One Full Trip around the Sun: One Pilot's Year with the "Hornets" 116th Assault Helicopter Company - Cu Chi, Vietnam

By Glenn W. Herpst FRAeS

"One Full Trip around the Sun" is a dramatic and suspenseful story of a young man's journey flying helicopters during the Vietnam War, from May 1968 through May 1969. Both historical and deeply personal, this book shares the intensity, horror, sadness, and even joy from the events that took place during the time it takes the Earth to make one full trip around the Sun.

Vietnam veteran Glenn W. Herpst shares his experiences as a young Army Warrant Officer helicopter pilot as he makes his way to the Vietnam War. Through vivid and rich storytelling, he chronicles his adventures from the departure from his hometown to his arrival in Vietnam.

Readers will develop an understanding of what it was like to live and fly with the men and soldiers of the 116th Assault Helicopter Company "Hornets". Throughout the story, you will meet other members of the unit and come to understand their trials and tribulations as young flyers in an ongoing war. You will be with these men through their long days and nights from May 1968 through May 1969. They will live, grow, hurt, and die. And those who make it to the end of their tour, will return to a much different world from the one they left.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667827193

Book preview

Preface

I had been thinking about writing a story about my Vietnam experiences for many years. Turns out, it took fifty-five years to actually put any words on paper. I have known a few writers, and I have always bothered them for advice and direction. My friend Curt Gentry, an excellent nonfiction writer with plenty of chops behind him, told me: Writers don’t tell other writers how to go about their craft.

Another friend, Dr. Charles Ponce, also a very good nonfiction writer, at least gave me what turned out to be some very sage advice: Just write your story. Don’t think about anything else—punctuation, style, spelling, chapters, or paragraphs. Just write it. You, dear reader, will be the recipient of Charles’s advice.

My story starts as I was about to leave for Vietnam in May of 1968 and attempts to give you a feel of what it was like to be a nineteen-year-old kid going off to a questionable war as a very young warrant officer pilot. To say I was fortunate to have returned intact, for the most part, would be an extreme understatement. At least my story includes my return from that war, whereas many of my compatriots did not.

To the best of my ability and recollections, I have attempted to tell a story about living and flying with the 116th Assault Helicopter Company, the Hornets and Stingers, from the beginning of May 1968 to May 1969. Even now, I get a chill when thinking about being part of such an incredible group of men, who displayed an unequaled level of skill, bravery, and concern for everyone, both those in the unit and those we worked with on the ground. We flew out of Cu Chi, Vietnam, where the 25th Infantry Division (Tropic Lightning) was headquartered throughout my time of the war. To me, the men of the 25th were a matchless group of combatants that will always be able to hold their heads high in remembrance of their dedication to duty and the overall bravery they displayed on the battlefields in III Corps and War Zone 3 of Vietnam.

The Hornets and Stingers supported and fought alongside the 25th Infantry Division, 1st Infantry Division, 173rd Airborne Brigade, 196th Light Infantry Brigade, 199th Light Infantry Brigade, Special Forces, 5th ARVN Division, 25th ARVN Division, and the Royal Australian Task Force. In recognition of their unrelenting commitment to their missions, the Hornets were awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for displaying such gallantry, determination, and esprit de corps in accomplishing its mission under extremely difficult and hazardous conditions so as to set it apart from and above other units participating in the same campaign. The collective degree of valor (combat heroism) against an armed enemy by the unit nominated for the PUC is the same as that which would warrant award of the individual award of the Distinguished Service Cross, Air Force Cross, or Navy Cross. Other unit awards included three Valorous Unit Awards, the Army’s second highest unit award, ranking just behind the Presidential Unit Citation. The Valorous Unit Award is considered the unit equivalent of the Silver Star for an individual and is awarded to units that display extraordinary heroism in combat.

Other unit decorations received by the Hornets include two Meritorious Unit Commendations, four Vietnamese Gallantry Crosses with Palm, and the Vietnamese Civil Action Honor Medal First Class with oak leaf. Many times, I have told those closest to me that I felt every member of the Hornets deserved the Congressional Medal of Honor for all the things we did during the war.

