Hamfist Over the Trail (7 page)

Early on Monday morning, probably around 0500, all 13 of us in the Visiting Officer Quarters were awakened by a loud bang on our doors. It was Sergeant Williams, the Admin NCO at FAC-U.

“Gentlemen,” he bellowed, “you have 45 minutes until your departure for Clark!”

That was enough time to shit, shower, shave and pack, but not enough time to go to the chow hall. Well, nobody said it would be easy.

We all made it to the waiting bus on time, and were shortly deposited at the Phan Rang terminal. We checked in at the passenger counter, and learned that the C-130 aircraft that would take us to Clark was on a Maintenance Non-Delivery, called MND. They expected to have a replacement airplane around noon, but it was possible that a plane would be ready sooner. We would all need to hang around the terminal, since the plane would be leaving ASAP whenever it was ready to go.

This was my first exposure to the expression, “Hurry up and wait.”

We looked around and found a very austere cafeteria, basically donuts and coffee, then sat around in the plastic chairs, waiting. And bitching about waiting. Nobody mentioned Mitch, but everybody was thinking about him.

Finally, around 1100, we were marshaled into a C-130, and were on our way to Clark.

When we arrived, there was a Sergeant from the PACAF Jungle Survival School waiting for us with a military bus to take us to the VOQ. We were given about 15 minutes to check in, then we were whisked off to an afternoon class at PJSS.

As we assembled in the classroom, Major Vandenberg, the chief instructor of the school, welcomed us. “Gentlemen, I apologize for the screw-up that had you going to Vietnam before coming here. I don't know how it happened, but it's history, so let's get to work. We're holding a special class for you, and we'll be giving you two days’ worth of instruction today. Your instructor is Sergeant McCoy”

Sergeant McCoy was a Para Rescue Jumper – a PJ – with two tours of duty in Vietnam and numerous actual rescues in South Vietnam, North Vietnam and Laos. On one of his rescues, he had been lowered to the ground to help an injured pilot, and then the rescue helicopter had been forced away by enemy ground fire. Sergeant McCoy spent the entire night nursing the injured pilot and fighting the enemy until another chopper could come back the next day for the pickup. Here was a guy who really walked the walk.

For the rest of the day, we had hands-on instruction about how to use every item in the survival vest. Stuff I never would have figured out on my own. Like which end of the signal flare is for day use, which end is for night.

“The night end has these little bumps,” the instructor said, “They feel like little nipples. You feel the nipples at night. Any questions?”

We learned about the beeper. It turned out, the beeper was more than just a sweeping tone transmitted by the survival radio. If the sweep goes from high frequency to low, it means it was set off by an ejection seat. “High to low, just like you're traveling when you come down in a parachute,” commented the instructor.

The beeper that is transmitted when the URC-64 is manually placed in the BEEPER position sweeps from low frequency to high.

“You're on the ground, and you want to go up in a rescue helicopter. Questions?”

After the survival vest instruction, we mounted a platform about 20 feet high and practiced using the Tree Lowering Device that was a part of the parachute harness.

“You're going to be operating over triple-canopy jungle,” Sergeant McCoy said, “and there's a good chance you'll come down in trees, so you need a way to get down. This TLD will get you down from 50 feet up.”

I had to ask the obvious question, “What if we're higher than 50 feet in the air?”

“Well then, Lieutenant,” he replied, “you're fucked.”

After TLD work, we went to a lower platform, probably about 5 feet high, and practiced our parachute landing falls. We didn't get totally proficient in the PLF, but, what the hell, chances were we'd land in trees anyway.

It was getting dark when we got back in the bus. We expected to return to the VOQ, but the bus drove us off the base and accessed a winding mountain road. Sergeant McCoy noted our surprise.

“I guess nobody told you, you'll be spending the next two days in the jungle,” he said with matter-of-fact deadpan.

After about a two-hour drive, we were deep in the jungle. We were deposited at a small campground, with a couple of 2-man tents and a campfire.

The on-site instructor gathered us around the campfire, where there was a large pot with something cooking, along with several small skewers with pieces of meat. He handed us each a skewer, and took one himself.

“Here's your dinner,” he said, as he gnawed at the skewer.

I bit off a piece. It was tough, but it wasn't that bad. Tasted like chicken.

“This is pretty good,” I said. “What is it?”

The instructor smiled. “Gecko.”

I managed to keep the food down. Some of the other guys didn't.

After dinner, we were given mosquito netting and told to find somewhere to sleep. The instructors got to stay in the tents. I looked around and found a place that wasn't too wet, wrapped the mosquito netting around myself, and was soon asleep.

Early the next morning I was awakened by the sounds of people rustling around, and the smell of coffee. When I went to the campground, I noticed that, in addition to the instructors, there were about a dozen people who looked like primitive natives.

They were small, perhaps five feet tall, very dark-skinned, and wearing only loincloths.

“These are local negritos,” the instructor announced. “They are indigenous natives to the Philippines, and are the best trackers in the world.”

“During World War II,” he continued, “they were the best weapon we had in the Philippines. They would sneak into Japanese camps at night and slit the throats of every other sleeping soldier. You can imagine the effect that had on the enemy, to wake up and find the guy next to him dead.”

“Today they're going to show you how to survive in the jungle, and how to evade, and tonight you're going to try to hide from them and they're going to find you.”

He didn't say “Try to find you”, he said “Find you.” I was determined to prove him wrong.

We spent the day learning about how to find food and water sources in the jungle, how to avoid dangerous animals, and how to hide. I paid rapt attention.

As night fell, it was time for hide-and-seek. We each went off in different directions, wearing survival vests they had given us. We were simulating being downed aircrew members trying to escape and evade while waiting for rescue.

