Blackhawks Stories

From Revival To Survival
Jerry M. Free

My memories of the time I spent in Vietnam are reflections of long ago. But sometimes, it seems like only yesterday. Memories of days past give pause to daily flashbacks of what might have been.
Vietnam in many respects was a beautiful country as seen from the air we flew from our home base at Vinh Long to our area of operation each day. Lush and green as far as the eye could see. It was easy to get lost in the solitude of the moment considering how peaceful and cool it was up in the air. Yet just a few thousand feet below lurked death and destruction. I found solace in the words of the poem, "High Flight" by John Gillespie McGee Junior as he penned; "Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds, and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of-” Just a few moments to be lost in thought away from the war.
January 4, 1969 dawned the same as many other countless mornings. Awake before daylight ready to face another day not knowing what might be in store for any of us.
We went to the mess hall for a quick breakfast and then went down to the flight line in the dark. After making sure all personnel were present and accounted for, we checked our equipment and did our preflight inspections of the aircraft. At the designated time we started our engines, did our radio checks, and announce, “flight up, everyone ready for takeoff.” 
We departed Vinh Long at O dark thirty and climbed to cruise altitude. We proceeded south into the heart of the Mekong Delta. The area was mostly flat, consisting of scattered rice paddies bordered by thick jungle that followed winding drainage canals. The trees were only about fifty feet tall. Hidden among the dense undergrowth of the trees were small villages scattered throughout the area. There were few roads and the only forms of transportation were by foot, small boats or aircraft. January is the dry season in Vietnam and the area we were working was a hotbed for the Viet Cong.
The flight was not very long. After landing at a South Vietnamese airfield called Vi Thanh, we refueled and waited for the flight leader to be briefed on our mission for the day. At approximately 7:30 a.m., we took off for the first mission to scout an area southwest of the airfield. 
Our “Hunter Killer” teams consisted of two 0H-6A Scout helicopters called Loaches, two AH-1G Cobra gunships, and one UH-H model Huey Control and Command (C&C) helicopter. The Huey was flown by Major David Thompson. His crew chief was Mike Thompson. I can’t remember who his co-pilot or gunner was.
 I flew the lead Scout Loach and my observer was Sp-4 Gary David Falk. Warrant Officer James Hilton flew my wing and James L. French was his observer. Dick Fedorowicz and Joe Klesen flew one Cobra and Capt. Ed Hinderks flew the other one. I can’t remember who Ed’s co-pilot was.
The beginning of the mission went fairly smooth and we located very little activity. As I scouted a small stream surrounded by thick trees and banana palms, I came upon a village consisting of approximately twelve to fifteen thatched huts. The village had a sewage canal dug around the outside with a small clearing in the center. I didn’t see anyone in the village.
At first, everything appeared normal, except for the absence of people. Then I saw enemy bunkers and firing positions hidden among the trees. I reported my sightings to Maj. Thompson in the C&C ship. Then I saw several individuals running through the undergrowth toward the bunkers. They were dressed in black VC pajamas and carrying weapons.
I quickly flew away from the village. The Cobra gunships rolled in firing rockets and mini guns at the bunkers. When they finished their gun run, we came back in to do a damage report. As I came around the edge of the village at tree-top level and slow speed, all hell broke loose. I received heavy automatic weapons fire as rounds penetrated my Loach. I radioed, "Taking fire, taking fire."
Jim Hilton was right behind me and later told me that the engine cowlings blew open and the engine was blown right out of my helicopter. He believes an RPG hit me. I didn’t have much time to react as we nosedived into the trees. The last thing I remember was tree-limbs flashing by as we crashed to the ground. I was knocked unconscious on impact. 
While I was unconscious, James Hilton tried to rescue me. As soon as he arrived at my downed helicopter, a VC jumped up with an AK-47 and opened fire on him. James was shot through both legs and his finger was shot off. A round penetrated his helmet, nicking the side of his face and shattering his face shield. The round sprayed blood and plexiglass in his eyes temporarily blinding him. 
Hilton would have crashed too if it hadn’t been for his observer, James French. “Frenchy,” as we called him, hadn’t been in the Scouts long enough to fly the helicopter by himself. He directed Hilton toward a large field and literally talked him to the ground with a perfect landing.
As soon as Hilton’s Loach was clear of the area, Richard Fedorowicz and Joe Klesen came in and hovered above me in their Cobra. They fired rockets and mini-guns into the tree line where I had taken fire.
I don't know how long I was unconscious. When I came to, my neck and face on the left side were burning. I believe the heat from the flames is what probably woke me up. Everything was hazy at first, as if I were in a twilight zone. The helicopter was burning and filled with smoke. My helmet and the glove from my left hand were missing. The cockpit was completely smashed. 
I looked over at my observer, Gary Falk. He had been killed on impact. Gary was a good man, a good soldier and totally fearless. At twenty-one years of age, he had three sisters, and a younger brother. My heart filled with grief.
For some strange reason that is still a mystery, I couldn’t move. I felt at peace and resigned myself to die. My first thoughts were, You're not going to get out of this mess. You've lived a good life but this is the end for you. 
I’ve heard it said that when a person is facing certain death, their entire life flashes before their eyes, but that was not the case for me. After a few seconds of contemplating my fate, I heard a voice speak to me as clear as a bell. “You have a son you haven't yet seen. Get out of there, get out of there.”  Upon hearing that voice I regained my senses and somehow scrambled out of the wreckage. By then, I was badly burned and had lacerations on my leg from the crash. 
I made it out of the helicopter and stumbled toward a drainage canal a short distance away. I waded through chest deep water and scrambled up the other side trying to make it to a rice paddy. It was tough going with a wounded leg and the heavy chest protector still strapped on. Luckily the rice paddy was dry. As I ran, I heard gunfire behind me. A round tore through my right forearm. It felt like I was struck with a baseball bat as I went down. I was totally exhausted from the ordeal but continued crawling out into the rice patty.
