Door Gunner Grunt

by Richard S. Bergquist

We Can Handle It

The following narrative is based upon personal recollections of events that took place on a mission in the spring of 1969 while serving as a door gunner for Bravo Company "Lancers", 158th Aviation Battalion, Assault Helicopters, 101st Airborne Division, Vietnam.

The mission required two Lancer aircraft, "Hueys" or "Slicks" as they were commonly referred to. Each aircraft manned by a crew of four; the aircraft commander or AC, a co-pilot or "right-seat", more affectionately called a "peter-pilot" (usually a pilot with minimal combat flight time), a crew chief, responsible for assuring the flight worthiness of the aircraft, and a door gunner, responsible for the two M-60 machine-guns (hand fired out the door on each side). Although lightly armed, these fast moving and highly maneuverable helicopters were the backbone of "Airmobile" operations in Vietnam. They could carry up to eight fully equipped infantry soldiers and place them quickly into battle. They were called upon to perform a large variety of tasks in combat situations.

We were to report to the Marine Corps base at Quang Tri, a short flight North from our base at Camp Evans. We arrived the evening prior to the joint-forces operation into the mountainous area along the DMZ. I had been on a few other operations with Marines, but this one would provide me my first opportunity to mix socially with these brave soldiers.

Army and Marines gathered together for a few beers at the enlisted EM club. Although memory can't provide the details of our conversations, I have no doubt that they centered on the contempt we shared for the injustices of military life (always a favorite past time of the enlisted man). How little our politicians really knew about this war and how it should be fought would also have been a topic. As if an unwritten code of behavior or some unspoken superstition; the risks and dangers of tomorrow's mission would most certainly not have been brought up.

Having spent a previous tour in the bush, chasing an elusive enemy, trying to be the hunter instead of the hunted, I was able to talk to these Marines right at their level. And, as a paratrooper, I too, knew the proud feeling of belonging to an elite unit, as was obvious with the rough group of Leathernecks seated before me, their motto: "Death before dishonor." Like assault helicopter crews, Force-recon Marines looked death straight in the eyes on a daily basis. Our combat experience reached across the difference of uniform, training, and tradition.

That night a bond was formed between our crewmembers and the lives that we would be taking under wing in less than eight hours. That bond was "personally" consummated by the exchange of items between a few of the men.

I had hoped to secure a Marine survival knife or K-bar. I was prepared to throw in my socks if need be, knowing full well, that no Marine worth his salt would easily part with the famous blade. Not able to obtain the knife, it ended up being the exchange of flight suits between this Army door-gunner and a Marine gunship gunner -- my two-piece outfit for his one-piece jumpsuit. We both thought this was a really cool trade.

The Marine's flight suit turned out to be a tad short for my six-one frame, but I wore it proudly, thankful I still had my socks to hide my ankles! necessarily in that order), and the usual preparatory activities at our aircraft. Due to the life and death nature of Airmobile combat assaults, these "activities" were carried out more like religious rituals than duties. The machine guns having been left at the aircraft overnight, left only mounting the guns, checking the ammo, and a little tidying-up on my part. Griff, our crew chief, went about his routine, but very personal, preflight checks of the mechanical readiness of our helicopter. Our familiarity with our duties enabled us to check, re-check, arm, and be ready for battle in just a matter of minutes.

Returning from the briefing, our AC, Gerry, gave us the run down for the day’s operation. We would be inserting a number of lightly armed five-man teams into preselected landing zones (LZ's) in proximity of North Vietnam Army (NVA) units infiltrating into the south. Marine gunships would escort us and provide cover for the insertions. The Marines would intentionally let their presence be known to draw the enemy into a target area. The Pickup Zone (PZ) would be any location the team leader felt our slicks might fit into. Navy Tac-Air would be on station high above with F-4 Phantoms. The Fastmovers would drop ordinance into each PZ the instant a team was removed. After all teams were inserted, we would return to a nearby staging area and await the first team's call.

We were advised that extractions in the DMZ were expected to be "hot" (under enemy fire). The Marines would be running to the closest clearing for pick-up, the enemy right on their tails. It was our job to get in and out as fast as possible. We were to "pop smoke," marking the target for the jets as we lifted out.

Like clockwork, our two aircraft, escorted by the Marine gunships, shuttled the recon teams to the DMZ. All teams were inserted while still early morning, without incident. We returned to the staging area to await the first call. Griff and I looked forward to grabbing a quick nap, catching up on the late night at the EM Club.

Our standby was just a couple of hours old when we got the first call. The team had a wounded man. We were advised that the NVA were gaining on the crippled team fast. We scrambled to our bird and lifted off the ground before we had full power. The Huey moved forward nose-down, inches off the ground, until airspeed provided our lift.

