1st Lt. Tim Conry, a new pilot, was assigned to my platoon a day later, on April 16. He was immediately impressive: great bearing, well-spoken, intelligent, an exceptional aviator, and a really likeable guy. He was engaged to be married. I knew this young officer would go places in the Army. As his platoon leader, I made him my front-seater. We grew close and became a great fighting team.
The war raged in the Central Highlands. The North Vietnamese launched all-out conventional attacks with every unit its army could muster. They assaulted across the demilitarized zone into the northern portions of South Vietnam. They attacked from Cambodia thrusting toward Saigon. They came out of Laos and northern Cambodia into the Central Highlands. Three months before, most of us thought we’d won.
Toward the end of April, long-ranging NVA 130-mm guns sent a thousand artillery shells into the 22 ARVN division headquarters at Tan Canh. Wire-guided Soviet Sagger antitank missiles destroyed the few South Vietnamese tanks at Tan Canh and Dak To. The enemy launched Soviet SA-7 heat-seeking antiaircraft missiles against U.S. helicopters.
At dawn the next day, April 24, the North Vietnamese attacked Tan Canh and Dak To with an infantry division, a tank regiment, and supporting artillery and sappers. Outmanned and outgunned, the South Vietnamese defenders at Tan Canh were overwhelmed within two hours, and those at Dak To succumbed shortly after. North Vietnamese tanks rolled inside Tan Canh, onto the runway at Dak To, and along the highway between the two.
Tim and I saw plenty of action that day. A Gladiator Huey that had rescued five U.S. advisors was hit by enemy fire and fell from the sky in flames. Advisors escaped from Tan Canh, the Dak To airstrip, and the district headquarters in Dak To village. Helicopters rescued most of them later in the day. Two remained missing in action.
Hundreds of ARVN soldiers lay dead and wounded. Others tried to evade the enemy and work their way to friendly positions. Some succeeded, but others were hunted down and killed or captured. It was the first time a South Vietnamese division had been overrun. The division commander and his entire staff were missing.
During one run back into Kontum to rearm and refuel, I got a call to land at the military headquarters and shut down.
Tim asked, “What’s up?”
“Somebody wants to know what’s going on at Tan Canh and Dak To, I guess.”
I shot an approach to the HQ helipad, landed, and shut down. An American captain escorted us into the dining hall. A number of folks were finishing their breakfast.
Tim muttered quietly to me as we walked in, “What the fuck?” I shrugged. Some contrast.
Officers, all senior to me, sat at one table. Must be visiting staff from the headquarters at Pleiku, I surmised. They offered us a cup of coffee. Neither of us sat down. We stood, enjoying the hot brew.
“What’s going on at Tan Canh?”
“They’re overrun. Tanks and infantry. Probably more than a regiment. Maybe two. Could be more. Lots of antiaircraft fire, also.”
“You sure there’s tanks?”
“Yes. Absolutely sure. We saw them.”
One of the staff colonels asked, “Are you going to get back out there?”
“As soon as we get out of here, get some gas and bullets.” I added, “In spite of the twenty-three-millimeter and thirty-seven-millimeter triple-A threat.”
Another staff officer said, “Large caliber antiaircraft? Nothing like that in South Vietnam. Never has been.”
“Well, there is now. Antiaircraft is all over Dak To and the road to Ben Het, including thirty-seven millimeter,” I said.
“How would you know it was thirty-sevens since we’ve never seen it before?”
“I’ve seen it, plenty of times. Used to fly Mohawks over the trail and saw a bunch of twenty-threes and thirty-sevens. Got shot down by a thirty-seven and had to punch out in an ejection seat for a very short parachute ride into Laos. We also see it sometimes on our FOB missions across the border. I know my triple-A. There are twenty-threes and thirty-sevens at Dak To right now.”
He responded glibly, “OK, Ace. Got it.”
I glared at him. He continued, “Come up on our radio push and stay with us. Keep us up to speed on what’s going on.”
We cranked our aircraft and returned to the war.
In spite of the war protests at home, I felt proud of what we were doing. I believed in preserving the South against communist aggression from the North. We all fought hard to quell the North Vietnamese advance. By the end of the month, the 23rd ARVN Division was deployed from Ban Me Thuot to replace the decimated 22nd. Only a few places in the highlands remained in government hands: Pleiku and Kontum, Camp Holloway, and the outposts: Polei Kleng, twelve miles due west of Kontum, and Ben Het at the triborder.
Polei Kleng was tucked into a small valley, nestled against rising terrain to the west. Big hills loomed in most other directions. The old Special Forces camp had been built on the site of earlier French fortifications. The typical three-sided defensive perimeter of fighting positions sat inside concentric rings of concertina wire with minefields in between. A small airstrip lay outside the camp’s defenses. The land was cleared of vegetation for a couple hundred meters all around.
Two ARVN ranger battalions defended the camp. Thousands of North Vietnamese artillery shells pounded them day after day and night after night for a week, while NVA units surrounded the camp, greeting all helicopters in the area with bursts of .51-caliber machine-gun fire. The defenders heard tanks nearby.
The decision was made to evacuate the two U.S. advisors on the ground. I could imagine the impression that must have made on the ARVN ranger battalions. “Too dangerous for us advisors, but you guys fight on in the face of what we fear will be certain annihilation.”
On May 6, 1972, right after dark, we covered an OH-6 aircraft from the 7/17th Cavalry on the mission to extract the advisors. The OH-6 helicopter was always referred to as a “Loach” for the acronym LOH, or light observation helicopter. The pilot, Capt. Jim Stein, was one of the gutsiest scout helicopter pilots in the Army. Tim Conry was in my front seat. Jim dropped down onto the deck and dashed in with lights out except the beacon on the top of the helicopter, which let us keep visual contact with him. We stayed higher, firing to suppress sporadic small arms fire on his way in.
By the time Jim’s Loach got to the helipad in the camp, he was receiving heavy fire and taking hits. Fifty-one-caliber machine guns opened up at him on the ground. The advisors jumped in, and Jim started outbound. The world erupted. I fired rockets and 20-mm rounds in front of and beside the Loach. Tim worked the nose turret, placing protective fire from the minigun and chunker all around it. My wingman was doing the same. Together we cleared a path for the Loach through some of the most intense fire I’d seen. Mission accomplished. The advisors were evacuated from Polei Kleng.
Three days later, it was barely light as I got up and headed