F. O. B.

A Tale of Viet Nam

ieutenant Arnold Pfeiffer examined the stack of mission sheets in front of him. Except for the FOB, they weren't a bad lot today, he thought. He looked at his watch. 12:10. Ten minutes after midnight. Hell, it's tomorrow already. Well, that's par. Haven't finished before midnight all week, he thought.

He picked up the papers and headed for the front of the tent. He stood in the doorway smelling the compound and letting his eyes adjust. The sky was overcast, the night dark. The perimeter lights were on, and the maintenance building was lit up like New York City. "Makes a fine target," he muttered as he started out the doorway. He thought again about the missions. With sixteen slicks and seven gunships flyable, he had enough aircraft to fill all mission requests, and still leave an aircraft for maintenance and a backup slick and gunship. Maintenance was either lucky or gaining competence, and maybe he shouldn't grumble about the amount of light they use or how good a target they are, he thought.

He passed a bunker on his right, empty now, and a guard tower next to it. The tower was outlined by the perimeter lights, which shone outward into the no man's land outside the compound. Each tower had two high intensity perimeter lights, angled so that they intercepted the lights from the other towers on either side. He saw a dark silhouette in the tower, and then the glow of a cigarette. His eye could just pick out the shape of the concertina wire along the perimeter fence.

He passed the new mess hall, a large wooden building which housed the kitchen, the enlisted eating area, the officers eating area, and the drinking arenas for both. It was dark now. The commander had initiated a policy of curfew for the men and had guaranteed its obedience by shutting down nonessential generators at 11:00 pm. All that really happened, of course, was that those that wished to stay up and drink, stayed up and drank elsewhere.

He entered a new, wooden building, and walked down the center aisle, looking at doors as he passed them, using a flashlight. Occassionally he opened a door and put a mission sheet inside, sometimes on the mosquito net over the bed, sometimes on the footlocker which was everpresent in the rooms. Sometimes he exchanged a word with the occupant if they were awake or wakened. This delivery routine wasn't required, he knew, but had developed into a ritual with him. He enjoyed it.

He visited three such buildings, and delivered twenty mission sheets. He then returned to his own room, undressed, and lay down on his bunk. He reached for his alarm clock, a small travel alarm, wound it and set it for six o'clock. He closed his eyes and thought about the missions and the men. He wouldn't fly tomorrow, which was the first time in a week. Maybe, he thought, I'll catch up on some sleep. He felt that his task of matching missions and men was very important, but little appreciated. He knew that he had done well this evening, although he was a little worried about Blocker. Something must have happened with him and his wife on R and R. He resolved to keep an eye on him, maybe give him light duty for awhile. Maybe, after all, F. O. B. wasn't the best duty for Blocker just now. He sighed and shrugged mentally. Need an officer on those missions, though. The C. O. had made a point of that. Finally, he sighed with resignation and soon was asleep.

* * * * *

F. O. B. was really an acronym for forward Observation Base, but everyone thought of the mission as Fly Over the Border.

It was a regular mission, requiring four slicks and two gunships daily, and was the least popular of all the missions as well as the most dangerous. There had been four aircraft lost during the last two months doing FOB work. Three of the air crews had been rescued, but the other had not. One had burned upon impact and the crew had burned with it. Of the three crews rescued, exactly half had been medivaced to the States, three pilots, two crew chiefs, and a gunner. The rest had been treated and released for duty, though one pilot, a lieutenant Meyer, had spent a month in Japan with pretty bad burns on his neck and face, and when he returned, they'd transferred him to headquarters with light duty.

One pilot, Roger Anderson, spent some recovery time afterwards, as well, and still carried a grim reminder of his experience. He was a gunship pilot, and as he had rolled in for a gun run, his ship had taken fire - 7.62 mm small arms fire. Usually such ground fire did not affect the aircraft, but this time the aim was accurate. There is an abundance of open space in a Huey. The critical areas are many, but take up a relatively small space. This particular AK-47 found two critical sites - an oil cooler fan, which stopped the turbine engine and brought the helicopter down, and Roger Anderson, the pilot. Three rounds hit him in the chest, or rather in the chest protector, his "chicken plate". The bullets had splattered on impact, and sprayed shrapnel all over, including into his face and chin. He was so busy for awhile landing the aircraft without an engine that he didn't realize he was injured. When they picked him up, he had set up a perimeter around the gunship with his crew, using the M-60 machine guns from the aircraft, and was treating his copilot for a broken leg. Anderson now sported a series of scars which began at his right ear, ran down his cheek, under his chin, and ended near his left shoulder blade. The doctor who operated to remove the shrapnel told everyone how lucky Anderson was, how close one piece had come to his carotid artery, but Anderson preferred to talk about how, if he'd been just a little quicker in jettisoning his rockets, he might not have had to land it so hard, which is what broke his copilot's leg, after all. And, he said, if he'd been wearing his flak vest over his chicken plate like he was supposed to, he wouldn't even have been injured.