"I have goofy grape" Gerry called over the fox-mike (fm radio frequency), confirming a visual on the team's smoke. We dropped in hard and fast. The nose of the helicopter reared up as Gerry put on the brakes. I was hanging on for dear life as we sat down hard on the skids. It was more a "controlled crash" than a landing.

We were on flat, dry ground, in a small valley at the base of a ridgeline. The team emerged through a thick cloud of purple smoke, taking on the appearance of a rock band taking stage, their weapons momentarily mimicking guitars. Loading their wounded member carefully they scurried aboard. Thanks to some very able "Rock & Roll" Marines, and Gerry's "hot dog" flying skills, we got in and out before the NVA came over the ridge. No enemy fire was taken. "Pop Smoke!"

A short flight back to the staging area to off-load the team, then back into the air to return to the operation, now going full swing. During the anxious flight back to the action, we monitored an excited transmission from our other Lancer bird. It had taken fire while extracting another team. A rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) exploded as it impacted a tree on its way to the aircraft. They also took .50 cal. machine gun fire as they lifted out of the PZ. The near-miss rocket explosion understandably initiated a swift exit, causing one Marine, not yet fully aboard, to fall back into the PZ. That not being bad enough, his rifle was aboard the departing huey.

To fly into a location known to be hot, with the very real possibility of losing your aircraft and its crew, was not an easy decision for any AC. Discussion as to the willingness of the crew to take the risks was a luxury that time did not afford. The decision had to be made quickly. thumbs-up. I glanced over to Griff, and he was already giving it. I looked back to Gerry, while not as enthusiastically as Griff, gave the same signal, adding a forced, but hopefully reassuring smile. Knowing he had the support of his crew; Gerry was now free of conscience to make the call. He keyed his mike and informed Command that we were just a few minutes out and would make an attempt at rescuing the lone Marine.

Seconds later, communication came from the Forward Air Control (FAC) alerting us to Naval Air traffic to our west. Two Phantoms were rolling in on target. Looking out the opposite door I could see the explosions at the base of the ridgeline where we had pulled out the wounded team. All hell was breaking loose right where we had been sitting just minutes earlier. I couldn't help but consider the fate of those caught in the midst of the bombs. Unexpectedly, a wave of emotion rose up from my tightened guts increasing my heartbeat and tearing my eyes. I recognized the feeling as compassion. The emotion had become a stranger to me. That brief moment of humanity, although a bit uncomfortable, was welcomed like an old friend. It assured me that I was still capable of feelings, while involved in so much death. Such is the way of war, I always told myself. Compassion and I would have to part-company once again if I were to continue to do my job. Instinctively, my thoughts returned to the task at hand; one Marine in serious trouble.

The PZ was a clearing amidst tall pines, created by a five-hundred-pound bomb. The trademark crater left by a B-52 strike was deep, wide, and partially filled with water from recent tropical rains.

For the benefit of those that were denied the experience of combat aviation in Vietnam, especially in a helicopter, this type of PZ deserves a little description. It was one of the most treacherous landings to attempt, even without enemy fire. Chopper pilots are legally blind in regard to the helicopter's rotor blades. Their sight is limited to their front and to each side. Each pilot can see out one side; the side he is sitting on. It is the job of the crew chief and the door gunner to be the eyes for the pilot. We literally talk them down through the trees. "Clear right, clear left, tail clear, take tail left, tail clear left" was the constant chatter between Griff and I as we played our high stakes version of "pin the tail on the donkey". The large main rotor blades could take a fair amount of damage from small branches, but the tail rotor was very vulnerable. A good size twig could cause it to disintegrate. Should that happen, the helicopter spins in the direction of rotation of the main rotor blades. At this point a crash is unavoidable. Survivability is determined by how high off the ground the aircraft is, how soon the fuel catches fire, and if the crew is able to get extricate themselves from the wreckage.

Some comfort was taken in knowing that the previous chopper had successfully negotiated the tight PZ. As we dropped slowly down through the trees, Griff and I kept our adrenaline pumped fingers on the triggers of the M-60's, our eyes peeled for tree branches, enemy fire, and a Marine. I remember saying a quick prayer going in (my usual practice when it looked like we might be needing the help of the Almighty).

To my surprise, we got down into the PZ without getting blown to smithereens. Ah, the power of prayer! We remained at a hover for what seemed like an eternity. The Marine was nowhere in sight. Griff and I kept yelling back and forth over the intercom: "see anything on your side? Where the hell is this guy?" We knew there was the possibility that he had been captured, or possibly lying somewhere out of sight, wounded, and unable to move, or worse yet, KIA. We wanted to give this guy every chance we could, but the longer we stayed the less likely we would be getting out. I, for one, was ready to "get out of Dodge". We had taken one hell of a risk and had made an honest attempt. There was no sense in pushing our luck. A Marine Recon team could be inserted later to try and recover his body.

