio operator.

We were going to insert the team on the backside of a hill a few kilometers from an NVA headquarters. They’d gather information for two days, then snatch a prisoner if they could, and call for extraction. SOG recon team strength: twelve. NVA HQ and combat units in the immediate area: several hundred. It sounded insane. Everyone in the room took it as a matter of course.

We loaded up, cranked and lifted off from FOB II, the base for all SOG operations from the central part of South Vietnam.² We began along the same route as my first mission. When we approached the border, our course arced farther south. We dropped down into the racetrack, but didn’t shoot. The two Hueys fell through into a small clearing. They pulled out in two seconds, the team already gone and invisible, putting distance between themselves and the landing zone. We moved a few miles eastward and orbited for several minutes to be sure the enemy had not immediately discovered the team. All was quiet.

We flew back to Dak To, refueled, shut down, and waited, ready to launch in two minutes if needed. We played spades, ate C-rations, soaked up some sun, and talked to push back the boredom. Eventually a fresh flight of Cobras and Hueys arrived to relieve us, allowing us to return to FOB II for a debriefing before calling it a day. Afterwards, one of the Huey pilots said, “Hey, Panthers! You guys want a string ride before we head home today?”

My wingman, CW2 Dan Jones, explained, “You put on a harness, clip onto the end of a 120-foot nylon rope, and dangle under the Huey while he flies you around the countryside. It’s what we do with the teams we pull out of the jungle. It’s exciting. You oughta do it. Come on. I’ll go with you.”

“Why not?” I said. Two others joined us. The helicopter hovered overhead. The crew chief leaned out the side and watched us. We put on harnesses and clipped ourselves to the end of the rope. The Huey rose. As the slack came out of the ropes, the harness straps tightened unpleasantly in my crotch, but I pulled them further to the side. Slowly, the helicopter lifted us off the ground and into forward flight. We locked arms to keep from banging into each other. It was terrifying and sensational at the same time. There was nothing between me and the ground a thousand feet below, nothing.

A celebration was taking place on the central street of a village, possibly a wedding. The Huey headed directly toward the village. By the time we got to the edge of town, we were close to the rooftops. Everyone on the street looked up, smiling. They waved, and we waved back as we hovered over.

That string ride around the countryside showed me how far pacification had progressed in the Central Highlands. Had there been any enemy in the area, we would have been an easy target. Most of South Vietnam was secure. The Viet Cong had been defeated. The war was just about over.

As we headed back to Kontum, the sun shone brilliantly in the blue sky low above the mountaintops, glistening off the rich green jungle and the paddies and fields below. It remains one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

A few days later, Captain Barfield, the 361st Aviation Company commander, sat behind his desk, scowling at me. He launched into a rant about an issue I was totally unfamiliar with. I knew something really terrible had to be coming next. Then he leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Come with me.”

The company had assembled in formation outside, the company flag, our guidon, held proudly in front. As Captain Barfield approached with me, bewildered at his side, he turned to face the assembled group. “Today we have a new platoon commander in the 361st. Captain Reeder will take over third platoon effective immediately.”

Barfield turned to me and said, “I know you’ll do well. Come see me later and we’ll talk. Congratulations. Now take your post.”

I moved to the front of my platoon. Once I was in position, Captain Barfield commanded, “Officers fall out! First sergeant, take charge of the company!”

The day’s missions were done. We headed to the Stickitt Inn. My 3rd Platoon pilots sat around in their usual comfortable spots, looking me over, wondering how I might affect their lives in the days to come. At the same time, I looked into their eyes, hoping I would give them the leadership they deserved.

“I’m Mike Kieren.” A young-looking, handsome, blond first lieutenant offered his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mike.” I would come to know him as enthusiastic, fun loving, and a great pilot who was always reliable.

Capt. John Debay stepped forward and shook my hand. “I’m still your assistant platoon leader for now, but I’m moving to become the company maintenance officer.” I’d flown with him several times already. John was in a tough spot. He had been platoon leader until I, the senior ranking captain, was chosen to replace him. John was a good guy, a prince. He had extended his combat tour a number of times, well beyond the obligatory year in Vietnam. He gave up command to me graciously, continuing to fly with the platoon and serving as our instructor pilot. He taught me more than anyone else about our missions and getting the most out of the Cobra.

CW2 Dan Jones was the senior warrant officer in my platoon. Dan was tall, serious, and a bit older than the others. Solid as a rock, he was always where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there. He had a great attitude and worked as long and as hard as necessary. He flew well, placed fire accurately, and demonstrated sound judgment. We’d already flown together. I always enjoyed being on a mission with Dan. I felt confident when he was in the flight.

Mike Pasco introduced himself. “I’m the company signal officer, but assigned to 3rd Platoon. I’ll be flying missions with you.” Mike was a captain who had been given the additional duty of taking care of the unit’s radios and other communications equipment because his branch of service was Army Signal Corps. Those duties kept him very busy, but he always met his flying responsibilities with courage and skill.

The youngest of the group, a warrant officer one, stood to introduce himself last. “Hi, PL. I’m Steve Allen. They call me Flame.” His bright red hair left no doubt about the source of his nickname. He’d refer to me as PL, his term of endearment for platoon leader. Youthful and cheery, he’d always give me a bright greeting of “Good morning, PL,” “Yes sir, PL,” “Can do, PL.” He was a courageous pilot with a great attitude, and I was grateful he was in the platoon.