Читать книгу Through the Valley - William Reeder - Страница 15
ОглавлениеPolei Kleng was tucked into a small valley, nestled against rising terrain to the west. Big hills loomed in most other directions. The old Special Forces camp had been built on the site of earlier French fortifications. The typical three-sided defensive perimeter of fighting positions sat inside concentric rings of concertina wire with minefields in between. A small airstrip lay outside the camp’s defenses. The land was cleared of vegetation for a couple hundred meters all around.
Two ARVN ranger battalions defended the camp. Thousands of North Vietnamese artillery shells pounded them day after day and night after night for a week, while NVA units surrounded the camp, greeting all helicopters in the area with bursts of .51-caliber machine-gun fire. The defenders heard tanks nearby.
The decision was made to evacuate the two U.S. advisors on the ground. I could imagine the impression that must have made on the ARVN ranger battalions. “Too dangerous for us advisors, but you guys fight on in the face of what we fear will be certain annihilation.”
On May 6, 1972, right after dark, we covered an OH-6 aircraft from the 7/17th Cavalry on the mission to extract the advisors. The OH-6 helicopter was always referred to as a “Loach” for the acronym LOH, or light observation helicopter. The pilot, Capt. Jim Stein, was one of the gutsiest scout helicopter pilots in the Army. Tim Conry was in my front seat. Jim dropped down onto the deck and dashed in with lights out except the beacon on the top of the helicopter, which let us keep visual contact with him. We stayed higher, firing to suppress sporadic small arms fire on his way in.
By the time Jim’s Loach got to the helipad in the camp, he was receiving heavy fire and taking hits. Fifty-one-caliber machine guns opened up at him on the ground. The advisors jumped in, and Jim started outbound. The world erupted. I fired rockets and 20-mm rounds in front of and beside the Loach. Tim worked the nose turret, placing protective fire from the minigun and chunker all around it. My wingman was doing the same. Together we cleared a path for the Loach through some of the most intense fire I’d seen. Mission accomplished. The advisors were evacuated from Polei Kleng.
Three days later, it was barely light as I got up and headed to the 361st showers, a concrete slab under a high tin roof, open on all sides. One row of horizontally placed plywood sheets formed a sort of half-wall around the edges. An open doorway led to a bank of sinks and mirrors running along the inside of one wall. Meandering water pipes and scattered showerheads hung from the rafters above. I stood under one of the showers, rinsing the soap from my body. Water streamed onto the last of the Head & Shoulders in my hair. With my eyes tightly closed, I felt the warm spray on my face. It was good. The last of my sleepiness melted away.
“Tac-E! Tac-E! Third platoon, launch!” Someone running through the company area yelled.
I raced back to my hooch, drying as I ran. I pulled on my underwear, T-shirt, and socks. I dragged on my flight-suit pants and stepped into my boots and tied them. I threw on my shirt and grabbed my hat and CAR-15 automatic carbine, snatching two bandoliers of ammo as I bolted through the door, still wet from the shower.
Tim and I met WO1 Steve Allen in front of operations. “Flame” Allen was one of my best pilots. He exuded enthusiasm about most everything in life, this morning being no exception. Steve was going home in two weeks. I had taken him off the flight schedule, but I was short of pilots. Apologetically, I asked if he’d mind taking one more mission.
“Sure, PL. No problem.” I was glad that Steve would be flying my wing. We scrambled with no idea yet what the mission was, but we knew it couldn’t be anything good. The enemy had been clawing into the highlands for several weeks now, almost at will.
The pilot I’d scheduled to fly Flame’s front seat had not yet gotten to the flight line, but Capt. Bob Gamber, commander of 2nd Platoon, had arrived. He wanted to know if his guys would be needed to launch behind mine. They would be arriving shortly. Gamber was not in the schedule himself. He was available.
“Bob! Would you mind flying front seat with Flame this morning? I’m short a pilot.”
“No sweat. Got my stuff right here.”
Inside, John Mayes, our operations officer, was contemplating his ceiling fan, leaning back in his chair with his cowboy boots on top of the desk. A bank of radios sat on a shelf behind his head. Ops was the source of all knowledge and controller of all missions. John, an Oklahoman, engendered calmness and confidence that made you feel all was unfolding in a reasonable manner that could be sensibly tackled. Things made sense even in the midst of utter chaos. He was the perfect operations officer.
“Tanks in the wire at Polei Kleng. Launch now and call me en route for their radio freq. Hawk’s Claw will get up later. You’ll be covering him too. You have tail numbers 053 and 682. Go!”
