The battle known as Lam Son 719 had been going on for almost three weeks starting on 8 February 1971. Over six hundred US helicopters were involved transporting South Vietnamese ground forces into Laos. The mission was to destroy the North Vietnamese storage facilities at the end of the Hoi Chi Minh Trail in the vicinity of Tchepone Laos. While the lifts were progressing towards Lolo and Liz, two of the major landing zones approaching Tchepone, the 2/17th Cav with its attached cav troops was busy reconning the area around Tchepone and directing Tac Air strikes on what they were finding. Flying in heavy pink team consisting of two AH-1G Cobra gunships, two light observation helicopters, commonly called OH-6 Cayuse aircraft, and a UH-1H Huey transport helicopter acting as a command-and-control aircraft (C&C aircraft) that also served as a recovery aircraft, the pilots were having good success in locating weapons platforms, truck parks and storage facilities.

Bravo Troop, 7th of the 1st Cav, call sign Dutchmasters, had been working with the 223rd Combat Aviation Battalion since the beginning of the operation, conducting reconnaissance of the landing zones, and flight routes. They had been very successful from the beginning, finding truck farms, refueling stations and anti-aircraft weapons. Likewise, they had taken some casualties. Dutchmaster Six, the unit commander, was flying the C&C aircraft at four thousand feet with his two AH-1G Cobras and two OH-6A Cayuse helicopters flying with him. Their mission this morning was to conduct a reconnaissance of a new landing zone that was being created that morning, code named Landing Zone Sophia. The B-52 bomb strike, consisting of five B-52 bombers, had gone in at 0615 hours, followed by an additional B-52 strike an hour later. At approximately 0745, the Daisy Cutter bomb was dropped and created the landing zone needed. The Daisy Cutter bomb was dropped on a parachute, nose down, from a C-130 cargo aircraft. A long probe extended from the nose of the bomb and was about 15 feet long. When the probe hit the ground the bomb would detonate cutting down trees and making a landing zone for a helicopter or several depending on the vegetation that was cut. The crated landing zone then would be enhanced by Tac Air strikes. As soon as the Tac Air strikes cleared out, the Dutchmasters went in to assess the area for enemy activity.

“Dutchmaster Six, Two-Three, over,” called Mister Dooley, flight leader for the Oh-6 team. The OH-6 pilot was occupying the right front seat, with his crew chief serving as a gunner in the right rear seat. The left seat was occupied by an artillery sergeant who had been flying with the cav, calling in artillery and air strikes when needed.

“Two-Three, Six, go ahead, responded Dutchmaster Six.”

“Six, Two-Three is descending for a look-see, over.” The two OH-6 aircraft began a rapid descent, followed by the two Cobras.

“Roger, I have Hammer Two-Six-Seven coming up with a flight of four F-4s standing by, over,” responded the commander of the Dutchmasters informing that US Air Force jet fighters were arriving shortly.

Looking over his right shoulder at his crew chief/gunner. “You ready?” Mister Dooley asked.

“Good to go,” replied Sergeant McAlroy. McAlroy was the perfect size to be a crew chief on a Oh-6, being five foot five inches. Sitting half in and half out of the aircraft and holding his M60 machine gun in his lap, he had been flying with Mr. Dooley for the better part of eight months. They had become close and were a good team.

Mister Dooley looked at his artillery forward observer. “Here we go,” he said as he bottomed the collective to the full down position, causing everyone’s stomachs to jump into their throats. Staff Sergeant Barnes was on his second tour in Vietnam, his first being a year prior, walking with the grunts. He liked this flying assignment much better, not only for the additional pay but for the opportunity to live in a higher state of comfort, with a cot to sleep on and a tent to keep the rain off while sipping a cold beer each night.

“Two-Three, Three-One,” Dooley’s wingman called.

“Three-One, Two-Three, go ahead.”

“Two-Three, you want me to follow today or lead?”

“Three-One, you’re the bitch on this one, so bitches always follow the males’ lead,” Dooley said. Mr. German had been in-country for six months and shared a room with Dooley. The two of them would take any and every opportunity to jerk the other’s chain when the situation presented itself.

“Two-Three, you may lead in the dance, but this bitch sets the mood and don’t you forget it.”

“Two-Three, Three-One, if you two can cut the bullshit, can we get on with this mission?” a voice said over the UHF radio frequency. They recognized it as Dutchmaster One-Six, the lead Cobra. Those Cobra jockeys take everything too serious, Dooley thought.

