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“Lobo One-Three, Masher Two-Zero, Masher One-Five, over.”
“Lobo One-Three, over.” Lobo was an AH-1G Cobra gunship assigned to provide cover.
“Masher Two-Zero, go ahead, Masher One-Five, over.” Masher Two-Zero was the flair ship tonight.
“Okay, here’s what we got for tonight. We’re going about twenty klicks to the east and recon a valley out there. Psyops bird thinks they had some .50-cal fire there earlier today and Sabre Six wants us to check it out. Evidently they have other indications of movement in that area. First we’ll run the ridge line and later drop into the valley and see if we get anything.”
“Masher One-Five, roger, Lobo will be at one thousand.”
“Masher Two-Zero will stay behind Lobo at fifteen hundred.” “Roger, Masher One-Five is on the go,” he said as he departed the runway at Bu Gia Map, climbing into the night sky to get to one thousand feet as they headed to their objective area to start their Night Hawk reconnaissance mission. The night was as black as the inside of a well. Cloud cover and a moonless night only added to the darkness typical of this remote portion of Vietnam. There were no towns or electricity in this part of the country. There were few roads, and those were dirt. A sundown curfew was well known by the local villagers, which weren’t many, so they knew to stay in after dark. They were well aware that with the setting sun came the night hunters in low-flying helicopters. They also knew that the NVA would be out after dark, and the villagers didn’t want to be caught between the two opposing forces. Truthfully, they just wanted to be left alone and really didn’t care who the Saigon government was controlled by. One was as corrupt as the other in most people’s minds.
Reaching the valley, Masher One-Five contacted the other two aircr
aft. “Masher One-Five is dropping to two hundred feet. Reducing airspeed to sixty knots.” Both Lobo and Masher Two-Zero came back with affirmative acknowledgments.
“Okay, guys, here we go. How’s the scope working?” the aircraft commander or AC, Mr. Cliff Jeffery, asked. Mr. Jeffery is from Seaford, New York and had attended New York Tech, but like most warrant officers, had dropped out. His sense of humor was constant.
“Sir, it’s working fine,” responded the operator, Specialist Morton. Morton actually worked in maintenance but had requested and gotten permission to fly this evening on the starlight scope. The starlight scope was usually manned by company personnel that weren’t on flight status but just wanted to get out for some fun and excitement. To each his own.
“We’ll start at the top of the ridge line surrounding the valley and slowly work our way to the bottom, flying in a clockwise racetrack pattern the whole time.” Flying in a clockwise pattern inside the valley placed the ridge-line out the left door and the valley floor on the right. One racetrack at this speed would take about thirty minutes, Mr. Jeffery calculated. As the low bird continued to fly slowly along the top of the ridge-line, the starlight scope operator scanned the jungle, hoping to catch some sign of life. On the second lap, Mr. Jeffery dropped down a couple of hundred feet on the ridge and continued his pattern. Patterns weren’t a good thing to do on this mission. If the NVA identified the pattern, they would lay an ambush for the aircraft. Ambushes were generally three heavy machine guns, previously captured US .50-caliber or Chinese Communist 12.7-millimeter. God help an aircraft if one of these weapons was a twin-barrel 23-millimeter antiaircraft gun. The weapons were placed in a triangle pattern on the ground with the hope of catching the aircraft in the middle of the triangle, where it would be very difficult for the aircraft to escape. You attempted to never fly the same route two nights in a row. So far the night had been quiet, with no indications on the starlight scope and no ground fire. As the third lap was completed, Mr. Jeffery called the other aircraft.
“Lobo, Masher, I’m getting low on fuel. How about you guys?”
“Lobo is down to four hundred pounds.”
“Masher is at three hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Okay, let’s head back and refuel and take a break. Masher One-Five is coming up to fifteen hundred and airspeed to ninety knots.” Switching to the intercom, Mr. Jeffery addressed his crew. “Okay, guys, we’re going back to refuel and then shut down for a couple of hours to get some chow and relook our options. Might give the gooks time to come out of their holes and get some work going so when we come back we’ll have something.”
“Sounds good to me,” Specialist Morton responded. He was starting to get a headache from staring through the scope at moving ground.
Mr. Jeffery contacted Sabre Six. “Sabre Six, Masher One-Five, over.”
“Masher One-Five, Sabre Six India.”
“Sabre Six, Masher One-Five is breaking for fuel. Returning to Song Be. Will let you know when we’re back in the air. Over.”
“Roger, Masher One-Five. Give us a call when you’re airborne. Sabre Six India out.”
The flight back to Song Be was quiet as the three aircraft flew through the dark night to refuel. Once refueling was completed and the aircraft repositioned and shut down, the aircraft commanders huddled over a map on the floor of Mr. Jeffery’s aircraft while the crews enjoyed a C-ration midnight snack and a quick nap.
“How do you want to fly the next trip out there?” asked Mr. Waldrep, the Lobo aircraft commander.
“This time I’m thinking of flying north to south starting at the top of the ridge on the west and just flying back and forth scanning the valley floor. We didn’t see anything flying a racetrack pattern in the sides of the valley, so I’ll just cover the ridge quickly and get to the valley floor. There are some large open areas on each side of this road that cuts through the middle,” Mr. Jeffery indicated.
“Okay, what time do you want to head back?” asked Mr. Wilkerson, the commander of the flare ship. “I’d really like to get a quick power nap in. All this night flying is taking a toll on me.”
“It’s 0130 now. Let’s crank at 0330. That puts us there at 0400. Sunrise is at 0630, so that’ll give us plenty of time to work the area. That okay?” Mr. Jeffery asked. They were all in agreement and split up, heading to their respective aircraft.
Two hours later, all three aircraft had rotor blades turning and were departing for the valley they had left earlier in the evening. As they approached the northern end, Masher One-Five began his descent to treetop level. “Flight One-Five is departing altitude. I’ll run the valley north to south.”
“One-Five, Lobo One-Three, roger.”
“One-Five, Masher Two-Zero, roger.”
As Mr. Jeffery lowered the collective and began a deceleration to sixty knots airspeed, he gave a heads-up to his crew. “Okay, guys, here we go. Let’s be on our toes.”
“Guns up, scope up,” the crew responded.