Dick Fedorowicz and Joe Klesen saw me running from the wreckage and someone chasing me. At first they thought it was my observer, Gary Falk. When they got a better view, they realized it was a VC shooting at me with an AK-47. They rolled in and killed him. Hilton later told me that he was sure that it was the same VC who had shot him.
 While the first Cobra put down protective fire, the other Cobra gunship flown by Capt. Hinderks landed in the rice paddy next to me. His front seat pilot climbed out and opened the ammo bay door on the side of the helicopter. This door is about four feet long and eighteen inches wide. It was supported by cables at both ends. The co-pilot helped me up onto the door, then climbed on beside me. I don't remember who was holding me on to that Cobra, but I will be forever indebted to him and Capt. Hinderks for saving my life.
We both hung on for dear life while Capt. Hinderks flew us to another area a short distance away were we landed. I was transferred to the C&C helicopter and Maj. Thompson flew me to the hospital at Can Tho. Capt. Hinderk’s Cobra escorted us to the hospital.  
After arriving at the hospital, I was rushed in for treatment. I remember the doctor asking me if I was allergic to anything. My face felt like it was on fire. My arm and leg was also hurting. The pain was almost unbearable. 
The next thing I remembered was waking up. The doctor had told me that needed to go to surgery right away. I reached over and felt my arm and realized that I had already been to surgery. I was taken to the ward where I went into shock. I started shivering. I kept telling the nurses, "I'm cold, I'm so cold." I couldn’t stop shivering. This wasn’t normal because it was always hot in Vietnam plus the hospital wasn’t air-conditioned. The nurses brought me some blankets, and after a while I was all right. 
When Maj. Thompson and Hinderks left the area, Dick Fedorowicz couldn’t find James Hilton’s helicopter. Fedorowicz couldn’t make radio contact with Maj. Thompson or Hinderks to determine where the other Loach had gone. The talk channel on the C&C ship had been shut off or switched to another channel. Fedorowicz and Klesen searched the area and located Hilton’s Loach sitting in a rice paddy about a thousand meters from the village with the rotors blades still spinning. Frenchy had dragged Hilton free of the aircraft. Dick Fedorowicz landed his Cobra next to the Loach. Joe Klesen got out of the front seat and helped Hilton onto their ammo bay door. Frenchy got in the front seat of the Cobra. Joe sat beside Hilton to help hold him on to the helicopter. 
As they took off, Klesen’s mouthpiece was blown off his helmet by the downdraft. He held on by bracing his feet on the skids while holding on to the cables and ammo box to keep Hilton and himself from falling off. Hilton held on to one cable with his good hand and grabbed the back of Klesen’s collar with his injured hand.
 There were no other Huey helicopters in the area to transport Hilton to the hospital. Fedorowicz flew the helicopter at an angle to keep his passengers from falling off while he transported them to the hospital at Can Tho. His low fuel light was on most of the way. He landed on fumes and had to be re-fueled before they could take off again. 
When the medics put Hilton on a stretcher, they attempted to put Joe Klesen on another one believing he was also wounded. He was covered in Hilton’s blood and so cramped from holding on that he couldn’t move. 
Klesen finally convinced the medics and nurses that he wasn’t injured. He and Fedorowicz followed Hilton into the hospital where they saw me lying on a table talking to the doctor. They heard the doctor ask me if I was allergic to anything and my reply, “Yes, pain!” I didn’t know they were there, but they knew I would make it after hearing me talking to the doctor.
 I spent a week in the hospital in Vietnam being treated for the gunshot wound in my arm, second and third degree burns to the left side of my forehead, and deep lacerations to my left thigh. Because of the concussion, I went temporarily blind but my eyesight came back after a couple of days. 
After a week in the hospital in Vietnam, I was evacuated to Japan where I spent a week. They did a closed reduction on my right arm and treated my burns. I was then returned stateside via Andrews Air Force Base and completed my recovery at Fort Jackson. While at Fort Jackson, I underwent more surgeries to set the bones and to have a metal plate put in my right arm. 
I petitioned to remain on active duty and my request was granted. After spending several months at Fort Jackson, I was transferred to Fort Knox. During my career, I served at several other bases, including two years in Korea, before retiring from the Army in 1978.
I will always be grateful to the brave men with whom I served with in Vietnam, especially those who saved my life. The Blackhawks will forever be my brothers and I love seeing them at the reunions.

Confession of a Soldier
Elvis Bray

Confession Of A Soldier
Elvis Bray
Based on a true story.

Abraham Lincoln gazed down from his marble monument at the old couple walking silently past without speaking. A misty fog hovered just above the Reflecting Pool. The morning crowd hadn't arrived yet and they were the first visitors.
They paused for a moment at the Korean Memorial. Through the mist, the gray ash soldiers frozen in time, looked lifelike. The old man's wife thought perhaps her husband might change his mind this time and wouldn't continue. But he moved on and she followed. The old man paused again when The Vietnam Wall came into view. Reluctantly, he approached the black granite with a heavy heart. His wife stood at a respectful distance. This was to be a private meeting.
The old man removed his Blackhawk cap and held it close to his chest. He reached out to touch the wall, but couldn't. His hand hovered an inch away by some unknown force like two opposing magnets pushing each other away. He wasn't surprised. It's always been this way. He knelt down, bowed his head and said a silent prayer. After he stood up, his wife stepped forward to escort him home. This time the old man didn't turn away. Putting his cap back on, he raised his head to the heavens with tears in his eyes, and began speaking:
"You remember me. I'm Sam. I've been here before on several occasions. I hope you can hear me. I'm sorry I don't know your name but it's written somewhere on this wall. I don't know where you were born or raised or if you had a family. Perhaps you had brothers and sisters or a wife. Maybe you were a father. I'm not sure. But you were a good man and you shouldn't be here. I'm sorry I killed you.”
