By Mike Austin (196th Light Infantry Brigade ’71-2) & Don Dunnington (101st Airborne Division ’69-70) Copyright 1993
Author’s note: The following events are from my unpublished memoir, Talons of Fire. This recounts my first combat mission in Vietnam as a co-pilot in a Huey helicopter on a Nighthawk mission. To protect privacy, all names have been changed, except my own.
The Operations Officer and the New Guy
The operations officer, a captain, sat behind a government-issue gray desk piled high with file folders. Rust and grime marked the desk, suggesting a lack of concern for appearances in this unit. As I entered, I thought I saw a grin flicker across the captain’s face, though it could have been a grimace, given the chewed cigar clamped firmly in his mouth. Sweat stains darkened his armpits and back, adding to the overall impression of seasoned disorder.
“Be with you in a minute,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on a document buried in the stack.
He looked to be in his late twenties. A patch on his right sleeve indicated a previous tour with the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. A large gold ring on his finger signaled West Point. I used the wait to absorb the scene while he remained engrossed in the paper, rubbing his forehead as if to aid comprehension – a red mark above his brow suggested this was a frequent habit.
Finally, he set the paper down, leaned back, and removed the cigar. After contemplating the soggy end with similar intensity, he flicked it into a can on the floor. This time, his smile was unmistakable. Hazel eyes crinkled as he extended his hand. “Scott,” he introduced himself, confirming the name tag above his right pocket.
“Welcome to F Troop, Austin. Just reviewing your orders. Cobra qualified, I see… Sorry we can’t slot you into Snakes right away… But time in slicks won’t hurt. Appreciate the Snake more later. You’re on Nighthawk tonight.”
I tried to mask my disappointment, though Gretchan’s warning the day before hadn’t fully prepared me. This was a major letdown. I’d given the Army an extra year to train in the Cobra, graduating near the top of my class. I’d earned my place in a Cobra cockpit. Now, instead of commanding an attack helicopter, I was relegated to troop transport in a Huey. Taxi duty in the war zone.
“What’s a Nighthawk, sir?” I asked, hoping for a silver lining.
Captain Scott rummaged through a drawer as cluttered as his desk. Emerging with a fresh cigar, he began unwrapping it. “Low-level night recon,” he said, pausing to light up with a Zippo. “Huey, four gunners, big searchlight. We hunt for ‘dinks’ in Quang Nam province for Brigade. You’re with Lieutenant Bronsen tonight, low bird. Good man, one of our best ACs.”
Smoke enveloped Scott’s face as a man walked in, flight helmet, survival vest, and chest armor in hand. A .38 pistol hung low on his hip. He dropped the heavy chest armor onto a folding chair and approached a large map, nodding casually as he passed. Studying the map, he groomed his dark mustache with a small metal comb. This must be Bronsen, my Aircraft Commander.
Scott, emerging from the smoke, flicked ash into the butt-can. As Bronsen turned from the map, Scott introduced me: “Mister Austin, your new peter pilot.”
There it was – peter pilot. The label for every newbie. Scott didn’t say it unkindly, just factually, like stating the sky was blue. Lieutenant Bronsen turned, lines on his face suggesting he wasn’t a morning person.
“New, huh?” he mused, smiling at his reflection in my polished boots. I mentally noted to scuff them later.
“Yessir.”
“Name’s Tom.”
I relaxed, shaking hands with the first officer I’d met with a first name. Tom turned to the scheduling board, then erupted in language shocking even by Army standards.
“Judas Priest!” he yelled. “Franklin’s my chase!” Tom’s agitation grew as Scott and I watched in silence. “Punt! Getting short or what? Joker flies at four-grand! Useless if we go down!”
This was next-level cussing.
Scott let it run for a moment, then raised his hands in agreement. “I’ll talk to him.” As he lowered his hands, cigar ash fell into his coffee. “Shit,” he muttered, back to regular Army vernacular, tossing the spoiled coffee out the window.
