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| Fire Base Kathryn, Vietnam War |
by Byron Edgington
The stated mission that day was to put troops on her mountaintop crag. The real mission was to educate me, a brand new Warrant Officer pilot, on the professionalism and capability of my ‘enemy,’ the North Vietnamese.
April 10th 1970. Chief Warrant Officer Ray Woods was company flight lead that day. I was a new guy, “Still pissing stateside water,” as John Lipski, my left seater, said.
April 10th 1970. Chief Warrant Officer Ray Woods was company flight lead that day. I was a new guy, “Still pissing stateside water,” as John Lipski, my left seater, said.
Our string of Hueys laced across the sky in a circle, like charms on a bracelet. We were waiting for the artillery prep to end, so we could land on LZ Kathryn, dump our grunts, and go home.
In the twenty-four ship formation, I tried to ignore my place in the lineup. I was right-seater in bird number thirteen. Lipski and I followed the twelve Hueys in front of us like so many sheep in a line. Careful to avoid the artillery trajectory, the GT line, Woody kept his flight a mile north of Kathryn.
Round after heavy artillery round pummeled the fire base. Its cratered surface, mangled tree stumps, and arid ground resembled a brown blister festering atop the mountain. Artillery had pounded the fire base all night, before the mission.
In the twenty-four ship formation, I tried to ignore my place in the lineup. I was right-seater in bird number thirteen. Lipski and I followed the twelve Hueys in front of us like so many sheep in a line. Careful to avoid the artillery trajectory, the GT line, Woody kept his flight a mile north of Kathryn.
Round after heavy artillery round pummeled the fire base. Its cratered surface, mangled tree stumps, and arid ground resembled a brown blister festering atop the mountain. Artillery had pounded the fire base all night, before the mission.
It was nine a.m., and still we circled, twenty-four Hueys cutting holes in the sky, turning jet fuel into noise over northern I-Corps.
We were waiting for Willie Pete, two final rounds of White Phosphorus. When the twin marking rounds of WP popped above the fire base, their presence marked the end of the artillery prep. Only then could we land.
Minutes dragged on. We circled. Radio silence. Watching shell after shell explode atop that ridge, I couldn’t imagine anything alive up there. I almost felt sorry for the bad guys, the ones the intel people told us were there waiting for us to land. Surely, I thought, they’d all be killed, or run off. Nobody could survive that massive bombardment.
But, I was a rookie, about to learn an important lesson. I was about to see how resilient the enemy was ...
At nine-ten a.m., only a few minutes late, two ghostly clouds appeared a hundred feet above LZ Kathryn like twin thought balloons. Willie Pete; the arty prep was done. John slid his visor down and locked his shoulder harness. “Okay, guys,” he said. “Let’s go to work.”
In the rear of the cabin, the crew chief and door gunner sat up, alert. Crew chief on the left, door gunner right, they cinched their monkey straps tight and swiveled the business end of their .30 cals up.
We were waiting for Willie Pete, two final rounds of White Phosphorus. When the twin marking rounds of WP popped above the fire base, their presence marked the end of the artillery prep. Only then could we land.
Minutes dragged on. We circled. Radio silence. Watching shell after shell explode atop that ridge, I couldn’t imagine anything alive up there. I almost felt sorry for the bad guys, the ones the intel people told us were there waiting for us to land. Surely, I thought, they’d all be killed, or run off. Nobody could survive that massive bombardment.
But, I was a rookie, about to learn an important lesson. I was about to see how resilient the enemy was ...
At nine-ten a.m., only a few minutes late, two ghostly clouds appeared a hundred feet above LZ Kathryn like twin thought balloons. Willie Pete; the arty prep was done. John slid his visor down and locked his shoulder harness. “Okay, guys,” he said. “Let’s go to work.”
In the rear of the cabin, the crew chief and door gunner sat up, alert. Crew chief on the left, door gunner right, they cinched their monkey straps tight and swiveled the business end of their .30 cals up.
“Ready in the rear, sir,” they said in unison.