Along with our survival vests, we were issued three plastic dog tags to put on our dog tag chains. Each tag was really a form of payment. When a negrito would find any of us, he would retrieve one of our plastic dog tags and later redeem it for a bag of rice.

When the siren sounded in the morning to signal the end of the search, I had successfully evaded the searchers. I popped a smoke from my signal flare to show my position, and carefully worked my way out of the thicket. It took about an hour for me to extricate myself.

It turned out I was the only one in our group to have successfully evaded the negritos. Finally, I was a DG again!

When we all gathered at the campsite, we were rewarded with a real breakfast. The instructors had cooked bacon and eggs for us, and we all chowed down like we hadn't eaten in a week.

After breakfast, we piled onto the waiting bus to go back to Clark. Sergeant McCoy was at the front of the bus, talking to someone on a walkie-talkie.

When he finished, he announced, “Gentlemen, your flights to Vietnam will depart tonight. You'll have your Travel Authorizations waiting for you at the VOQ.”

When the bus deposited us at the VOQ, I went into the Billeting Office and got my TA. I would be leaving on a C-130 for DaNang at 2300 hours. I went back to my room and looked at the bed I hadn't slept in since I arrived.

I took a well-needed shower and decided to take a nap. I set the alarm that was in the room, and as I drifted off to sleep if occurred to me: I'd be spending New Year's Eve, like Christmas night, in an airplane!

19

January 1, 1969

When I arrived at DaNang it was about three in the morning. I had no idea where I was supposed to go, or what I was supposed to do. All I knew was that I would be in the Covey Squadron. Every FAC had his own call sign, and the call sign for each pilot in our squadron was Covey plus an identifying number. I was to become Covey 218.

To my surprise, there was a Major at the terminal holding a sign with the names of the three of us who were assigned to DaNang.

“Welcome to DaNang, welcome to Covey Squadron, and Happy New Year!” he beamed, “I'm Walt Walters, the Covey Squadron Ops Officer.”

We took turns shaking his hand.

“We're really glad to see you guys. We've been under-manned for over a month, so you guys will be getting all the flying you want. Come with me. I'll take you to the squadron first, then we'll get you set up in your hooch.”

We followed him to a beat-up Jeep. It was a standard GI Jeep, and it looked like it had been left over from world War II. It might have been.

The squadron was surprisingly abuzz with activity for the middle of the night.

“We operate around the clock here, so there will always be someone at the squadron if you need anything,” he remarked. “The boss will be here in about an hour.”

Major Walters called out to a Captain who was arranging some photos on the far wall. “Hey, Speedbrake, come and take care of our FNGs.”

The Captain walked over and introduced himself, “Welcome to DaNang. I'm Speedbrake Kane. How about you guys come over here with me, so I can take your picture. Then I'll show you around the squadron.”

We followed Speedbrake over to the wall that had a large Covey Squadron plaque, a picture of Snoopy on his doghouse making a rocket pass. We individually posed by the plaque as Speedbrake took a few pictures of each of us with his battered Nikon F.

“I'll get these processed as soon as the base photo lab opens, and then you'll be on the wall with the rest of the guys.”

I looked over at the wall that had all the pictures. They were arranged into the four units, called Flights, that comprised the squadron. Altogether, there were about 90 photos, with about 25 each in A Flight, C Flight and D Flight. There were only 15 in B Flight.

“Why is B Flight so small?” I asked.

“We've had a run of bad luck with B Flight. Two guys got shot down and never made it back, one was injured in a rocket attack and medically evacuated back to the world, and we had three DEROS last month. So all three of you will be in B Flight. The B Flight Commander is Major Withers. He's on R&R right now, so you won't get to meet him for about a week.”

Lieutenant Johnson, one of the other FNGs, asked, “What's a DEROS?”

“It's when you go back to the world. It stands for Date Eligible to Return from Overseas. It's an official military acronym. It will be exactly one year from when you left the States. When's your DEROS, Johnson?”

“Christmas.”

A Lieutenant, wearing Navigator wings, overheard him as he walked by. “If I had that long to go, I'd walk through a minefield,” he quipped. “Wearing snowshoes! I guess that would make you our FNGs. Welcome to DaNang. I'm Clink Clinger.”

We were in the midst of making our introductions when the siren sounded.

Everybody in the squadron stopped what they were doing and quickly walked out the side door. They didn't scramble, but they didn't take their time, either.

“Come with me,” Speedbrake said.

We quickly followed him out the side door of Covey Ops and into the nearby bunker. It was a structure about ten feet high, with plywood walls surrounded by sand bags, and corrugated steel sheets topped with sand bags on the roof.

Several of the guys inside had flashlights, and I could see that the interior of the bunker was pretty austere.

I could feel my heart racing, and I was glad it was dark enough that no one could see how scared I was.

“You'll get used to this,” Speedbrake commented. “The gomers lob rockets at us pretty much every night. Not too much of a big deal, really. They're not very accurate.”

Just as he said that, we heard a deafening BANG, followed a few seconds later by an even louder explosion. After a few more seconds, there was a slightly softer report, and then a final explosion from what sounded like far away. About a minute later the siren stopped.

“That's why DaNang is called Rocket City,” remarked a Lieutenant. “I guess they were welcoming you. Hi. I'm Balls Balser.”

In the dim light, I could make out a very young-looking, tall Lieutenant. We made our introductions, and followed everyone back to the Ops building.

“One last thing about rocket attacks,” Speedbrake added. “If you're in your rack, don't get up to go to a bunker, just roll out and get under your bed. The guys who get hurt in rocket attacks are the ones who stand up.”

When we got back inside, Major Walters said, “I'd like to visit with each of you separately for a few minutes. Lieutenant Hancock, come with me.”

We went into the small office with the sign “Operations Officer – Major John Walters” on the door, and he motioned me to a leather chair.