I stuffed a small emergency radio into one of the pockets of my survival vest. No time to perform the normal check on the radio. I ran to my aircraft with Tim. My regular bird was down for maintenance. This one didn’t have a 20-mm cannon. I stowed my carbine and ammo behind the pilot’s seat, climbed in, dropped into my seat, flipped a few switches, and cranked the engine while Tim was strapping in. Canopy hatches closed and radio calls made, I hovered out and took off. Steve and Bob came up on my wing, tucked in close in tight formation. The Cobra was heavy with fuel and ammo, but it climbed well in the cool morning air. Once airborne, I turned the controls over to Tim and fastened my own seat belt and shoulder harness. I lit my first cigarette of the day before calling operations for an update and the radio frequencies and call signs we’d need when we got to Polei Kleng.
About ten miles from Polei Kleng, I initiated a call. “Ballsy Butler, Panther Three Six.”
No response.
“Ballsy Butler, this is Panther Three Six.”
Still nothing. Two Vietnamese army battalions defended Polei Kleng, a Montagnard border ranger battalion and the ARVN 22nd Ranger Battalion, which had been sent as reinforcement. Someone should be on the radio.
One more try, “Ballsy Butler, this is Panther Three Six, over.”
A broken, accented voice reminded me there were no longer American advisors on the ground at Polei Kleng. “Panther, this Ballsy Butler, over.”
“Roger, Ballsy. This is Panther Three Six. I have a fire team of two armed AH-1G Cobras inbound to offer assistance.”
“Good, Panther. Thank you. We need help. NVA attack with tanks and beaucoup infantry. We withdraw to south. Please hit all over camp and toward tree line to south for cover for us. Do not hit trees. We south of camp in jungle.”
“Wilco, Ballsy. Can you give me a current enemy sitrep? How many forces? What kind? Doing what? From what directions?”
He spoke rapidly, “Roger, Panther. Beaucoup infantry, many tanks. Many thousand NVA. I think regiment. Maybe ten tanks. They attack from north and west.”
“Roger, Ballsy. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Thick dust and smoke hung over Polei Kleng, evidence of the hard-fought predawn battle. I could see enemy infantry running all over the camp. A couple of NVA tanks sat between the northern tree line and the camp’s concertina wire, not firing. Some of the South Vietnamese rangers continued fighting from the southern tree line outside the camp.
We dodged .51-caliber tracers on every gun run we made. We took no hits. We shot our entire load of rockets. Tim fired the minigun and 40-mm grenades from the turret. We departed for Kontum, twenty minutes away, to rearm and refuel.
“Thank you, Panther. Big help. Please come back?”
“Roger. Need more fuel and ammo. Will be back soon.”
We did a rapid turnaround at Kontum, hot refueling and loading our own ordnance. I peed, with one hand devoted to that and the other gripping the fuel nozzle, pumping gas into the aircraft. Tim had to hold the controls during fueling. He relieved himself at the rearm point. Back in the air, I got a call on the radio.
“Panther Lead, this is Hawk’s Claw.”
Hawk’s Claw, a classified prototype system, was kept under wraps in a guarded hangar at Camp Holloway except when conducting missions. The aircraft was an old UH-1B model Huey that had been upgraded and specially modified to test a new wire-guided missile system. It could acquire, fire, and hit targets more than a mile away with an armor-piercing antitank missile.1
“Roger, Hawk’s Claw. This is Panther Three Six. Go ahead.”
“Hey Panther Three Six, this is Hawk’s Claw. Was told you’ll be covering us.”
“Roger that. Where are you?”
“Passing 200 degrees off Kontum at about twelve miles, just north of Plei Mrong. On the way to Polei Kleng. Understand they’ve got some tanks there.”
“Sure do. We were there earlier. We’re coming back out from Kontum. Will join on you en route.”
“Roger.”
Hawk’s Claw did not fly, even on training runs, unless it had Cobra gun cover, and today we were it. This would be their first engagement against the enemy.
“Hawk’s Claw, Panther Three Six. Have you in sight. Will catch up before we get to Polei Kleng.”
“Roger that. Let’s go get some tanks!”
When we got to Polei Kleng, we were surprised to find it quiet. The NVA infantry had occupied defensive positions within the camp. I couldn’t see any tanks at all.
“Ballsy Butler, this is Panther Three Six back with you. Don’t see any tanks. Can you give me a situation update?”
“Panther, this Ballsy Butler. Infantry occupy on Polei Kleng camp. Tanks pull back to jungle. We still fight from here and cover withdraw. We go Kontum. VNAF A-1s coming. Please fire on enemy in camp.”
Since no tanks could be seen, Hawk’s Claw remained high to one side. We Cobras fired rockets on the NVA positions in the camp. After one run, Hawk’s Claw called us on the VHF radio. The guys on the ground could not hear our VHF transmissions. They only had FM radios.