The old man paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "My burden is heavy. I've prayed for you many times and asked for forgiveness. But I've never felt forgiven. Perhaps if I explain the circumstances of your death, you will."
The old soldier stood in silence for a moment, took another deep breath and continued: "I'm not sure where to start. It's been so many years and I tried to block it out of my memory. That's proven impossible. I think about you all the time. I believe it is impossible for a man to get over something like that. I just have to learn how to live with it. That’s why I’m here."
He glanced back and forth at the wall as his memory drifted back in time. Then he began speaking in a loud and clear voice: "It was 1969, a long time ago. I'm not sure of the exact date but I think perhaps March or April. My memory isn't very good anymore. It was a clear day with no clouds. I do remember that. 
"My unit, the 7th Squadron 1st Air Calvary flying out of Vinh Long, were operating deep in the Delta of South Vietnam when we received the call for help. You and I had never personally met, but you knew who we were because we'd assisted you on other encounters with the enemy.
"You didn't made the frantic call for help that day. I don't know who did. I thought he was an army officer while talking to him over the radio. Perhaps he wasn’t. During the inquiry, I overheard someone say something about a civilian, possible CIA. I don't know his name either, but I'm sure you know who he is. I hope you have forgiven him. His burden must be as heavy-if not heavier-than mine. I pray he's all right.
"When I arrived on the scene, the battle was already in progress. The man on the radio said he and his men were pinned down by enemy fire coming from a line of trees on the other side of a rice patty. He asked me to put some rockets into the tree line. I thought I knew which tree line he was talking about, but something inside me told me to hold my fire. I asked him to mark his position and direct me in from there. He popped smoke and I confirmed his smoke was green. He said the tree line was to the east across the rice patty from the smoke. I knew exactly where he wanted those rockets. But a voice inside me kept saying, 'Don't do it.' I now believe God was talking to me but I'm not sure.
"I radioed I would put a marker rocket into the rice patty to confirm I was at the correct spot. I could tell by his voice he was annoyed and getting impatient. My marker rocket fell harmlessly in the center of the rice patty. The man confirmed this was the correct spot and instructed me to put rockets in the tree line on the other side of the patty. Again a little voice inside of me told me something wasn't right. I asked him if all his men were accounted for. He assured me all of his men were with him.
"As I lined my Cobra up for the dive, I saw men running in the tree line and thick under brush. I fired two pairs of rockets. A moment later a frantic voice came over my radio, 'Cease fire! Cease fire! Those are our men down there!'
"I pulled out of the dive and climbed to altitude. I prayed, 'God please don't let this be true.' The radio came alive with many voices. It was very confusing. My mind raced. I didn't know what happened. My Commander came over radio telling the slick helicopters to respond to pick up the casualties. I knew my biggest nightmare had come true. I had wounded or killed some of our own soldiers. 
"The radio traffic slowed to a halt and there was nothing but the sound of my helicopter. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to go back to base. But I knew I couldn't. I had to protect the helicopters as they picked up the injured, my wounded. I had to be mentally prepared to put more rockets into the same general area if our helicopters came under fire.
"I stayed high above the battle zone as they picked up the casualties. As soon as they were airborne, my Commander's voice came over the radio ordering me to return to base.
"When I landed at Vinh Long, there were several officers and MP's waiting for me. As soon as I shut the Cobra down and exited, they separated my co-pilot and me. We were not allowed to speak to each other or anyone else. They took us to different locations. They put me in a room by myself for a long time. My mind was still in a state of confusion. I was sickened because of what had occurred. I didn't know if anyone had been killed or not, or if I had killed them. But I was almost certain I had.
"A little while later a Colonel came into the room and introduced himself. He placed a tape recorder on the table and pushed the record button. He said his name, the date and time and told me he was interviewing me in a formal investigation of the death of an American soldier. He read off some numbers I believe were the case numbers. He advised me that an official investigation into today's incident was being conducted. Then he advised me of my rights and asked if I wanted a lawyer. 
"This scared the hell of out of me. I thought I might be going to prison. I asked him how many people were killed. He said one American Captain died. I felt absolutely devastated. I can't remember if he told me if anyone else was wounded or not. For the life of me, I can't remember that Colonel's name.
I said I didn't want a lawyer and would answer his questions. If I screwed up, I wanted to face the consequences. After he completed the interview, he handed me some paper and a pen and told me to write everything for the official report. When I finished, he told me to sign the paper and he left.
"Apparently there was no recording of the radio traffic at the battle zone. Everyone in the air and on the ground during the battle needed to be interviewed. Of course I didn't know what they were saying. 
"They kept me isolated for several days while the inquiry was being conducted. They never arrested me but restricted me to my room, the latrine, the showers, and the mess hall. The Colonel ordered me not to speak to anyone about the incident. It was a lonely time for me. I went over the battle again and again in my head to make sure everything I'd told them was the truth and I hadn't left anything out. Sleep was almost impossible and when it came, nightmares haunted me. I kept reliving the battle over and over in my dreams. I wondered what my future held for me. I kept dreaming I was on a plane headed back to the states to be court-martialed. It was a time of uncertainties and isolation.
"A few days passed before the Colonel returned. He told me they had completed the investigation and I had been exonerated of any wrongdoing. He said I placed my rockets right where I had been instructed to and took more precautions than most pilots would have. He said the death of the soldier was deemed an accident. The Colonel shook my hand and told me he appreciated my cooperation and honesty during the investigation. He asked if I had any questions for him. I asked him why I was told to fire on our own troops. He said the man who told me to fire the rockets didn't know some of his soldiers left to pursue the enemy. 
"What happened to him?" I asked. 
"The Colonel didn't answer at first. He closed his briefcase and walked to the door, then turned to face me. 'As I said, it was an accident, a very tragic accident." 
