THE
SOUND THAT BINDS by Colonel Keith Nightingale, US Army
(Retired)
Unique to all that
served in Vietnam is the UH1H
helicopter. It was both devil and angel and it served as both
extremely well. Whether a LRRP, US or RVN soldier or civilian,
whether, NVA, VC, Allied or civilian, it provided a sound and sense that
lives with us all today. It is the one sound that immediately
clears the clouds of time and freshens the images of our mind. It
will be the sound track of our last moments on earth. It was a
simple machine – a single engine, a single blade and four man
crew – yet like the Model T, it transformed us all and
performed tasks the engineers never imagined. For soldiers, it was
the worst and best of friends but it was the one binding material in a
tapestry of a war of many pieces.
The smell was always hot, filled with diesel fumes, sharp drafts
accentuated by gritty sand, laterite and anxious vibrations. It
always held the spell of the unknown and the anxiety of learning what
was next and what might be. It was an unavoidable magnet for the
heavily laden soldier who donkey-trotted to its squat shaking shape
through the haze and blast of dirt, stepped on the OD skid, turned and
dropped his ruck on the cool aluminum deck. Reaching inside with
his rifle or machine gun, a soldier would grasp a floor ring with a
finger as an extra precaution of physics for those moments when the now
airborne bird would break into a sharp turn revealing all ground or all
sky to the helpless riders all very mindful of the impeding weight on
their backs. The relentless weight of the ruck combined with the
stress of varying motion caused fingers and floor rings to bind almost
as one. Constant was the vibration, smell of hydraulic fluid,
flashes of visionary images and the occasional burst of a ground-fed
odor – rotting fish, dank swampy heat, cordite or simply the continuous
sinuous currents of Vietnam’s weather – cold and driven mist in the
Northern monsoon or the wall of heated humidity in the southern dry
season. Blotting it out and shading the effect was the constant
sound of the single rotating blade as it ate a piece of the air,
struggling to overcome the momentary physics of the
weather.
To divert anxiety, a soldier/piece of freight, might reflect on his home
away from home. The door gunners were usually calm which was
emotionally helpful. Each gun had a C-ration fruit can at the ammo
box clip entrance to the feed mechanism of the machine gun. The
gun had a large circular aiming sight unlike the ground-pounder
version. That had the advantage of being able to fix on targets
from the air considerably further than normal ground acquisition.
Pears, Apricots, Apple Sauce or Fruit Cocktail, it all worked.
Fruit cans had just the right width to smoothly feed the belt into the
gun which was always a good thing. Some gunners carried a
large oil can much like old locomotive engineers to squeeze on the
barrel to keep it cool. Usually this was accompanied by a large OD
towel or a khaki wound-pack bandage to allow a rubdown without a burned
hand. Under the gunner’s seat was usually a small dairy-box filled
with extra ammo boxes, smoke grenades, water, flare pistol, C-rats and a
couple of well-worn paperbacks. The gun itself might be
attached to the roof of the helicopter with a bungi cord and
harness. This allowed the adventurous gunners to unattach the gun
from the pintle and fire it manually while standing on the skid with
only the thinnest of connectivity to the bird. These were people
you wanted near you – particularly on
extractions.
The pilots were more mysterious. You only saw parts of them as
they labored behind the armored seats. An arm, a helmeted head and
the occasional fingered hand as it moved across the dials and switches
on the ceiling above. The armored side panels covered their
outside legs – an advantage the passenger did not enjoy.
Sometimes, a face, shielded behind helmeted sunshades, would turn around
to impart a question with a glance or display a sense of anxiety with
large white-circled eyes – this was not a welcoming look as the sounds
of external issues fought to override the sounds of mechanics in
flight. Yet, as a whole, the pilots got you there, took you back
and kept you maintained. You never remembered names, if at all you
knew them, but you always remembered the ride and the
sound.
Behind each pilot seat usually ran a stretch of wire or silk attaching
belt. It would have arrayed a variety of handy items for immediate
use. Smoke grenades were the bulk of the attachment inventory –
most colors and a couple of white phosphorous if a dramatic marking was
needed. Sometimes, trip flares or hand grenades would be included
depending on the location and mission. Hand grenades were a rare
exception as even pilots knew they exploded – not always where
intended. It was just a short arm motion for a door gunner to
pluck an inventory item off the string, pull the pin and pitch it which
was the point of the arrangement. You didn’t want to be in a
helicopter when such an act occurred as that usually meant there was an
issue. Soldiers don’t like issues that involve them. It
usually means a long day or a very short one – neither of which is a
good thing.