As the coffee splattered outside, Franklin, the subject of Tom’s tirade, walked in. Short and stocky, with small, deep-set eyes and a permanent sneer, he took a swig of Coke and belched loudly. Attitude personified. Bronsen ignored him, engrossed in the wall map. Scott sifted through files, creating a smoke screen to signal the end of my briefing.
Reluctant to engage with Franklin, I joined Bronsen at the map. Nine outlined rectangles marked suspected enemy areas. New coordinates daily from Brigade. Scott briefed us on the day’s air cavalry missions. Hunter-killer teams: a scout pilot in a light observation helicopter (LOH, or “loach”) flying low, protected by circling gunships. A Huey for recovery.
The loach had taken fire from a hamlet edge, a red circle on the map. No precise location, so gunships didn’t engage. Blues platoon swept the village, finding only indignant locals denying any fire.
Scott concluded with radio codes, frequencies, call signs – artillery clearances, friendly units, tactical air strikes. Franklin, in the corner, drank Coke, feigning boredom.
Bronsen marked areas on a worn map from his flight suit leg pocket. I pulled out my new, neatly folded map, copying the boxes with a grease pencil. The crayon crumbled in the plastic overlay’s creases. Tom estimated eight hours of recon, ten or eleven with refueling and rearming.
He circled a spot on the map’s eastern edge, “Arizona Territory.” The An Hoa basin, Vu Gia and Thu Bon rivers merging into the Song Ky Lam. Box eleven, just south of a Ky Lam horseshoe bend.
“Dink jump-off point from the Que Son Mountains. Tunnels everywhere. We take fire here often. Last time, from this area,” he pointed to a railroad crossing near Xuan Dai village, Go Noi Island.
Gathering gear, Tom told me to get an M-16 from the arms room. Anticipation mixed with excitement for my first Nighthawk mission. As we left, Scott addressed Franklin, voice hardening, “Lieutenant, chase altitude, fifteen-hundred feet max…” His voice faded as I headed for the arms room.
Helmet banging against the rifle and chest armor, survival vest and ammo bandoleer in hand, I hurried to catch Tom on the flight line. Spongy asphalt radiated stored heat. Humid air, thick with tar and jet fuel, felt suffocating. Franklin’s heavy breathing behind urged me faster.
Entering the Huey’s revetment, four men prepped the UH-1H, stacking ammo boxes strategically. I dropped my gear on the left seat, wiping sweat.
The Nighthawk was impressive. Doors removed for visibility and weight reduction. A fifty-caliber machine gun behind my seat. In the transmission well, an M-60. The sixty, standard door gunner weapon on slicks.
Circling the tail, I noted the xenon searchlight in the opposite well. PFC Jansen, the light man, connected wires in the junction box. Another M-60 beside him.
Behind Tom’s seat, the main weapon: the 7.62mm minigun. Tripod-mounted, folding chair for the gunner. Red triggers above black pistol grips. Power cable snaked overhead. “Minigun” was an understatement. Four thousand rounds per minute. Six barrels glistened, freshly oiled.
“Where we going tonight, sir?” asked Specialist-5 Wadell, polishing the fifty-cal.
“Just the usual,” Tom replied, spreading his map on the cargo bay floor between searchlight and minigun. The crew huddled like a football team.
“Hey, Tate, Horseshoe again,” Wadell shouted to a short, stocky kid climbing down from the chopper roof.
“Grab more sixty ammo.” Midwestern accent, radio announcer quality. He disappeared from the revetment.
“Frags and willy-peters too!” Wadell yelled. Frags, fragmentation grenades. Willy-peter, white phosphorus, incendiary grenades. A box already brimmed with grenades.
Mostly, the crew ignored me. New peter pilot, a non-entity, regulation-mandated. Tom checked the aircraft log, “dash 13,” red slashes, pilot complaints.
“Vertical one-to-one vibration,” the first entry. Rotor blades out of track, ship jumping with each revolution. Five times a second, teeth-chattering vibration. Maintenance had “tracked” the blades, bending trim-tabs to adjust lift. Complaint signed off.
