Hugh Mills - Low Level Hell

As we flew over the tanks, Woods radioed from his fifteen-hundred-foot position. “Hey, One Six, Three Five. You guys are going to have to either turn on some lights or come up to altitude. I’m having trouble seeing you.”

We knew he didn’t expect us to turn on our navigation and anticollision lights. The large red-flashing anticollision light mounted on the belly of the OH-6 was so visible that we called it the “target.” Woods really wanted us to come up and get into formation with the snakes.

I came up on UHF to Ameigh. “One Five, this is One Six. Let’s take it up to altitude and get on the gun’s wing.” I waited for him to come back, or, at a minimum, respond by twice breaking squelch with his transmit switch. But nothing. I heard nothing back.

I was ready to key Ameigh again and repeat the message when Mike Woods broke back in. “One Six, where is One Five? I don’t see your wingman. I say again, I do not see One Five. Is he with you?”

I twisted in my seat to look back where Ameigh’s ship ought to have been, yelling, “One Five, this is One Six. Where are you? Come on, goddamnit, where in the hell are you?”

No response. I kicked right pedal, pulled full power, and slammed the cyclic right. Coming hard around in a tight descending, decelerating turn, I scoured the sky for Ameigh’s bird. Nothing. He wasn’t there.

I flew several large circles, looking around the immediate area. He had been right there on my wing; now he was gone. Not a sign of him anywhere.

Mike Woods on VHF and I on UHF both appealed to Ameigh to come up on either frequency. Nothing.

On about my fourth circle around the area, I caught sight of a wisp of white smoke trailing up out of the jungle. A cold chill went through me. I moved directly over the smoke and tried to see through the trees. Suddenly I was nearly overcome by the smell of CS gas. The stream of smoke coming up from the jungle floor was riot gas, apparently from a burning CS canister. All the scout OH-6s carried CS canisters.

Eyes heavily watering from the gas fumes, I looked down and saw a hole in the jungle with tops of trees chopped off all around it, as if a giant woodsman had taken a blunt ax and splintered them away.

It was getting so dark that seeing all the way to the ground was almost impossible. But something white caught my eye. Straining through the faint light I could tell that it was definitely the open engine cowl door of an OH-6. The inside engine compartment of all OH-6s is painted white. And the only OH-6 not accounted for at that moment was Jim Ameigh’s.

“Three Five, One Six. I’ve got the bird—he’s down in the jungle. No apparent fire, but a CS gas canister must be popped. I see no sign of life. The aircraft is on its side. I can’t see very well, but I think the bird’s engine is still running because I can also smell JP-4 exhaust.”

By this time Woods was circling above me and had informed Darkhorse ops at Phu Loi that Ameigh was down. He keyed me and asked, “Do you want me to scramble the ARPs?”

“Negative, let’s hold on that. There’s no lima zulu to put ‘em down. It’s getting too dark and it’s too far from Thunder Road to put them in there and expect they’d find the bird out here in the jungle. We gotta do something quicker than that.”

“OK, I roger that, One Six. How about those tanks we just passed back on Thunder. Do you suppose they could get in here to the wreck?”

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try,” I answered. “Let’s get over to them.”

Woods gave me a steer. The tanks we had passed were about two kilometers to the north and west. I also needed a frequency to talk to them. Since Cobras worked with all the ground units routinely, Three Five came right back with the FM push and call sign.

I hit it immediately. “Tanker, Tanker, this is Darkhorse on fox mike. Any unit in vicinity Thunder Road south of tango one [FSB Thunder I], please come up this push and talk to me.”

Almost immediately a voice answered. “This is Tanker Six. What do you need, Darkhorse?”

“Tanker Six, this is Darkhorse One Six. We’ve got a downed bird just south and east of your logger location. Aircraft with pilot and crew chief down. I cannot get to them. I need you to bust a trail through the jungle. Can you do it?”

Immediately and unhesitatingly, Tanker Six responded. “Roger, stand by. Is that you in the little bird?”

“Yes, I’m in the little bird with a heavy gun team over me.”

“Roger, Darkhorse. Lead on. I’ll get my guys up on our frequency, and I’ll follow you on this push.”

Tanker left the frequency momentarily as I circled low overhead. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose amidst the armored vehicles below. Tank crewmen who had been lounging around on the backs of their vehicles and ACAVs in all states of dress and undress sprang up, donned flak jackets, grabbed M-16s and helmets, and disappeared into their armored vehicles.

In just seconds, engines were fired up and the column began moving out of its night defensive position. The lead Sheridan steered right up onto Highway 13 and toward me where I was now hovering just south of their logger area.

As his column formed up on the road, Tanker came back on the FM frequency. “Darkhorse One Six, Tanker Six. What are the circumstances of the crash? Do we have enemy ground fire?”

“Negative, Tanker Six. If we had enemy ground fire, I did not hear it. Circumstances are unknown why the bird is down. Two souls on board, a pilot and a gunner.”

“Roger, Darkhorse. We’ll follow you and try to bust a trail to the site.”

I headed off south down the road with the armored column following, sending up a swirl of red dust. When I reached a point on the road that was approximately ninety degrees and adjacent to the crash site, I pulled up and hit the radio to Tanker. “I’m going to leave you here. I’ll hang east and go directly to the downed bird and hover over it. You can aim on me as you come off the road, but I’ll be back overhead to correct your steering as you bust toward the site.

“Be aware that CS is coming up from what may be a ruptured canister. There is also hot ordnance on board. The aircraft engine appears to still be running, and the bird’s tanks are full of JP-4.”

As if all that made his job any easier, Tanker Six rogered my transmission and sent his lead Sheridan off the road into the jungle.

I flew on over to the crash site, circled a few times trying to see down into the dark jungle hole, then returned to the armored column to see how they were doing. The Sheridan out front was knocking down everything in its path. Trees fell and the low vegetation was being ground to pulp under the heavy tank treads. The ACAVs followed the big M-551 toward Ameigh’s downed ship.

Every once in awhile I keyed Tanker to alter his course a few degrees one way or the other, until the column finally gained a position about forty meters out from the crash site. “OK, Tanker,” I said, “let’s stop the lead track here and put some of your people on foot so your column doesn’t overrun the aircraft. The downed bird is now about forty meters directly to your front.”

The lead tank rolled to a halt. Several soldiers jumped off the 113s and took up positions out front and to the sides of the big Sheridan. Then the column started moving slowly ahead.

It was now very, very dark. I could hardly see the armored column when it stopped again, this time about fifteen meters from Ameigh’s battered OH-6. As the rest of the soldiers poured out of the ACAVs, I moved my bird into a wider orbit around the crash site so the sound of my aircraft would not disrupt what they were trying to do on the ground.

Suddenly my FM radio crackled. “Darkhorse, Darkhorse, this is Tanker. We’re at the bird. The aircraft is still running… say again… still running. It sounds like a full-bore runaway jet engine that could explode any second. What should we do?”