"I couldn't think of anything to say. It was over, but it wasn't. How could it be? An innocent man died at my hands. I kept wondering what happened and how it happened. The Colonel had all the details but he wasn't going to share them with me. He asked if I wanted to know the name of the man I killed. I asked him not to tell me. I didn't want to know. He left and closed the door behind him. Now I wish I knew your name. Restrictions were lifted and I returned to duty.
"After the war, I came home and tried to live my life as honorable as possible. I became a loving and faithful husband to my wife, a good father to my kids and a good grandfather to my grandchildren. It was important that I lived a respectful life so you would understand I am not a bad person." 
The old man took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and blew his nose. After putting the handkerchief back, he reached up and gently placed his hands on The Wall. "Please forgive me."
After a few moments, he felt his wife's hand on his shoulder. "It's time to go home, dear." As he turned to leave, the old man noticed other visitors had come to pay their respect. They had kept their distances, silently listening to him speak, waiting for his private vigil to end. Tears filled everyone's eyes except his wife. She smiled believing perhaps now her husband could find the peace he'd sought for so long.

Meeting The Enemy
Damon Cecil

Meeting the Enemy
 Damon Cecil, Former CWO-2, US Army

February 1969 was the dry season in Vietnam. C Troop, 7th/1st Air Cav. was on the prowl deep in the Delta working search-and-destroy missions in the U-Minh Forest. We were working out of a small airstrip next to a small village called Tan Tic and had been doing so for the past week. The whole platoon was a bunch of “green weenies” and after six months, I found myself the senior Cobra pilot. This was needed training for our hunter-killer teams but the enemy wasn’t happy with our intrusion into their hot spot of VC activity.  
My copilot was Warrant Officer Steve Cain. We had flown the first sortie of the day and landed at Tan Tic with our hunter/killer team to refuel and rearm while the second team worked the area of operation. Each team consisted of two Cobras and two Scout light observation helicopters. The U-Minh had been unusually quiet this morning and it had been an uneventful sortie. The area we were working was a combination of swamps, canals and triple canopy forest providing excellent cover for enemy facilities. 
The Air Force had been spraying Agent Orange defoliant in the area during the early morning hours. By first light the Cavalry was overflying the sprayed areas with our hunter-killer teams looking for targets of opportunity. We often found amphitheaters, storage bunkers and fortified fighting positions. But today, no “nasties” were willing to confront us. 
Steve Cain flew front seat operating the mini-gun that spit out 4000, 7.62mm rounds per minute. He was a good guy and a competent pilot. I flew the back seat of the Cobra directing the fifty-two, 2.75 inch rockets onto the targets. Steve could also fly the helicopter from the front seat should something unfortunate happened to me. He was always eager to learn and reminded me of the sidekicks of the western movies, Roy Roger’s, Happy, the Cisco Kid’s, Poncho, or the Lone Ranger’s, Tonto. We got mortared once while at the Officer’s Club at Vinh Long. Everyone else yelled, “Incoming,” while running to the bunkers. Steve waited to see what I was going to do, then followed me to our helicopter to launch. 
We shutdown at Tan Tic and were met by two kids from the village named Tong and Bei. They had adopted us as their American friends. With the second fire team working a quiet operation, we had an hour of down time. I had purchased a new 35mm camera while on R & R in Japan but hadn’t had a chance of using it yet. I carried it in the helicopter with me at all times. This presented me with a chance to get some photos of a real Vietnamese village. 
Armed with my 35mm camera, an M-16, and a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver, I prepared for a trek to the village. Steve decided to join me. Tong and Bei acted as guides on our trek through approximately 75 meters of overgrown jungle to the village. I locked and loaded the M-16 as a precaution through the jungle, but cleared it when we entered the village. 
Tan Tic was a village located in a rice farming area near the U-Minh Forest. The roads were no more than wide dirt paths. There was no electricity, running water, sewers or motorized vehicles. The only sanitation facilities were piers behind the houses built above the ditches leading out to the fields. 
Bei led us to his hooch and ran inside and produced his parents. His father hesitantly smiled and nodded his head when he saw us. I did likewise. He seemed surprised at seeing Americans visiting his home. With Bei as our translator he invited us into his one room hooch and we sat on the dirt floor. The room was bare except for sleeping mats against one wall and a few cooking utensils against another. 
Bei’s father offered me one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. I accepted and offered him one of my Winstons. As we smoked I held out the cigarette he had given me and said, “This number one.” He shook his head no and held up my Winston declaring, “THIS number one.” That seemed to be the extent of his English. After our smoke we walked outside where Bei’s mother and father posed in front of their humble home for a photo. I thanked them, shook their hands and slipped his father three more Winstons for his hospitality. 
The surprise of Bei’s parents at seeing us, and the strange stares from villagers, concerned me. A thought crossed my mind that perhaps we shouldn’t be here. I hoped our presence hadn’t put Bei’s parents in any peril. 
Our quartet headed back toward the village center. While walking to the center of Tan Tic, we heard several girls calling out, “Hey G.I.s.” Bei pulled my arm away from the hooch with girls leaning out the windows. “Number ten thou co,” Bei said, which meant “bad girls.” 
At the main intersection we came to some kind of a store. It contained a couple of shelves and a scant amount of merchandise. On a counter sat a large glass jar full of hard candy. I gave Tong five dollars worth of Vietnamese money with instructions to buy as much candy as possible. He approached the proprietor and proceeded to barter. At one point Tong turned and started walking back toward us in disgust. 
The proprietor called him back and emptied the whole jar into a paper bag. He gave Tong about two dollars in Vietnamese money in change. Tong seemed very proud of the bargain. Twenty or more village children had gathered around us. I told Tong to share the candy with the rest of the baby-sans. Tong’s eyes got wide, his mouth dropped open and he stared at me as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He handed one of the kids a piece of candy and then put one piece in his pocket. He continued to dole out the candy in this manner until it was all gone. I knew this kid would go far if he survived this war. 