Just as I was expecting to hear Gerry give his familiar "we're outta here"; a muddy figure emerged from the trees. He was running toward my side, jumping over tree branches strewn around like spilt toothpicks, the look on his face. Absolute terror, and desperation. It was a look that I would not soon forget, or presently ignore. "I got him! I got him!" I shouted over the intercom, with the excitement of having just won some valuable door prize.

The large bomb crater we were hovering over was a forbidding obstacle. Splintered tree stumps kept us about six feet off the ground. As he got closer to the chopper, it became obvious to me why he had trouble getting aboard with his team. This Marine was one of the shorter varieties. Now that's just wonderful! I absurdly thought to myself; it was obvious that nobody thought about minimum height requirements for this mission."

The noise of our helicopter prevented any communication between the two of us, but the expression on this guy's face was screaming "get me the hell outta here!"

Understanding my gestures for him to jump up to the skids, he stopped at the edge of the crater, got as good a footing as possible, squatted a bit, swung his arms upward a few times to muster all the lift he could, then gave it all he had.

He managed to get a hold of the skid, but quickly lost his grip, once again falling back into the crater. At this point, I was not liking our being sitting ducks and had no desire to join this guy in his predicament by getting shot down. I also thought of another rocket, this time it might find its way through the trees. These thoughts got me to do an otherwise very stupid act. I left my gun well. My side of the aircraft was now totally defenseless, not cool in a "hot" PZ. Ah, "what the hay," nobody was shootin, yet, and besides, I was determined to claim my door prize! Stepping out onto the skid, I sat down, straddling it like a horse, holding on tightly to the forward brace. The extension of my legs allowed us to get hooked up. We bound ourselves together in some unorthodox fashion for our very lives. This was it, either we were going to make it, or not. Last chance.

Attempting to key my mike to let Gerry know I had the Marine; I discovered my com-line had disconnected. Terrific! All I could do now was look up into the aircraft and signal. This time I was giving a very definite thumb-up. As we began our slow, cautious lift up, I began to believe we were actually going to make it. Then, my worst fear became a reality. I felt the syncopated vibration of machine-gun fire. Oh God, we were taking hits! To my surprise though, we continued to rise, then, with great relief, we cleared the treetops. The machinegun fire stopped. My senses told me we were flying, not falling, "Thanks God!" If our helicopter was not too badly shot-up, and the Angels not too tired, we just might make it.

The roar of a fighter-jet took my glance skyward. My eyes met up with two big bombs appearing to sail right past our rotor blades. They grew in size until they passed in front of me, carrying their death and destruction to the muddy pit below. The scream of afterburners signaled the jets departure. I watched in awe as the F4 disappeared from sight.

As we flew along low-level at a smart clip, I got an additional grip with my right hand on the Marine's web gear. Although we were in this very precarious position, a new look had taken over this guy's face. He was smiling, from ear to ear (he'd better not look down).

We arrived at the staging area to the cheers of a shocked group of Marines. They had heard over the radio that we got their buddy out, but had no idea we would be delivering him in such an unorthodox manner. It must have been quite a sight; the two of us hanging out there like a couple of desperate refugees. We hovered in slowly, his team gathered around, grabbed hold of him, and received our VIP (very important passenger).

Everybody was happy. Every face had a smile. Only the unlikely news that all of us were going home tomorrow could have had the same effect. The reunion of this very lucky Marine with the rest of his team was a great thing to be a part of. My efforts were rewarded by a giant hug from "shorty", and a barrage of handshakes and pats on the back from his team members. I felt great, absolutely the best feeling in the world! We had just saved a life, and we were true heroes to these guys. I was really proud of our crew, as this was truly a team effort!

I learned later, that the machinegun fire I had heard and felt while outside the chopper, was my crew chief firing at two NVA soldiers he had spotted. They were just standing there watching the show. They dove for cover when Griff opened fire. Griff may have missed them, but I know they got a lot of heat from the bombs the Navy put in their laps.

All of us were amazed that we had taken absolutely no fire during the rescue. I can only guess that the bad guys cut us some slack. It's been said that all soldiers respect selfless dedication to aid a fellow soldier. Had they known what was coming after we left, they would not have been so thoughtful, that's for sure. I have to believe that the man upstairs liked our work quite a bit also.

The remaining teams were all extracted successfully. Every team had been able to locate and draw enemy units out of their cover and into the sights of the deadly Phantoms. Enemy casualties were considered to be significant. No Marine KIA's, only one WIA, and one MIA, recovered! All aircraft and crews returned to their bases safely.

To the best of my knowledge, nobody received medals for valor or heroism for their actions that day. None were expected. It was the usual valor displayed on a daily basis by U.S. Marines, Navy fighter pilots, and crews of Army assault helicopters.

Once again, Bravo Company "Lancers" had lived up to their "We Can Handle It" and "We Try Harder" motto's.

Richard S. Bergquist
Door Gunner