I hope all who read my story will walk away with some understanding of the intensity, horror, sadness, and even joy of the events that took place during the 1968 to 1969 trip around the sun. All events are real and have been told to the best of my ability and recollection. I am afraid I may have left the names of some crew members, pilots, and other men of the unit out of my story; that is not for any reason other than my recollections and memories are not what they once were, and I offer my apologies in advance. The same goes for particular incidents that, when viewed from other perspectives, may have another valid take on them.

Foreword

I first met Glenn when I arrived in the Hornets in January of 1969. As he points out in the book, I was the proverbial FNG, ¹ and he was an old hand and the unit Instructor Pilot at this point. When he took me for my initial check ride, we had an interesting near-death experience. Welcome to the war! Over time we became fast friends, and I learned an exceptional amount from this relationship. Obviously, there was the flying and tactical operations portion, but more importantly I learned how to deal with the tragic and emotional aspects that confront every soldier upon their introduction to combat. As much as anything else, this defines the heart and soul of One Full Trip Around the Sun.

Glenn does a masterful job of providing enough technical expertise to convince any aviator/pilot of his bona fides, yet his writing style is such that even a casual reader will glean a vast comprehension of the world’s first helicopter war. We follow Glenn’s progression from nineteen-year-old FNG to twenty-year-old master practitioner. What Glenn does not explicitly point out, but is clearly obvious, is that this was a year of sustained, unrelenting combat with two minor rest and recreation (R&R) breaks. To put that in perspective, in almost all previous wars there were periods of intense combat followed by periods of consolidation, regrouping, retraining, and a break from combat. As an example, during WWII, the 101st Airborne Division was in a period of regrouping and retraining when they were called out for the defense of Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. This battle lasted forty days and then the units were relieved of immediate combat and reset.

This did not happen in Vietnam. Once units arrived in Vietnam, they fought continuously, with replacements coming in on an individual basis and old timers departing individually. Even though the aviation units would return to base at the end of the day, they were not out of harm’s way, as you will read. The demands and pressure were constant, and one had to learn to deal with them.

After I had been in-country for a couple of months, these pressures had built inside of me to the point of almost bursting. As Glenn puts it in the book, How can one continue to effectively carry out one’s duty and fly with the fear of death? One cannot. By this time, Glenn and I had become fast friends and drinking buddies. One night after the officers’ club had closed, he and I were sitting outside drinking some vodka, and I spilled my guts to him regarding my fear. Having gone through this himself, as he so exquisitely lays out, he worked with me, giving me an emotional and psychological check ride that I was able to quickly internalize. Almost immediately the pressure was relieved, and I felt a great burden lifted. This was not simply a practical exercise but a crucial turning point for me. I was now much more able to perform my duties and progress as a combat pilot and shortly advanced into our gunship platoon, the Stingers. As you will read, part of this entailed going out with one of the infantry units that we habitually supported. During this sojourn, I was seriously wounded with multiple shell fragments and the proverbial sucking chest wound (pneumothorax).

Had Glenn not guided me to an appropriate mental and emotional mindset, I am convinced that I would have panicked and died. Instead, I was able to remain calm and was successfully medevaced to the hospital. Glenn saved my life as surely as he did on our first check ride.

Glenn, I, and our surviving compatriots are old men now, but what we did and experienced in the Hornets changed us forever. This book provides as good an insight into that crucible and those changes as I have read. In April of 2018, a memorial to the helicopter pilots and crewmen was dedicated at Arlington National Cemetery, a ceremony that many of us attended. At about 4:40 p.m. we departed the amphitheater and walked to the stone memorial a short distance away. As we walked over, many of us commented that it would have been nice to have a flyover of a UH-1 Huey, but there was no real disappointment. At the memorial it took a while for us to amble up amongst the crowd and view it. As we were doing this, it seemed that we could faintly hear the beat of a rotor blade far in the distance. As the sound grew louder, it became obvious that this was not a single helicopter. Everyone had their eyes to the sky, and there was a palpable sense of collective memory arising and gripping us as a flight of 4 UH-1s passed overhead at about 800 feet. Within a split second, this gaggle of sixty-, seventy-, and eighty-year-old wizened men became a cohort of nineteen- and twenty-year-old young studs willing, nay eager, to hurl ourselves into the air without a single thought to our own vulnerability and mortality, and head to the sound of battle in order to support our brethren on the ground.