An open-air, thatched roof bar sat across the street from the store. It had six or seven tables, each covered with checkered tablecloths and surrounded with four chairs. The only customer in the bar was an intoxicated Vietnamese soldier who had been flirting with the only waitress. The waitress sat another beer on the soldier’s table as we approached while playing grab ass with her. She slapped his hand away escaping his advances while scolding him in Vietnamese. 
We saddled up to a table and ordered four Cokes. Steve sat opposite me with Tong and Bei sitting beside us. A crowd of baby-sans stood near the table but at a respectable distance. Tong and Bei acted as if they were the coolest kids of the village. The Cokes were served warm and hastily by an obviously nervous waitress who kept glancing back at the soldier. I thought she was just bothered by his advances and had naively sat with my back toward the other customer. Then I turned to look at the soldier. He was staring at us. He pointed his finger at me and then in the direction of the airstrip. I pointed to myself and twirled my finger over my head indicating I was a helicopter pilot. He raised his voice and said, “Number ten thou, cockadau beaucoup VC,” which meant, “Very bad, kills many VC.” 
I noticed his fatigues seemed rather new and had no patches or insignias whatsoever. Something was definitely not right. Turning my chair toward my new acquaintance with a feeling of increased apprehension, I answered, “Yes, cockadau beaucoup VC,” stating that I had killed many VC. Quite casually, he reached under the shirt and produced a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol and pointed it at me. Then he announced “Me VC!” 
My first thought was, Ah, shit...what have I got myself into? My shit...was...weak, meaning at a highly disadvantageous tactical position. I thought what a ridiculous way to die. I hoped he had just pulled out the weapon to show off to the waitress. The only option I could think of was to bluff my new opponent. I tried to keep my best poker face while attempting to mask the absolute terror I was feeling. 
Tong, Bei and Steve sat frozen, staring at the pistol with their mouths gaping open. My useless M-16 sat leaning against the table without a magazine. I told Steve to smile and keep both hands above the table. I slowly reached down to my revolver, brought it up and placed it on the table in front of me. I made sure it wasn’t pointing toward our drinking acquaintance. I turned to face our self-professed VC and announced, “Me G.I.” After a few moments I reached back with my left hand for my bottle of Coke. Raising the bottle, I offered a toast to the VC. After contemplating the situation for a moment, he set his pistol on his table still pointed in my direction. We studied each other for a few moments. I wondered, if he was daring me to draw like some western movie shoot-out? After what seemed like an eternity, he laughed, raised his beer in my direction and acknowledged my toast. With our eyes locked on each other we both took a swig of our drinks. 
He then picked up his pistol and put it back in his waistband, accepting the implied truce. I slowly reached for my revolver and put it back in my holster. Turning my chair back towards Steve, I told him to drink up. I purposely sat with my back toward my adversary fighting my natural tendency to look toward the danger. I didn’t want to chance a fresh confrontation. I told Steve to act as natural as possible and smile for our benefit. 
Our drinking buddy finished his beer. After some playful banter in Vietnamese, he bid the waitress adieu. He got up, stumbled out of the bar and headed towards the U-Minh Forest. When he was about 40 meters away Steve asked in a rather panicky voice, “Aren’t you going to shoot him?” 
I felt honor bound to uphold our tacit ceasefire. “Why? There are many baby-sans around and someone might get hurt. We’ll meet him in the U-Minh. He’ll try to kill us and we’ll try to kill him. But why bring the war to the village?” 
I was thankful that our VC friend had seen the situation in the same way. I was now anxious to end my foray into a real Vietnam village. 
Looking back at the situation, a 9mm semiautomatic serves as the weapon of choice for NVA officers. Frankly, I had not analyzed that fact at the time. But getting shot by an officer or a private didn’t matter. I dreaded getting shot under such a ridiculous circumstance in a village where I shouldn’t have been. 
We finished our Cokes and took the street southward toward the airstrip. I loaded my M-16 when we approached the overgrowth just in case our drinking acquaintance had any companions around. My senses were on high alert for that short trip through the jungle. Every bush was scanned and tree studied. But the Lord suffered this fool and saved him from his fate that day. 
When we arrived at the airstrip my wingman called out, “Hurry up, the Old Man just called for us to relieve the other fire team.” I cleared my M-16 and ran to aircraft for our departure. Steve and I didn’t have a chance to further discuss our experience. I can only guess what stories he later related to his fellow copilots. I left Tan Tic with a much better understanding of the realities of the war and a much wiser man.

Escape From The Darkness
Ben Bentley

From about 2 miles away at an altitude of 1000 feet, I watched as the B-52 Arc Light strike began exactly on time. The initial flash fireball from each of the massive explosions quickly spread out in a gray-black smoke cloud of flying debris with a visible shock-wave force, destroying everything natural and man-made in its path. From 30,000 feet, each of the three giant B-52s Stratofortresses in the flight dropped approximately 27 tons of bombs, laying down an unbelievable path of total destruction. It was easy to understand why the Viet Cong referred to these strikes as “The Chain of Thunder.” The VC had no possible defense against them except to run, but run to where? They never saw or heard the aircraft. Their world just suddenly exploded all around them.
	I was a Cobra pilot in B Troop, 7/1st Air Cavalry serving in the Delta region of Vietnam, tactically known as IV Corps. In reality, it was our hunting ground. A place where we sought out the VC, reacted to intelligence reports and supported South Vietnamese soldiers with their Green Beret advisors. In many ways, the day-to-day routine became a mind numbing experience of simply staying alive. 
	This particular afternoon, we were near the edge of the U-Minh Forest, known to the Vietnamese as “The Forest of Darkness.”  Our mission was to conduct a bomb damage assessment for the B-52 strike. As soon as the bombs stopped exploding, the Scouts would swoop into the area to see what they could find. Scouts flew small OH-6 light observation helicopters literally at treetop level looking for signs of the enemy. All too often, the first indication of VC activity was the Scouts being shot at. With Scouts flying low, the Cobras circled protectively overhead, ready to dive and attack anything that challenged them. The Cobras were AH-1 gunships that carried 2.75-inch folding fin aerial rockets and 7.62mm mini-guns.
