"BASTARD CAV"

    We were flying a visual reconnaissance mission near Rach Gia in the Republic of Vietnam. As I rolled  “Pig Pen” out of another left hand turn, Bill pointed to what looked like a column of smoke rising from a cooking fire on the far side of the treeline a quarter mile ahead. As we crossed over the treeline doing 20 or 30 knots of airspeed and started to make another left hand turn to investigate, it seemed like the whole world started shooting at us.

    My gunner, Bill Hanegmon started firing his M60 machine gun. I hiked in 100% torque with the collective pitch, shoved nearly full forward cyclic stick and stomped almost full left pedal. I dove the helicopter to four or five feet above the ground to accelerate and sped away from the intense small arms fire. My right hand had a death grip on the stick and I strangled the minigun trigger for the comforting roar of that Gattling-gun type weapon. It would momentarily drowned out the sound of the enemy fire.

    Bill is hanging out of the ship by now, still firing his M60 toward the rear, he yells, “I see fifteen to twenty muzzle flashes! Let’s get the fuck out of here”! I’m calling “Taking fire! Taking fire!” on the radio. To add to the essence of the moment there is a huge black explosion just 15 or 20 feet to the left front of our tiny OH6A helicopter. The ship rocked from the sound waves and the impact of debris. I jinked a little to the right to avoid the black and brown dirt and shrapnel filled cloud. The first blast was instantly followed by another just twenty or thirty feet over my right shoulder. The explosions jolted the little scout helicopter; Bill and I were scared shitless. Each of us just knew that the enemy must have us “bracketed” and that the next round would be right on target....us.

    I heard the treeline behind us erupt in a multitude of explosions. I thought we had flown into a “friendly” Artillery barrage. It wouldn’t have been the first time some ARVN firebase had opened up without us knowing about it. I started yelling on the radio, “Turn off the fucking artillery”! Because, in case you weren’t paying attention, we seemed to be right in the middle of it!

    This whole event happened faster than most people can believe. Surely more quickly than it even took to read about it.

    I was squeezing off my third burst of minigun fire. The gun was designed to fire for only a maximum of three seconds each time the trigger was depressed. We were about 10 or 15 seconds into the artillery attack or ambush or what ever the hell it was. As quickly as it had started, the heavy shelling stopped. I slowed the helicopter down to check on our trail ship (wingman). We also checked our own aircraft for damage and ourselves for perforations.  The Command and Control (C&C) Huey’s pilot ordered us back to the refuel and rearm area (FFARP) because the Ground Mission Commander riding in the C&C was going to insert a unit of Vietnamese Army Rangers into the area.

    We landed  the helicopters, refueled, then shut down. We were counting holes in the Loaches when the Cobras that had been flying cover for us some 1500 feet above, landed, refueled, re-armed, parked and also shut down near us. Bob Allen, the lead Cobra pilot came trotting over to us and asked if we OK and started making apologies.

    It seems this was to have been a pretty boring area that we were working in. Intelligence sources had indicated that lately there had been very little enemy activity. He was letting his new guy copilot in the front seat fly the covering orbits and keep an eye on the scouts below while he took it easy in the back seat, reading a paper-back novel. When I first called “taking fire” he was caught completely by surprise.

     He grabbed the controls, nosed the Cobra over into a dive and quickly punched off a pair of rockets which was our unit’s standard operating procedure. Bob watched the rocket’s motors. The two fiery balls, preceded by their 17 pound, high explosive warheads, headed for the ground. Then he saw the two scout helicopters evading enemy fire and flying to a point where they would converge with the descending rockets. He watched in helpless horror as the rockets hit the ground on both sides of my ship. He felt a world of relief as he saw both scouts come out of the smoke and dust and heard us yelling, “Turn off the fucking artillery”. He and his wingman rolled in firing rockets, miniguns and 40 millimeter grenades into the treeline I had received the small arms fire from. I knew I’d drink free at the Officer’s Club for a couple of days at Bob’s expense.

    As Bob wandered back to his aircraft, I flopped on the ground next my helicopter. I laid perpendicular to Pig Pen’s skids. Using the little back cushion from the cockpit for a pillow I tried to catch a scout nap. But my mind was alive with thoughts and wonder about how I had happened to be there, doing what I loved so well and had lusted after for most of my twenty-five years.