Specialist-6 Rodriguez draped his shirt over the minigun barrels, loading ammo from boxes into a plywood tray.
“How many rounds?”
“Ten thousand,” he grunted. “First time?”
“Yeah, just got here yesterday.”
“Nervous?”
“Naw,” I lied.
Preflight done, the crew gathered in the standby room for cards and naps. Double bunks, Cobra crews’ night standby quarters. James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” played on Sansui speakers. Card game on a plywood table. I sat on a bunk, reading about Vida Blue in a Sports Illustrated. Nerves churned.
Daylight faded. August 22nd, my mother’s birthday. No card, no letter. Self-absorbed, assuming she’d understand.
Stars emerged as Tom hit the start-trigger. Turbine roared, resonant wind pulsed. Burned jet fuel smell, an intoxicating drug. A year’s training, two months leave and transit, finally strapped into a pilot’s seat in Vietnam. Combat mission, at last.
The Huey lifted heavily, overloaded. Crew of six, full fuel, weapons, ammo. Barely hovering.
“Tail’s coming back and left,” Tom said, backing out between revetment walls.
“Clear back and left,” Wadell confirmed.
Gray revetments flashed in the anti-collision light as we taxied.
“Marble Tower, Blue Ghost Four-Four, flight of two ready to bounce.”
“Roger Four-Four, cleared south departure, right break. Winds one-five-zero at six. Altimeter two-niner-eight-seven. Good hunting.” Tom clicked the mike.
The heavy ship moved, shuddered, bounced off the runway, gaining airspeed. “Bounce” takeoff in Vietnam.
Climbing over the Marble Mountains south of the airfield. Cool wind felt good. Two thousand feet, southwesterly heading.
Coastal lowlands below, tranquil beauty. Ragged mountain peaks silhouetted at dusk. Rice paddies, hamlets – no hint of the war below. Deceptively innocent. Centuries of warfare in Vietnam. Why here? Why still? How did I join this conflict?
“Follow the map,” Tom said. I unfolded it, rotating it to match our heading.
“Five miles northeast of Hill Five-Five.” Fire support base lights visible. I found the terrain markings near the La Tho river. Tom tuned the ADF to AFVN, Armed Forces Vietnam Network. “Love the One You’re With” played softly in my headphones as dusk turned to night.
Circling Firebase Five-Five, named for its 55-meter elevation. Tom told Franklin to radio for artillery clearance into the next box. Shirtless soldiers behind a 105mm howitzer waved in the spotlight. Jansen swung the light, briefly catching others like deer in headlights. Tom climbed, turning south towards the Horseshoe.
Approaching at a thousand feet, Bronsen confirmed chase ship visual, then extinguished external lights. “Four-Nine, coming up on the area. Visual?”
“Roger.”
“Going blacked out. Don’t get a nose bleed up there.”
I grinned at the sarcasm. Franklin’s lights receded above as Tom descended into darkness. Song Ky Lam river passed below, entering box eleven.
“Panel lights down, barely readable.”
I dimmed the cockpit lights. Altimeter nearing three hundred feet, he slowed to fifty knots. Slow airspeed, even for a helicopter. I’d asked him about it earlier.
“Max maneuverability circling the light at this altitude. Dinks expect ninety knots. Fire goes in front, leading us too far.” Tate theorized only poorly trained VC hit Hueys.
“Light on,” Tom commanded. Xenon torch blazed, illuminating a dry creek bed, tall elephant grass.
“Right. Up. Right some more.”
Jansen guided the beam. Footprints on a sandbar. Black spot, old cooking fire.
“Light out.”
Huey leveled, accelerated, banked right.
“Light on.”
Elephant grass waved in the light. Nothing. Thirty seconds, “Light off,” turning randomly before resuming search. Randomness to prevent prediction.
My map showed hamlets: Phu Dong, Le Bac, Cu Ban. Only scattered hooches seen. Orientation needed.