So Anderson got a purple heart, four days vacation, a scar the others envied, and was back flying F. O. B.

Anderson was a second tour man. He had completed one tour, had taken thirty days leave in Sidney, Australia, and was two months into a second twelve month hitch in Viet Nam. He enjoyed it. Others regarded him with a mixture of wonder, respect, and concern for his sanity, but he knew he was perfectly sane. He didn't think flying a gunship was particularly hazardous - after all, he had had only one crash in fourteen months, and had survived that without serious injury. He liked to point out the hazards of driving the Santa Monica Freeway as a comparison.

And the helicopter he flew, the "C" model Huey gunship, was designed to be flown HERE, not over some Alabama woods. Here it was doing what it was supposed to, and he was flying as he was trained to. Here all flight had meaning, and that had nothing to do with the politics of Viet Nam, or the "domino theory", or anything other than the fact that a soldier soldiers, and he soldiers best in a war zone.

So Anderson was one of a small minority who didn't mind FOB missions. He looked up Lieutenant Blocker, who was the Blue platoon leader and the leader of today's mission, and found him at operations. The standard procedure was for one gunship pilot to ride over to the Special Forces compound with the mission commander to receive a briefing. Often there would be nothing to do on FOB except wait on events. Whenever a team was in the field, the four slicks and two gunships were on standby, so FOB was a 24 hour mission.

"I think we need to let them know that the weather can be a limiting factor." Blocker was talking to Pfeiffer.

"Well," Pfeiffer said, "we've got to do the missions as long as we get them. If you feel you can't complete a mission because of weather, well, that's your decision at the time. No one's going to second guess you."

"I just think that, with the monsoon season coming, they need to know the limitations of our aircraft."

"Yeah, well, we've been doing FOB for almost eighteen months now. I think they know about the rainy season." He turned to Anderson. "Hi, Roger." It was a strain talking to Blocker this morning. He'd changed since his R and R. He almost whined this morning about the weather, as if the weather was something Pfeiffer controlled. It was a relief to turn to Anderson.

"Hi." Anderson nodded towards the NotAm board. "Anything new?"

"Nope. Same old stuff." The NotAm board was a bulletin board with Notices to Airmen on it. It routinely had information about airfield towers and frequencies, times of operation, unusual weather, and, occasionally, enemy activity. Few people paid any attention to it, but relied on word of mouth. If someone took enemy fire from an area not heretofore held to be dangerous, especially if it was from a weapon that could significantly damage a Huey, such as a .50 caliber machine gun, everyone knew about it long before it was posted on the NotAm board.

Anderson turned to Blocker. "C'mon, Lieutenant. Let's see what they have in store for us today." Blocker nodded and they left the operations tent.

* * * * *

Anderson listened to the Special Forces captain brief Blocker about the FOB mission for the day, half his mind on the briefing and half on other stuff. Blocker sure was acting strangely, he thought. Looked a little green around the gills. Marriage'll do that to you, screw you up, get your priorities all mixed up. First thing you know you'll give up flying for pussy.

Anderson scratched his crotch and listened to the captain.

"One team at station nine", he pointed to an "X" on his map, "and one team going in at station two. That'll give us all the info we need on activity down the trail." The Ho Chi Min Trail is what he meant. The trail down which nearly all of the supplies for Ho's army in South Viet Nam came. Came on the backs of people. Carried for two hundred miles through the jungle to be used against the round eye foreign devils from America. We'll never understand these people, he thought. We come here for a year, and play at war, and go home. They aren't playing. It took three men to carry one rocket down the trail. Three men laboring at carrying one rocket down two hundred miles of jungle.

