INCOMING AT LZ TWO BITS

For the sake of introduction please allow this writer to make a humble disclaimer.  For the majority of the folk who enjoyed a government sponsored vacation in lovely South-east Asia being on the receiving end of mortar and 122m.m. fire was an important part of the delightful vacation package which was created for the young men of my time.  However, I consider myself very lucky in-as-much as I was only on the receiving end of 122's twice and mortars once.  That makes three times too many. 

Arriving, in-country, in the early spring of 1969, I was sent to lovely Camp Holloway in the Central Highlands to become a member of the 7^th Squadron of the 17^th Air Cav.  Fortunately, I spent but a short week or two before Charley Troop was detached to Lane Army Heliport to support the Herd. [173^rd Airborne Brigade] For those who are not familiar with my vacation home, Lane AHP was defended by the ROKs.  Displaying great wisdom and an ability to get to the heart of the matter, they had formed a well thought out agreement with the local bad guys. 

In it’s simplest expression, it went something like this: “You don’t hit Lane and we won’t kill you.”  That situation suited me just fine and precluded me from the responsibility of becoming a bunker rat. [I enjoy a wee bit of claustrophobia.  Dark, damp, dreary subterranean place hold ZERO appeal to this boy!]  In fact, we didn’t have any bunkers in “Officer Country.” [Now if we had running water and flush toilets we could have been true Remington Raiders winning the war from our typewriters and DA forms. :-))] 

In light of this delightful situation, it was only twice that I had the explosive opportunity of being on the receiving end of a booming rainfall of 122's.  Only once while still at Holloway, before going to Lane, and once at DaNang, before going on R & R, did I enjoy the government sponsored “fireworks” while enjoying the comforts of home base.  To be completely honest, I found not getting the full tour of vacation highlights to be a completely satisfactory arrangement.  Generally speaking, I thought of the situation and proper way to conduct a Gentleman’s War as looking something like this: 

“I’ll shoot at you and you can shoot at me during ‘working hours and we will try to keep this at a civilized level.’ When we finish a days work, let’s just kick back and enjoy a cool one and rest for the next workday.” 

To continue this gripping saga, I was on the receiving end of a mortar attack only once.  Considering that it occurred during “working hours,” I suppose that I am forced to accept that it was fair giving that we were doing the war-game exercise.  Given my lack of experience of being on the receiving end, except what doing my aero-scout thing, I am not an expert on incoming arty or rockets.  However, having pretty much run out of memory and brain cells, more or less at the same juncture of time, I am reduced to dredging up faded memories and partial snippets of strange encounters for a fearsome Scouting guy.  Such as it is, this is my “Incoming T.I.N.S.”

As memory serves, we had gotten into a wee bit of a brawl somewhere in the “five-fingers” area.  This would be the area west of the Bon Song plain.  The “First Team” had gotten into some pretty serious brawls in that neighborhood a couple of years earlier.  In truth, neither they, the 4^th infantry, or the Herd had ever been able to get and keep a firm hold on that exciting little neighborhood.  From a scouting point of view, it was just the way that I liked it.  BAD GUY country and if it moved, I could attack it.

Anyway, as a result of this little brawl, I was low on go-juice and bullets!  If memory serves me correctly, I was still flying wing bird and equipped with a mini gun as my toy for the day.  Apparently, my lead had not used up many bullets.  After we refueled at L.Z. English, all by my lonesome, without a map as if a Wobblie-One Loach Driver could read one, I headed down to the Bon Song pass and L.Z. Upift to get me some more bullets. [Someone correct me if it wasn’t L.Z. Uplift right by the southern pass.  A memory over thirty-years-old is highly suspect.] 

Wherever I was, we did have a re-arm point.  Setting the little bird at flight idle and frictioning down the controls, I hopped out to help my observer lug a can of mini-gun ammo over to our location.  Being hotter than I care to remember, this northern boy shucked off his chicken-plate and brain bucket. Glancing about, I felt sorry for the poor slobs on that God-forsaken chunk of real estate.  At the same time, I noted that there was a battery of four-duce mortars on site.  Curious, I wanted to take a look-see. 

Suddenly, in the neighborhood of one of the pits, with a four-duce tube in it, came a KABOOM and a cloud of smoke. 

“Jimmeny H. Christmas!” I thought to myself.  “Some poor slob just dropped a four-duce! round and blew himself to the next life.” 

KABOOM!!!  A second explosion rocked me.  This one was about twenty yards closer than the first. 

“Curious!”  I pondered.  “I can’t believe these guys are so careless.” 

OK!  OK!  I wasn’t and still am not a “rocket surgeon.” :-)) Ole Bruce, the Gentleman’s Scout Pilot, was a little slow on the uptake.  After all, Lane AHP was my quiet vacation home.  

KABOOOOM!!!  Louder still this explosion was ten to twenty yards closer to me.  Ever so slowly, a synapse kinda snapped between my two Scout brain cells -- as a dim lightbulb began to brighten with a brilliant insight – as minuscule intellect came on line – a vague understanding of the meaning of those three explosions – heading in my direction – caused a stir of cognatitive activity.  Aided by the screaming of one of the crunchies on site, my next course of action became clear. 

“Get the hell outa here!  They’re walking the mortars right at you!” 

Thankfully the Gods who are responsible for fools, drunks, and Scout drivers had instructed me.  Reaching deep into my book of Scouting tactics, I knew what any self-respecting Scout would do in this situation.

Screaming at my observer to get in the bird, I threw him and the half empty can of mini-gun ammo into the back of the bird.  In the same breath, I dove into the front seat and began rolling on throttle and pulling pitch in one panic-driver movement.  Studiously ignoring my instruments, I took off with the RPM still coming up, belted seven-point-six-two hanging out the door, and my skivies long since sucked up to the territory used, by the flight surgeon, for hot-end examinations during annual flight physicals.

Maintaining about fifty knots, I kept the collective in my arm-pit and went for lotsa sky.  Somewhere above the nose-bleed altitude of five-thousand feet, I got my pounding heart under control.  Leveling off into a normal cruse, with grim determination, I pointed the nose of the little bird for Lane AHP. 

Suddenly, I found myself in a strange and perplexing situation.  Something was clearly WRONG!  It was terribly loud in the little bird.  The little turbine was screaming and the sound of the passing air was extraordinarily loud.

“Hmmmmm . . . Oh s***, I can fall out of this bird.  I’m not strapped in!” 

Ah, thank goodness for two brain cells and a latent movement of my single synapse of thought.  Looking in the back, I noted that the observer had gotten his helmet on, gathered in the belts of seven-point-six-two, and was trying to get my attention. 

“Yes . . . Now would be a very good time for me to strap in, put on my chicken plate, and helmet.” 

Reaching down, I was about to friction down the controls so I could “get dress” while flying my little bird. 

“Oooops??  I don’t need to do that.  They are still frictioned.” 

Eventually, I got “dressed” as I continued on my way to Lane.  This ole boy had had enough war for one day and it was time for a triple short of sour-mash to sooth savagely shattered nerves.  Ole Trooper Brucie DID NOT like getting shot at while on the ground.  It simply was not part of the exciting vacation package which I had purchased in my contract.  Disturbing my glorious thoughts of liquid medication to sooth my fear wracked body and psyche, the radio cracked. 

“Red One-four . . . where are you?  Are you OK?  We heard the Uplift got mortared while you were rearming.” 

“Ahhhh . . . Ahhhhh Six, I’m at eight thousand feet heading for the barn.  I’m done for the day.  THEY TRIED TO KILL ME!” 

Today, I can hear the laughter in ole Joe Tobin’s voice.