The bird lifts off in a slow, struggling and shaking manner. Dust
clouds obscure any view a soldier may have. Quickly, with a few
subtle swings, the bird is above the dust and a cool encompassing wind
blows through. Sweat is quickly dried, eyes clear and a thousand
feet of altitude show the world below. Colors are muted but
objects clear. The rows of wooden hootches, the airfield, local
villages, an old B52 strike, the mottled trail left by a Ranchhand spray
mission and the open reflective water of a river or lake are crisp in
sight. The initial anxiety of the flight or mission recede as the
constantly moving and soothing motion picture and soundtrack
unfolds. In time, one is aware of the mass of UH1Hs coalescing in
a line in front of and behind you. Other strings of birds may be
left or right of you – all surging toward some small speck in the front,
lost to your view. Each is a mirror image of the other – two to
three laden soldiers sitting on the edge looking at you and your
accompanying passengers all going to the same place with the same sense
of anxiety and uncertainty but borne on a similar steed and
sound.
In time, one senses the birds coalescing as they approach the
objective. Perhaps a furtive glance or sweeping arc of flight
reveals the landing zone. Smoke erupts in columns – Initially
visible as blue grey against the sky. The location is clearly
discernible as a trembling spot surrounded by a vast green carpet of
flat jungle or a sharp point of a jutting ridge, As the bird gets
closer, a soldier can now see the small FAC aircraft working well-below,
the sudden sweeping curve of the bombing runs and the small puffs as
artillery impacts. A sense of immense loneliness can begin to obscure
one’s mind as the world’s greatest theatre raises its curtain.
Even closer now, with anxious eyes and short breath, a soldier can make
out his destination. The smoke is now the dirty grey black of
munitions with only the slightest hint of orange upon ignition. No
Hollywood effect is at work.
Here, the physics of explosions are clearly evident as pressure and mass
over light.
The pilot turns around to give a thumbs up or simply ignores his load as
he struggles to maintain position with multiple birds dropping power
through smoke swirls, uplifting newly created debris, sparks and flaming
ash. The soldiers instinctively grasp their weapons tighter, look
furtively between the upcoming ground and the pilot and mentally strain
to find some anchor point for the next few seconds of life. If
this is the first lift in, the door gunners will be firing rapidly in
sweeping motions of the gun but this will be largely unknown and unfelt
to the soldiers. They will now be focused on the quickly
approaching ground and the point where they might safely exit. Getting
out is now very important. Suddenly, the gunners may rapidly point
to the ground and shout “GO” or there may just be the jolt of the skids
hitting the ground and the soldiers instinctively lurch out of the bird,
slam into the ground and focus on the very small part of the world they
now can see. The empty birds, under full power, squeeze
massive amounts of air and debris down on the exited soldiers, blinding
them to the smallest view. Very quickly, there is a sudden shroud
of silence as the birds retreat into the distance and the soldiers begin
their recovery into a cohesive organization, losing that
sound.
On various occasions and weather dependent, the birds return. Some
to provide necessary logistics, some command visits and some
medevacs. On the rarest and best of occasions, they arrive to take
you home. Always they have the same sweet sound which resonates
with every soldier who ever heard it. It is the sound of life,
hope for life and what may be. It is a sound that never will be
forgotten. It is your and our
sound.
Logistics is always a trial. Pilots don’t like it, field soldiers
need it and weather is indiscriminate. Log flights also mean mail
and a connection to home and where real people live and live real
lives. Here is an aberrant aspect of life that only that sound can
relieve. Often there is no landing zone or the area is so hot that
a pilot’s sense of purpose may become blurred. Ground commanders
beg and plead on the radio for support that is met with equivocations or
insoluble issues. Rations are stretched from four to six days,
cigarettes become serious barter items and soldiers begin to turn
inward. In some cases, perhaps only minutes after landing, fire
fights break out. The machine guns begin their carnivorous
song. Rifle ammunition and grenades are expended with
gargantuan appetites. The air is filled with an all-encompassing
sound that shuts each soldier into his own small world --
shooting, loading, shooting, loading, shooting, loading until he has to
quickly reach into the depth of his ruck, past the extra rations, past
the extra rain poncho, past the spare paperback, to the eight M16
magazines forming the bottom of the load – never thought he would need
them. A resupply is desperately needed. In some time, a
sound is heard over the din of battle. A steady whomp whomp whomp
that says: The World is here. Help is on the way. Hang in
there. The soldier turns back to the business at hand with a
renewed confidence. Wind parts the canopy and things begin to
crash through the tree tops. Some cases have smoke grenades
attached – these are the really important stuff – medical supplies,
codes and maybe mail. The sound drifts off in the distance and
things are better for the moment. The sound brings both a
psychological and a material relief.