“Panther Three Six, Hawk’s Claw. Have a report of tanks in the wire at Ben Het. Situation sounds pretty bad. Two Americans still on the ground there. Think they need our help.”
“Roger Hawk’s Claw, let’s go.” Then back on the FM radio, “Ballsy Butler, this is Panther Three Six. Diverting to Ben Het. Tank attack there. Will get back with you as soon as we possibly can.”
“Understand, Panther. Please hurry back. Situation here not good. Need you to cover. Let us get away.”
“Roger, Ballsy. Will come back as soon as we can. Your A-1s should be on their way.”
We headed to Ben Het. As we crossed the last ridgeline, the entire valley before us was filled with smoke. Tracers streamed outward from the defensive positions inside the camp. Enemy tracers replied from outside. Two jet fighters bombed next to the camp. NVA artillery, rockets, and mortars exploded in the camp. Enemy tanks breeched the perimeter. One, inside and partway up the hill, looked like it had been killed already. I couldn’t be sure. An Air Force AC-130 Spectre gunship was leaving. He’d worked the area over with 20-mm Vulcan Gatling guns and 40-mm cannons, probably hitting the tank. Enemy infantry moved through openings in the jungle canopy. I could see groups assembling to join the attack.
Ben Het, another old Special Forces camp, sat on a hill. The command post bunker was near the top, a small helipad nestled next to it and ammunition bunker positioned nearby. Several other bunkers and a number of now destroyed buildings were scattered across the camp. The defensive fighting positions had been reinforced over the weeks that the NVA offensive had raged through the highlands.
Two American advisors remained on the ground at Ben Het. Neither Capt. Bob Sparks, advising the 71st Border Ranger Battalion, nor Capt. Mark Truhan, advising the 95th, had asked to be evacuated. Both ranger battalions were filled with Montagnards but had ethnic Vietnamese officers. There had been dissatisfaction and a near mutiny by one unit the day before, but today they were pulling together, fighting ferociously against their common enemy.
“Sundance Rocket 88, this is Panther Three Six, inbound.”
“Panther Three Six, this is Rocket 88 Nutcracker. Glad to see you guys! We’re in some deep shit here.”
“Roger. I am on station with two Pink Panther Cobras and one Hawk’s Claw UH-1 with antitank capability. We have a visual on a number of tanks and will engage.”
“Roger, Panther. Several tanks already dead. Spectre did a job for us.2 Go after any still in action. Also have NVA in the tree lines. Hit those heavy with rockets if you would.”
“Roger. Will have Hawk’s Claw work with you directly on your push. We’ll cover them and hit your targets.”
We flew two thousand feet above the ground, what should have been a safe altitude. Near the camp, we could see .51-caliber tracers arching below us. I saw streams of much more threatening fire from ZPU 14.5-mm and ZU 23-mm antiaircraft weapons, a threat even at two thousand feet. I’d seen them in Laos, but never inside South Vietnam until two weeks before at Tan Canh/Dak To.
I radioed, “Take care, guys. I’ve got ZPU tracers and some zoo twenty-three airbursts. Watch out. That’s some nasty shit.”
Hawk’s Claw fired on a number of the tanks. After he expended his missiles, we began shooting at enemy soldiers along the tree line and into the jungle. After we fired all our rockets and most of the 40-mm grenades from our turrets, I radioed, “Nutcracker, we’re breaking station and returning to Kontum for rearm and refuel. Will be back as soon as we can.”
As we turned, I saw several big white airbursts explode close to Hawk’s Claw.
37-millimeter! Fuck me! A 37-mm blew my Mohawk out of the sky my first tour.
“Hey guys, that big stuff you see coming up is thirty-seven mike mike antiaircraft. It can eat your lunch. We’re outta here.”
We returned to Kontum. Once our rearm/refuel was complete, we took off, airborne again as a flight. We headed back to the fight and met Hawk’s Claw en route.
On our way back to Ben Het, we could see the battle continuing at Polei Kleng. Vietnamese Air Force A-1 Skyraiders dove, dropping bombs. We passed close enough to see one as it trailed smoke and flame and went into the ground in an awful explosion. I saw a parachute, and a mayday call came over the emergency frequency on the radio. I called headquarters to tell them I was diverting for a few minutes to help recover the downed VNAF pilot. “Negative, Panther Three Six. Permission denied. Proceed direct to Ben Het. Out.”
I tried again. Same result. Assholes!
As we got closer to Ben Het, the weather deteriorated. Under a solid overcast of darkening clouds, we flew right up against the bottom of the stuff at a thousand feet. Bad altitude. We were prime targets for every weapon at the enemy’s disposal, especially .51-calibers.