“Roger,” Dooley said and began to concentrate on the job at hand. The intended landing zone was shrouded in dust from the bomb strikes as well as smoke from the forest fires that were burning around the landing zone. As Dooley reached the treetops, he checked his descent and began to slow his airspeed from eighty knots down to a fast walk. He knew that German was about fifty yards behind him and following as well as looking to see what he could.

“Hey, sir, I have some exposed bunkers and a trench line over here,” Barnes said, leaning over the side of the aircraft with his M16 on his lap.

“Three-One, trench left side.”

“Roger.” Three-One swung wide to the right so German could take a look at it as he came up along the left side of Two-Three with the trench line between them. As he did so, Staff Sergeant Barnes pulled the pin on a white phosphorous grenade and dropped it into the opening of a bunker on the trench line. Five seconds later, the grenade detonated, sending up a white cloud and a fountain of white-hot sparks. No secondary explosions, however. Two-Three accelerated and continued in his search pattern.

“Oh shit, 23mm, ten o’clock!” McAlroy yelled. The 23mm was a large rapid fire anti-aircraft gun which rapidly fired rounds that could easily destroy a helicopter. Dooley was expecting an immediate burst of fire, but nothing. He accelerated and swung wide in a right turn. Sitting on the gun was a gunner in the gun seat but not moving. Two ammo loaders were sitting on the ground next to the gun but also not moving. They all appeared to be in a daze. One guy was squatting and holding his head. He didn’t move as the aircraft passed over him. Dooley moved in for a closer look, coming to almost a low slow pass at fifteen feet in the air.

“Dutchmaster Six, Two-Three, I have a twenty-three mike-mike with crew, but they appear to be in a daze. Going in for a closer look.” He glanced up to check to the position of the two Cobras above him to make sure he wasn’t in their line of fire if they had to start shooting.

“Roger, Two-Three.” Dooley made another pass and realized why they weren’t shooting at him.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” McAlroy asked. “Can you believe that shit?” As they orbited the anti-aircraft position, Dooley processed what he was seeing.

“Six, Two-Three, over.”

“Go, Two-Three.”

“Six, Two-Three, there are four guys with this gun. It appears they’re all suffering from the concussing wave of the B-52 strike. Two of these guys have their eyeballs blown out of their sockets. One guy is bleeding profusely from his eyes and ears, and one guy is just there but I don’t think he’s alive. Also, one guy is chained to the gun. Over.”

“Roger, Two-Three, I suspect the chained guy is the gun crew and the other two are probably ammo bearers, or maybe one ammo bearer and one gun captain. Put them down, over.”

“Roger, Six.” Dooley turned to McAlroy. “Hit ’em.” McAlroy immediately began firing on the position, ensuring that the four individuals wouldn’t be a threat to the lift that would be coming in a few hours. Staff Sergeant Barnes plotted the position on his map for a possible air strike later in the morning and tossed a red smoke grenade to mark the location for the C&C and the orbiting Cobras. As the two OH-6 aircraft maneuvered around the landing zone area, they were taking occasional small-arms fire, but nothing was coming from the immediate vicinity of the landing zone. The further away they moved out from the landing zone, the more fire they received. It was obvious that the lift wasn’t going to be subject to a very hot landing zone today.

“Two-Three, Six, over.”

“Go ahead, Six.”

“Two-Three, let’s start working our way down the intended flight route and see what’s what. Over.”

“Roger, Six. Break, Three-One, did you monitor?”

“Roger, my turn to lead.”

“Sorry, Three-One, but we agreed, you were the bitch today.”

“Okay, I’m on your tail, but don’t get lost taking us home,” Three-One instructed. To recon the route, the two aircraft would appear to be chasing each other as they flew in a wide circle following an S pattern down the flight route. They quickly realized that this portion of the flight might not be as easy as the landing zone, as they were constantly engaged by small-arms fire. Crossing an open area that appeared suddenly, Dooley caught a full burst of fire across the front of his aircraft. Three rounds caught him in the chest on his chicken plate, and with a loud moan, he slumped over. Immediately, Staff Sergeant Barnes grabbed the cyclic control with his right hand while holding his M16 in the left and fired a burst into the tree line. Another long burst came from McAlroy’s M60 in the rear. As Barnes popped over the tree line, several explosions went off behind him, lifting the aircraft.