Wounds are hard to manage. The body is all soft flesh, integrated
parts and an emotional burden for those that have to watch its
deterioration. If the body is an engine, blood is the gasoline –
when it runs out, so does life. It’s important the parts get
quickly fixed and the blood is restored to a useful level. If not,
the soldier becomes another piece of battlefield detritus. A
field medic has the ability to stop external blood flow – less
internal. He can replace blood with fluid but it’s not
blood. He can treat for shock but he can’t always stop it.
He is at the mercy of his ability and the nature of the wound. Bright
red is surface bleeding he can manage but dark red, almost tar-colored,
is deep, visceral and beyond his ability to manage. Dark is the essence
of the casualty’s interior. He needs the help that only that sound
can bring. If an LZ exists, it’s wonderful and easy. If not,
difficult options remain. The bird weaves back and forth above the
canopy as the pilot struggles to find the location of the
casualty. He begins a steady hover as he lowers the litter on a
cable. The gunner or helo medic looks down at the small figures
below and tries to wiggle the litter and cable through the tall canopy
to the small up-reaching figures below. In time, the litter is
filled and the cable retreats – the helo crew still carefully managing
the cable as it wends skyward. The cable hits its anchor, the
litter is pulled in, and the pilot pulls pitch and quickly disappears –
but the retreating sound is heard by all and the silent universal
thought – There but for the Grace of God go I – and it will be to that
sound.
Cutting a landing zone is a standard soldier task. Often, to hear
the helicopter’s song, the impossible becomes a requirement and miracles
abound. Sweat-filled eyes, blood blistered hands, energy-expended
and with a breath of desperation and desire, soldiers attack a small
space to carve out sufficient open air for the helicopter to land.
Land to bring in what’s needed, take out what’s not, and to remind them
that someone out there cares. Perhaps some explosives are used –
usually for the bigger trees but most often it is soldiers and machetes
or the side of an e-tool. Done under the pressure of an
encroaching enemy, it’s a combination of high adrenalin rush and simple
dumb luck – small bullet, big space. In time, an opening is made
and the sky revealed. A sound encroaches before a vision.
Eyes turn toward the newly created void and the bird appears. The
blade tips seem so much larger than the newly-columned sky.
Volumes of dirt, grass, leaves and twigs sweep upward and are then
driven fiercely downward through the blades as the pilot struggles to do
a completely vertical descent through the narrow column he has been
provided. Below, the soldiers both cower and revel in the
free-flowing air. The trash is blinding but the moving air feels
so great. Somehow, the pilot lands in a space that seems smaller
than his blade radius. In reverse, the sound builds and then
recedes into the distance – always that sound. Bringing and taking
away.
Extraction is an emotional highlight of any soldier’s journey.
Regardless of the austerity and issues of the home base, for that
moment, it is a highly desired location and the focus of thought.
It will be provided by that familiar vehicle of sound. The Pickup
Zone in the bush is relatively open, or if on an established firebase or
hilltop position, a marked fixed location. The soldiers awaiting
extraction close to the location undertake their assigned duties –
security, formation alignment, or LZ marking. Each is focused on
the task at hand and tends to blot out other issues. As each
soldier senses his moment of removal is about to arrive, his auditory
sense becomes keen and his visceral instinct searches for that single
sweet song that only one instrument can play. When registered, his
eyes look up and he sees what his mind has imaged. He focuses on
the sound and the sight and both become larger as they fill his
body. He quickly steps unto the skid and up into the aluminum
cocoon. Turning outward now, he grasps his weapon with one hand
and with the other holds the cargo ring on the floor – as he did when he
first arrived at this location. Reversing the flow of travel, he
approaches what he temporarily calls home. Landing again in a
swirl of dust, diesel and grinding sand, he offloads and trudges toward
his assembly point. The sounds retreat in his ears but he knows he
will hear them again. He always
will.
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