I hope that One Full Trip Around the Sun will enlighten you and provide you with a deep insight into a generation of once-young men.

Martin S. Kleiner

Colonel, Aviation

US Army Retired

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1 FNG stands for F&%king New Guy. In any unit where individual replacements come in, it is an inevitability, but it is a term and a concept that I have always disliked. Unless the individual is the most arrogant and self-centered person, it is abundantly clear to them that they have a lot to learn and very quickly. They also understand at the core level that their inexperience puts everybody else at risk. It is everybody’s responsibility to rectify this situation as quickly as possible, but there is no requirement that it be a demeaning experience. As I progressed through my career and commanded units small and large, it is a term and concept that I strongly discouraged. Bring the new people in, load them down with responsibility, train and guide them, but make them feel welcome and a part of the group. Glenn was one that followed this precept.

Maps

Map of South Vietnam with the Four Corps Areas

and Major Towns and Cities

116th Assault Helicopter Company and 25th Infantry Division

Operating Area, III Corps Vietnam²

Operational Areas of the 25th Infantry Division and

116th Assault Helicopter Company III Corps³

Hornets Operational Area as Well as 25th Infantry, 2/12th Warriors

Specific Areas of Responsibility in Color-Shaded Areas⁴

Hornets Operational Area as Well as 25th Infantry, 2/12th Warriors

Specific Areas of Responsibility in Color-Shaded Areas⁵

Hornets Operational Area as Well as 25th Infantry, 2/12th Warriors

Specific Areas of Responsibility in Color-Shaded Areas⁶

Hornets Operational Area as Well as 25th Infantry,

Fire Support Bases North, and West of Cu Chi⁷

Hornets Operational Area as well as 25th Infantry, 2/12th Warriors, and 1/27th Wolfhounds Areas of Responsibility⁸

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2 Map courtesy of the 25th Inf. Div. ¾ Cavalry Centaurs website

3 Illustration Courtesy of 25th Inf. Div. ¾ Cavalry Centaurs website

4 Courtesy of 2/12th Infantry Regiment Warriors, 25th Inf. Div. Website and Peter Taylor

5 Courtesy of 2/12th Infantry Regiment Warriors, 25th Inf. Div. Website and Peter Taylor

6 Courtesy of 2/12th Infantry Regiment Warriors, 25th Inf. Div. Website and Peter Taylor

7 Courtesy of 2/12th Infantry Regiment Warriors, 25th Inf. Div. Website and Peter Taylor

8 Courtesy of 2/12th Infantry Regiment Warriors, 25th Inf. Div. website and Peter Taylor

Chapter 1:

Departure Baltimore

It was April 1968; I was in the Army and preparing for a great journey. That I was going to Vietnam was a given. The non-war war was accelerating, and the powers that be needed to get as many soldiers into the fray as could be politically justified. As a nineteen-year-old officer in the United States Army, with shining new aviator wings pinned to my uniform, I was hardly thinking about the political ramifications of the military’s troop count. I had more immediate things on my mind. My pre-deployment leave was over. I had said my goodbyes to friends and had taken care of familial obligations with what may have appeared to be lighthearted bravado. Inwardly, however, I had many concerns about what I would be facing in just a matter of days. This would be my first expedition outside the United States.

What does a kid of nineteen know about the world? Not much! So many questions were going through my mind: what would Vietnam be like, would I survive, would I be shot, would I be captured, would I be tortured; just what was in store for me? All these questions and no answers. My sincerest hope was that I would acquit myself honorably and without outward indications of just how frightening I found this journey. I knew I was on a journey of self-discovery as much as an adventure to face any and all demons imaginable. I was going to war.

