Hugh Mills - Low Level Hell

As the holocaust continued, I could see Four Six’s flank and point elements finally get out of their pinned-down positions and low-crawl their way back into the crater with the rest of the ARPs.

After about forty minutes of furious battle, the base camp suddenly fell silent. Charlie was apparently at the end of his rope. The tanks stopped firing while the mechanized infantrymen ran forward to secure the area and see about the trapped ARPs.

Still circling overhead, I watched Harris’s men begin to stand up, move around, and shake the battle debris from their bodies. Though looking totally drained by the day’s experience, they could still smile and clap each other on the back, thankful that their siege was finally over. After some quick looks around at the rubble of the VC bunkers that had held them hostage most of the day, the aeroriflemen began to filter back out of the base camp and toward the LZ.

The plan was to extract the ARPs back to Phu Loi and leave the armor and mech infantry guys at the base camp to mop up. We called the slicks back in to pick up Harris’s men, in addition to asking the C and C ship—again—to retrieve Willis and Stormer from their last crash into the landing zone. This time the engine had been completely shot out of his aircraft. Miraculously, neither man had been seriously hurt in any of their shootdowns that day. But Stormer was heard to say later, “Now, no shit, you guys, I ain’t doing this no more today.”

I stayed over the base camp until everybody was loaded and well on the way back to Phu Loi. After one last look at the devastation below, I headed back to base myself.

By the time I set down the OH-6 on the pad back at Phu Loi, the sun was slipping over the western end of the field. Perkins quickly bailed out of the backseat but I just slumped in my seat and sat in the aircraft for a minute, letting my body try to relax. I had been flying since about eleven o’clock that morning. It was then 7:30 in the evening, and, after almost nine hours in the air, I had never been so bushed in my life.

The moment of calm ended abruptly, however, when Willis came running up to the ship and threw his arm around my shoulders, “Come on, ol’ aeroscout buddie, haul your weary ass out of that seat and let’s go find Four Six!”

By that time, all the scout and gun pilots were on the pad and we started walking together toward Harris’s hootch. The ARPs joined us and everybody was hugging each other, laughing and joking around. We were like a long-lost family coming together for a fifty-year reunion.

The ARPs had suffered minor casualties considering the circumstances. Three of their people had been badly hit. The severely wounded Sp4c. August F. Hamilton did not make it, and we all mourned his loss.

The troop’s scout platoon had lost four Loaches that were damaged beyond repair. Two crew chiefs were hurt: Stormer was banged up after being shot down three times, and Jim Downing had broken his hand at Phu Loi while he and Jim Bruton worked to get scout aircraft armed, fueled, and ready to fly.

A close look at the OH-6 I had flown back to base at the end of the day showed twenty-six bullet holes all over the ship. One of those rounds had gone through my FM radio apparatus. It was no wonder it wouldn’t work when I needed it to guide the armor into the VC base camp.

Some decorations were subsequently awarded to the scouts for that day’s activity. Jim Downing received the Silver Star medal for the heroic act of exposing himself to heavy enemy ground fire, while dropping the box of blood kits into the crater where the ARPs needed it. I also received a Silver Star for my participation in the aerial operation.

Rod Willis and Ken Stormer each received the Distinguished Flying Cross for being shot down three times in one day, and returning to the fight every time. Of course, I was of the strong opinion that it was Willis’s misfortune of being shot down repeatedly in the landing zone that helped save the day. The VC in the bunkers must have been so astounded, watching him get shot down three times in the same place, that it diverted their attention from the other things we were doing to relieve the beleaguered ARPs!

After that action, it took several days for the troop to get back to normal. We had wounds to lick. The ARPs needed replacements. I needed four new ships in the scout platoon. Everybody was a little skinned up and nervous.

By the end of July, however, our preoccupation with the crater incident was broken, at least for Willis, me, and gun pilots Sinor and Koranda. The Old Man called me in and said that he wanted two hunter-killer teams to go to Di An and be briefed for a “special combat mission.”

We couldn’t figure out what they wanted with two combat-ready scout-gunship teams in this rear base area. But over we went on the morning of 30 July to get our briefing from a representative of the division G-3. He told us that he wanted our two teams to work for a couple of hours right around the immediate Di An base area.

We said, almost in unison, “But, sir, there isn’t anything around here for us to work.”

The G-3 nodded his head as if he understood. “Well, I want you to work it anyway… carefully, very closely. Look for mines, foot traffic, anything that might be out of line.” He pointed to the map. “We want you to set up a screen in this immediate area just outside the base perimeter. Don’t get closer than about five hundred meters to the perimeter, and don’t get more than about a thousand out from it. Understood?”

As we rogered, he drew a tight little circle on the map around the Di An base area and dismissed us with a comment. “We’ve got VIPs coming to town, so keep a sharp eye out.”

When it was time to start patrolling, Sinor and I took the first shift. It wasn’t long before we saw a Huey off in the distance on an approach pattern into the Di An base. I listened on the radio as the Huey pilot contacted the Di An tower for landing. He was obviously expected at the base, and I wondered if these were the VIPs we were covering.

Since the ground below me was practically sterile as far as any indication of enemy activity, I watched the ship as it settled down into the middle of the base. It landed near a formation of soldiers, and a group of people got out. One soldier in the group had on army “greens.” I hadn’t seen anybody wearing a green dress uniform in the entire seven months I had been in Vietnam. I wondered who he was and where he had come from.

A brief ceremony was held, involving the formation of soldiers, then the group got back on board the Huey and it took off.

About the time the VIP bird departed, the G-3 came up on our frequency. “OK, Darkhorse, you are cleared to depart station. Your mission is completed and we appreciate your support.”

Sinor acknowledged and asked, “Say, Ops, who was that VIP anyway? What was that all about?”

There was a slight pause. “That, gentlemen, was your commander in chief, President Nixon. Thanks again, Darkhorse, you can tell your grandkids that you flew cover for the president!”

When we got back to Phu Loi, Willis and I walked into the hootch. Bob Davis was lying on his bunk reading a magazine. Knowing that One Seven and I had been out on a special mission for Major Moore, Davis perked up and asked, “Where you guys been?”

Willis said, “Nowhere… no big deal.”

“Ah, come on,” Davis pleaded, “where you been? Did you get into anything hot?”

“Naw,” Rod answered. “Very, very quiet… no big deal at all.”

Davis could tell by then that we were yanking him around a little. “OK, cut the shit, you guys. What did you do and who were you flying for?”

“The president of the United States,” I answered as nonchalantly.

Davis, by then, had had enough. “All right, you horses’ asses, quit bullshitting me and give it to me straight!”