“Marines cleared this area. Rome-plowed south of river, east of us, years ago.” 1965 date on the map. Six years of change.
Low, slow, illuminated. Nighthawk, inherently dangerous. Obvious target. Even side-armor pushed back, useless, blocking Tom’s light view. Gunners exposed, defying the threat below. I marveled at these men roaming the night sky.
Night blindness after each light-off bothered me. Blind for critical seconds, relying on instruments. Disorienting circling, then blackness, lingering bright spots in vision. Tom leveled perfectly each time, seat-of-the-pants flying, seasoned pilot control.
Eyes adjusted, I spotted a campfire a mile south. Important? Maybe. Worth mentioning.
“Campfire at nine-thirty.” Clock position direction. Tom banked left, accelerated to a hundred knots, erratic course towards the fire, dropping to two hundred feet.
Passing directly over, Tom banked, “Light on.” Xenon beam danced on yellow flames. Eyes searched for movement. Surprising to see anyone. Huey’s noisy approach, ample warning. Abandoned cooking fire.
Two explosions rocked the ship. Red, green, white streaks lit the sky. Sharp snap of bullets tearing through fuselage. I cringed.
“Takin’ fire. Takin’ hits.”
Tom’s warning to chase distant. World slowed, vision narrowed. Spectator, ringside seat to war, not involved.
Crew reacted instantly. Jansen off light. Tom leveled for gunners’ advantage. Carlos squeezed minigun triggers, sixty-seven rounds per second towards muzzle flashes on the right. Three positions overwhelmed. Wadell’s fifty-cal roared, shaking my seat. Tate’s sixty joined in, tracers mingling, showering the area.
I watched, wide-eyed, too new to react. Stared at gauges. More tracers from the left. Gunners kept firing. Chopper’s speed arced bullets steeply down. They aimed high, slightly behind.
Snapping out of trance, I grabbed the M-16, strained against harness, weapon out the door. Full auto, fired at a flash visible below, too far forward for crew. Thirty-round mags, solid tracers. Snaking path arced towards rifle blasts – pure luck. Fire stopped.
Clack-clack-clack.
AK-47 opened up on the left. Wadell’s fifty-cal inundated the lone VC. Tom steepened right bank. Carlos engaged two more guns below with the mini, walking the red line over them. More fire from the front, another bullet hit.
New mag, I spotted the position as a white tracer streamed past windshield, through rotor blades. Vibration tickled the airframe. I fired again, thirty rounds in one burst. Tate poured more lead on the target with the sixty.
“Take it! Take it!”
Tom’s shout startled me. Ship heaved, yawed, pitched nose-down, almost uncontrolled. God, he’s hit, I thought. Mind wobbled with the aircraft. Seconds to ground. Safety on M-16, dropped weapon. Hands and feet on controls.
“Got it!”
Crew still suppressing ground fire as I recovered from the dive, turning towards base, thirty miles away, full power. Climbing, I switched on position and beacon lights, searching for Franklin above.
“Four-Four’s coming up. We’ve got a problem.”
Tom flailed, straining at his harness, grabbing his crotch. Oh, Christ, anywhere but there, I thought. 95th Evac hospital, Da Nang, needed notification of injured pilot.
“Hospital needed. Alpha-charlie hit.”
“Roger, follow me. Notifying Evac. How bad?”
“Standby.”
No blood on his flight suit or seat. Squirming, but looked healthy. He grabbed the controls. Delirious. Unfit to fly. I resisted, Huey jerked. Tom keyed the mike, first time since shooting started, “You dadgummed, stinkin’ Joker, watch what the heck you’re doing! Now, give me the controls!”
Shocked, I released my grip, stared. Empty shell casings from my M-16 scattered in front of his seat.
In my zeal to return fire, I’d ejected a full mag of hot brass directly into his lap. Thin Nomex flight suits. No underwear, common in Nam heat, to avoid jock itch. By the time he noticed, casings were blistering his balls and thighs.
