War Story 13 No Day at the Beach
The sound was so familiar. It was the unmistakable “whop, whop, whop” of the rotors. It still sends a chill down my spine. Every combat Vietnam Veteran reveres that sound, especially when they were coming to take you out of harm’s way.
On this day in the late 1980s, I was driving back from New York on the Massachusetts Turnpike. I stopped for gas just west of Springfield when I became transfixed on the old Huey helicopter flying right over my head. Huey’s make a sound one never forgets, especially after making over two dozen assaults into enemy territory in Vietnam’s I Corps.
Daydreaming as I drove, I went back in time when I was a Lieutenant. It was the blistering summer of 1970 when I inspected each platoon member's equipment and weapons. Our “rucksacks” weighed over 60 lbs, plus ammo, weapons, and more. We had just finished a rare couple of days at our home base to resupply, get clean fatigues, and showers.
We arrived early at daybreak to position for loading on the Hueys, which were coming to take us to our designated landing zone or LZ. At the southern end of the so-called “Sands,” just south of DaNang, we were told the enemy was dug in and prepared for a tough fight. It was possible it would be a “hot” LZ meaning enemy fire would greet us.
The sight and sound are fantastic to see over a dozen of the choppers coming in a neat formation to land and pick up us “grunts.” With deafening noise, they swooped down, and in seconds we jumped on and took off with their nose tilted down while lifting upward. They did not linger as that might invite a rocket attack.
Flying north from the massive military base at Chu Lai, we flew along the coast, looking out over the South China Sea. We would land on unfamiliar ground to chase the North Vietnamese soldiers and Viet Cong guerrillas.
We were joined by Cobra gunships that flew alongside our flanks. As we neared the LZ, we watched as we leaned out the doorways with our feet on the helicopter runners as the Cobra’s opened up with machine gun fire, strafing the ground ahead of us. Soon we would learn if we would be taking fire and whether death awaited some of us.
It was a time of extremes in almost everything we did.
The Huey’s strained as if the pilots slammed the brakes to drop down quickly, rearing upward as it lowered to the ground and the blades cutting the air with loud “whopping noises.” We leaped from the flying cages with fear and purpose as soon as we could jump. Everyone knew we were easy targets. We relied on surprise, but time was working against us. Seconds/minutes counted. This time we beat them to the punch.
Quickly we formed our marching positions and moved about 100 yards before the first enemy bullets started to dart around us in the white sand. We dropped down to get cover, but there was none. This landscape was unlike the rice paddies and mountain jungles of the Ho Chi Minh Trail we had fought in for many months.
Troop movement was tough, with our boots digging deep into the sand on every step. This was a large peninsula comprised of sparse tropical vegetation on flat, bleach-white sand that stretched for miles. To the east was the South China Sea and beautiful beaches. To the west, rivers, and bays cut us off from the mainland.
Our jungle fatigues were soaked in sweat with the heat and reflection of the sun off the sands. It was like an oven, but I was happy not to worry about leeches and bugs until I realized the Sands were loaded with sand fleas.
The enemy fire was sporadic and not very accurate. As we were so close, it became perilous. Even with sunglasses, the blinding sunlight made it difficult to see where the gunfire was coming from. We simply could not see them shooting at us, so returning fire was a waste of ammo. The enemy could easily see us in our green jungle fatigues against the white sand and blue sky.
We continued forward, returning fire whenever we knew where the enemy was. Too often, we got pinned down and lost time as we crawled forward. Finally, our Battalion called for help.
My platoon was the lead platoon, and soon I looked up, and there was this one little helicopter called a Loach or light observation helicopter (officially, an OH-6). It was primarily a two-seater flown by some of the bravest pilots I would “never meet.” This particular pilot would fly alone and very low, sometimes no more than a hundred feet off the ground, looking for the enemy and hoping to draw fire. He leaned out the doorless chopper as if to taunt them.
Soon, all hell broke loose, with fire coming from many positions. The Loach was hit and crash-landed just behind us. We discovered why the enemy was incredibly hard to see. They would cover their foxhole in the white sand with the parachutes taken from our artillery flares that were used to light up the night sky. Our white parachutes were then used to camouflage the enemy in defilade, enabling them to ambush us. When they exposed themselves to shoot down the helicopter, we shot at point-blank range from sand hole to sand hole. Eventually, their sand holes became their gravesites.
A half-hour later, another Loach replaced the one shot down, so the cat-and-mouse game continued. Again, the Loach drew fire, and we attacked, going forward from one hole to another. The action continued until this Loach was also hit and crash-landed.
We rescued the pilot, who quickly ran to a Huey that came to pick him up. He simply waved and ran. As if on cue, another Loach came, and so it went. We lost three helicopters that day.
Later I would confirm they were all flown by the same pilot! I never did get his name. My goodness, I thought, that is courage beyond comprehension. Other Hueys came to pick up each of the downed choppers to be returned for repairs. They would be needed for another mission on another day.
As I looked up from the steering wheel, I noticed the sign on the Mass Pike at the RT 495 Exit for “Cape Cod.” I was headed to the Cape for the weekend to spend time at the beaches with my family.
I smiled. This time my trip to the beaches would be very different.
Thinking back, for sure, I survived the sands of time.