One rocket to be fired some dark night, perhaps to hit a town, perhaps a military target, perhaps just a rice paddy. The rockets were very inaccurate, but did considerable damage when they hit.

The FOB teams were twelve man teams who were inserted deep in Laos or Cambodia along the resupply routes. They located supply bases for B-52 strikes, were the forward observation base for the long range guns, and would call fire onto resupply groups moving along the trail. They were inserted and were expected to stay out of trouble for a week, then were extracted. Sometimes they were found out, and then they'd have to run for it, moving through the tropical forest praying for darkness, praying for any way to get out of the mess they were in. Twelve men. It was really too big for covert operations, but too small for sustained action. Twelve men were supposed to be able to operate in that environment without being discovered, and if they were, to protect themselves while they made a strategic retreat. When retreat didn't work, and it didn't work a lot of the time, they were extracted early or they were resupplied and reinforced.

First, a platoon would be landed to set up a perimeter. Then a company would follow to give some depth to the defense.

Meanwhile, gunships would move in, supporting the perimeter, and Air Force F-106's, Navy AT-6's, and perhaps the DC-3 with a minigun attached, and called Puff the magic dragon, would support them with air to ground fire.

Eventually everyone would be extracted, everyone would be pulled out one way or another, dead or alive, whether it took a day or a week. Eventually the FOB team would be pulled out to their Special Forces camp to regroup, to get drunk, to yell, to shout, to cry, and to return again the next time.

Anderson watched Blocker as Blocker listened to the captain.

"Nine was put in yesterday and we'll put two in today". The captain looked at his map. "Here, along this river. There's a clearing big enough to land two hueys, and it hasn't been used before. The team only has a few klicks to go to get to the trail. What do you think?"

Blocker hesitated, then "I don't know, the weather's pretty marginal. We've got this ridgeline to cross" pointing at the map, "and the weather sucks."

"You've got a thousand feet, and you can get there through this valley," the captain returned.

"And make the flight twenty minutes longer and reduce on- station time because of it." Blocker hesitated, then "When do you want this all to happen?"

"0900 hours". Right away, in other words.

"Okay. We'll be back in a half hour." Blocker and Anderson walked back to their aircraft. They had flown over to the special forces camp in Blocker's aircraft to receive the briefing. They had half an hour to return, top off the fuel, form the rest of the team, and get back to pick up the F. O. B. team. Thirty minutes to brief the men, let operations know where they were going, and get airborne again.

* * * * *

At 1215 hours the group of helicopters was approaching a river about 20 miles west of the South Viet Nam border. The four hueys flew a loose trail formation, with the two gunships riding their right flank. They flew at 900 feet elevation, right below a gray cloud layer. It had been an eventful morning, first picking up the FOB team, then flying north past Dak Tho towards Cambodia and "LZ Golf", where they were to drop the team. Low clouds and light rain had convinced Blocker to turn the group around and head back to Dak Tho where they refueled and waited for a change in the weather. At 1000 hours a "loach", a light observation helicopter, reported clearing conditions near the border where they would enter Cambodia, and they lifted off. By 1030 Blocker had again aborted the mission and returned to Dak Tho. Thurman, a young Warrant Officer who piloted the other insertion aircraft was getting nervous.

"What the hell, Blocker. Let's just get this thing done, huh?"

"Look, the weather sucks and I'm not putting six aircraft in jeopardy just because someone wants to get home to coffee, so relax."

"Ah shit. The weather's like the weather always is. We can sneaky pete our way in without a problem. This LZ is a cinch. Let's just go do it." Thurman wasn't a man to suffer silently. He didn't really like FOB. No one did. But if you had to do it, then do it, was his philosophy. Stop horsing around. Anderson sat on the skid of his gunship and smoked a cigarette. He was a patient man, but was somewhat concerned that their several attempts to enter Cambodia, and their continued presence on the airfield of Dak Tho was being noted. He was concerned that LZ Golf might just be getting some V. C. attention. There weren't that many good landing areas near the trail.

At 1145, just about when Anderson was thinking about getting some lunch, Blocker announced they would leave. And so they piled into the helicopters and, after dodging clouds and mountains, arrived at their destination by 1215.

"Foxtrot team, this is Foxtrot six", Blocker broadcast over the FM radio. "Clearing ahead looks like LZ Golf. Circle the horses while I take a look."