Gauges, no warning lights, ship okay. Transmission, engine oil temps and pressures “in the green.” Nine hundred pounds of fuel, no major leak. Horizontal vibration from rotor blade bullet hole, barely noticeable.
Tom abruptly turned back towards the fire area, radioing Franklin, “O.K., not wounded, resuming recon.” No explanation.
“A little too exciting for the newbie?”
I bristled, grabbed the M-16 from Carlos, slammed in a new mag. “I’ll turn it around next time,” I told Tom.
“You’d better, Mister!”
Great. Formal again. Crew chuckled behind me.
Light revealed flattened VC positions around the fire. Drag marks in grass, casualties pulled towards hideout, bunker or tunnel complex, in the short time we were gone. Tom wary of descending closer after our welcome.
“Carlos, fire inside that brush,” recon-by-fire tactic. Mini roared for seconds. Nothing moved, save splintering branches. Enemy vanished. Legendary masters at disappearing after firefights. Seeing was believing.
Uneventful half-hour, area cold. Time for Marble Mountain, refueling, damage inspection. Before leaving, Tom radioed for unobserved artillery fire. “Red Legs,” artillery, happy to break monotony. First rounds impacted moments after we cleared target. Flashes reflected in the Huey’s chin-bubble. Seconds later, sounds reached us.
Crump. Crump-crump.
We set course for southernmost coast lights. Wadell watched the show. “That’ll keep the bastards awake.”
“Damn dinks really had it in for us.” Wind in Tate’s mike. “Even better than last time!”
Better? Relative term, I thought.
“Yeah. Good shootin’ guys,” Tom’s only response. Excluded, but happy he was alive, manhood intact. He kept switching hands on the cyclic, rubbing his legs, then gave me control.
“Marble Tower, Blue Ghost Four-Four, five west for landing.”
Crew reported weapons clear. Landing clearance received, I lowered collective, semi-circled towards runway center.
“Coming in too hot,” Tom cautioned.
I pulled power, raised the nose, checked descent rate. Night approaches took practice. Night landing memory from flight school surfaced.
Dark, cloudy Alabama night. Students paired up, B-model Hueys, short cross-country. FM direction finder, radio signal from a woods clearing. Landing zone lit by jeep headlights.
Instructor in LZ, hand-held radio, talking aircraft down, go-arounds if unsafe. Common error, shallow approach angle, too low.
I focused on lights, established approach. Descent rate too fast. Controller frantic call to abort. Too late. Controller’s long-barreled flashlight swung wildly as he ran. Trees rushed up. I flared hard, pulled max pitch. Alarm sounded, rotor rpm bleeding off. Ship shook, crash imminent.
Chopper bounced hard off ground, back to perfect three-foot hover. Limit pushed, survived. Better, luckier pilot now.
Returning to airfield that night, I flew over a lone fire. Crash site of two students, less lucky. En route to LZ. No visual reference, ignored altimeter, flew Huey into black earth. Accident report: “controlled descent into terrain.”
Poor bastards. Didn’t even finish flight school.
“Blue Ghost Four-Four, cleared taxi to Ghost Town.” Tower used company nicknames for parking areas. I pedal-turned Huey, followed blue taxi lights to flight line. Parked in revetment, we inspected damage by flashlight. Hole through tailboom, barely missed tail rotor drive shaft and control cables.
“Looks like you lost your cherry, Austin,” Tom said, pointing at a hole near a main rotor blade tip. Flight crew virgin until aircraft hit by enemy fire.
“Hey, check this,” Wadell said, beside my door, light on the skid. Two small holes through skid toe, right where I sat.
“Damn, that was close!” I exclaimed.
Wadell grinned, glanced at crew. “Look closer, sir. Entered from the top.”
Tom looked at holes, then back at me, disgusted. Burned him with hot brass, shot his aircraft too. Inauspicious start.
