small refrigerators, and, most importantly, air conditioners. We had headquarters, mess halls, supply rooms, a medical clinic, a barbershop, and even a small gift shop. U.S. car manufacturers’ representatives clustered around a central store, the PX, ready to help us buy a car at wholesale prices while in Vietnam, to be delivered at home at the end of our tour. We had an officers’ club, too, a necessary place for young men to unwind after flying in the face of death each day.
In addition to the main club, the 361’s small officer’s club, the Stickitt Inn, featured a bar, a few tables, and a hole in one wall so you could dive into a sandbagged bunker during rocket or mortar attacks. We loved it. Camaraderie grew from our flights on SOG’s secret operations. We cemented those bonds at the Stickitt Inn, drinking way too much, telling tall tales, and acting crazy.
Several days after my first combat mission, I was sitting in the Stickitt Inn, drinking and telling war stories with Forrest and a couple of other new pilots. We had flown a few more missions, none as harrowing as the first, which I was recounting.
One of them said, “That must have been a hell of a day. Scary?”
“Not really,” I boasted, but instantly corrected myself. “Yeah, scary as shit, actually,” I admitted. “Scared the fuck out of me. But I did OK. I did it. We do what we’ve been trained to do. No time to think. Just have to do. You know how and you do it.”
I slammed my glass back on the bar. “I survived some hellacious missions on my first tour, too. I was shot up lots, and shot down once.”
Somebody asked, “What happened?”
“Took a thirty-seven-millimeter antiaircraft hit in the right wing attacking a fuel depot hidden under the trees. Classified mission in Laos over the Ho Chi Minh Trail. As I pulled up from a rocket run, wham, the whole right side of the aircraft seemed to explode. We tumbled out of control. The right wing shattered and was on fire. Worked it hard. Got back some ability to fly. Got the fire out. But we were descending fast. Could not hold altitude. I gave the command to eject. The observer went out. I pulled my seat handle right after. I had a very short parachute ride. Got only partial chute deployment before hitting the ground with a thud. We were crashing through the treetops by the time I punched out.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Then I was nearly captured. I ran through the jungle for forty-five minutes while my wingman put down suppressive fire. That earned me the nickname Lightfoot. Got plucked out of the jungle by an Air Force helicopter from the 20th Special Operations Squadron out of Thailand, call sign Pony Express. Spent some time in the hospital there. Eventually I returned to the unit, back to flight duties. We’d lost fifteen airplanes at that point out of eighteen. Thirty crewmembers shot down. Not many of them ever recovered. I was one of the few. Lousy odds. I was scared then, I’ll tell you. If you don’t get scared in combat, you’re a liar. Or nuts.”
I continued. “Only after a tense mission is over does the real fright come. When there’s time to sit and think, you watch it all play in your mind and wonder how the hell you lived through something like that.” I looked at them and grinned. “Enough to drive a man to drink.”
Forrest said, “I thought the war was over. Thought we’d missed the combat and would be bored to tears. The press claims that Nixon’s Vietnamization is working. The Viet Cong guerrillas are beaten. The U.S. is going home. All is quiet in Vietnam. The war’s won!”
“All true. Just not across the border—not in Laos and Cambodia. We’ve seen that the regular North Vietnamese Army is thick over there,” I said.
Someone asked, “What do we do if the NVA come across? There aren’t any American ground units left in the highlands.” I had no answer. I thought, If the shit hits the fan, I’ll be fine. Other guys get killed. Not me. I’m the lucky one.
Across the room, pilots began chanting, “Panther piss! Panther piss! Panther piss!” Two guys came up beside me, grabbed my arms, and led me to a bar stool in the center of the room. They filled a bizarre-looking mug with booze from most every bottle in the place, topped it off with a large plop of unknown gunk from a jug pulled from the refrigerator. The mug was passed around so anyone could add whatever they wanted to the mix (except lighter fluid, brass polish, or any known or suspected poison). The thing was handed to me. The guys by my side grabbed me and stuck their wet tongues deep into my ears. A commanding voice ordered, “Drink the piss of the Panther.”
I stared at the awful looking brew. Pubic hairs floated on top of putrescent goo. All eyes fixed on me. I guzzled. I almost puked, but I chugged it down as they chanted. When I was done, they cheered. Guys patted me on the back. Now I was in the brotherhood of the Pink Panthers. Forrest and the other new guys followed, each downing a mug of Panther piss. One bolted from the room spewing vomit as he ran. I kept mine down, but I felt like shit. The room began to spin. Faces got more surreal with each whirl.
Great guys, these guys, I thought. I ricocheted out of the club back to my hooch, fell into bed, and passed out till morning. This would not be the last of my drunks in Vietnam, but it would be by far the worst.
The next morning, I was front seat to one of our best pilots, Capt. John Debay, on a SOG mission to insert a reconnaissance team. After the insertion, we would stand by at Dak To in case we were needed for a TAC-E (tactical emergency) extraction.
I felt like crap after the previous night, but my head cleared as we did our preflight. We flew to the SOG compound outside Kontum along with another Cobra, and we joined three Gladiator Huey crews who had landed moments before. In the operations hut, we got a detailed briefing from the recon team leader, the One-Zero in SOG parlance.
Three Americans and nine indigenous Montagnard tribesmen, all experienced and dedicated special operations soldiers, made up the team. Montagnards were some of the fiercest, most capable fighters on earth.1 Besides the One-Zero, the Americans were the One-One, the assistant team leader, and the One-Two, the radio operator.
We were going to insert the team on the backside of a hill a few kilometers from an NVA headquarters. They’d gather information for two days, then snatch a prisoner if they could, and call for extraction. SOG recon team strength: twelve. NVA HQ and combat units in the immediate area: several hundred. It sounded insane. Everyone in the room took it as a matter of course.
We loaded up, cranked and lifted off from FOB II, the base for all SOG operations from the central part of South Vietnam.2 We began along the same route as my first mission. When we approached the border, our course arced farther south. We dropped down into the racetrack, but didn’t shoot. The two Hueys fell through into a small clearing. They pulled out in two seconds, the team already gone and invisible, putting distance between themselves and the landing zone. We moved a few miles eastward and orbited for several minutes to be sure the enemy had not immediately discovered the team. All was quiet.
We flew back to Dak To, refueled, shut down, and waited, ready to launch in two minutes if needed. We played spades, ate C-rations, soaked up some sun, and talked to push back the boredom. Eventually a fresh flight of Cobras and Hueys arrived to relieve us, allowing us to return to FOB II for a debriefing before calling it a day. Afterwards, one of the Huey pilots said, “Hey, Panthers! You guys want a string ride before we head home today?”
My wingman, CW2 Dan Jones, explained, “You put on a harness, clip onto the end of a 120-foot nylon rope, and dangle under the Huey while he flies you around the countryside. It’s what we do with the teams we pull out of the jungle. It’s exciting. You oughta do it. Come on. I’ll go with you.”
“Why not?” I said. Two others joined us. The helicopter hovered overhead. The crew chief leaned
