WO Dale Fillmore, a.k.a. Killer Spade One-Zero, a.k.a. Number Ten

B Company, 229^th Aviation Battalion (Assault Helicopter)

1^st Cavalry Division (Air Mobile)

August ’67 – August ‘68

Seat Covers and “Hunter-Killer” Missions

The Situation

It was March 8, 1968 and we were operating out of Camp Evans, an old Marine Regimental base taken over by the 1^st Cavalry Division when we moved north for operation “Jeb Stewart I”. Camp Evans was located on a coastal plain about ten miles from the shore of the South China Sea, and about a third of the way from Citadel of Hue to the Demilitarized Zone separating South Vietnam from North. The area was known as the I Corps Tactical Zone (pronounced “eye” Corps for short). This coastal area was agricultural, full of rice paddies and water--rivers, inland lakes and bays. There were several villages in the area and a curfew was imposed from dusk to dawn to protect civilians from the war as much as possible.

The weather was improving from the month before. There were more breaks in the cloud cover and the fog would burn off by noon. To an acclimated soldier, the temperatures were cold and it was common to wear flight jackets anytime you weren’t in the sack. The guys who had their medium weights with them were now wise old timers when only a couple of months before they were “pussies”. Combat was in a comparative lull since the Cav moved to I Corps. The Tet-68 battles of Quang Tri and the Citadel of Hue were in the recent past or winding down, the NVA (North Vietnamese Army) was on the run to the west and the assaults of Khe Sahn and the A Shau Valley had yet to begin.

The Monsters

I liked to fly “Hunter-Killer” missions. They gave me an excuse not to drink with the boys and I always got to sleep late that day and the next. Plus it was fun! In our normal day-to-day operations we supported the warriors, moving them around, keeping them supplied with food and ammunition, and evacuating their wounded; on “Hunter-Killer” missions we got to be the warriors and directly engage the enemy.

I had known I was flying Hunter-Killer since this morning, and as I walked down to the company operations bunker for tonight’s mission, the air felt cool and crisp against my face, but it smelled like rain. Back in the world (Oregon for me) when it smelled like this it was raining. It had been wet so much for the last several months that maybe I just couldn’t get the smell of it out of my mind. Two things essential to a Hunter-Killer mission were coming together; the weather was forecasted to be clear and there was no moon, but something seemed off. I looked up into the sky and it was dark -- no moon or clouds, and I could see thousands of stars but they seemed filtered, somehow, as if I was looking at them through a one-way mirror.

Gator was already in operations when I got there, hovering over the coffee pot. The crew of the flare ship was right behind me as we walked through the sandbag maze entryway into the operations bunker. Sergeant Mike Ward had been on duty since about 5:00 PM this afternoon and it was now past midnight. Judging from the color and texture of the coffee spilling into Gator’s cup, SGT Ward probably made it when he first came on duty. WO Leroy “Gator” Watkins was from southern Florida and was always telling alligator and swamp stories, talking about exploits of man over the hostile environment of the Florida wetlands. If you believed half of what he said in his stories, flying in Vietnam by comparison was like a walk along the Pacific Crest Trail in the Oregon Cascades: some steep places but mostly serene and beautiful. He was a real swamp rat and we were just now getting him to wear shoes and we practically had to point a gun at to get him to roll down his sleeves and wear gloves while flying. Apparently strong coffee was also part of Gator’s heritage.

“Want some coffee Number Ten?” Gator asked me.

“How long has it been on, Gator?”

“Too long. Want some?”

“I’ll pass.”

