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Mr. Rob Poggi had made aircraft commander a month or two before leaving Lai Khe. He was short in stature and solidly built. Other pilots would offer him a booster chair when he climbed into the cockpit, adjusting his seat all the way forward and all the wa
y up so he could see over the instrument console. He was from Queens, New York and wanted to be an architect when he returned home. He checked the crew assignments on the board and told his copilot that he would meet him at the aircraft. His copilot today was a new lieutenant who had graduated from West Point and attended flight school right after the Officers’ Basic Course. Second Lieutenant Frederick B. Hodges, commonly called Ben, was a Florida native with a permanent tan. With his dark hair and clear blue eyes, he could be the poster child for a recruiter. Rob had been fighting with gastric distress for the past couple of days, which frequently happened to everyone due to the malaria pills they were required to take. He thought it best to stop off at the latrine before going to the aircraft. Once before, he hadn’t, and he’d had to return to the hooches to change his flight suit and take a quick whore’s bath. He didn’t want that happening again.
Arriving back at the aircraft, Rob saw that Ben had completed the preflight and was sitting in the right seat.
Looking over at Rob as he climbed into his seat, Hodges asked, “You okay? Look a bit piqued.”
“Yeah, I’m okay now. Damn shits from the malaria pills,” Rob mumbled. “Let’s crank it up.”
Ben was fairly new in-country, having joined the unit once it had reached Camp Holloway. He’d had an orientation flight, but this was his first real combat assault. After five months of flying in Vietnam, Rob had lost count of how many combat assaults he had flown. Looking over, Rob realized that Hodges looked very much like he had on his first mission as he was wearing his flak jacket as well as his chicken plate. Rob had worn his flak jactet, but since no one else did back then, he’d never worn it again. Everyone wore a chicken plate, but the flak jackets were usually relegated to being used as pillows. He said nothing about it to Hodges. To each his own.
“Flight, this is Yellow One. Give me an up,” came the call, and each chalk responded in sequence that they were ready to go.
“Flight, we will depart to the south and take up a staggered right formation. Yellow One is on the go.”
With that, the flight leader took off, with each chalk following as they climbed out from the airstrip at Camp Holloway. By standard operation procedures, Chalk Two had already obtained artillery clearance from Camp Holloway to Dak To. As Rob came up on the formation, flying in the Chalk Twelve position, he notified Flight Lead that the flight was up. He’d asked for this position so that the new copilot could get a better view of what all was happening in a formation and how to fly formations. If Hodges got too far back from Chalk Eleven and then had to accelerate to catch up, there would be no accordion effect for the rest of the formation, and Rob wouldn’t have to listen to everyone bitch about his copilot while he was instructing him on the finer points of combat flying.
After an uneventful flight, at least for everyone but Ben, the flight commenced an approach to the airstrip at Dak To, where ARVN troops could be seen standing in chalk order. As Rob approached his designated group to pick up, he took the controls from Ben.
“I got the aircraft.”
“You have the aircraft,” Ben responded.
“Clear right, Mr. Poggi,” said Specialist Franson, sitting in the crew chief’s position.
“Clear left, sir,” PFC Cramer, a recent addition to the unit from the infantry, indicated.
As the aircraft touched down, the nine ARVN soldiers reluctantly moved to the aircraft. With US soldiers, the load plan was six or seven soldiers, but the ARVN soldiers were much smaller and carried less equipment, so the aircraft could carry more of them. Weight was the critical factor in the UH-1H, or any helicopter for that matter. As they loaded the aircraft, rising dirt, smoke and devastation could be seen in the distance as the B-52 bomb strike went in.
“Flight, this is Lead. The bomb strike is about ten minutes late, but that shouldn’t affect us. Might even help. We’re at H minus twenty now. Chalk twelve, give me an up when everyone’s loaded.”
Scanning the other aircraft to see if they were loaded, Rob answered, “Roger, One. We’re all up at this time.”
“Roger, Yellow One is on the go.” And with that, Flight Lead lifted off with each aircraft departing in turn. Rob went into instructor mode, guiding Ben through how to take off without getting caught in the rotor wash of the aircraft in front of him and without over torquing the engine.
“Yellow One, Chalk Twelve, flight is up,” Rob announced as he slid into a tight formation with Chalk Eleven. He turned to Ben. “Okay, you have the aircraft. Maintain your position on Chalk Eleven there.”
“I have the aircraft.” Ben concentrated on maintaining one-rotor-blade separation at a forty-five-degree angle slightly above Chalk Eleven. It took all his concentration. Rob knew in a short time it would be second nature for Ben.
“Flight, H minus six,” Flight Lead announced.
In the distance, bursts of dirt and smoke could be seen rising up on what was left of the LZ after the B-52 strike. The ARVN command was determined to take back the firebase, and this was the first attempt. Chicken-man aircraft were determined to get them in there if for no other reason than to retrieve Reid’s body. The flight continued towards the artillery barrage.
At H minus two, the artillery shifted its fires, and the twelve Cobra gunships rolled into their dives, strafing and rocketing the perimeter of the landing zone. All appeared to be going well when Yellow One, Flight Lead, called, “Yellow One taking fire,” followed by Chalk Two making the same announcement.
Suddenly, Yellow One was increasing airspeed and climbing. “Flight, abort, abort. Return to Dak To.” Each aircraft maintained formation and followed their leader. As the flight continued on, Major Adams, flying the command-and-control aircraft, came up on the company UHF radio. He did not sound happy.
“Yellow One, Chicken-man Six, over.”
“Chicken-man Six, Yellow One.”
“Yellow One, what’s the problem? Why abort?”
“Chicken-man Six, we were still a minute out and taking heavy fire. My aircraft is hit, losing hydraulics and fluctuating engine rpm. It made no sense to continue into that LZ. We would have lost every aircraft, probably. I’m—shit! Mayday, Yellow One is going down!” The flight watched as Yellow One autorotated out of the formation and found the one open space along the flight path, in the middle of Highway 17 leading to Dak To.
“Flight, this is Chicken-man Six. I’ll take lead. Yellow Two, turn the flight around and join up on me. We’re going back into the LZ. Artillery is shifting back to engage. Yellow Twelve, once you drop your load, break off and retrieve Yellow One.”
“Roger, Chicken-man Six,” Rob said.
