Suzanne Rice

Combat Air Crew – 1972

     So that air crews do not get overly exhausted, Air Force regulations state that pilots are not allowed to exceed 100 hours flight time within a rolling 30-day period.  The Army decided to beat the Air Force, so their regs say the limit is 110 hours max.  The Air Force regs further state that under combat conditions the max time is 130 hours, which means for the Army it is 140 hours.  Flight time is charted in the Operations section, where a 30-day rolling sum of flight hours is maintained.  Each day any new flight time is added and the 31^st day back is subtracted, so an accurate count is current for each aviator.

     Whenever an aviator reaches the max 30-day flight time, he is automatically grounded for three days.  Before he can fly again, he must be examined by the Flight Surgeon, to receive a “go-fly” slip.  If during that three-day period his rolling total has fallen below the limit, he can resume flying, provided his rolling total does not again exceed the limit.  In our unit, the interpretation was that if an aviator exceeded the limit during a mission, he would continue to fly the mission and be grounded at its completion.

     In early July our unit had just received some new birds, and were flying our asses off.  I had gotten seven days leave for late August, to meet my starter wife in Hawaii.  So, to maximize my flight hours, it had been scheduled that I had 139.5 hours rolling total the day before I was to depart.  That last day I was assigned a mission expected to last eight hours or more.  I flew that day with a high-time aviator who was about ready to become an Aircraft Commander himself.  At the completion of the day he dropped me off at Nha Trang, where I could catch a flight to Saigon, and he flew the 20 minutes back to home base solo.  My rolling total had hit 148.2 hours combat flying time in 30 days.

     Being on leave status, I was flying “space available,” which meant I was catching flights however I could to get where I wanted to go.  This was never a problem in Vietnam, and I assumed it would be no problem anywhere.  I got to Honolulu, where I was to spend seven glorious days with my bride, but things did not go well.  By the third day I just wanted to get back to my unit where they needed me, and resume flying.

     So, I took a taxi back to the military desk at Honolulu International, anxious to get back to Vietnam.  Problem was, the flight west was already full, with a waiting list.  I begged and pleaded with the Air Force senior sergeant at the desk, but being a lowly Captain, I didn’t stand a chance when the waiting list was full of officers of all services ranking higher than me.

      Determined to get back, I refused to give up.  The Air Force sergeant looked my leave orders up and down, trying to find some way to get me on the flight.      “What does this ‘Headquarters, 17^th CAG’ heading mean?” he asked.

      “That’s ‘17^th Combat Aviation Group,” I replied.

     “Wait a minute.  Are you a combat crew member?” he asked.

     “No, I’m a helicopter pilot,” I replied.

     “Well, why didn’t you say so?  Combat crew members have priority over everyone else.”  As he lined out a Navy Commander on the manifest and wrote in my name, he said, “Get your bag.  You’re on the flight.” 

     And 19 hours later I was back in the cockpit, doing my job.   

Charleston  – 1972

     I finished the Advanced Course as a newly-bachelorized young Army Captain, little suspecting that I still had some six years to go in grade before coming into the zone for Major.  I decided to travel Space-A for a while, catching Air Force transport planes to see where I could go.  I arrived at Charleston AFB one evening, but they had no flights going anywhere until the next morning.  The Air Force shared the base with the Navy, and the joint billeting office was located on the Charleston Naval Base side.  An Air Force shuttle bus took me over to the Navy side, where I got a temporary room for the night in the Visiting Officers Quarters.

     After I dropped my stuff in the room, I wanted to get to the Officers Club for something to eat, but I had no idea what kind of shuttle service the naval base had.  So, I got the number for the base motor pool, and called on the phone in the VOQ lobby.  After identifying myself, I asked if they knew how I could get a ride to the O-Club.  The dispatcher was marvelously helpful, and said, “Yes, sir, we’ll get you a ride there right away.” 

     Very impressed, I stood on the front porch of the building in my class-A traveling uniform to wait.  In about seven minutes a big shiny staff car pulled up in front, and the driver jumped out and ran past me into the lobby.  After looking around, he came back out and asked, “Excuse me, sir.  Have you seen a Captain Miller around here?”

     I replied, “I am CPT Miller,” and for the first time he looked me over.  Seeing my name plate, his shoulders drooped, and he said, resignedly, “Get in the car.” 

     As he was pulling away from the curb, the dispatcher came on the radio:  “Were you able to get over and pick up Captain Miller?”

     “Yeah, I got him.” 

     “Any problems?”

     “Well, just one.  He’s Army.”  [A Navy Captain ranks with an Army full Colonel, just below an Admiral].

     With disappointment in his voice, the dispatcher replied, “Oh.” 

     But at least they gave me a ride to the Club.

Flying north along the South China Sea coastline from our home base at Ninh Hoa, before we got to Tuy Hoa and Qui Nhon, the Vung Ro Point, a mountainous protrusion, formed the eastern-most point of Indochina.  Vung Ro was home to some particularly unpleasant bad guys.  If we were continuing north, we would fly wide of the point at 2,000 feet elevation, flying out over the ocean [“feet wet” we called it] just far enough that we could safely autorotate back to the beach when the engine quit. 

     But if we were working in the Tuy Hoa river valley, where the Korean White Horse 1^st Regiment, with three battalions and 12 companies was located, as we frequently did, we tried to slip through the Vung Ro pass, a narrow slot through the mountains that opened into the valley.  There was said to be a radar-guided heavy machine gun in the pass, but I was lucky enough never to be able to confirm that story.  Nonetheless, we always traversed that valley either above 2,000’ if we could, or else at treetop level, zigzagging as we went.