SGT Ward handed us the mission sheets he had prepared on that ultra thin paper we called onion skin. He had to type several copies and I guess the thinner the paper and carbons the more copies he could make at a whack. The onion skin paper had all the necessities of the mission including the Mohawk’s launch time, as well as the usual call signs and frequencies. I walked over to the mission board and noted the tail number of the bird we would use tonight. It must have just come out of maintenance because it showed twenty-four and a half hours to go until the next inspection. The flare ship only had two and a half hours before it would go in for maintenance. I moved to the right to check out the AO map. I noted the location of artillery batteries and the free fire zones. I drew in the four zones for tonight’s mission on my map with my grease pencil and I noted the location of the friendly units scattered about in those zones. I checked to make sure all the call signs and frequencies on the mission sheet matched those in the SOI (book of call signs and frequencies we carried in our top left breast pocket secured with bead chain attached to our top button hole). Tonight’s Mohawk was based at Phu Bai about 20 miles southeast of Camp Evans, and was SLAR (Side Looking Aerial Radar) equipped. The SLAR equipped Mohawks were used to detect targets that moved more than two miles per hour such as Sampans (small canoe like boats) and bicycles or pedestrians in the open. It looked like we were going to have a little fun tonight with water traffic, and with any luck we will get to see a Sampan or two go down with lots of fireworks. I was the AC (Aircraft Commander) of the lead ship, and Gator was my copilot, for which I was glad. As Mission Leader I would be spending my time on the radios and marking targets on my plastic coated map -- I needed a good pilot to do most of the flying.

I folded my map and stuck it into my right thigh pocket, left operations, and stopped by my hooch, one of the GP Medium tents in a sea of olive drab tents lining both sides of the company street. My AO was the first eight feet just inside the flaps on the right side. It was a sixty-four square foot corner studio apartment on the first floor, in other circumstances. There were ten pilots, mostly Warrant Officers, per twenty by forty foot GP Medium tent. A four foot wide aisle made its way down the middle and it was common ground. At the first tent post about a quarter of the way in was one of those little Sanyo refers we picked up at the PX. All of us in the tent shared the costs and kept it stocked with beer and sodas. I grabbed my weapon and holster and buckled it on. I put on my chest protector, grabbed four sodas and my helmet bag and headed down to the flight line with Gator.

Tonight’s mission was going to be an easy one. The biggest hazard would be tripping over one of the tent stakes and banging my shins on the walk down to the flight line. All we had to do was preflight the aircraft, crank it up and hope to find some targets. That is, if we could find our aircraft in this blacked out camp. My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness when the glow of the crew chief’s cigarette showed me the rest of the way. I just made out the outline of the aircraft as the crew chief said “Good evening, Mr. Fillmore”.

“Good evening, Chief,” I said, noticing that the covers were off, and the blade untied. All the access panels were open, and the door-mounted M-60’s were in place. I set the sodas on the floor of the cargo area and opened the left front door, dropped my helmet bag on the seat, and leaned my chest protector against the yaw pedals. I turned toward the crew chief and he handed me the log book. “Anything I need to know that’s not in here?” I asked as I looked it over.

“No Sir! She’s ready to fly.”

I handed the log book back to the crew chief as the door gunner came around to our side of the aircraft. Each slick has a crew of four: the two pilots, the crew chief who mans the left door gun and is responsible for the aircraft, and the door gunner who mans the right gun. I handed out the sodas, briefed the crew on tonight’s mission and then we broke up to do our respective jobs.

I climbed halfway up the fuselage, inspected the engine compartment for leaks, loose or missing safety wire, and fluid levels, and then jumped up on top. I stood up to inspect the rotor system and cracked the back of my head on one of the stabilizer bars. “Sh--!” I muttered through clenched teeth. “Night preflight inspections suck!”

“What did you say sir?” asked the crew chief.

“Nothing Chief, I was just mumbling to myself.” It’s too bad that they don’t give out purple hearts for being a spastic, I thought.

While rubbing the back of my head and sucking the blood off my tongue, I checked the “Jesus nut” that holds the rotor system onto the helicopter. If you ever loose it in flight you pray to “Jesus” as you fall out of the sky like a ten-thousand pound bomb. I checked the other rotor hub components and the engine intake filters. Gator drained some fuel into a jar, looking for water, and then checked the airframe, closing access panels as he went. By the time he closed the last panel I was finished up top, and I climbed down to saddle up.