“Shit, Dooley’s hit!” Barnes called on the radio. To those in the other aircraft, it was obvious Dooley wasn’t flying the aircraft, as it was radically bobbing and the tail boom was swinging from side to side.

“Two-Three, is he alright?”

“Shit no, he isn’t alright. He’s unconscious.”

“Well, who’s flying the aircraft?”

“I hope it’s God because I don’t know how to fly.”

Dutchmaster Six, Major Dupree, flashed a look at his copilot, Captain Hatchel. “Oh shit, how long has Sergeant Barnes been in the unit?” Dupree asked.

“Sir, I think he’s only been with us for a month, maybe two,” Hatchel replied. Dupree continued to watch the LOH dance and weave, twist and turn as it progressed towards the east. At least he’s going in the right direction.

“Okay, we’re going to have to talk him down, but let’s wait unit he crosses the border,” Dupree said. He depressed his transmit button with his index finger. “Two-Three, this is Six,” he called in as calm and fatherly a voice as he could muster.

“Six, this is Two-Three. Mr. Dooley is really in a bad way.”

“Two-Three, roger, I understand. So you’re going to have to get him to Khe Sanh. I understand you don’t know how to fly. Is that correct?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Oh shit, I’ve never flown the aircraft by myself, sir. I know how everything works but I haven’t done it.”

“Two-Three, then you have all you need to know right now and I’m going to talk you to Khe Sanh and a landing. Understood?”

“Sir, I can’t hover this thing. How am I going to land it?”

“Two-Three, don’t worry about that just yet. For right now, we’re just going to fly the aircraft, okay? I want you to pull up a bit on the collective and get some altitude. Just come up a little bit on the collective, maybe a half inch,” Major Dupree said, “and keep the nose pointing in the same direction by gently pressing the pedals.”

Dutchmaster Three-One was behind and to the left of Two-Three, keeping tabs on his progress and offering words of encouragement at times. McAlroy could do nothing but hang on for dear life. Finally Two-Three began to rise in altitude. Now if the damn gooks just won’t shoot at him and he just doesn’t panic, Dupree was thinking.

They continued to the South Vietnam-Laotian border. German could see that Dooley was being held in his seat by the shoulder straps in the locked position, but his chin was on his chest. As they crossed the border, Dupree started to breathe a bit easier, but now the hardest part was going to happen. He had to talk this kid down.

“Two-Three, how you doing? Looks like you’ve been flying for a while. You sure you haven’t flown before? It’s okay to tell me. No one will get in trouble,” Dupree transmitted.

“No, sir, Six. I ain’t ever done this before. Sir, I don’t mind telling you, I’m scared.”

“No need to be. How old are you?” Got to get his mind at ease.

“Six, I’m twenty-one, over.” That’s a good sign. He’s using proper radio procedures now.

“Two-Three, you’re twenty-one. Hell, you’re probably older than Mr. Dooley. Tell you what, since you’re over twenty-one, I’ll buy you a beer at Khe Sanh when we get in since you’re of legal age,” Dupree said, knowing full well that no one paid any attention to the age limit for drinking beer, or any other kind of liquor. “You got this. That’s Khe Sanh on the horizon and we’re going to land there. You’re going to do a running landing. Do you know what that is? Over,” Dupree asked.

“Six, that’s where we slide along the ground, right? Over.”

“Two-Three, you got it. I’ll tell you when to lower the collective and pull back slightly on the cyclic and we’ll have you slide it right to the ground. Sound good? Remember to keep the nose pointing towards the airfield by using your pedals. Over.”

“Roger, Six. Do I need to change frequency to get my clearance to land? Over.”

“Two-Three, you don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it. You just fly the bird, over.” He looked at Captain Hatchel and the order to call for tower clearance was silently delivered. Hatchel contacted Khe Sanh Tower, declaring an emergency and asking for a crash truck and ambulance to be standing by.

“Two-Three, this is Six. I want you to lower your collective about a quarter of an inch.”

“Roger, Six, a quarter of an inch.” Dupree and Hatchel watched the LOH begin a shallow descent as Khe Sanh drew closer.

“That looks good, Two-Three. Now need you to turn to your left just a little bit. Just think about turning left. That’s it. Now think about coming back to the right. Look at Khe Sanh and just steer towards the runway. Gently, gently,” Dupree said as the aircraft rocked back and forth, nose high and nose low.

