Flights from Phu Loi: An Account of Helicopter Reconnaissance in the Vietnam War

By Richard Lawrence Greene

“Spin, crash, and burn.” These words describe a helicopter pilot’s worst case scenario, and which Lieutenant Richard Greene kept trying to avoid during his service as a reconnaissance pilot in the Vietnam War. As an “Outcast” in his Bell observation helicopter, Greene witnessed many close calls, snafus, and over-reach during multiple military operations. But throughout, Greene found humor, beauty, and friendship, which he captured in letters to his wife as well as with his Instamatic camera. This book combines these into a compelling personal account of the War from the air, and on the ground at his base in Phu Loi.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665744645

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Copyright © 2023 Richard Lawrence Greene.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Interior Image Credit: Richard Greene. Maps by Paula Weindel.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4463-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4462-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4464-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023909549

Archway Publishing rev. date: 06/20/2023

Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1 The Outcasts of the Quarterhorse

Chapter 2 Operation Attleboro

Chapter 3 Mortar Attacks

Chapter 4 Operation Cedar Falls in the Iron Triangle

Chapter 5 Social Events

Chapter 6 Junction City

Chapter 7 Frank Silvert, Armor Lieutenant

Chapter 8 Operation Harvest Moon at Bunard

Chapter 9 Operations in War Zone D

Chapter 10 How Major B became commander of the ¹st Sqn. ⁴th Cav

Chapter 11 Conclusion

Chapter 12 Afterword

Appendix 1 First Infantry Division: Organization & Call Signs

Appendix 2 Other accounts of Capt. Livingston’s crash and injuries

Appendix 3 Gallery of additional photographs

Acknowledgements

Table of Figures

Figure 1. Area of Operation ¹st Infantry Division 1966-1967.

Figure 2. Command & Control slick just before Operation Manhattan.

Figure 4. Operation Attleboro, War Zone C - Nov. 5 -25, 1966.

Figure 5. Smoke grenade ready to throw. The mountain is Nui Ba Den.

Figure 6. Rice paddies SW of Tan Uyen. The river is a typical example of a "meander’.

Figure 7. Where the mortar landed (center, bottom). Note unprotected bunker entry at right.

Figure 8. John Kirby after mortar attack.

Figure 9. Fragments of a 122mm Russian rocket, the one that wounded Major Merrill.

Figure 10. Operation Cedar Falls in the Iron Triangle - Jan. 8-26, 1967.

Figure 11. Bullet hole through bubble near Kirby’s head (viewed from above engine).

Figure 12. My H-13 after Major Gilpatrick was wounded.

Figure 13. Storms moving in.

Figure 14. The squadron flag with campaign streamers going back to the Indian Wars and fighting in Kansas before the Civil War.

Figure 15. Convoy in rubber plantation near the Dutchman’s House.

Figure 16. Lots of slicks, Phu Loi (Operation Junction City).

Figure 17. I turned around and snapped a picture of the dust cloud from the mine that wounded Drumfire 6 and others. The White Church" is on the right.

Figure 18. The armored vehicle launched bridge in place.

Figure 19. The place looked like a flaming battlefield. No enemy sighted.

Figure 20. Nu Ba Den from Suoi Da International Airport, dubbed Soui Da International.

Figure 21. The result of the first mine.

Figure 22. Bomb damage assessment (Operation Junction City).

Figure 23. Special Forces Camp - CIDG Camp, bridge site west of An Loc.

Figure 24. View of Quan Loi.

Figure 25. VC base camp destroyed, Northeast of Phu Loi. Tunnel entrances visible.

Figure 26. Montagnard Village East of An Loc

Figure 27. CIDG camp at Bunard.

Figure 28. City Hall, Song Be.

Figure 29. USAID office at Song Be.

Figure 30. USAID employees at Song Be.

Figure 31. My North Vietnamese passenger.

Figure 32. War Zone D - 1967. Strike was the designation for an Area of Operation (A.O.) for multiple missions, not identified in the text.

Figure 33. Looking across War Zone D.

Figure 34. Airstrike northeast of Tan Uyen where John Kirby had a VC squad open up on him.

Figure 35. Forward Air Controller smoke, Dong Nai crossing.

Figure 36. Bullet damage to my pitch horn (see arrow).

Figure 37. Scout team over War Zone C (front cover).

Figure 38. Bell OH-13.

