Free Master Chief by Alan Maki Page B

whump-whump-whump sound (the trees and vegetation absorbed much of the helo’s noise); security from enemy ground fire; and once seen by the enemy, speed to the insertion point. We then defined what was needed: an aircraft on station at a much higher elevation,good communications with the helos and ground troops, and most important, natural placement and access—that is, aircraft that wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion from VC/NVA units on the ground prior to our insertion. The solution was obvious—we would utilize the Forward Air Controller pilot. The Army’s FAC pilots usually flew the Cessna O-1 fixed-wing observation plane in the delta.
    “That’s a great idea, Dai Uy!” I exclaimed. “All the FAC pilot would have to do is vector the slicks on specific avenues to the target/insertion point by radio.”
    Then Mr. Kleehammer opined, “All you have to do, Jerry, is coordinate with the Army and convince them of our need for a FAC pilot and aircraft for all of our helo ops.”
    “That’s true,” Dai Uy replied. “I’ve got to somehow get the time to visit several Army units and work out the details with them.” Fletcher took a deep breath, looked at his Rolex watch, grinned, and yelled, “It’s time for a beer! I’ll buy the first round for everybody. Hoo-Yah!”

CHAPTER FOUR
    For an officer to be overbearing and insulting in the treatment of enlisted men is the act of a coward. He ties the man to a tree with ropes of discipline and then strikes him in the face, knowing full well that the man cannot strike back.
    —Major C. A. Bach, 1917
    On the morning of July thirteenth I spent several hours cleaning and repairing a rusty 7.62mm M-60 machine gun that SEAL Team 2’s 8th Platoon had left behind. I had decided to give it to Ba To. It was to be his hamlet’s only machine gun. Shortly afterward, Dai Uy gave the platoon a warning order for a helo op the following morning. Cai Lay district’s Vietnamese ARVN S-2, a trung uy, or first lieutenant, and six of his men were to combine forces with November Platoon to assault two enemy-bunkered hootches. There were supposedly more than fifteen VC in the immediate area. The Vietnamese trung uy told Dai Uy that we were to take no prisoners—we were to exit the helos with all guns a-blazin’ and blow holes into the bunkers with M-72 LAAWs. It certainly sounded like fun.
    Reveille was at 0400. At 0530 I was sitting on the edge of a Navy Sea Lord slick’s starboard door with my legs hanging out and my boots just touching the skids. We were flying at about one hundred feet altitude and ninety knots airspeed.
    I loved to look down and watch the moon’s reflections on the many canals, streams, and rice paddies and inhale the strangely aromatic smells of the Vietnamese delta. The cool, moist morning air was, on occasion, the cause of chill bumps that started at the crown of my head, prickling their way down my body to the tips of my toes. There was always something timeless, mystifying, and exhilarating about those experiences. No doubt, much of it was nothing more than youthful exuberance, love of living life to its fullest and absolute confidence in my infallibility.
    We eventually crossed the QL-4 highway, headed north for a few kilometers and started circling. Because the Black Ponies couldn’t see the targets to begin prepping the tree lines, Dai Uy agreed that it was necessary for one of the Seawolves to drop two one-million-candlelight para flares. Four flares later the Seawolves led the aerial assault.
    After the last para flares started sputtering down, we inserted by Sea Lord slicks near the bunkered hootches. While our Navy buddies in the air continued blasting the nearby tree line about two hundred meters west of our insertion point with rockets and minigun fire, we exited our slicks blazing away at the two bunkered hootches and their immediate area.
    Initially, I had a hard time judging the distance to the bunkers—approximately two hundred