Thurman was incensed. "Shit, Blocker. Why don't you just broadcast our position to the fuckin' NVA? Let's just get in and get out."

"Just do what I say. This'll only take a minute." Blocker took his helicopter down low, entered an approach to the LZ, and then pulled power and went around for another approach.

"Everything's okay. Some wind from the north, but not enough to matter. I'm going in for good. Thurman, you follow me in twenty seconds."

"Foxtrot 3, roger." Thurman left the daisy chain of helicopters circing the forest and headed for the LZ. As he made his final approach over the trees into the clearing, Blockers bird emerged on the other side. In the clearing the last of the FOB team was disappearing into the woods. He brought the aircraft to a hover and the six troops in the back jumped out. As he pulled pitch and left the clearing he announced "Foxtrot 3, clear of the LZ. Let's deedee-fucking-mao."

Anderson and his partner had continued circling the area in position to roll in on the LZ, should that have proved necessary.

Now he fell in behind the four helicopters as they left the area. For the return flight, he let his copilot fly.

"Blocker's turned candy-ass on us since R and R", Mac said.

His name was really Alan Macklin, but he was Mac to everyone.

"Hate to see a guy turn yellow."

"Don't sell him short yet." Anderson propped his foot on the center console and lit a cigarette. "Blocker's okay."

"Bullshit. He's changed. He can't fuckin' piss without checkin' the piss tube for low clouds." The piss tube was a unique contraption that consisted of a 155 mm artillary shell with end cut off and embedded in a miniature drain field with the end sticking up in the air about crotch high. They were located throughout the compound for the convience of soldiers.

"Yeah, well. Give him a week to get over his R and R. He'll come around, I bet." Anderson looked out the window and puffed on his cigarette.

-----------------

Few things numb the mind like fear. It's all very well to say screw the weather, let's just do it, but when it comes down to flying into known hot zones at altitudes and in weather that make you very visible and easy to hit, it's a different story. The pilots all wanted to fly at 1000 feet altitude or better, because at that height no one could hit them with small arms fire, which was the only serious ground to air fire there was. At 300 feet, however, a helicopter was a sitting duck. The answer to flying at 300 feet was to fly super low, down at the tree top level. That solved ground fire as long as one stayed at a reasonable speed, like 80 knots, but if you slowed, such as coming in or out of an LZ, you became, again, a sitting duck. It was also best to be first in line, because you then had the element of surprise on your side. If you were number four or six or ten in line, the guy on the ground had time to zero in his weapon and find the perfect spot to really nail you. All in all, Blocker's tactics were not the best. He had made several false starts towards the LZ, and then circled it once they had arrived.

That may have been the thing to do in flight school, but it didn't work in Viet Nam.

"Shit. I knew this'd happen." Mac stewed as he fidgeted in the right seat of the gunship. It was 1630 and they were headed back to the LZ to pick up the team. After four hours, the team was in trouble. Actually, the team was probably in trouble from the start, but they didn't realize it until around 1400 hours, and then they had to sneak around in the bush, trying to escape and evade for awhile, until they finally gave up and called in for an evacuation. Blocker's crew had been standing by all day, and were in the air within minutes.

So here they all were, in lousy weather, flying at 100 feet elevation because they couldn't get higher than 500 feet before they went IFR in the clouds. Night was coming in about an hour and a half, and, at this altitude, navigation was difficult. The gunships followed at a slightly higher altitude since they were heavily loaded and needed a greater safety margin. Since they were so heavy, they slowed considerably as they climbed to clear ridgelines and mountains. This made Mac very nervous, and he took it out on Blocker.

"That shithead's gonna get us all killed," he mumbled, though he managed to key his intercom before he mumbled it.

"Relax. We'll be in and out in an hour." Anderson knew it was probably a lie, but he wanted to calm his copilot down. It was a 40 minute flight just to get out to the LZ, so even if there were no problems, they were looking at a minimum of an hour twenty, and if there were complications, well....it could be an all nighter.

Mac's fear was based on his sure knowledge that Charley would be waiting for him at the LZ, and that they would arrive at dusk when the visibility was terrible, unless one was shooting upwards towards the sky.

Blocker broke the silence as they neared the Cambodian border. "I'm going to 59.3 on Fox Mike", he said, meaning an FM frequency to contact the team on the ground. Anderson listened in.