I got a call on the radio. “Panther flight this is Rocket Four-Four, over.”
Who the hell is Rocket Four-Four? I wondered. I keyed my mike, “Rocket Four-Four, this is Panther Three Six, go.”
“Roger, Panther Three Six. I’ve got a Huey load of small arms and antitank ammo for the guys at Ben Het. They need this badly. Can you cover us going in? Over.”
“Roger that. Standby.”
I came up with a plan. “Rocket Four-Four, weather is getting worse and pushing us down under a thousand feet. There is significant triple-A threat, twenty-three and thirty-seven mike mike. Suggest we go in on the deck, same as we do across the border. Right on the trees. Come in from the east and depart in a different direction, to the south.”
“Roger. Sounds good. Over.”
“There is so much crap out here that I don’t want to spend time in our usual racetrack. You guys lead in. We’ll cover you. Kick off your shit, and we’ll cover you out. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds good, over.”
“OK, let’s get this done.”
I smashed my cigarette out in the ashtray, sat up straighter in my seat, adjusted my chicken plate, and keyed my mike again. “Hawk’s Claw, hold well to the east, at altitude. We’ll pick you up after we run this resupply and help you get some more tanks.”
I spotted Rocket 44’s Huey inbound and maneuvered my fire team to his rear. Flame kept a little behind me and slightly to the left. The Huey dropped down, speeding toward Ben Het from the southeast, hugging the treetops. We stayed right with him, suppressing enemy fire along both sides of his flight path.
Tim called out enemy positions and weapons firing as he saw them, using the minigun and chunker as he talked. I fired pairs of rockets just in front and alongside the Huey. My wingman did the same. Tracers and antiaircraft airbursts appeared everywhere. We had jabbed a stick into a big angry hornet’s nest.
The Huey came to a low hover near the command bunker. The crew kicked out the ammo boxes. The helicopter did a left hovering turn and took off. I began a sharp left turn so I could continue shooting suppressive fire for him. The enemy opened up on our two Cobras with everything they had. My view left, right, above, and below was filled with tracers.
Tim fired continuously on those firing at us. We took large-caliber hits all over the aircraft (.51- and 14.5-mm ZPU). Rounds came through the cockpit. Hits from small arms always felt something like Jiffy Pop popcorn popping against its tinfoil cover. These seemed like a jackhammer slamming into the aircraft, beginning in the rear, working up the side and then into the cockpit.
The tail rotor was shot off and the engine was shot up. Every system on the helicopter was damaged in some way. Without the tail rotor, the aircraft began to spin. Fuel lines ruptured and we were burning. I keyed the microphone. “This is Three Six taking fire from four o’clock. Taking fire, everywhere. Taking fire, taking hits, going down. Panther going down.”
The engine quit. The rotor rpm caution light flashed. The audio warning sounded, announcing that my rotor blades were turning dangerously slowly. I slammed the collective down hard to autorotate. Under optimal conditions, this is a controlled emergency descent. Under these conditions, I could only hope to lessen the severity of the crash. We corkscrewed down in flames. As I wrestled the aircraft, I radioed my wingman, “Flame, you better get in here quick and get us out.”
No answer.
They were fighting for their lives. I learned years later that when I called taking hits, Flame had banked his Cobra and fired rockets onto the positions shooting at me. As he did so, a big, ugly .51 round came through the cockpit and tore into his chest, high on the left side. Bob took the controls and headed for help, flying from the front seat.
My Cobra came down spinning and burning. It hit the ground hard, nose low on the left side. It bounced back into the air, spun another turn and a half, and crashed. It settled nearly upright. Fire engulfed the cockpit. I called Tim on intercom.
“Let’s un-ass this motherfucker!”
“Roger that.”
As narrow as a Cobra is, it often ends up on one side or the other in a crash. Since the front-seat canopy opens to the left and the back seat to the right, if the helicopter lands on its side one crewmember would be trapped. But we could both get out. We were lucky.
I was badly dazed and barely conscious. I remember smoke and flames and heat. I remember opening my canopy and unfastening my lap belt. I tried to climb out, but I was hung up by something. I dived out the canopy opening. My feet tangled in straps or cords. Wasn’t sure exactly what.
Inside Ben Het, one of the American advisors, Mark Truhan, watched us get shot down and crash. He saw Tim exit the aircraft. He saw me hanging out the side of the Cobra, head down with my feet stuck in the cockpit, the helicopter burning. He’d seen a truck driver die in agony in a blazing semi wreck years before and had sworn he would not let that happen again. He raised the sights of his M-16 rifle to my body. As he began to squeeze the trigger to put me out of my misery, a cloud of smoke billowed from the exploding aircraft. It obscured me from his view. When the smoke cleared, I was gone.
