19. Henceforth, resupply of bases in the Central Highlands would be exclusively by air, and we Pink Panthers engaged in actions along the length of the highway as fighting continued. On each of these missions, we flew over the Mang Yang Pass. I reflected on that long-ago fight. I’d read about the battle in Bernard B. Fall’s book, Street Without Joy. All those who died with Group Mobile 100 had been buried in a cemetery in the hills above the pass, standing up facing France. Returning from a mission one day, I circled it, taking pictures of the white markers on the hillside. I talked about it at the club that night. One of the old hands said, “Bad luck to take pictures in the Mang Yang!”
“Bullshit!” I said.
On April 14, we received a radio call that Firebase Charlie was under attack by two regiments, three thousand soldiers, of the 320th NVA Infantry Division, and 130-mm artillery shells were pounding the position. It was defended by 470 South Vietnamese paratroopers and one American advisor, a Special Forces infantry major named John Joseph Duffy.
Dan Jones, the most seasoned pilot in my platoon, was within a couple of weeks of going home. He led the flight. I was his wingman. Dan pointed our flight toward Rocket Ridge, and we coaxed as much speed as our Cobras would give.
Map 2. The core of our mission area in the Central Highlands
“Firebase Charlie, this is Panther One-Three.”
“Panther Lead, this is Dusty Cyanide. I have multiple targets for you. All .51-caliber machine guns.”
“Oh shit!” My front-seater remarked over the intercom.
Oh shit? How about, Oh fuck! I thought as I set my weapons for combat. The .51-caliber machine gun seemed designed specifically to shoot down helicopters. They’d done plenty of damage over the past weeks.
Dan calmly acknowledged, “Roger, Dusty Cyanide. We’re inbound. Give us the positions when we get there.”
We made several passes on enemy guns. Bullets streamed past our cockpits as the NVA gunners tried to bring us down. Rolling in on a .51 position is always dicey. Tracers come at you and miss by a few feet. You try to get rockets onto him before he gets lucky and blasts you out of the sky. We took small arms hits. My knees vibrated like a sewing machine, but I focused on controlling the helicopter, lining up the gunsights and shooting. I was scared but had no time for it.
Dan radioed, “Dusty Cyanide, Panther One-Three. Be advised, running low on fuel. Out of ammo. We’re breaking station for rearm-refuel.”
“Roger, One-Three. Four gun crews destroyed, four guns taken out. Good work. Hurry back!”
By the time we got back, the situation had deteriorated dramatically. Other teams of Cobras had worked while we rearmed. VNAF A-1 Skyraiders and U.S. jet fighters dropped napalm and high-explosive bombs on the advancing enemy as well, but the NVA attack was intensifying, pushing back the South Vietnamese defenders. One of the A-1s was shot down and the pilot killed. The enemy overran outlying posts and breached the perimeter of Charlie itself. As dusk settled in, fires and chaos raged across the hilltop.
“Panther, the battalion commander is dead, acting commander wounded. Enemy broken through on the southwest. Put it there first. Then all around us—but real close.”
“Roger, Dusty. We’ve got ’em,” Dan said.
After a number of Cobra attack runs, Duffy called. “Panther Lead, this is Dusty Cyanide. You have broken the enemy attack, for now. Hundreds of bodies in the wire—maybe a thousand. But we cannot hold.” After a short break, he continued, “We are leaving Firebase Charlie, now. Stop them from following us. Whatever it takes. Put your stuff right on top of the firebase, NOW.”
Another Cobra team joined us, with Forrest Snyder in one of the front seats. We finished laying waste to Firebase Charlie and made our way back to Camp Holloway. The flight picked its way through hills and valleys below a worsening layer of low clouds in the pitch black of night.
The next morning, the badly wounded and exhausted advisor was rescued from the valley below Rocket Ridge along with 36 survivors of the 11th Vietnamese Airborne battalion. The remaining 434 members of the battalion had been killed or captured or were missing in action. Some would infiltrate through the enemy and later return to friendly lines. Major Duffy was recommended for the Medal of Honor. He would receive the Distinguished Service Cross for his actions on Firebase Charlie, our nation’s second-highest award for heroism. The battle remains an icon in Vietnamese folk culture, the subject of film, song, and poetry both in Vietnam and among the expat community in the United States.4
1st Lt. Tim Conry, a new pilot, was assigned to my platoon a day later, on April 16. He was immediately impressive: great bearing, well-spoken, intelligent, an exceptional aviator, and a really likeable guy. He was engaged to be married. I knew this young officer would go places in the Army. As his platoon leader, I made him my front-seater. We grew close and became a great fighting team.
The war raged in the Central Highlands. The North Vietnamese launched all-out conventional attacks with every unit its army could muster. They assaulted across the demilitarized zone into the northern portions of South Vietnam. They attacked from Cambodia thrusting toward Saigon. They came out of Laos and northern Cambodia into the Central Highlands. Three months before, most of us thought we’d won.
Toward the end of April, long-ranging NVA 130-mm guns sent a thousand artillery shells into the 22 ARVN division headquarters at Tan Canh. Wire-guided Soviet Sagger antitank missiles destroyed the few South Vietnamese tanks at Tan Canh and Dak To. The enemy launched Soviet SA-7 heat-seeking antiaircraft missiles against U.S. helicopters.
At dawn the next day, April 24, the North Vietnamese attacked Tan Canh and Dak To with an infantry division, a tank regiment, and supporting artillery and sappers. Outmanned and outgunned, the South Vietnamese defenders at Tan Canh were overwhelmed within two hours, and those at Dak To succumbed shortly after. North Vietnamese tanks rolled inside Tan Canh, onto the runway at Dak To, and along the highway between the two.
Tim and I saw plenty of action that day. A Gladiator Huey that had rescued five U.S. advisors was hit by enemy fire and fell from the sky in flames. Advisors escaped from Tan Canh, the Dak To airstrip, and the district headquarters in Dak To village. Helicopters rescued most of them later in the day. Two remained missing in action.
Hundreds of ARVN soldiers lay dead and wounded. Others tried to evade the enemy and work their way to friendly positions. Some succeeded, but others were hunted down and killed or captured. It was the first time a South Vietnamese division had been overrun. The division commander and his entire staff were missing.
During one run back into Kontum to rearm and refuel, I got a call to land at the military headquarters and shut down.
Tim asked, “What’s up?”
“Somebody wants to know what’s going on at Tan Canh and Dak To, I guess.”
I shot an approach to the HQ helipad, landed, and shut down. An American captain escorted us into the dining hall. A number of folks were finishing their breakfast.
Tim muttered quietly to me as we walked in, “What the fuck?” I shrugged. Some contrast.