"Smokey Dog 6, Smokey Dog 6. This is Foxtrot 6. How do you read me, over?" There was no answer except static.

"Smokey Dog 6, Smokey Dog 6. This is Foxtrot 6. How do you read me, over?"

Through a crackle of static, they heard "...six, this is Smokey Dog 6. Read you loud and clear. How me, over?"

"Gotcha five-by, Smokey Dog. We're about eight clicks out, yet. You got a clearing for us to use?"

"Roger, Foxtrot. We're a couple hundred yards up the slope on this hill and there's a fairly level clearing here. Ready to pop smoke on your signal, over."

"Roger that, Smokey Dog. Stand by."

"Eight clicks my ass," Mac adjusted his chicken plate and stared out the window. In truth, there is very little for copilots to do in gunships. They're supposed to monitor the intruments and call out critical readings during gun runs, but the pilot is in charge of both manuevering the helicopter as well as in firing the weapons. The copilot can navigate, but in this case, that was being done by Blocker, who was leading them all. Traditionally, gunship pilots traded gun runs and stick time, i.e. flying time, with their copilots, but that wasn't mandatory.

Mac, out of boredom, was navigating. "We're at least 15 clicks away, and I think he'll miss the LZ unless he comes right about ten degrees."

"More than that, he wasn't listening to the team. They're up a hill, not at LZ Golf. That's down by the river. I think they're on the run." Anderson was begining to be miffed.

"Blocker, Anderson here. You better find out where these guys are, 'cause I don't think they're at Golf."

"Smokey Dog 6, Smokey Dog 6, This is Foxtrot 6, over."

"Foxtrot 6, Smokey Dog 6, over."

"Smokey Dog, what is your position, over."

"Right, Foxtrot. We've been on the run for a couple of hours now. We've circled around and I think we're just up the hill from LZ Golf."

"Smokey Dog, can we use Golf for a PZ, over?"

"Negative, negative, Foxtrot. Golf is overrun. We've got a PZ on the ridge about two clicks above Golf, over."

"Roger Smokey Dog. Let us know when you hear us coming. Out." Blocker was still flying low level, right on the tree tops. His navigation was not the best because of it. The original LZ Golf was a small clearing on a river in a valley between two ridgelines. The new PZ was above it, on a ridgeline.

Looking out to the west of his gunship, Anderson saw only clouds on the ridgeline. He half expected Blocker to call the team on the ground and cancel due to weather. Instead he heard "Smokey Dog, we should be getting close. We're down below cloud level on the trees. Can you hear us or see us, over?"

"Roger, Foxtrot. I can hear you now, but we can't see shit up here. I can only see overhead and that's gettin' a little hazy." Dusk was coming on and the clouds were sitting on the ridgelines on both sides of the river. They couldn't see the river because of their altitude, but they knew it was there. Suddenly they flew over a clearing - LZ Golf. The first aircraft were beyond the clearing before anyone on the ground could react, but the gunships, which were bringing up the rear and were slightly higher anyway, received ground fire.

"Taking fire, taking fire," the crew chief and gunner both called out, and both returned fire with the M60 machine guns attached to the sides of the ship. Anderson rolled the nose over and hugged the trees more closely. Ahead, Blocker had begun a turn that would take them closer to the ridgeline on the west. He called to the team on the ground.

"Smokey Dog. I don't think we'll see it, but pop smoke now."

"Popping smoke, Foxtrot. I think you're right below us. We heard the gunfire."

"Roger, Smokey Dog. I can't see your smoke. Stand by. I'm coming up. You talk me in, okay?"

"Roger, Foxtrot".

"Foxtrot team, this is Foxtrot 6. I'm going up this ridge and try to find the team. You guys stay low and keep to the west side of this valley. I'll let you know what I find."

A series of rogers greeted this announcement, and then silence, as the helicopters flew back down the valley they had just flown up. No further gunfire was seen.

"Still think he's a wimp?" Anderson asked Mac. "He's going to hover up that slope in zero-zero weather in a hot territory. He's not even sure where the PZ is, much less where Charley is. We can't do shit from down here, because he's up in the stupid cloud. Whaddya say?"