Still, lucky. Minimal damage, no injuries. Except Tom. Next hour, we transferred light, weapons, ammo to another chopper. Changeover done, midnight chow before resuming recon. Commandeering company’s three-quarter ton truck, sleepy driver, we rode in the back to the mess hall. Refreshing ocean breeze cooled my shame.
“Where you from,” I asked Carlos.
“San Antonio.”
“Never been, nice place, I hear. How long in-country?”
“Seven months this tour. Last one, Nighthawk ship, Chu Lai.”
Impressed. Minigun instincts, nineteen months on low birds.
“How ’bout you, Wadell?”
“Mississippi. Crop duster before Uncle Sam.”
“Pilot, huh? Flight school?”
“Nothin’ personal, sir, but I don’t like choppers, don’t wanna’ spend another fuckin’ day in this man’s army than I have to.”
Point taken.
Tate, Chicago area, motorcycles, Harley dream. Jansen, family tradition, six-year enlistment. Tom silent. Smoothing things over, my job. His silence unnerved me.
Jansen, Tennessee hills, family service tradition. Great-great-grandfather, Civil War. Father, WWII. Uncle, Korea. Crew teased him, “76,” his discharge year. He ignored them.
Tom still silent. My turn to smooth things. His silence grating.
“So, where’s home?” I asked.
“Kansas.”
“No way. Me too.”
Relief. Small farming community near my hometown. Farm talk, distraction from burning brass. Tractors, boring, dirty job. Wheat drilling, milo planting, cultivating, harvesting. Conversation quieted. Strange, two men, farm talk, after getting shot at hours ago.
Truck lurched to a stop. Bug-filled mess hall door. Unsavory smell. Fluorescent lights. Nearly empty. Hour, or digestion-conscious people staying away? Food must have fled too, escaped serving trays. Cooks clearing counters, breakfast prep in four hours. Leftovers: mashed potatoes, day-old chicken wings, backs swimming in grease. Tate loaded his plate, I followed. Grease drippings, poor gravy.
Mess hall unbearable heat. Pretending to eat useless. No one noticed as I scraped my tray into the trash. Outside, cigarette before moving from security lights. Dark beach, slowed pace, shirt tail out. Cool night air, sweat-drenched flight suit. Tom walked like a saddle-sore cowboy towards the truck. I turned back to meet him.
“Hey, sorry as hell about the brass.” Sincerity attempted, though fright fading, it was becoming funny. “Sorry about shooting the skid too.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What the hell happened out there? Explosions?”
“RPGs. Gotta’ watch for them, flying this low.”
Rocket-propelled grenades, tank destroyers, chopper-killing power, well within their three-hundred yard range tonight. “VC set up a circle, couple hundred yards across, fire in the middle. We check it, they pop RPGs first, finish us with automatic weapons. ‘Christmas Tree Ambush.’ Tracers up towards our light, top ornament of the ‘tree.'”
The whole thing, under three minutes. Tom, been through one before, “Dodge City,” north of tonight’s ambush. Heard of 101st Airborne Nighthawk, and Americal ship out of Chu Lai, same thing. Tom climbed into the truck bed, stretched out. Still pumped, I walked back towards the beach, nervous energy.
First enemy contact sunk in. Nothing like expected. VC lured us into killing zone, initiated the fight, more balls than I’d given them credit for. Ocean sounds, explosions echoing, gunners’ shouts, gunfire. Fascinating, not frightening. Tour just starting, year in Vietnam seemed impossible. Youthful immortality returned. I knew what I wanted. No Snakes, this was next best. I walked back to the truck.
“Hey, Tom, if possible, I’d like to stay on the mission until a slot opens in the gun platoon.”
He lifted his ball cap, surprised. “Suit yourself, Austin. Lord knows I could use the help. Slick drivers don’t want permanent Nighthawk duty. I’ll talk to Green tomorrow.”
Decision made, contentment settled in. Climbing aboard the truck with the crew, ride back to the flight line, I knew I’d found my niche in Vietnam.