Figure 39. Huey helicopters as far as the eye can see at Phu Loi (Operation Junction City).

Figure 40. Mustang gunship with rocket pod and mini-guns.

Figure 41. Mustang gunship, Frog configuration with grenade launcher in the nose.

Figure 42. Troop D (Air) hooch. Major Merrill, sleeping by the window, was wounded.

Figure 43. Troop D (Air) personnel inspecting a 122 mm rocket crater.

Figure 44. A B-52 strike over 5 miles away.

Figure 45. CIDG camp at Bunard with Song Be Mountain in distance.

Figure 46. Bunard. CIDG digging in.

Figure 47. The effects of dust. George Youngblood’s Huey D model slick, with parts removed. Dust resulted in one person killed, one seriously hurt. George was not at the controls.

Figure 48. Air strike north of landing zone Roof (Operation Billings).

Figure 49. Destroying a VC bunker near Chan Long.

Figure 50. Convoy near the Dutchman’s House.

Figure 51. Saigon River trails (Operation Billings) in War Zone D.

Foreword

This book contains remembrances from my brother Dick’s one-year tour as an observation helicopter pilot in Viet Nam¹ in 1966 – 67. The contents reflect his views, thinking, and attitudes about the U.S Army of that day. This time period predates the infamous Tet Offense (1/30/68). Those events had a significant effect on the conduct of the war. So those involved in the Viet Nam conflict after Dick’s tenure most likely had a much different, possibly more intense experience. Naturally, Dick has changed much over the intervening years, as we can hope that the Army has also. Many of his comments herein might make considerably little sense for today’s Army.

It was not possible to pilot and take notes at the same time. Voice recorders may have existed but they weren’t in plentiful supply. But Dick sent copious letters home to his wife Mary, who fortunately saved them. In the year plus after his return to the states, he set about the task of turning these into a narrative. Because this was before the advent of personal computers, he went about this the old fashion way, i.e., making outlines, handwriting chapters, and convincing his wife to type them. But the period following contained a certain degree of controlled chaos, that is, moves at the whims of the Army, mustering out, resettling to Vermont to seek a Masters degree at the University of Vermont, then working at the Shelburne Museum, then in Thunder Bay (Ontario) restoring Old Fort William, and eventually resettling in Providence RI to catalogue a military library collection for Brown University. He subsequently became self-employed in the architectural wood-working business and then as an antique dealer specializing in drawings, watercolors, and prints. During all this, he and his wife Mary raised three children. In other words, the book project got stuck on the far-back burner among multiple cardboard cartons that were stored in available space.

At some point, probably at a family Thanksgiving or Christmas, the subject of the book came up. I don’t remember how Dick described its current state, but the key point was that it needed a lot of work. I believe it was about this time, his eldest child, Regan, stepped forward and volunteered to work on it with editing it to completion. All the materials were transferred to her house. Then, the same thing happened to her that happened to Dick previously. i.e. life interfered, primarily in the form of two daughters.

Some years later, at another family get-together, the subject came up again. We found the boxes and Dick took them to his house. I am unclear on the timing, but our youngest sister Leslie said she would take a shot of whipping them into shape. She made a lot of progress. I even got to see a very rough draft, a significant accomplishment. This was the first I had seen of the book in some forty-five years. But this effort ran out of steam. I think for a couple of reasons. One being that Leslie and Dick lived in distant states. I believe a prime one was Leslie had lofty goals. She believed that the book was very interesting, which it is, and the goal should be to put this work in front of a publisher who would do all that was necessary to complete it. I think she fell victim to her own goal. She was stymied by the fact that at least one and a half chapters were missing, and that another was not typewritten and virtually illegible. At that time, I also believe that Dick was not really focused on it. It is difficult for the youngest sibling to tell the eldest what to do. But all that aside, what Leslie did was a significant achievement. She turned the project from a vague idea to a viable one. Her work was second only to Dick’s of living the history and recounting it and Mary’s transcribing much of it.

This past spring (2021), my son Nick and I from California attended a family event in Massachusetts. I told him to expect to hear about the book, which was all new to him. I told him that the book needed focus and a dedicated person with the time to bring it to a close. Even though I am a finisher, I told him I could do it but there were already too many cooks in the kitchen. He challenged me to do it. But I must confess that I can also suffer in lapses of focus.