As the gunners’ weapons came up and their charging rods clattered, the grunts stirred. Five GIs flicked cigarettes out. Their M-16s banged against the floor of the Huey as they adjusted their backpacks. Time for them to go to work, too.
Woody’s ship angled off, aiming toward Kathryn, and lined up for landing. Two Cobra gunships slid into position near the lead Huey, one left; one right. The Cobras would escort Woody, as he neared the LZ, then they’d break off. Together, the three aircraft flew toward Kathryn’s ragged shell-shot surface.
Woody called his approach. “Thirty seconds out,” he said.
I watched from my aircraft, a mile behind, twelve UH-1's ahead of me.
“Short final,” Woody said, the rattle and pop of Cobra suppressive fire and his crew’s sixties barking in his radio call.
Woody’s Huey touched down on Kathryn and men streamed onto the fire base. Then a radio call that chilled my arms. Woody screamed into the ether. “Taking fire,” he yelled. “On the fire base. My gunner’s hit. He may be dead.”
John looked across the cockpit, and shook his head. “Son of a bitch.”
After an all-night bombardment, a pummeling no one could possibly have survived, an enemy soldier had leapt into the open on Kathryn and shot Woody’s door gunner. And the man was indeed dead, killed instantly.
Woody’s ship angled off, aiming toward Kathryn, and lined up for landing. Two Cobra gunships slid into position near the lead Huey, one left; one right. The Cobras would escort Woody, as he neared the LZ, then they’d break off. Together, the three aircraft flew toward Kathryn’s ragged shell-shot surface.
Woody called his approach. “Thirty seconds out,” he said.
I watched from my aircraft, a mile behind, twelve UH-1's ahead of me.
“Short final,” Woody said, the rattle and pop of Cobra suppressive fire and his crew’s sixties barking in his radio call.
Woody’s Huey touched down on Kathryn and men streamed onto the fire base. Then a radio call that chilled my arms. Woody screamed into the ether. “Taking fire,” he yelled. “On the fire base. My gunner’s hit. He may be dead.”
John looked across the cockpit, and shook his head. “Son of a bitch.”
After an all-night bombardment, a pummeling no one could possibly have survived, an enemy soldier had leapt into the open on Kathryn and shot Woody’s door gunner. And the man was indeed dead, killed instantly.
It’s gonna be a long year, I thought.
Our turn. John steered the Huey toward Kathryn’s landing spot. I watched the gauges, called out readings. “Torque’s good; rpm’s good.” I focused inside the cockpit, from fright, or denial, I’m not sure.
Our turn. John steered the Huey toward Kathryn’s landing spot. I watched the gauges, called out readings. “Torque’s good; rpm’s good.” I focused inside the cockpit, from fright, or denial, I’m not sure.
I’ll never forget my first girl. But I don’t remember landing on Kathryn. Before I knew it, the Huey was empty and John had lifted off.
We took no fire, no hits. Still, what I’d seen gave me a lot of respect for the enemy. That respect helped keep me alive in Vietnam, that and a simple rule: never underestimate the North Vietnamese.
“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale
Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.
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| Byron Edgington |
Byron Edgington
Other Articles by Byron Edgington:
Bob Hope: Christmas 1970, Camp Eagle
History/Archival Sites for Vietnam Vets
Vietnam: Arriving at the Truth
Do Guns Equal Safety?
Laotian Rescue Mission
Ho Chi Minh
Terror and Hilarity
A Return to Vietnam
The War That Will Not Let Us Rest
War: A Waste of Youth
The Right Seat is the Wrong Seat
Jim, Frank, and The Snake
Smokey, The Alcoholic Pup
Bob Hope: Christmas 1970, Camp Eagle
History/Archival Sites for Vietnam Vets
Vietnam: Arriving at the Truth
Do Guns Equal Safety?
Laotian Rescue Mission
Ho Chi Minh
Terror and Hilarity
A Return to Vietnam
The War That Will Not Let Us Rest
War: A Waste of Youth
The Right Seat is the Wrong Seat
Jim, Frank, and The Snake
Smokey, The Alcoholic Pup
“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale
Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.
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