	As the Scouts searched the bombed area, they spotted a camp near the outer edge of the strike zone. Wanting more detailed information about the camp, the Command and Control (C&C) radioed our Lift Platoon to crank up their UH-1 Hueys and bring in some ground forces to sweep through the area. Although deserted when the troops arrived, they reported it was a recently occupied POW compound, complete with food, cooking gear, clothing and cages with locks. When the Arc Light strike began, the VC guards had grabbed their weapons and disappeared into the surrounding countryside along with their prisoners. 
	Any discussion of Vietnam POWs invariably centers on those who were captured and held in the camps of North Vietnam, the most infamous of which was the “Hanoi Hilton.” However, many of our soldiers were also held in widely dispersed, crude, small camps scattered throughout South Vietnam. The few POWs who made it home alive from these camps did not return to the same fanfare of those from the North, but they too had suffered brutal treatment and endured. 
	The confirmation of an active POW compound immediately changed our unit’s mission priorities from search and destroy to POW recovery.  We spent several days and countless hours systematically searching for prisoners. None were found. About a week after the B-52 strike, the POW search was cancelled and we went back to our routine mission of responding to intelligence and hunting VC.  
	The morning of December 31st began like so many others, a before dawn takeoff for a long flight deep into the Delta. We were going back to the U-Minh Forest for a day of hunting. Although called a forest, the U-Minh was nothing like the triple canopy jungles of the northern highlands of Vietnam. It was a massive plain of dense scrub brush and trees, usually 5 to 20 feet high, crisscrossed by a seemingly endless array of small canals. B Troop deployed the typical 2 hunter-killer teams of two Cobras and two Scouts per team, the Lift platoon and a C&C helicopter. Our staging area was an empty field about 20 minutes flight time from the mission area where we would refuel and rearm from prepositioned portable fuel bladders and Conex containers of ammunition. 
	Upon arrival at the staging area, the second hunter-killer team, the Lift platoon and the C&C all landed to top-off their fuel. My hunter-killer team continued directly into the U-Minh forest to start the day’s search  
	Almost immediately, the Scouts spotted a couple of long wooden boats called sampans, camouflaged and tied together in one of the small canals snaking throughout the U-Minh. They hovered around, using their rotor wash to blow away the camouflage, looking for any signs of VC. Within a couple of minutes, the lead Scout, piloted by 1LT Fred Young with gunner SP/4 Abadella, started taking AK-47 automatic rifle fire from a nearby clump of brush. He broke away, calling “Taking Fire” and simultaneously popped a red smoke grenade. I responded immediately, rolling into a hard left bank. I simultaneously dropped the nose and put the rocket sight on the billowing red smoke. I called “Inbound Hot” and fired 2 pairs of rockets. As the rockets exploded, my front seat co-pilot/gunner sprayed the area with the turret mini-gun. At 4,000 rounds per minute, a mini-gun spit out a solid line of red tracers, looking much like a deadly water hose. 
	As soon as I started my break off the target, my wingman fired a pair of rockets to cover me. His co-pilot/gunner also sprayed the area with his mini-gun. Since we didn’t received any hostile fire, I called “Going High and Dry”, signaling the Scouts to go back and check the target area. They found 3 dead VC and their weapons but nothing else.
	Shortly thereafter, the C&C helicopter, piloted by our Commander Major David Thompson and his co-pilot, Warrant Officer-1 Louis Schantz, arrived with our relief hunter-killer team. We reported the activity, turned the search over to them and then headed to the staging area to refuel. Since I hadn’t fired much ordinance, I didn’t need to shut the engine down and reload.  Instead, my co-pilot/gunner refueled us while I remained in the cockpit, holding the controls at a flight idle while monitoring the radio traffic. We had just completed refueling when I heard the lead Scout, flown by Captain Jerry Free with gunner SP/4 Richard Farinha, call that he had spotted someone trying to surrender. Major Thompson radioed that they were going to land to pick up the surrendering VC. 
	Suspecting that the surrendering VC might be bait in a trap, Major Thompson advised the Cobra team to keep him closely covered. If the C&C took any fire, the Cobras were to immediately kill the VC. Throughout the landing approach, the lead Cobra flew a loose formation with the C&C, positioned to put immediate covering fire under the C&C helicopter if needed. The Cobra gunner held his turret mini-gun sight on what appeared to be the surrendering VC. As the C&C descended to about fifty feet, Major Thompson transmitted a radio call I’ll never forget: “My God, it’s an American!”  
	Although dressed like a VC in black pajamas and sandals, the C&C crew was now close enough to recognize that the individual was taller than the normal Vietnamese. He had a beard unlike most Vietnamese and the round eyes of a Caucasian. 
	When C&C touched down, the American ran toward the helicopter. He kept his hands high above his head until he was assured by the waving arm motions of the crew chief, SP/4 Michael Thompson and door gunner, SP/4 Breece Stevens, that he was not going to be shot. Once he was safely onboard, the C&C took off, climbing to a safe altitude above 1,500 feet. 
	The American identified himself as First Lieutenant James N. Rowe. The Scouts buzzed back into the area looking for any more POWs.  Rowe indicated that he was the only POW and there were only four surviving guards after the first Cobra strike. The four surviving VC were no longer important to us. Our priority shifted to getting 1LT Rowe back safely. Immediately after takeoff, Specialists Thompson and Stevens handed 1LT Rowe a canteen of water. They quickly opened several cans of C-Rations which the near-starving lieutenant eagerly devoured.  