So, on our last night there, I took Dick aside for a talk. (I believe that Mary was also there for part of the discussion.) I brought up the subject and volunteered to work on the book in an editing/copy proofing capacity. Though I liked the content, I differed from Leslie in that I believed that in its current state, it was not worthy of being offered to a publisher. I made the case that the book was unfinished business for Dick and the family. I said that it would be good to get it in sufficient shape that at the least it would be a good family legacy, after all we aren’t getting any younger. I specified the number of hours that I would work and that I needed his active cooperation, i.e., getting back to me on calls, and doing tasks that I specified on his end. I also stated that if we did not make significant progress by Labor Day, I would call it quits. But if we did, I would not limit the effort to the initial hours agreed upon. At the very minimum, if things went badly, he would still end up with a better manuscript then he currently had. I started work in June and expended my agreed to hours at the beginning of August. But we were making real progress which was occasionally interrupted by schedule. But Dick found the missing chapter and a half and we deciphered the illegible one. It soon then became clear that I would extend my efforts beyond the original goal posts.

We agreed to do the project across the internet and by phone. Our budget was close to zero. The key to success was to divide the project into bite-sized pieces and knock them off sequentially. We did not want to get into a mode of trying to do too much at once and thereby overwhelming ourselves. I believe that it also helped that we set our sights lower by not aiming for the New York Times Best Seller List. In other words, we only had to satisfy ourselves. Dick retained full veto power if needed, but that did not seem to be an issue.

Photos were one hurdle. They were many and confusing with lots of apparent duplicates. They were all taken by Dick with an Instamatic. As a result, there is no attempt to attain National Geographic standards. Dick does not have a scanning capability on his computer or printer. After several attempts, we got the photos back to Regan’s house where Regan’s husband, John Royston scanned and emailed them to me. It was the first time I saw them in the fifty years of their existence. But a significant problem was my own limitations in manipulating the images and integrating them and standardized captions into the document. I finally overcame my roadblocks. Dick overcame the photos and maps issue by enlisting the aid of his good friend, Paula Weindel of Providence.

With all facets of this effort, I have consistently said that I would get the document into serviceable shape, and if any other family member or designee of Dick who has loftier goals, I will be happy to give them the files and let them do so. My goal is to have a complete, readable product for, at least, the family to enjoy.

Spoiler alert: these next few paragraphs are those with which Dick is most likely to disagree and for which, I will get in the most trouble.

So, who is Richard Greene? I will avoid this question for a minute and ask how do we know anyone? I think that if you took a poll, folks would tell you he is ‘quirky’. But I think that most folks probably consider all five Greene siblings as quirky compared to real people. But I nominate Dick for top prize. You might think that because I am Dick’s brother that we are close. Unfortunately, this is a foreign concept to me. I have no idea what it means to be close, probably because I am a tech-nerd. But in a like manner, I don’t know what it means to be not close. We have never been in open conflict, or for that matter, any conflict at all. Over the years, there have been long periods where we have spoken and interacted very little. We weren’t mad at each other, we just led very different lives.

I offer a few examples of his uniqueness. Dick had what I will call a Continental phase. He was dissatisfied with the array of winter overcoats offered in the stores in New England. He decided that he needed to be more stylish. He designed and sewed a replica of an overcoat from the Revolutionary War. I believe it was a Hessian Officer’s coat. I admit it looked good, and knowing Dick I am sure that it was very warm.

Somewhere along the way, Dick became a connoisseur of coffee. This was long before Starbucks emerged on the horizon, and Dunkin Donuts, which was local, wasn’t offered outside their shops. He felt he needed to spread the gospel. So, whenever he was invited to dinner, he would make an announcement at the end of the meal Now I will treat you to a really good cup of coffee. Whereupon he would pull out of his back pack his kettle and French press coffee system, complete with his special blend. (He probably had a special roasting and grinding process for the coffee beans. Fortunately, these steps were not part of the pot luck supper ritual.)

Around this time, though perhaps unrelated, he also developed the habit of kissing his hostess’s hand, rather than shaking it. Hugs had not yet come into vogue in old fashion New England. He was way ahead of them, or perhaps centuries behind.