I opened my door, grabbed and unzipped my helmet bag, pulled my helmet and gloves out and sat them on the seat. I took the bag which also contained an emergency radio, some pen flares, and a partial stick of C-4 and stashed it under the seat with my hat. I used a pinch of C-4 to heat my C-Rations for lunch when we had a long flying day and I always thought it might come in handy if we ever got shot down and had to evade for a while.

As I stepped up onto the toe of the skid and hung my helmet on the right corner of the seat armor, I plugged the helmet cable into the pigtail hanging from the ceiling behind the seat, and laid my gloves on the radio console. Then I plopped into the seat. I reached down to drag my chicken plate up from the floor and over my head, pulling the back part of the vest behind me. The crew chief stepped up on the toe of the skid and grabbed my shoulder harness as I was adjusting the Velcro on the vest. I shoved the lap belt through the loops on the shoulder harness straps and synched everything up tight. I wasn’t used to wearing the flight jacket and it made everything a little snug when I finally managed to get buckled in. I reached down on my right and adjusted my weapon so that it felt reasonably comfortable between my leg and the seat, then adjusted my knife the same way on the left. I stuck my cigarettes into the pocket of the chest protector and then dropped my Zippo in on top of the cigarettes.

The gunner was giving Gator the same treatment on the right side. I stuck an ear plug into each ear then grabbed my helmet and pulled it over my head trying to avoid folding my ears over with the headset pads. I could feel the goose egg on the back of my head throbbing against the lining of my helmet while I adjusted my mic, and pulled on my flight gloves. I moved the armored seat slider in front of the door window as the crew chief stepped down and shut the door.

The crew chief jumped up on his seat, put on his armor and fastened his monkey strap. The crew chief and gunner both wore back and chest protectors in their vest. The pilots had the benefit of fully armored seats so we didn’t use our back plates. Most of the crew chiefs and gunners took the ones that the pilots didn’t use and sat on them. Some used a flack jacket on top of that for a seat cushion.

I started reading the checklist as Gator cranked up the aircraft. When we got to flight idle, I turned on the radios, and set the frequencies of the various radios to Mission tactical, Division Artillery tactical, and to Evans Tower. Gator was checking the hydraulics by moving the controls and running the engine up to 6600 rpm. I tuned in Armed Forces Radio on the ADF (Automatic Direction Finder). It was considerate of the US government to use AM radio stations for limited navigation. According to Kenney, Ruby was taking her love to town! I flipped the toggle switch on the radio control panel, stepped on the transmit button and called out: “This is Yellow-One, radio check, over.” In any formation of slicks the lead ship/flight commander was designated “Yellow-One”. The rest of the aircraft in the flight were designated Yellow-Two, Yellow-Three, and so on for however many ships where in the formation. These designations made it easy for the flight leader to control the aircraft without knowing everyone’s call sign.

“Yellow-Two is up with 24 flares,” announced the AC of flare ship.

“This is Smiling Tiger Lead; I’ve gotcha Lima Charlie, Yellow-One. We have two Snakes for you tonight. We will get our own clearances, and meet you en route to the first zone” replied the AC of the lead Cobra. Cobra gunships were nicknamed “Snakes”.

“Roger that, Smiling Tiger. See you in a few minutes.” I responded. “Yellow-Two, I’ll get us clearance.” Without looking at the radio control panel, I switched the UHF toggle to transmit. “Evans Tower, this is Killer Spade One-Zero. We have a flight of two for departure to the east from our present position”.

“Roger One-Zero, winds calm, pressure two-niner-niner-eight, visibility five miles. Your flight of two is cleared for east departure from your present position.”