Mac glowered out the window. It was clear that once the situation became hairy, Blocker became professional. He couldn't leave the team here. They were only twelve men and would probably not be alive come morning. But still, at a hover, a helicopter is a big target. If any NVA were on the ground as he hovered over them, he was toast. And he could only pick up half the team. The number two helicopter had to do the same thing and pick up the other half.

"You're right overhead, Foxtrot. I can see you. I can see you."

"Roger, Smokey Dog. Got you in sight." Blocker came up on the UHF, the radio used between aircraft. "This is a real hover hole, guys. It's going to take us a minute. Let's hope Charley stays down by the river."

"Hey, Blocker. Why don't Champ and I give them something to think about while you guys fool around up there"? Anderson called back. Champ was the pilot in the second gunship. "Good idea, Anderson. Go for it."

"Okay, Champ. Follow me," Anderson said as he began a turn to take him back to LZ Golf. As he approached the LZ, he fired two rockets at the far treeline, and open up with his minigun. The crew chief and gunner in back fired their machine guns as well. There was some sporatic fire received from the trees, but not as much as they'd gotten the first time through. Anderson passed the clearing and began a slow climbing turn so he could make another run. As he passed the LZ on the return, Champ was just beginning his run. They had set up a daisy chain, with someone in the run most of the time.

"Don't use all your artillary, Champ. We may need some later," Anderson warned.

"Roger, Roger," Anderson's first name was Roger, and it was Champ's attempt at humor. He was enjoying himself.

"Coming out. Thurman, you wait until you see me, then come on in. It's tight, but doable." Blocker's voice was calm. They were at 2500 feet elevation and Blocker's helicopter had ten people on board, plus their full packs. He couldn't see because of the clouds and the failing light, yet he appeared calm.

"Roger, I'm about a click away right now." Thurman's voice was a little tight. Soon a helicopter appeared hovering down slope towards them. "Got you in sight, Blocker. I'm going in."

"Roger." Blocker called the two backup helicopters and took them down the valley to wait until Thurman was done. The two gunships continued to make gun runs on the small LZ with the NVA, and darkness continued to fall.

The fear that had gripped Mac earlier, and had bothered Thurman and Blocker and probably everyone on the mission, in fact, had largely dissipated. Now there was something to do. Now there was a team to retrieve that, if they didn't get out tonight, might end up dead or in a bamboo prison. Now there was an enemy to shoot at, regardless whether or not you hit him. Now there was a mission that meant something, rather than a mission that some Captain or Colonel or General somewhere had dreampt up.

Now the machines you were driving around in were performing at maximum power in an element they were designed to perform in. Everyone was enjoying the strange sensation of having a smile on their face and a tight asshole at the same time. They weren't so much afraid any longer as they were tense.

"Foxtrot 3, clearing the PZ. Got 'em all in the crib. Let's go home."

"Roger three. We're a click and a half south. Let us know when you see us. Anderson, why don't you break off and form up with us."

The six helicopters formed up and made a loose trail formation heading out of the valley. They flew slightly higher now, because of the dark and because of the extra load they carried. They received no further fire, and they returned to base uneventfully, dropping the FOB team at the Special Forces Camp. In fact, they were able to eat dinner only slightly late.

Some of the potatoes were still warm and the coffee was still hot. All the crew was on call until morning, so no alcohol was allowed. FOB was a 24 hour mission. It was one of the big reasons that the crews hated it so. It cut into their beer time. Lieutenant Arnold Pfeiffer found them in the mess hall as they ate. "So, how'd it go?"

"Aw, I fucked it up from the get-go," Blocker said. "If I had just put them in at first without all that bullshit coming and going, they probably would have been fine. We gave the position away putting them in, I guess, and it's my fault." Thurman looked at Blocker and then at Anderson. Pfeiffer said "Don't be too hard on yourself. You got 'em out as well."

"Yeah, but it put the mission in jeapardy doing it."

"Ah, Bullshit. It was a kick in the pants." Thurman was never one to hold a grudge. Let's do it again tomorrow." He smiled at Anderson, who nodded back.

Pfeiffer got up to go and Anderson joined him. As they walked across the yard to the operations tent, Anderson said "Things are back to normal now. Blocker did okay." Praise from Caesar, thought Pfeiffer. Praise indeed. He nodded and entered the tent. He had missions to assign, and it was getting late.

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