My parents drove me to Friendship International Airport, near Baltimore, for the official send-off. My parents agreed to stop by Johns Hopkins Hospital’s emergency room so that I could say goodbye to my new girlfriend, who was an emergency room nurse. Goodbyes are not the most joyous of occasions and this one was certainly no different. At least this part of my send-off would be a private one, albeit with tears and pledges of hopeful everlasting love, and that I might return in one piece. This was tough, letting go of a warm and tender young woman’s embrace and not knowing if I’d ever feel that loving embrace again. There is never an easy way to leave.

The remainder of the ride to the airport was uneventful except for internal musings, on my part, regarding my destination. I really don’t know what my parents were thinking, although I do know they completely supported what I was doing and were there for me when needed. The conversation was kept light, and we did not delve into what I would be doing for the coming year or so. We arrived at the airport and entered the departure terminal.

As we were waiting for the flight to be boarded, we were completely shocked to find that the parents of my new girlfriend were at the airport. However, they were there with their other daughter, my old girlfriend, who did not know she had been replaced by her sister. This was awkward at best. Two sets of parents who do not know one another, a girlfriend unaware that she has been replaced, and a completely freaked out guy going off to war. I had not been prepared for an additional emotional encounter, and my stomach was tied in knots. I was entering the full flee of the fight-or-flee reflex.

I just wanted to get on the plane. It was rather surreal, too many balls in the air, two families wanting to say things to one another, not knowing how, and making the best of a well-intentioned situation. After tearful goodbyes, hugs, kisses, and well-wishes all round, I thankfully got on the plane to San Francisco and buckled up. Hell of a send-off!

For the length of the flight, I was pretty much in a world of my own. Trying to make sense of the airport scene was too much for me. I was just a passenger alone with my thoughts and the other people on board the plane. A change of scenery would be most welcome.

It was late afternoon when the plane touched down in San Francisco, Tony Bennett’s town. The wild and free home of hippies and Haight-Ashbury, full of freaks and music and free love. If only. As I departed the plane, I made sure my uniform was in proper form and headed down the jet bridge, leaving my thoughts behind. I walked into the terminal and off to baggage claim. As I was standing there, looking around at other passengers waiting for their bags, I spotted an old buddy from high school.

Holy shit! It was Chas, and he was in uniform also. I quickly noted he was collecting a suitcase whereas I was collecting what is fondly known as a duffel bag. That may not seem incongruent to most, but I wondered why he would be taking a suitcase off to war. As we talked, I found that he was not going off to war after all. He was going to the Monterey Institute for Language Training, and not for Vietnamese.

This lucky stiff was going to learn German and be shipped off to Germany to keep the East Germans and Russians at bay while I protected our Asian flank. Chas and I decided to make our way to a nearby hotel and share a farewell drink and perhaps a meal before I checked in at the replacement facility at Oakland Army Base. Chas would be off to Monterey the next morning. We shared a cab to the hotel, went to the hotel bar, still in uniform, and had a couple of Johnny Walker Black scotches.

Interestingly enough, there is no way we would have been served a drink under normal circumstances. As I mentioned, I was only nineteen. I looked to be about sixteen. I guess the officers’ uniform did the trick. The other fortunate thing was that we didn’t have to pay for the drinks. An older gentleman sitting next to us at the bar picked up the tab after telling us his son was in the Navy and in Vietnam as a pilot. Unfortunately, he had just received word that his son had been recently shot down and was missing in action. A sobering way to have your first drinks in San Francisco. Of course, this made headlines in my brain, pilot shot down, not recovered, missing, or was he dead. New, up close, and personal thoughts about what was waiting for me. I didn’t know what to say to this man about his missing son and only hoped his son would be found and returned in good shape. What would be my fate?