	Major Thompson radioed for all B Troop helicopters to immediately join in formation on his helicopter to escort this hero on the first leg of his journey home.  He radioed IV Corps Operations the code word indicating that we had rescued a POW, followed by his phonetic initials, “Juliet November Romeo”. The voice on the radio asked Major Thompson to stand by. A few moments later, a different voice came on the radio asking if the POW could be put on the radio. One of the crewmen gave 1LT Rowe a helmet and showed him the transmit control switch. The new voice said “Welcome Home, Roomy!” It was Lieutenants Rowe’s roommate from West Point. We all had the privilege to monitor that heart-warming conversation. 
	First Lieutenant Nick Rowe was captured October 29, 1963 while serving as a Special Forces advisor and regained his freedom 5 years, 2 months and 2 days later, on December 31, 1968.
	A few days later, B Troop received a short audio recording of some of the de-briefing of Lieutenant Rowe as he described exactly how he managed to get away from his guards. 
	Yes, he had been in the POW camp barely missed by the B-52 Arc Light strike. He and his 7 guards had been living on the few small bags of rice they had carried from their camp. They added to their meager rations by eating bugs, grass and anything they could find since then.  They only had a single cup of rice per day and everybody was getting very weak. 
	My initial Cobra strike killed 3 of his guards. As the survivors scrambled to get away from the Scouts and hide in the thick brush and trees, 1LT Rowe managed to get himself and one of the guards separated from the others. His guard only had two weapons, an old American M3 .45 caliber sub-machinegun, commonly called a “grease gun,” and a single hand grenade.  The M3 fires from an open bolt position, meaning that a bullet is not carried in the chamber.  When the trigger is pulled, the bolt slides forward, stripping a round from the magazine and shoves it into the chamber for firing. As they were going through some especially heavy brush, 1LT Rowe managed to bump into the guard and released the M3’s magazine latch. The guard, not realizing this had happened, was left with an unloaded gun and one grenade.  1LT Rowe figured the guard was so weak that he wouldn’t dare throw the grenade at him for fear he would also kill himself. In 1LT Rowe’s mind, the guard was now unarmed and the others were nowhere to be seen. When a Scout flew close by, he knocked the young guard down with a stick and ran into a small clearing, waving his white mosquito net and praying that the Scouts or Cobras would not shoot him.  On this day, his prayers were answered!
***
	Several years later, I had the privilege of meeting Major Rowe. He had been awarded all of his missed promotions when he returned home. He came to our base on a speaking tour for Savings Bonds. Although I had only a couple of minutes to talk with him, it was a real pleasure to shake his hand and tell him that I was flying one of the Cobras when he was rescued. 
	I consider myself lucky to have played a small part in the escape of this American hero. That single mission made my year in Vietnam worthwhile. I don’t think this mission ever received much, if any, news coverage back home.  But my fellow B Troop Dutch Masters know what we did on that day in 1968 and are proud of it. Personally, I think that all 7/1st Air Cavalry Blackhawks should take a great deal of pride in the fact that our unit got one of the good guys back! 
	In 1971, Major Rowe’s story of his POW experiences was published in his book titled “Five Years To Freedom”.  He retired from the Army in 1974. Lieutenant Colonel Rowe was recalled to active duty in 1981 and tasked to design and build a course based on his POW experiences.  That course, Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape (SERE) continues to be a requirement for graduation from the U.S. Army Special Forces Qualification Course. The other U.S. Military Services have similar courses based on his SERE school.  
	In 1987, Colonel Rowe was assigned to the Joint U.S. Military Advisory Group in the Philippines. Tragically, while serving in this assignment, he was assassinated by Communist guerrillas in April 1989.

Answered Prayer
Elvis Bray

The muffled whine of the 1100 hp. turbine engine, the rush of wind through the open door and the distinct whop-whop-whop of the helicopter blades were the only sounds in the vast black emptiness of the Mekong Delta. An endless sea of elephant grass spanned for miles in all directions like a calm gray sea, riddled with small canals like black snakes winding their way east out of Cambodia. A lifeless half-moon shined through scattered clouds high above. There was no radio traffic, no tracers and no flares in sight.
Two Killer Cobra gunships followed close behind at 1200 feet, patiently waiting to wreak havoc on the enemy at a moment's notice. Another thousand feet above and behind them, the command ship piloted by Major Albert Rodriguez kept a watchful eye. The 7th Armored Squadron of the 1st Air Cavalry Blackhawks was on the prowl and someone would probably die tonight.
I had no idea what month it was and couldn't have cared less. They were divided only by the wet and dry seasons. This was the beginning of the dry season. Just one of 365 days I would spend in Vietnam in 1968 during my first tour. But this was no typical day. It was a night mission, and the nights belonged to the Viet Cong.
I sat in the door gunner's seat on the right side of my helicopter manning twin M60 machine guns. Mounted at my feet were two large metal ammo boxes containing 7.62 rounds. To my left sat a large cycloptic cluster of lights mounted to the floor of my helicopter. Ten one million candle watt landing lights had been configured into a four foot round disk pointing at a ninety degree angle from my helicopter.
The code name for our mission was "firefly." I could just imagine some West Pointer coming up with the idea and some backwoods farm boy with his welder constructing the monstrosity in one of the hangers back at Vinh Long. It reminded me of the car dealerships using giant lights that crisscrossed the skies to advertise car sales. Their sole purpose was to draw attention to the area. That wasn't such a good idea in the Plain of Reeds. This was a free-fire zone and anything that moved got killed.
I didn't know if actually worked or not. I assumed they had tested the damned thing before mounting it.
The concept was simple enough: fly back and forth along the Cambodian border at low level, looking for sampans crossing into South Vietnam carrying supplies for the VC. Find the sampans, turn on the big light and blind the occupants. Spray them with machine gun fire until the Cobras could get a fix on their position. Turn off the light and peel away in the opposite direction, allowing the gunships time to complete their dive. Mini-guns would pour red fire from the sky at four thousand rounds per minute, followed by a swarm of rockets, destroying the supplies and Viet Cong transporting it.  
It sounded pretty good during the pre-flight briefing. That is, everything except the part about leaving the other gunner at home. Major Rodriguez said it would be too dark for him to see anything on his side. How the hell did they know? This was an experimental mission and no one had actually flown one before.