     So, one day in May 1972, when I was still charlie-pop [new guy co-pilot], it was the end of a really long day of some forty combat sorties, flying rations, water, ammo and mail from the regimental headquarters to the dozen companies on pinnacle outposts around the Tuy Hoa Area of Operations.  Weather that day had been low overcast with poor visibility.  With my Aircraft Commander too tired to fly, I was at the controls taking us home.  The clouds kept us from flying our customary 2,000’ safe altitude, so going around the Vung Ro Point, I was nursing the aircraft along feet wet as high as we could safely fly, about 1,600 feet, still within AK-47 range.

     The most important single part of the Huey is the big nut that secures the rotor assembly to the mast.  This part, the highest point on the bird, is affectionately known as the Jesus nut.  So I was flying us along, trying the keep the Jesus nut barely in the clouds, still able to see. 

     The plan was, if we took fire, I would yank us up into the clouds and climb on instruments until we were well above the highest mountains in the vicinity [I was instrument rated, but the Aircraft Commander was not].  Then I would fly east until we were well out to sea, then slowly let down until we came out of the clouds, hopefully before we encountered the ocean, and visually navigate ourselves back home.

     So, I was tooling along at 80 knots, tensely trying to skim the bottom of the clouds, worried about taking enemy fire, ready to snatch us up blindly into in the clouds, when suddenly, WHOOSH!!!  Out of the cloud directly in front of me, just beyond the edge of our rotor disk, I saw the belly of an airplane flying straight down.  “What the hell was that?”

     With the image burned into my mind, I recognized the airplane with an engine in front and another just behind the cockpit, as what we called a ‘push me-pull you.’  It was an Air Force O-2 Skymaster, the bird that Forward Air Controllers (FAC) flew to call in and control jet airstrikes.

      That damn FAC was flying aerobatic maneuvers in the clouds, and just missed a mid-air collision with us by less than 50’.  And the idiot never knew how close he had come to incinerating us all.  Apparently he just went on his merry way, completely unaware that his guardian angel had saved him from joining the six of us on the Huey at the pearly gates. 

     Idiot fixed-wing driver!

Phan Rang – 1972

     An engineer buddy of mine told me this one.  He was a captain, heading an engineer inspection team being flown around the country, when his ride landed one Saturday afternoon to remain overnight at Phan Rang airbase.  After arranging for bunks and chow for his NCOs, he headed down to the Air Force Officers Club to see to his own needs.

     Sitting at the bar, he struck up a conversation with a couple of the zoomies based at Phan Rang.  A little before 6:00 PM the guys at the bar started to clear out, and his drinking buddies said, “Come on.  You’ve got to see this.” 

     A whole crowd of people were gathering outside, checking their watches and clearly waiting for something.  Finally, someone said, “Here it comes,” and everyone looked northwest, where a rocket plume was rising from the hill overlooking the airfield.  Dang, if a 132mm Soviet Katyusha rocket wasn’t heading directly toward them.  As they watched, it flew straight over their heads, across the runway and impacted harmlessly in a rice paddy just beyond the base perimeter.

     A cheer went up among the gathered crowd, with comments of, “Great shot,” and “All right!” and “Better than average,” and “Nine point oh, at least.”  Someone said, “Did you get all that?” and he turned around to see a medic with a Super 8 mm movie camera, who had apparently filmed the entire scene.

     As the crowd began to disperse and the club patrons headed back to the bar, my buddy asked, “What the hell was that?”  Here is the explanation he got:

     There was a lone Viet Cong soldier camped on the back side of the hill.  Every Saturday evening at precisely 6 PM he fired his single rocket over the airbase, ensuring it landed harmlessly outside the perimeter.  He then reported to Hanoi that his rocket had successfully blown up four American fighter jets, two transport aircraft and a fuel truck.  Sometimes he blew up the control tower.  And each week the North Vietnamese Army would send him one more heavy rocket, carried by hand all the way down the Ho Chi Minh trail.

     My buddy asked, if they knew where this bad guy was, why didn’t they just go out and pick him up?  The answer was, then Hanoi would just send somebody else who would probably try to actually do some damage. 

     They had a nice arrangement going.

** A Katyushs rocket is 57 inches long, 95 pounds, warhead 12.4 pounds TNT.

Blackbird – 1972

     One afternoon in August ’72, I was now an Aircraft Commander with my own unique callsign.  This late in the war, the American forces had really been drawn down, and I realized we had not seen another helicopter for several hours.  When you are flying over bad-guy country in a single-engine aircraft, the idea that no one is around anywhere to hear a ‘mayday’ call if you are going down is troubling. 

     While my charlie-pop continued flying our mission, to assuage my concern I reached out and flipped our radio to the universal emergency channel, called “guard.”  I keyed the microphone and called, “Commo check on guard.”  No response.  Again, “Commo check on guard.”  Absolutely nothing, which was beginning to make me nervous.  Once more, “Commo check on guard.  Is anyone there?” 

     Back came a response, “Aircraft calling on guard, this is Blackbird 081.” 

    “Blackbird 081, this is Ghost Rider 8.  Good to hear your voice.” 

    “This is Blackbird 081.  You sound like a helicopter.  If you are in trouble, I’m afraid I can’t be much help.  I am at Angels 85, but I could try to relay.” 

     He had just told me he was flying at 85,000’ altitude, which meant he was an Air Force SR-71 spy plane, flying over 2,000 mph.

     “Blackbird 081, Ghost Rider 8 is a UH-1 at Angels TWO!  No emergency, just wanting to hear another aircraft.” 

     “Ghost Rider 8, Blackbird 081.  Rog ….”  In the time we were talking, he had already flown over the horizon.  At least I knew the guard channel on my radio worked.