Mike Pasco introduced himself. “I’m the company signal officer, but assigned to 3rd Platoon. I’ll be flying missions with you.” Mike was a captain who had been given the additional duty of taking care of the unit’s radios and other communications equipment because his branch of service was Army Signal Corps. Those duties kept him very busy, but he always met his flying responsibilities with courage and skill.
The youngest of the group, a warrant officer one, stood to introduce himself last. “Hi, PL. I’m Steve Allen. They call me Flame.” His bright red hair left no doubt about the source of his nickname. He’d refer to me as PL, his term of endearment for platoon leader. Youthful and cheery, he’d always give me a bright greeting of “Good morning, PL,” “Yes sir, PL,” “Can do, PL.” He was a courageous pilot with a great attitude, and I was grateful he was in the platoon.
I flew missions almost every day as a front-seater, but I coveted the back seat. The front seat, also known as the bullet catcher, was the copilot and gunner, responsible for aiming and firing the 7.62-mm minigun and 40-mm grenade launcher, the chunker. The front-seater relieved the pilot on the flight controls when asked. In the back seat was the pilot-in-command, responsible for the aircraft. He made the radio calls and shot the 2.75-inch rockets from pods on the helicopter’s stubby wings. He also fired the awesome 20-mm Gatling gun on the birds that had them. He was in charge. I had proven myself in the front seat. I was ready for the back.
I flew daily for two months. I worked hard at my front-seat duties. As platoon commander, I could have made myself a back-seater, but the unit instructor pilots normally said when a pilot was ready. I wanted the legitimacy of the IP’s endorsement.
When some “old-guy” pilots completed their tours of duty and headed home, I was elated to be moved to the back seat. I wanted to be the best I could be. As platoon leader, I got the ship of my choice. I took tail number 295, one of the few Gatling-gun birds, a most awesome killing machine.
All Special Forces operations had been publicly declared over in Vietnam. In reality, the SOG teams replaced their berets with Army baseball caps and continued to conduct missions, some of which involved training South Vietnamese special operators to take over for them. Our classified missions remained intense.
SOG missions often ended in a firefight, the team surrounded by a hugely superior enemy force. A prairie fire emergency was declared whenever the survival of the team was in question. Every available military asset was sent to support the extraction. We shot next to the guys on the ground and under them as the Hueys lifted them out. It was crazy. Team members sometimes suffered minor wounds from fragments of friendly fire. We shot where they asked. They were always thankful for Cobra support.
As spring came to the Central Highlands, the enemy moved along the range of mountains that formed the border with Laos and Cambodia. They also infiltrated further eastward, across the high country north of the highlands into the lesser mountains ranging north-south between the highlands and the coast. The North Vietnamese Army had long planned this move into South Vietnam from base camps in Laos and Cambodia. They probed and then launched outright attacks on a scale not seen before in the Vietnam War.1 The 1972 Easter Offensive had begun.
I became AMC (air mission commander), leading missions made up of two to four Cobras, Hueys from our sister company, the Gladiators, or a variety of other aircraft. I was responsible for all the helicopters in the flight and their actions in battle. This made me part of something larger than myself, and I felt an increasing commitment to a greater cause. In my first tour I grew from a boy to a man. On this second tour, slammed right back into the cauldron of war, I was learning much more what that man was made of. The war was changing into something none of us could have imagined. We would soon face the greatest challenges of our lives.
In late March 1972, I was in a flight of two Cobras diverted to support an ARVN patrol with an American advisor operating west of Rocket Ridge. Rocket Ridge overlooked Highway 14 from south of Dak To to northwest of Kontum. From the ridge, the Viet Cong used to launch rockets onto the highway and villages below. A string of firebases spaced along the ridgeline had stopped that.
The ARVN patrol had been on routine reconnaissance to the west of one of the firebases. Now they were fighting desperately to break contact with a strong NVA force, withdraw to the east, and get back inside the perimeter of Firebase 5. We heard the American advisor, 1st Lt. Terry “Buddha” Griswold, on the radio. “In heavy contact. Large enemy force, at least a company. We are withdrawing back to Firebase 5. Enemy moving to flank and cut us off. Need help.”
I radioed, “This is Panther Lead. Flight of two Cobras, inbound. Pop smoke.”
“Roger. Look for orange smoke.”
We crested the ridge over Firebase 5, and I called, “Got your smoke.”
Buddha responded, “Roger, Panthers. Enemy is to the west and south of smoke. Moving in on us quickly.”
I replied, “Got your position. Got the bad guys. In hot.” We made several runs, expending our ordnance. My 20-mm was devastating, blasting small trees to oblivion and decimating the attacking force. The patrol broke contact with the enemy and withdrew back to the firebase. We’d saved their bacon, but we had witnessed an unusual display of enemy strength within South Vietnam.
In the weeks ahead, we got more and more in-country missions as enemy activity inside South Vietnam increased. On March 27, an urgent request came to launch on a mission to rescue a VNAF (Vietnamese Air Force) helicopter crew shot down west of Firebase Charlie, near the center of Rocket Ridge. A Gladiator Huey was with us at Tan Canh. The pilot, CWO Larry Woods, laid out a plan to surprise the enemy, get in, pick up the downed crew, and get out.
Larry, his copilot, door gunner, and crew chief loaded up and cranked the Huey. I flew with Dan Jones in my front seat. My wingman and I started our Cobras. My right hand held the cyclic stick, which controlled the tilt of the rotor’s axis. My feet were positioned on the pedals that maintained the direction of the aircraft’s nose. My left hand gripped the cylindrical collective, which made the helicopter rise or settle and adjusted speed in flight. I was one with the machine as I pulled the collective steadily and eased the cyclic ever so slightly forward, bringing the Cobra off the ground behind the departing Huey. The other Cobra followed closely on my right rear.
We headed southwest, angling toward Rocket Ridge, flying fast just above the trees. A little south of Firebase Charlie, we rose up the hillside together in formation. Near the top, we slowed. We floated up and over the ridgeline, banking sharply to the right, sliding back down to the tops of the trees, picking up speed. After changing course about ninety degrees, we moved north, accelerating just above the jungle along the west side of the hills.
Woods spotted the downed VNAF helicopter. I confirmed it by smoke rising from a clearing on the hillside ahead. Larry’s Huey swooped in and rapidly decelerated to land next to the downed aircraft. Small arms fire erupted as the Huey slowed. The streak of a B-40 (40-mm rocket-propelled grenade) found its target and detonated. I watched in disbelief as the entire helicopter exploded in a violent burst of orange and yellow flame. It hung there for an instant, the tips of the rotors still visible, turning through the fireball. Then the whole ship slammed into the ground, and rolled on its back, continuing to burn. My heart sank. I loved the Gladiators and respected their courage. We covered the scene, searching for survivors until another flight of Cobras replaced us on station. We flew home to Camp Holloway, our spirits crushed.2
On April 1, a Chinook was shot down outside Firebase Delta on approach to the camp. The firebase straddled the