NO SIDE TONE
Army aviators are charged with the awesome responsibility of carrying around some rather large egos.
We take this responsibility very seriously and put it on display easily and often. We do this by telling stories of our great accomplishments and acts of daring-do while at the controls of our aircraft. Humorously referred to as “War Stories” these accounts seem to get better as time passes and memories fade.
While they are usually based on fact there is a liberal amount of embellishment added to impress the reader and the author will steadfastly insure to all that his story is absolutely true.
However, this is a factual account of an incident that actually took place. I swear.
The tracers snapping past the nose of the aircraft got my immediate and undivided attention. As I rolled the aircraft away from the incoming fire I remembered to be calm, cool, collected, and concise as I keyed the mike; two-zero taking fire three o'clock. I should have heard myself speaking but I heard nothing other than the door gunner’s M-60 returning fire. I keyed the mike a second time and blew into the mouthpiece.
No side tone.
We had already been hit and I needed to find out where and how bad.
I flew with the Long Knives. The lift platoon of D troop (Air), 3rd Squadron, 5th Armored Cavalry Regiment serving as part of the 9th Infantry Division. The division base camp was named Dong Tam after a small, nearby village and located about 5 km west of the city of My Tho. Our heliport was situated on the extreme north end of a huge square camp that had been cut out of the jungle and rice patties then backfilled with silt from the northern most fork of the Mekong River that formed the southern boundary of the camp.
Mid afternoon Sunday, 25 May, 1969 was bright and sunny. In aviation terms the weather was CAVU (Clear And Visibility Unlimited). As always we had to deal with the 3 Highs, high temperature, high humidity, and high density altitude. We were not on a normal cavalry recon/search and destroy mission. Just the flight of two slicks I was leading and a pair of Crusader Cobras for cover. I don't recall the exact nature of the mission but it must have been a beans and bullets resupply. We had just completed what I believe was the second offload and preparing to head west back to Dong Tam hoping to make an early visit to the Officers Club. In the right seat was the Maintenance Officer, a senior captain that had made a few trips with us before.
The aircraft commander in the second bird was the reformed War Wagon scout pilot Dave Newkirk. Dave had moved to the Long Knives after receiving four Purple Hearts figuring his chances of getting shot at would be reduced.
Looking back maybe were we getting shot at because Dave was still attracting bullets like a magnet.
We made our normal straight ahead departure from a large, open, wet area. Staying close together and low-level until reaching high cruise and then trading airspeed for altitude we would climb to 1500 feet spending as little time as possible in small arms range. The large nippa palm grove off to our right had narrowed quite a bit and I felt it was safe enough to overfly. I let the flight know by calling out coming up, then right. I had planned to climb and then roll into a right-hand turn so that we would reach 1500 feet and a 270° heading at the same time.
All went fine until we were about one third of the way through the turn and about 700 or 800 feet when we began taking fire.
Flying a helicopter is nothing but a coordination exercise. Having played a lot of baseball growing up I figured the coordination it took to hit a round ball with a round bat and make it go where you wanted should make it fairly easy for me to adapt. Boy was I wrong. We now had a control stick in each hand, one with a twist grip throttle at the end, 2 foot pedals, a swivel for our neck and eyes that had to see everything at the same time. I spent a lot of time at home the first few weeks in a straight back kitchen chair with a plunger between my legs and a broom extended behind my left side. Lift and twist the broom, push the plunger forward and extend the right foot all at the same time. That’s what it takes just to begin a takeoff. There’s the old joke about being able to make it through flight school if you could walk and chew gum at the same time that turned out to be just that, a joke.
I did, however, have the required watch with more than 3 dials.
What we really needed was an on board computer that receives data from multiple sources such as training, experience, the tactical situation, survival instincts, and throws in a bit of fear just for good measure. Then instantly and simultaneously sorts that input and downloads the best actions for the pilot to take to escape the dangerous situation he finds himself in.
Of course computers were just a dream in the late 60s so pilots were left with just brain power to do the calculations and provide info for him to react upon.
My reaction was to level the skids by stopping both the turn and climb, lower the nose, put the collective in my armpit, and beat feet out of the kill zone. I was also reminded that I had another aircraft close behind and I couldn't make any drastic maneuvers. I knew that whoever was at the controls of Newkirk’s aircraft would be close behind and working on keeping his site picture of our tail rotor’s 90° gearbox centered in our exhaust stack. I tried to alert them by calling taking fire but that went unheard.
Things were happening simultaneously in both aircraft now. Jumping into damage control mode I glanced at the nose to see if there was any damage I could see that might indicate the radios and been hit. I also didn’t want any part of the nose breaking loose and flying up into the rotor system. A quick look down at the radio control heads between the seats indicated no damage there. Could the antenna have been hit? At the same time I was trying to attract the attention of my copilot who is looking back over his right shoulder and away from me.