I had plenty of time to re-evaluate the theory of the mission during the thirty-minute flight to the free-fire zone. Normally, rounds being fired from the ground at a flying object hit somewhere behind the target. However, if the enemy aimed at the bright light in the sky, I'd be sitting right behind it. Not a comforting thought.
My eyelids were getting heavy and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I'd already flown all day inserting South Vietnamese soldiers into and out of battle zones. I'd barely had enough time to refuel the helicopter, grab a bite to eat and get to the briefing before we lifted off the flight line at 10 p.m. As hard as it was to stay awake, I kept them glued to the canals below.
Major Rodriguez's voice cracked over the radio. "Comanche 6 to Comanche 24."
"Comanche 24," the pilot answered.
"We're approaching the end of the free-fire zone. Make a hundred and eighty degree turn to your left and head back south closer to the Cambodian border."
"Roger that."
Our new orders were a little unnerving. My helicopter had been hit three times by .51 caliber rounds near the border just a few weeks back. One round had entered the left front pilot's window and took out the overhead fuse panel. The second round smashed just above my head, tearing a large hole in the roof of the helicopter. The third round missed my right shoulder by an inch, smashed into the base of the transmission mount, ricocheted around my body and out through the cargo door that was locked into the open position. All three hits sounded like grenades exploding inside my chopper and the thought of encountering more .51 rounds made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Another thirty minutes passed without incident. It appeared this was going to be an unproductive night for the Blackhawks. The mission had to end soon because we were getting low on fuel.
All of a sudden the big light came on and the helicopter banked hard to the right. I gripped the handles of the twin 60s, searching for targets. Just below me was a clearing that looked like a giant ant hole in the middle of the tall grass. Three people stood in the center of the clearing, next to a grass hut. My finger tightened on the triggers as I aimed my weapons at them, but I held my fire. They were huddled together, staring up at us. A man, woman and small child about five years old stood next to the straw shack.
Major Rodriguez came over the radio demanding a status report.  "Comanche 6, what do you have?"
"Looks like a peasant farmer, his wife and kid down there, sir."
"Are they armed?"
"Not that we can see."
We continued to circle, slowing all the time. The family below turned in a circle facing us as we circled them, obviously blinded by our light. The man held his wife close to him with one arm and pulled the child's head tight against his body with the other as the boy hugged his legs. After two complete turns, the family stopped following our movement and stood still, awaiting their fate. As the helicopter slowed, the circles became tighter and tighter as we lowered towards the family.
"What the hell are they doing living in a free-fire zone?" grumbled Major Rodriguez, as if talking to himself.
"I don't know, sir," said the pilot. "What would you have us do?"
My heart sank as I recalled the words from the pre-flight briefing. "This is a free fire-zone, men. Anything that moves gets killed."
I'm not particularly religious. At least, not until incoming rounds start pounding holes in my helicopter or the mortars start exploding around my barracks during the middle of the night. Then my faith in God renews itself and I pray my life be spared. Now, I prayed for the family below. "God, please help them."
"Can you see inside the hooch?" the Major asked.
"Not from this height, sir."
"Drop down and see if you can see anything. We'll cover you."
"Roger."
The helicopter slowed too little more than a hover about thirty feet above the ground. The wind from the rotor blades smashed the tall grass flat and the family wobbled in its wake. I felt the hut would be blown away at any moment, but somehow it held.
At this height and speed, we were just as much sitting ducks as the family below us. I just knew some Vietcong in black pajamas would jump up from the tall grass or come running out of the hut and open fire on us at any second. I missed the door-gunner who would have normally protected our backside.
When we passed the front of the grass hut, the bright light shined inside, casting eerie shadows along the walls. I moved my guns from the family towards the hut, ready to obliterate anything threatening. Dirt floors, a few pots and pans and what appeared to be a small bed sat in the very back.
"See anything, Bray?" asked the pilot.
"Appears to be empty, sir. No enemy or weapons visible."
"They appear to be alone, sir," the pilot reported. He increased our speed and we  gained a little altitude. "What are our orders, sir?"
The next few minutes were the longest moments of my life. Time crept slower than it did when the .51 caliber rounds had created havoc on my helpless bird a few weeks prior. As I held the 60s on my potential victims, I prayed. Please, God, don't let them make me kill these people. Over and over I prayed, more sincerely than I had ever prayed for my own life. The wait seemed endless.
Tears streamed down the boy and woman's cheeks. I hoped they were also praying. While keeping pressure on the triggers, I decided if I was ordered to kill them, I would make it as quick as possible to keep them from suffering. I wished I hadn't volunteer for this mission. I wanted to be sound asleep under my mosquito net back at Vinh Long. My heart pounded and my head throbbed.
It seemed like an eternity before Major Rodriguez broke the silence. "All right, we've marked their position. We'll bring some troops in tomorrow and find out what they're doing out here. Let's head back to base."
"Comanche 24, roger that," answered the pilot.
The big light went dark and we rose into the night sky. I watched the family fade from sight, placed the big guns down into the rest position and sat back against the wall. I had broken into a cold sweat. I took several deep breaths, closed my eyes and thanked God that I hadn't been ordered to kill the family I believed was just trying to survive one more day in that stinking cesspool. I felt chilled and realized I was shaking uncontrollably.
That was forty-six years ago; I was only twenty years old at the time. I've often thought about that hot muggy night in the middle of a free-fire zone when nothing really happened. I sleep well, thanks partly to a decision made a long time ago by Major Albert Rodriguez.
I'm much older and wiser now. Today, I'd refuse an order to kill seemingly innocent civilians. But at the time, I wouldn't have hesitated for a moment. I was a solider then, and good soldiers don't question orders; they follow them.
Thank God for answered prayers.

Roland Leeds' PowerPoint Presentation on his Vietnam experiences...
Roland Leeds

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