“Roger Evans. Cleared for departure.” I switched the toggle to tactical. “Yellow-Two, we are cleared for departure.” Gator and I adjusted our altimeters, set the wings on the attitude indicators and Gator reset the elapsed time on the clock. The instrument panel in the Huey was arranged with a set of flight control instruments in front of each pilot. The centerpiece instrument in the flight control grouping was the attitude indicator also known as the artificial horizon. The attitude indicator was a large sphere that used gyros to stay oriented with the ground. The top half of the sphere was white representing the sky and the bottom half black representing the ground. In the center of the instrument was a little airplane as it would look if you were riding an “Eat at Joe’s” banner being pulled behind. It was oriented to the aircraft. If you were in a cloud and wanted to fly straight and level you would just put the airplane a little above the horizon line with the wings level and you would be flying straight and level.

“OK boys, go ahead and slide the doors closed. If we need the 60’s we can open them again,” I said over the intercom.

The crew chief’s voice came through my headset. “Clear Left.”

The gunner followed with, “Clear Right”.

I heard each cargo door slam shut. I turned down the intensity of the red panel lights as my eyes made their customary trip around the instruments, checking all engine, transmission and fuel gauges. I flipped on the landing light and said “Ok Gator, panel’s good, let’s go.”

Gator lifted the aircraft up to clear the sandbag revetment and nosed it over. Four or five seconds later I flipped off the landing light as we passed through translational lift (the change in aerodynamics from hover to flight where the rotor blades bite into undisturbed air) and started a 500 feet/minute rate of climb. I watched the instruments until we were established in the climb and nailed on 60 knots, then I pulled the map out of my right thigh pocket, reached under my chest protector for the grease pencil and changed my focus to the radio consol. I switched FM 2 to transmit, and contacted Division Artillery for targets.

I was looking on the map and writing down the coordinates for the first target when I was startled by the sudden increase in the blade noise and airframe vibration. I looked up from the radio consol so rapidly to see what was happening that dizziness overwhelmed me. The night had started out so clear I was shocked to see the light from our aircraft’s rotating beacon reflected off dense fog and back into our cockpit. Out of the corner of my left eye I saw red light from the running light and when I looked toward Gator he was silhouetted by green light reflected off the fog from the right side running lights. The airspeed was 100 knots and increasing. The attitude indicator showed nothing but black. Nosedive! My hands instinctively reached toward the controls. The panel was shaking so violently, looking at it increased my disorientation to the point that I was reluctant to take control. For a moment I decided not to, but Gator had lost control of the aircraft and I had to take it. Even if I couldn’t improve the situation, I had to try. In the calmest voice I could muster, I said “I have the aircraft”. I sounded confident, even though my stomach was churning, my head was spinning and I had puckered so hard that I had sucked the seat cover up my ass.

Gator said “You’ve got it,” and let loose of the controls.

Fighting my confusion and disorientation, I pulled back on the stick. Focus damn it, I said to my self as I looked at the attitude indicator. Show me white! Show me some white! I yelled at the attitude indicator, in my head. God, I hope we have enough altitude to pull out, I prayed silently. The vibration was still increasing and the airspeed had just passed through 120 knots as I saw some white appear. I started feeling heavy in my seat and remembered to lower the pitch to prevent the retreating blade from stalling. Loosing lift on the left side of the aircraft would make the situation impossible. Take it easy now, don’t over control. I eased back on the stick a little more while reducing power. The gain in airspeed was slowing as it passed 125 knots, then it peaked, and slowly started to drop. I pulled back on the stick even more. How many positive G’s can we pull? I asked myself as I ran that specification through my mind. One and a half I think, or is it two? What does it matter? We don’t have enough altitude anyway. I refused to look at the altimeter until the aircraft was in control or we were lying dead in a pile of helicopter rubble and burning fuel. I put more back pressure on the stick and the extra G’s pressed me deeper into my seat. My chest protector was pushing uncomfortably hard against my legs and the weight of my flight helmet made my neck feel rubbery. Finally the little airplane was starting to cross the artificial horizon and I leveled the wings with a little left pressure on the stick. We were spiraling and I didn’t even notice! The aircraft speed was dropping through 110 knots and the needle on rate of climb indicator came out of the basement and started reading positive numbers. I checked the power, increased it and the rate of climb reached 100 feet/minute and was increasing. We’re climbing now. I still can’t see anything except fog and the reflections from the aircrafts lights through the windows. Man, it would suck to hit a rock in these clouds now, I thought.