By the time I left the bar and headed for my room it was sometime around ten o’clock; that would make it around one in the morning back in Baltimore. I was tired and maybe more than a little tipsy. It had been an interesting evening and as I was falling off to sleep, I could not shake the feelings of the man whose son was lost.

On to the San Francisco Army

My first full day on the West Coast began much the same as many days in San Francisco, with a little fog, only today that fog was in my brain. Fortunately, it lifted in time for me to say my goodbyes to Chas. He was off to Monterey and I to Oakland. The Army base was not at all what I expected. A taxi dropped me off at the entrance, and I checked in at the Bachelor Officer Quarters (BOQ).

Interestingly, they were not the 1940s World War II–style barracks we had lived in for the past year or so but a fairly new and modern style four-story building with an elevator. After checking into my assigned room, I made for the lobby to see if anything was happening. I ran into several guys from my flight school class as well as a great number of officers I had never laid eyes on before. Everyone was huddled around a bulletin board that had lists of names for assigned flights beginning the next day. As fate would have it, I saw my stick buddy from the last phase of flight school. This was the guy who had sworn, as had I, that we never wanted to see one another again. The last phase of training had been called, appropriately enough, Tactics. For me, that had all been new, but my buddy was an expert from his days as a Marine.

A little time-out here, to give a bit more information regarding my erstwhile friend. Ronan, Patrick J., was a former Marine Corps E-6 prior to his enlistment in the Army to be a helicopter pilot. He was, all considered, a bonified hero. Ronan had already done at least one tour in Vietnam and had been awarded the Silver Star for heroic actions on the ground. That was great, it was just that most people did not really want to hear about how great Ronan was. There wasn’t much he didn’t know, and he was not shy in letting others know it.

Probably because he was somewhat bold, and he had been a Marine, he could be a bit intimidating. I must admit, he was a good leader while we were in flight school. As the student battalion commander, he had no problem standing up to anyone, either officer or student. I also have to admit to having a slight problem with authority figures, perceived or real. Obviously, Ronan thought he was always in charge. I just didn’t agree, and it certainly showed when we were in the cockpit on solo flight assignments.

The bottom line was, when solo, I had the distinct proclivity to get us somewhat disoriented when navigating. The problem was, Ronan made those same mistakes in getting us disoriented when we were flying with the Instructor Pilot (IP). The IP made it very clear that there was no fine distinction between being disoriented and being absolutely lost. Ronan got the pink slip for doing the same as I had done when we were alone, and the IP was none the wiser.

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back for our relationship at that point in our flying careers. Hence, I don’t ever want see you again after we finish with flight school. A mutual expression had never been truer.

Back to the story and the bulletin board. Call it what you will, but Ronan and I were on the same flight in the morning to Vietnam. I am sure neither of us could believe our luck. Later that day, it was decided that we would head for San Francisco for our last night in the World. Of course, I had not yet learned the significance of those two words; that would come later.

Although my recollections of our escapades of that night are somewhat fuzzy, I will give it my best shot. We left the base in the early evening in a couple of taxis that took us across the Oakland Bay Bridge and into the City by the Bay. We cruised around, checking out the sights, sounds, and flavors of the city—China Town, Coit Tower, Lombard Street, the Avenues, etc. Of course, as the lights came on in the city, we ended up on Broadway, a place known for, among other things, strip clubs.

Broadway was a place most soldiers heading off to Vietnam gravitated to. Our band was no different. Looking around and up, the most remembered sight was the dancing girl in the bird cage, scantily clad and seductively dancing her heart out. For a guy just nineteen, this was a significant sight. Carol Doda’s club was nearby and of course was a big draw. She was famous in the city for her extremely well-endowed breasts and the equally well-endowed women that supplied the entertainment in her club. We stayed with Carol until we felt we had had enough indoor entertainment and moved our crew back out onto the street.

What a street it was in early 1968. It was bustling with electricity, sex, booze, drugs, and rock and roll. We sure had our share. I remember sitting in Enrico’s and not being able to pay for a drink. I think Enrico took pity on