Hugh Mills - Low Level Hell

So the scout had to learn to talk over the radio to keep his gunship informed. All of the scout’s radio messages to the Cobra went out over the OH-6’s UHF frequency. All of the Cobra’s messages back to the scout were transmitted over VHF. Using both UHF and VHF ensured that a radio transmission between scout and Cobra was never garbled because both were talking at the same time over the same frequency. The scout usually talked all the time when he was working down low, conversationally reporting what he was seeing on the ground as the aircraft flew its search pattern. The Cobra crew was normally quiet, breaking silence only once in awhile with two quick movements on the radio transmit button. This staticlike sound told the scout that the Cobra was receiving and understood. Radio conversation took place only when the gun pilot wanted the scout to do something.

Riding with Jones as copilot-observer, I carefully listened to his ongoing radio talk to the Cobra as he worked his pattern, while I tracked what he was seeing on the ground. As Bill pushed his search circles farther out over the area, he studied the ground below for a sign of traffic, reporting to the Cobra. Foot traffic could be picked up by coming across a trail or a marshy area where the enemy had moved through, leaving footprints, bent elephant grass, or some other sign of passage. From the appearance of the trail, Jones could estimate the approximate number of troops, as well as how old the trail was.

Footprints that could be seen distinctly indicated light traffic—only a few people. If the trail appeared indistinct and generally messed up, you’d know that heavy traffic had moved along it, walking over each others’ foot impressions.

Bill went on to teach me that the direction of the traffic movement could also be determined by studying the footprint characteristics. Many VC wore what were called Ho Chi Minh sandals—nothing more than a couple of flat pieces of rubber cut from an old tire and strapped to the wearer’s foot. The toe and heel parts were of the same shape, but when walking along, more weight was concentrated on the heel, resulting in a deeper impression. In addition, the toe pushed up a little ridge of dirt. By carefully checking out the heel and toe impressions left on the dusty ground, you could tell which way the people on the trail were traveling.

Suddenly coming across a sign of foot traffic below, Jones radioed the gun: “I’ve got a trail.” Call signs between scout and gun were usually dropped when there was only one team of aircraft in the area. “It runs off to the northeast, heading zero three zero degrees, to the southwest at two one zero degrees. Indications of light recent traffic—two or three people within the last twelve hours, northeast bound. I’m going to move up the trail and check it out.” Our phones hissed, “C-h-h-h-e-s-h-h… c-h-h-h-e-s-h-h” indicating that the Cobra had copied.

Bill started moving the OH-6 toward the northeast by using the trail as a guide and pushing his coverage circles out a little farther with each orbit, all the time studying the footprints, and any other signs along the way, to make sure that the enemy party hadn’t left the trail.

“OK, I’ve got a place off the trail here to the right. Looks like they had supper here last night. I’ve got the remains of a small cooking fire. It’s not smoldering… it’s out.”

The footprints took off again to the northeast, and Jones moved the Loach up the trail. ‘There’s a bunker… about fifty feet off to the left of the trail. Looks like a twelve by twelve… maybe a storage bunker… a foot and a half, maybe three feet of overhead cover, well made, freshly camouflaged.”

“Typically,” Jones briefed me, “the bunkers we find fall into pretty uniform sizes: five by seven, eight by ten, twelve by twelve, fifteen by ten, with a twenty by forty being about the largest.

“When you report a bunker to the gun, give him the overall outside dimension and the estimated degree of the overhead cover. He’ll record all that information on his charts for G-2 back at the base.”

The scout identified a bunker by its shape, the condition of the camouflage on top of it, and the entrance holes either at the corners or on the flat sides. Those entrances showed up as dark splotches on the ground, and were usually dug in an L shape so Charlie could fire at you from the hole and then get back under cover. The L blunted any rounds fired into the entranceway after him. The smaller bunkers were generally to provide cover for VC moving along the trail. The larger ones were usually storage bunkers for supplies used to sustain Charlie while he was passing through or fighting in the area. Some were used as command posts.

Those additional days I flew as copilot-observer with Bill Jones were invaluable. I hung on his every word. Jones seemed able to sense trouble ahead. He would know in advance that he might be taking fire from an unseen enemy. I hoped that I would develop some of that warning light instinct.

It was 8 April 1969, my twenty-first birthday.

Now, I smiled to myself, I could take a drink legally. I could also vote. I could even get, maybe, a slight reduction in my car insurance rates, if I were back home. It all sounded pretty silly in Vietnam.

First light was breaking over the Phu Loi runway, and the fact that it was my birthday was the least thing in my mind as I walked out of operations toward the revetment line where the OH-6As were parked.

Today I’d be on my own for the first time. I would be flying my own ship as the scout half of VR-1 hunter-killer team. Operations had just briefed us that gun pilot Phil Carriss (Three Eight) and I (One Seven) would be making a visual reconnaissance of the banks of the Thi Tinh and Saigon rivers. We’d be starting near Phu Cuong, making our way north along the Saigon River to the intersection of the Big Blue (Song Saigon) and the Little Blue (Song Thi Tinh). Then we’d scout north following the Saigon, winding our way up along the west side of the Iron T to see what Charlie might be up to along the rivers.

For my first solo scout mission, I would be flying a brand-new OH-6, tail number 249, belonging to crew chief Joe Crockett. I say “belonging to” Joe Crockett because I didn’t have a specific airplane assigned to me. Platoon Sergeant Tim “Toon Daddy” McDivitt was the scout platoon sergeant for Troop D (Air), 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry. He told the pilots what airplane they would be flying on a certain day, but the crew chief assigned to an airframe automatically flew with that ship.

I checked into 249’s revetment, which was just across from the operations hootch, and Joe Crockett was waiting for me. I had met him before around the troop while I was flying observer with Jones and Morrison.

Crockett was a little fellow, about five foot six, and maybe 135 to 140 pounds. He had blond hair and was deeply tanned. I remember him saying that he was from somewhere in California, so maybe he’d had a good start on that tan.

Crockett was one of the most senior scout crew chief-observers in the troop. He really knew what he was doing when it came to scouting, and handling a green scout pilot. That, of course, was why McDivitt assigned me to Crockett’s ship. It was traditional to put a brand-new scout pilot with a very experienced crew chief. That way both men had a better chance of staying alive.

Crew chiefs were all enlisted ranks. Pilots were either warrants or commissioned officers. But in an OH-6 flying a scouting mission, we were a team. Our lives quite literally depended on how well each of us did our job.

Crockett and I began walking around the ship, conducting the pre-flight exterior check. Without even looking at the plane’s logbook, I could see that 249 was right out of the stateside factory. The OD paint was fresh and shiny. The Quarter Cav red and white insignia practically jumped off the fuselage. The black horse and blue blanket that was the Darkhorse emblem shimmered on the engine cowling doors. Crockett was as proud as a mother hen with a new chick.