The aircraft was starting to smooth out as I got it slowed down and into a climb and the vertigo monster was finally starting to leave me alone. “Turn off the rotating beacon and running lights, Gator,” I said over the intercom. That should help finish off the monster, I mused.

OK Fillmore, relax. Establish a standard rate of climb and airspeed. I coached myself as the airspeed passed 80 knots and the rate of climb started creeping above 500 feet/minute. I lowered the power. Ok, things are coming together now. I finally took a look at the altimeter and it showed that even now we were still below 100 feet. Jeeze, I thought, God must have opened up the earth and let us fly through. The airspeed was dropping below 65 knots, and the rate of climb is 550 feet/minute. Nose her over a little, Fillmore. I backed off on the power and pressured the stick forward looking for 60 knots and 500 feet/minute rate of climb. Relax. Take a breath. We’re ok. We have our airspeed and our rate of climb is coming. I backed off on the power again and the rate of climb settled down at 500 feet/minute. Ok, we’re climbing and the aircraft is stable. Where are we going? I checked the gyro compass. We’re heading southwest toward the mountains! Turn left! I pressured the stick toward the left and pulled in some power and the compass immediately started moving toward the east. Easy now, all we want is a half standard rate turn. What do I want for heading? Let’s head for the ocean. Zero-six-zero should do it. What’s our altitude? 250 feet. That’s good! Ok everything is under control. Zero-six-zero is coming up. Level the wings and relax. What seemed like an eternity were just a few tens of seconds. Why is it when you need the time the most, it accommodates you by slowing down?

Over and over I thought about why we were in the clouds when the sky was clear at take off. It was like the air was super saturated with moisture (a cloud about to be born) and the calm wind conditions would not stir the air enough for the water to precipitate out and form clouds. Suddenly I understood! The action of the rotors must have stirred the air and that was all it took. We were making the clouds as we flew!

Just as I settled into the instrument climb and started to relax, the intercom came alive. “Sir,” blurted the crew chief, “I can see a huge glow in the clouds behind us. I think one of the Snakes went down!”

“Gator, switch me to UHF then contact Division Artillery. Let them know what is going on and that we are aborting the mission. Then contact Operations and fill them in.”

“Evans Tower, this is Spade One-Zero. We are IFR (in the clouds) heading zero-six-zero, climbing through 500 feet. Request GCA.” GCA stands for Ground Controlled radar Approach.

“Spade One-Zero, GCA radar has been shut down for the night and we have a Cobra down. There is another aircraft in the airspace also IFR and climbing out heading one-two-zero. Continue climbing zero-six-zero and report when VFR” (meaning out of the clouds). The lead Cobra had taken off and crashed. His wingman saw him disappear into the fog and was able to abort his takeoff.

“Roger tower. When can we expect a GCA approach?” I responded.

“Roger One-Zero, we are in the process of locating an operator. Once we find one it will take forty minutes to warm up the equipment. Report when VFR”.

“Roger that, Evans.” We finally popped through the fog at about 5,000 feet. I reported to the tower, gave the aircraft back to a reluctant Gator, and lit up a cigarette. I turned on the running lights and rotating beacon in case that Mohawk was still flying around and Yellow-Two would be able to see us. I looked around and all I could see were the tops of the cloud cover. No holes, no light and only Yellow-Two in sight. We could see the glow in the fog where the snake had crashed. We joined up with the flare ship and flew around in big circles monitoring the radios for the status of the downed Cobra. I started noticing the throbbing of my goose egg as my headache came back. I really didn’t feel it go away but I felt it coming back.

I flipped to tactical and called “Yellow-Two, Yellow-One”.

“Go ahead Yellow-One”.

“Yellow-Two, we will be low on fuel by the time the Radar is up. I want you to make the first approach. We will start our approach when you are safely on the ground.”

