Strangely enough, I hadn’t thought about this incident for years.  I am not sure why.  However, I suspect that it has something to do with feeling a little bit of shame, even then.  Yet, I was just a kid trying to do the best job I could in a difficult, no – near impossible, situation.

If my remaining two brain-cells have shared the appropriate snap of an electrical synapse this took place late in the summer of sixty-nine.  The Herd has sent us up into the Northwestern corner of the fish-hook (upper Ahn Lo Valley), possibly as far west as into the upper reaches of Happy Valley.  Anyway, this was bad guy country.  It always had been and to the best of my studies always remained so.  When the first team “cleaned out” the Ahn Lo early on, they didn’t get this neighborhood. 

One thing was for sure, we knew that going into this neighborhood we were extended out about as far as we could go.  Ole Charley Troop was on her own.  Well outside of any arty support, we knew better than to count on any help from the Herd.  Shoot, more times than not, we were their fire brigade as they never seemed able to get a reaction force put together in less than a day. 

Yet, young foolish and full of that aggressive “Scouting” spirit, Scotty, maybe Gary (do you remember this one Gary?) and myself were ready to rock and roll.  The fact that we would rock and roll was never in doubt.  This was “behind the lines” and we knew we would turn up something.  Our only question was what and when. Would it be a good sized bunker complex, troops on the move, a large hooch complex, or what?  Being the best of the best, it never crossed our minds that we could end up losing any slugging match that we started. 

Starting down the side of the ravine, we immediately found an extensive and well used bunker complex.  For a moment, we were a little confused about the makeup and location of the complex.  I think ole Scotty keyed up his mike. 

“You know what I think boss?  If we slide down to the blue line, we are going to find the mother lode.” 

Agreeing with him, I called up to C&C.  Passing on Scotty’s observation and agreeing with it, I told Joe Tobin that we were bypassing the bunker complex, even though that gave them the possibility of shooting down on us if they could see us.  I think that he was reading the lay of the land just like we were.  More on that later.  While Joe was a hard drinking, highly profane, occasional miserable SOB, he loved his scouts and was quite protective of us.  Taking on his Daddy/Major tone, he reminded me our location and told me to act with caution.  Of course, caution was not a word in my vocabulary way back when. 

With experience telling us where to look, I don’t think it took us over five minutes to find the mother lode of all base camps.  By this time, Scotty and I had uncovered many, many, many, and many more hooch and bunker complexes.  Well shoot a monkey, it didn’t take an experienced Scouting team to see what we were seeing, if they knew where to look.  We had seen hooch complexes, we had used up the national debt in willie pete grenades burning down hooch complexes.  But — THIS!!!

For maybe a minute or two, silence reigned supreme in the little cockpit.  I knew my wing-man had seen it, for he had dipped his nose swung out wider and pointed him mini directly under my little bird.  We were stunned into silence.  Regaining a touch of composure, I keyed up the UHF and began. 

“Ahhhhh Six, we got something big here.  Boss, I’m talking REALLY BIG.  I can’t even estimate how many hooches but they are all in excellent repair and somebody is home.  Most of them are about ten by twenty feet and laid out in nice square blocks.  Sir, they got roads here, not paths.  By roads I mean roads paved with logs.” 

I paused for a moment to try to compose my thoughts and the net is silent.  Everyone is waiting for the defecation to his the oscillating air moving device. 

I’ve got my head and shoulders out of the bird.  Scotty is standing on the skid with his M-sixty at the ready.  He has pulled the pin on his willie pete because he knows it will be thrown.  He will throw it when the heavens explode or when we push the issue.  I am sure Gary is doing exactly the same with his head, shoulders, and M-sixty ready.  Without a doubt, the pin is pulled on his willie pete.  Yet, all is quiet.  It is ---- it is the cloying still before a summer’s thunder storm. 

No one has spoken.  Scotty, using his sixty is pointing out unbelievable stuff as we slowly troll at about ten knots with our skids just brushing the tops of the double growth canopy at about 100 feet agl (above ground level). 

“Ahhhhhh Six, this is one-four, again.  Ahhhhhhh, we have got carefully groomed gardens and at what may be the headquarters building there is something I have NEVER seen before.  We have FLOWER gardens here.  These folk are full-time residents.” 

Blowing our little minds, Scotty and I see it at the same time. 

“Six, you better get on the horn.  (He had already been busy.  I should have know ole Joe would be one step ahead of me.  That must have been why I called him Sir and he called Mr. Carlson – unless I screw up again.  Then, I was that dumb butt Wobbly.) 

“Ahhh Boss, unless I am mistaken, we’ve stumbled upon somebody’s high level headquarters.  I’ll bet next month’s pay check that we’ve just spotted a HF antenna strung along the trees.  It is too low to be a snare for us.  It is well hidden in the trees.” 

“Sir, it is toooooo quiet.  Do I have your permission to recon by fire?” 

