Attackus Interruptus
submitted by: Alva Leon Matheson
This is a story that I’d really rather be reading from someone else’s pen. Perhaps I should have submitted this under the time-honored “Anonymous”, or maybe forged someone else’s name. But let’s face it; I’ve gotten to that difficult age where I don’t much care what people might think about what once would have been an embarrassing event, worthy of complete silence by the perpetrator. So, here it is. Enjoy.
I was a member of the 20th TASS, assigned to the Americal Division at Chu Lai in 1968 and 69. The brigade that I supported was the 11th Light Infantry “Jungle Warriors”. Our call sign was HELIX, flying the O-2A and later, the OV-10A. We operated south of Chu Lai, beginning at the Quang Nghai River, and continuing south to the border with II Corps. As HELIX 33, I divided my time between flying and ALO’ing with the brigade, on about a 75/25 split. For several months we four captains operated this way, as we awaited a major to take the ALO reins permanently.
I characterize that period of time with the 11th Brigade as filled with air strikes and TIC almost every day. We stayed busy.
One day in August of 1968 I was supporting a LRRP Team south and west of Quang Nghai City. They were in an area right up against the mountain range that divided the coastal plain from the jungles to the west. The team had been inserted just before dawn and had immediately come under fire. It was random at first, then became hot and heavy. Another HELIX FAC had covered them during the insertion and the ensuing firefights and “re-positioning.” I came on the scene in mid-morning to relieve my buddy after he had expended his rockets and fuel. He had done a fine job but bad guys were still about, ensuring that I had plenty of opportunities to impress the locals with airpower.
Once I had the reins of the FAC duties and while waiting for previously requested strike aircraft, I established radio contact with the team. I worked out where they were and where they were headed. We agreed that I would hold about two miles from their location, to avoid giving the bad guys any more of a clue to the team maneuver plans than they already had. By this time, the team had hiked over a klick away from their insertion point but continued to get sporadic harassing fire.
We jointly decided that some ordnance should go into the area that they had recently transited. Two sets of fighters provided the fireworks and we transitioned into that period known to all warriors: Wait and see what the heck happened, and where Gomer is going to show up next. To be on the safe side I had requested more fighter support, and had been advised that a pair of Marine A-4s would be up shortly from my home base of Chu Lai.
The team and I continued to “develop the situation”, as they say. The team moved slowly and cautiously, while I craned my neck and focused my eyeballs to detect anything that moved in the target area.
It was during one of the pull-ups from a random dive for enhanced sightseeing that IT happened. IT was a convulsive and painful series of aches throughout my abdomen. I know that it brought a grimace to my face; my teeth were grinding and my jaw was tight. Man, I was having a “physiological” incident of the worst kind! I was in pain. I was also in certain knowledge that a form of relief was invariably on its way.
As I contemplated my options, I tried to put out of my mind the things that I would say to my crew chief upon returning to base. I couldn’t come up with any great one-liners that would shield me from group hilarity. All preventive options were gone. It was too late to do anything about that greasy pizza and four rum-and-cokes that I had consumed the night before. The price was going to be paid. But where?
I preferred, desperately, that it wouldn’t be in the plane, but what was my alternative? Born out of that desperation, a plan began to form; one that was most concerned with my duty to the team that I was supporting, and secondly (seriously), my personal safety. Whatever I was to do had to be done quickly, both for my own comfort and for the possibility of a call for help from the team.
I remembered a civilian airport outside of Quang Nghai, about five miles away. I had never landed there and knew little about it except that we circled it on our maps as an emergency landing strip. Well, I had an emergency, and it would have to suffice. I don’t remember, after these 35 years, that I was concerned about the security of the airfield. The landscape around the runway was wide open, and gave a certain comfort that no bad guys were visibly in attendance. If I was concerned, it was more focused on getting on the ground to avoid personal embarrassment.
I called the team, told them only that I would be off their frequency for a few minutes, and that I would contact them when back on. They acknowledged without concern, probably thinking this was a normal Air Force requirement to communicate with my own.
I pointed directly at the airfield, easily in sight, and set up a straight-in approach. I looked up the civilian VHF frequency and tried to raise someone there. In the background chatter, I heard my set of A-4s checking in.
“203–Alpha”...”203-Bravo”...” Roger, Bravo... HELIX 33, 203 Alpha with two A-4s, mark-82’s and twenty millimeter for you, we have about 30 minutes of playtime.”
As fortune would have it, the team and I had not come up with a definitive target for these guys yet. For now, things were quiet and they were the airborne reserve. I called them back.
“Roger, 203-Alpha, HELIX 33 here. Please establish yourselves at 10 grand on the 215 at 25 off Chu Lai. You have no other traffic in the area, REDLEG is silent. Target was hot, now cold, but could develop at any time.”
“Roger, HELIX 33, copy, and will report established in holding.”
“203-Alpha, I’ll be off-freq for a couple, call you when I’m back up.”
“Roger HELIX 33, we’ll be standing by.”
With that, I focused on the airfield getting larger in my windscreen. Gear, flaps, a scan of the general area around the runway. Good. Nobody in sight, no vehicles, nothing but concrete. I called the airfield frequency one more time while checking for other traffic; nothing in sight.
Over the radio came a Vietnamese voice in lyrical tones, obviously from the unseen control tower. I didn’t understand a word. But there was no sense of urgency in his voice, so I took that as a welcome. I called back to report my intention to land, and in response got another friendly sounding few words. Again, not understood.
I touched down and applied brakes. All during this time, the pain and urgency continued unabated. I planned for a quick solution. Rolling to a stop, I applied the parking brake and took one more look around the airfield. Finding nothing of movement or interest, I turned my attention back into the cockpit to shut down the front engine.
Leaving the rear engine idling to reduce the risk of being stranded at this strange airport, I dismounted from my trusty duck. I grabbed a couple of 1:50 maps and made for the wingtip. I quickly removed my flight suit and answered nature’s unremitting call. It was over quickly, relief was near instantaneous, and I was filled with thankfulness to have averted a catastrophe.
Leaving the now-soiled toilet paper/maps on the runway, I rapidly donned my suit and jumped back in the duck. I released the parking brake and initiated the start sequence for the front engine while rolling down the runway. The engine came to life, speed increased, flaps were reset for takeoff, and we uneventfully lifted off into the air once again.
I banked into a turn back toward the team’s location and checked in with the fighters again, requesting their full line-up information. I copied as they responded, and continued to climb to my perch, maneuvering to get into position near the team. As soon as the fighter transmission was over, I switched to FM radio and reestablished contact with the team. Blessedly, they were still moving and unscathed since my last contact with them. No harm, no foul.
During what must have been about 15 minutes of innovative problem solving, I told no one of my problem or plan. My pain was removed, I breathed easier, I didn’t have to clean out my airplane from the mess that I would have made, and I didn’t have to confess to a stern airplane crew chief. Life was good.
Until this day, I’ve not shared this story in the “first person.” Confession is good.