Yelling wasn't getting the job done so I had to unlock my shoulder harness and reach over and hit him on the shoulder.
Back in Newkirk's aircraft he knows we’re taking fire and addressing some pretty harsh language in my direction for not calling for the Crusaders to roll in.
He finally gets tired of waiting and calls them himself.
At about this time I've gotten my copilot's attention and after raising my voice and the use of hand signals I finally get him to try the radio. I hear several pairs of rockets off my right rear and know the Crusaders have gotten the word. Of course, when my copilot comes over the air as Two-Zero Alpha everyone thinks I've been hit. My copilot indicates that he could communicate with the rest of the flight so I give him the controls.
We had taken one round.
It entered the aircraft through the panel behind the copilot's door, passed through the cockpit, and exited at the top rear of the little fixed piece of plexiglass window at the top of my door.
As the round past slightly above and behind my head it completely severed my helmet cord as cleanly as if it had been cut with a pair of scissors.
I was still diagnosing the problem when my crew chief came forward, tapped me on the shoulder and handed me the end of the cord.
As Newkirk brought his bird up on the left side to get a better view of what was going on I twirled the end of my cord out the window pointed to by ears, shook my head, and signaled for him to take lead and we dropped back to chalk 2.
I sat back and relaxed knowing we would have something interesting to talk about at the Officers Club when we got back.
There’s nothing like a little chaos to liven up a fairly boring afternoon.
Having been in country for nine months I had seen a lot of strange things. At the time I passed this incident off as one of those things that happens in combat and soon forgot about it. It was many years later when I looked at some old photographs taken by Randy King, my roommate and the Doughboy Platoon Leader, that it dawned on me that only a few inches and a slightly different angle was all that separated me from a drastically different outcome. I had been leaning forward and looking around my copilot because we were in a right hand turn. Did that make the difference? When strange things like this happen soldiers put them into one of two categories: Luck or Divine Intervention. I have my personal feelings and you can form your own opinions.
I didn't keep a journal or take many photographs when I was in Vietnam. Maybe I didn’t want to remember all the loss of life, the pain, the politics, or the suspected lack of tactical awareness of our senior commanders. All of which contributed to the total uselessness of our little war that most of us knew couldn’t be won the way we were forced to fight. Or maybe I thought I'd never forget the highs and the lows of a year flying in combat. That has proven not to be the case.
It didn’t take long for the everyday routine to turn monotonous. Every day was the same yet every day was different. Dates meant nothing. Days of the week even less. Neither was of any concern until you tacked your “Short Timers” calendar on the hooch wall. Today it all seems like a fuzzy, multi-colored ball that keeps bouncing about inside my head looking for a place to settle. A mixture of sights, sounds, and smells that occasionally come into view before slipping out of sight until unexpectedly returning. More often than not they jar loose memories that are best left forgotten.
But this mission was different. It stands out like very few others. Not just because of what occurred but, as it turned out, 25 May 1969 became a very important date which I’ll never forget. When we got back to Dong Tam I found out my son David had been born on the 22nd.
I’ve been told that at the time of his birth he was in full voice and, unlike myself, could be clearly heard when his cord was cut.
Epilogue:
I spent the last weekend of April 2015 at the 21st annual D Troop reunion. I had not planned to attend until I saw that 2 fellows I hadn’t seen since “69 were to be there. I later heard that Dave Newkirk was to be there and figured I’d have the opportunity to run this story past him and get his input.
I hadn’t seen Dave since the VHPA reunion in Washington DC in July 2000.
At lunch Saturday I was sitting between Dave and Gary Winsett. As Dave was reviewing this story I asked if he recalled who his co-pilot was that day. To my surprise he said “Yeah, he’s sitting right next to you”. I was floored. Gary and I have seen each other many times since 2000 and this situation never came up.
Newkirk flew the rest of his tour with the Long Knives but Winsett was just passing through. He refers to himself at that time as a recovering scout pilot and had been named the assistant operations officer. He was flying with us to brush up on the UH-1. With his new assignment he would be the primary Command and Control pilot for the mission commander. I had pulled that duty on several occasions and I can think of nothing more boring than flying never ending left hand orbits at a constant 3000 feet without ever seeing the action below. But for Gary it must have been very relaxing after flying scouts.
I’m finally finishing this story and realize it’s the 21st of May. Tomorrow my son David will be 46 years old.
Happy Birthday Son!
Les Smith
May 21, 2015
Long Knife 20 & 26
Aug. ’68 – Aug. ‘69
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