That cloying feeling of heavy air was getting to me.  Why doesn’t it just start to pour and the funnel clouds form?  By now, my gonads have been sucked up into my chest cavity.  I am torn between my natural fear knowing it I go down nobody in the world is going to get me out and my twenty-year-old Scouting Cav arrogance.  Just incase ole Joe needs my advice, I key up again.

“Six, you didn’t ask.  However, don’t even think of putting the Blues in.  They wouldn’t last thirty seconds and we’d NEVER get them out!”

Hearing my nervousness, Pappa Joe ignores my breach of command structure. :-)) 

All this time, we are still slowly trolling along and have not cleared this complex.  It was the biggest that I ever saw.  It seemed to go on forever and ever and ever.  I had images of the endless basic training barracks at Fort Polk.  On .... and on . . . and on . . . . . 

Nearing what seems to be the end of the “main drag,” if my mind had not been completely blown, it was then.  It was more than I could take.  Something within me snapped.  With it my two brain-cells went on vacation.  Here I was.  The cutting edge of the saber of the finest Army in the world.  This was a once in a lifetime find.  Team leader, I had two fearsome AH-6As at my disposal and a pair of snakes.  While I knew we could not beat of dislodge them with the tools at hand, I KNEW we were mean enough to slash at them with our saber and bloody the little people.  Therefore, my fangs came slashing out.  I think I heard Scotties slash out also. 

Keying up the intercom, I laid out my plan. 

 “Scotty, is that a shrine of some sort?” 

He answered affirmatively. 

“That’s what I thought.  I think I know how we can get them to come out to play.” 

Scotty reflected for a nanosecond.  With almost a giggle, he responded. 

“We put a couple of willie pets on it!  That’ll piss them off!” 

My reader does not need to write to me and tell me that any shreds of sanity had disappeared from my little Red Bird.  It was a given that between Scotty and myself we couldn’t put enough intelligence together to and one and one.  BUT — we were a hell of a pair as Scouts.  If Gary was with us that day, he filled out to team to a “T.”  WE HAD A PLAN!  All I had to do was sell it to the boss. 

“Six, this is one-four.  Sir this sucker is too big for us to take out with less that a Battalion. However, Scotty and I want to at least shoot it up.  Believe it or not, we have found some sort of a Buddhist or something shrine set up.  We want to drop a couple of willie petes on it and see if that’ll p*** the little people enough to come out and play.” 

It was quiet for a bit.  I guess I had finally stunned the outrageously profane man. (I wish I could talk with him today to get his take on what I said.)  He knew that I was religious and went to chapel when I could.  However, he also knew I was, at least at that time, a p*** and vinegar Scout driver. 

“I don’t like it one-four.  It doesn’t feel right to me.  However, if you guys want to shoot it up and p*** off the little folk, that’ll work.  Hey, be careful!  Don’t get you’re a** shot down cause we can’t get you out.  You said so yourself.”

Being past rational thought, it sounded like a plan to me. 

Keying up again, I called my wing.  “OK, one-six and White Birds, I’m going to kick the hornet’s nest and see if the little people want to come out and play.  It’s time to rock and roll!” 

Sliding over the little shrine, I heard the spoons pop off the two willie petes.  Lowering the nose and sliding into an curving return to the scene of the crime, I saw billowing clouds of white smoke and the little shrine starting to burn.  W E L L L L L L ---- the little people must have been hoping we were the world’s worst scouts or that we would decide they were too big to play with.  Anyway . . . all h*** broke loose.  I had never taken that level of fire before.  Suddenly, I remembered why my little thingies had migrated into my chest cavity.  Dumping the nose and grabbing an armload of collective, I crushed down on the mike. 

“TAKING FIRE!!!  TAKING FIRE!!!! J**** H. C***** THEY ARE THROWING EVERYTHING BUT THE KITCHEN SINK AT ME.” 

We were dead meat.  My wing man working his pedals was spraying his mini at about a forty-five degree sweep directly under me.  The White Bird were calling inbound.  Tracers were flying everywhere.  Scotty and Gary were hammering away with their sixties and I was making LITTLE in my seat while studiously ignoring TOT, N1, and Torque.  Yes, God looks after fools and drunks.  Since we were sober though not sane, we were God’s fools for the day.  We had yet to take any hits. 

The Snakes were breaking from their first pass.  We had some airspeed and it appeared we would get away after angering the little people.  Then I heard an unrecognized call sign calling inbound and telling the helicopters to get out of his way.  Ole Joe had gotten three of four pair of Fox fours lined up to work the site over.  UNSCATHED, WE GOT OUT OF THEIR WAY. :-)) 

For about thirty minutes, the Fox fours, under Joe’s guidance, worked over the complex and the bunker complex.  I orbited at about a thousand feet and enjoyed the show.  Ahhhh, you know, it is fun to be the little guy at the bar who starts the fight and lets the big boys have at it. :-))   Scouting sis have its advantages. 

When the Fox fours called bingo on stuff that went bang, I keyed up the mike. 

“Six, this is one-four.  Would like Scotty and I to go in and give the Air Farce pukes a BDA?” 

Oops!  Joe had some choice comments about the intelligence that neither Scotty nor I seemed to have.  He kinda close up with.