“Two-Three, loosen your grip on the cyclic. I want you to hold it only with your fingertips and that bouncing and bucking will stop. Be sure your elbow is resting on your leg.” After a few moments, the gyrations seemed to settle down but don’t stabilize completely.

“He had a death grip on the cyclic,” Hatchel said.

“Wouldn’t you?” Dupree said, looking at Hatchel with a grin.

“Yeah, I suppose so. I seem to recall my first day in primary flight. We all had death grips on the cyclic.” They both turned their attention back to the LOH aircraft.

“Two-Three, this is Six.”

“Go ahead, Six.”

“Two-Three, you’re looking good. The runway is right in front of you and you’re lined up. Now I want you to focus on a point about a quarter of the way down the runway. That’s where we want the skids to touch the ground. Have you got it? And only two finger tips and your thumb on the cyclic.” Dupree asked.

“Roger, Six, I have a point and only three fingers.”

“Good, now I don’t want you to look at anything else but concentrate on that point. Got it?”

“Roger, Six.”

“Okay now, if that point starts to move towards you, I want you to push down on the collective slightly. If it moves away from you I want you to not push on the collective but put some slight back pressure on the cyclic. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now I’m going to do the same in my aircraft, so I may tell you to push down or pull back. Got it?”

“Got it, Six.”

“Okay, come back slightly on the cyclic. Just think about coming back on it. That’s too much,” Dupree said as Two-Three suddenly started to balloon upwards. “Down pressure on the collective… just a bit and forward slightly on the cyclic.” The OH-6 appeared to regain its composure after thirty seconds—a long thirty seconds.

“Okay, Two-Three, let’s try that again. Slight back pressure, think it, and slight down pressure,” Dupree said, waiting to see the results. “Much better there, Two-Three. How does your point look?” Dupree already knew the answer to the question but wanted Sergeant Barnes to concentrate on that touchdown point instead of worrying about how to fly the aircraft.

“Six, that point is moving away from me.”

“Okay, I want you to just apply slight back pressure on the cyclic.” He paused. “Okay, what’s the point doing now?”

“Six, it’s just sitting there and I think getting bigger,” Sergeant Barnes said.

“Good, that’s what we want. Okay, need to come back on the cyclic a touch and slight downward on the collective,” Dupree told him. “Good, looking good. You’re one hundred and fifty feet above the ground and forty knots of airspeed, and that’s the speed we want, so…just put slight down pressure on the collective and we’re going to grease it right onto the runway. Keep the nose pointing down the runway. No erratic moves now… just hold what you got…doing good… hold it… hold it…when you feel the skids touch, put in just a touch of down pressure on the collective.”

Dupree held his breath. The OH-6 was moving over the runway and descending slowly towards a point about halfway down the runway. A crash truck, actually a deuce-and-a-half truck with a water barrel in the back, was off to the side of the runway with two soldiers in flame-retardant suits standing up in the truck cab, which had no top. They closely watched the OH-6 coming down the runway, swaying from side to side and rocking back and forth.

“I got twenty that says he balls it up,” the young specialist said, pulling a cigarette out of his mouth.

“You’re on,” the sergeant said, “I don’t mind taking your money.” They continued to watch as the aircraft wobbled down the runway. Finally the rear of the skids touched the ground.

“Down collective slightly and back cyclic, keep the nose down the runway. Now,” Major Dupree said excitedly over the radio. Barnes heard him and did what he was told. The aircraft came to a rapid and not-so-gentle stop, but it stopped.

“Two-Three, Six here, you okay?”

Shaking his head as he regained consciousness and feeling the pain in his chest, Dooley said, “Six, this is Two-Three, over.”

“Two-Three, where the hell have you been?” Six asked.

“Six, Two-Three, I don’t know, but my chest hurts like hell. I think I have some broken ribs. How did I get here?”

“Two-Three, that young man in the left seat brought you home.” Dooley looked over. Sergeant Barnes was looking straight ahead, perspiring profusely. Finally Barnes looked at Dooley as McAlroy was climbing out of the back and taking deep breaths. The ambulance was pulling up alongside the aircraft.

“Sir,” Barnes said, looking at Dooley, “are you okay?”

“I’ll live, Barnes.”

“Sir, can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Will you help me put a packet together for flight school?” Barnes asked as he broke out in a wide grin. “This is so kool!