“Roger, Yellow-One.”

The attitude in the cabin was solemn. It’s hard for everyone when an aircraft goes down, especially in flames. That glow in the clouds was an inferno of burning fuel, exploding ordinance and melting metal. These guys supported us on many missions and we didn’t even know their names.

There are a lot of monsters out here tonight including the Monster of Death. Two monsters in one night were more than enough. I listened quietly to rock and roll on the ADF as we flew over the area where the beaches of the South China Sea were, waiting for the radar to become useful and staring at the glow in the clouds below. Gator and I took turns flying and he hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in the aircraft since he relinquished control in the clouds. When he was flying I stared out the windows.

Windshield time is thinking time. I thought about the two Cobra pilots who were dead, and all that was left was a smoldering heap of burned magnesium, melted aluminum and red hot steel. Of all the ways to die, burning to death was the one I most feared. I thought about how many times they were there for me and that I had never met them. I wondered if somehow I was responsible for their death and our predicament by taking off in the fog. Would the tower have cleared us if the fog had already formed? I thought about the radar approach to Evans still ahead of us and wondered how long our fuel would last. I thought about Gator who was embarrassed at his inability to control the aircraft tonight when surprised by the fog and his thinking that maybe he did not have the skill he needed to make Aircraft Commander.

During the time that I was thinking, Evans GCA came up and Yellow-Two had made the first approach and was safely on the ground. Now I had to decide how to handle our approach. Tonight was the sixth or eighth time since flight school that I had to fly on instruments and it was probably Gator’s first. I felt comfortable flying through clouds. The safe and responsible thing to do was to fly the radar approach myself and land the aircraft. But was it the best thing to do?

“Spade One-Zero this is Evans GCA, over”.

“Go Evans” I responded.

“Roger Spade One-Zero, Squawk three-two-one-seven. Say altitude and heading” the radar operator transmitted. For a guy who had worked all day, gone to bed and been rudely awaken for our emergency, he sounded remarkably fresh. Gator set the code on the transponder and pushed its transmit button. The transponder was something we used very little in Vietnam, but it was sure nice to have it when you needed it.

“Roger Evans, squawking three-two-one-seven, heading zero-eight-zero at 5,000 feet.”

“Roger, One-Zero, I have you on radar eleven klicks east northeast of Evans. Turn right to two-six-zero and descend to 3,000 feet. Report reaching.”

“Roger Evans, turning right to two-six-zero, leaving 5,000 feet.” I looked over at Gator. “Do you want to take her in?”

He nodded.

“You have the aircraft.”

Epilogue

That night after we were safely on the ground Gator thanked me and gave me the glory for saving his life. I arrogantly accepted using humble words. An expression that’s thrown around a lot is “God is my copilot.” That night He was the one flying the aircraft and I was the copilot. I did not look at the altimeter while I was regaining control of the aircraft because I knew it would have told me that we were too low to recover. The glory was God’s, not mine. As I reflect on situations like this, my thoughts go to the crew. It is a lot easier to fight monsters when you don’t have time to think about them. What kind of hell must it have been to be strapped into the backseat of a helicopter, helplessly watching the pilots as they fight to regain control while heading for the ground like a meteor, and waiting to die? I look back now writing this story, realizing that it doesn’t matter how well you prepare, there will be monsters to deal with, and you won’t possess the weapons or skills. I asked for God’s help only because I was desperate, but he was there for me none the less. I feel warmed by the thought that I am in his plan even when he was not in mine.

Photo's By Dale Fillmore

Loading Aviator Wings

WO Dale Fillmore, a.k.a. Killer Spade One-Zero, a.k.a. Number Ten

B Company, 229^th Aviation Battalion (Assault Helicopter)

1^st Cavalry Division (Air Mobile)

August ’67 – August ‘68

dasgfillmore@gmail.com

Thanks for the great story Dale!

Johnny Hubbs

229^th - Webmaster - Skytrooper@stic.net

229^th Aviation Battalion