Another example. Dick likes to build sea-kayaks, not your everyday hobby. He wanted the launching of his first one to be a special event. He invited me to it even though I lived about 40 miles away. I am not totally sure of the whole motivation. Did he view it as an event for the extended family? I think not, though none would be excluded. Did he think I would be an asset at the festivities? Probably not, because these were folk from Brown University whom I had never met. Was it a hold-over from our youth where he would allow me to go on outdoor adventures with his older friends (by three years)? Perhaps, this was part of it knowing that I would be game for an outing. But I think the real reason was, I was the only one he knew who had a van to carry the cannon. It was a very nice event, complete with a long, personalized composition of a poem for the occasion, and a visit from the Providence Police responding to noise complaints coming from the riverbank.

By the way, Dick was known to take his sea kayaks to Labrador and Newfoundland to give them a true sea-worthiness test. He and his dog would often run afoul of the Canadian equivalent of our Coast Guard who had the quaint notion that all vessels off the coast should be laden with a full array of running lights, navigation and communication systems; a little much for a craft powered by oars, a small trolling motor, and a pop-up sail. They pointed out that they would not come to his rescue if he got into trouble. He agreed wholeheartedly.

Is he quirky? Or would you describe him as a free thinker, or someone with a lot of flair. You decide.

The previous incident gives you a glimpse of Dick’s nature. He loves the outdoors. He loves to find ways to challenge his own skills. He got fairly serious about fishing and hunting while in high school, which is out of place in an urban environment. In school, he took to History, particularly early American history. He loved to visit all the colonial and post-colonial sites in New England.

In many ways, I can envision Dick as a person who was born in the wrong era. I can see him as fitting in from 1830 and before. He epitomizes the essence of rugged individualism. I can easily picture him answering the call to the Old North Bridge across the Concord River on April 19, 1775. After all, we grew up in Lowell, probably about a twelve-mile march.

I think that Dick believed, and still does, in the concept of the citizen-soldier. He saw serving in the military as a basic responsibility of citizenship. I suspect this is what motivated him to join ROTC at UMass. But I believe that he also saw it as a great adventure, one that would mold him into a more resourceful person.

After Dick’s tour in Viet Nam, I remember a conversation I had with him. When I reminded him of it later, he did not recall it. This was at I time when I was trying to figure out what I should do, as I had a relatively low draft number. I asked him why he went. He told me that he believed that the government had a duty to conduct an active foreign policy and that the citizenry should support them in those decisions. I then asked if I should go to Viet Nam. He told me if there was any way I could avoid it, do so.²

I relate the above information, as a snapshot of Dick’s attitudes at certain points in his life. And to further this exploration, I offer an earlier attempt to start this book. This is part of what he had to say about his flight school experience.

At Flight School, most non-career lieutenants play the military role keeping their heads down to avoid ruffling any feathers of our commanders. I was not quite as successful. As a civilian at heart, I found that I either had to fit or blend in. I was tardy on one or two occasions and didn’t quite fit the mold, driving a jalopy³ in a world where fancy counted. Perhaps it became known, that for lack of a trip to the PX, I was carrying a small alarm clock in my flight suit rather than replacing my defunct wrist watch⁴. I gather that someone had referred to me as the beatnik lieutenant. (Hippie had not come into general use yet.) But I of course went along with the program.

I was caught unawares one evening before night training, when my instructor or pilot, a warrant officer, gave me a whispered warning. I would be flying with a senior Captain that night. If I didn’t perform, I would be summarily washed out of the course.

That Captain, shortly to be a Major, was a career officer not long back from Viet Nam where he had been flying Hueys. My one advantage that night was that I had many, many more hours in the Hughes two-seat trainer than he did. Riding to the flight line in his brand spanking new sedan, I made a point to ooh and aah about his fine vehicle. He brought his new large color TV into the conversation as he took pride in the many years in service plus flight pay. As it got dark, we took off to a nearby stage field, a six-runway field where a number of helicopters could practice simultaneously.

It was a dark clear night with little or no wind. He asked me to do certain maneuvers and, in pilot lingo, I pegged the needles. Every gauge was right where it was supposed to be. Airspeed, altitude, RPMs. Readings on the instrument panel looked as if the needles were glued in place. It was one of the best flying performances I ever did.

At some point, perhaps out of boredom, he decided to take over the controls for a few minutes. Well, he had his hands full and had to fight to keep the needles in the ballpark. On one practice autorotation, he hit the runway slightly cocked and pretty damn hard. At some point, I think I said something about having heard about how great Hueys are to fly, giving him an opening for his area of expertise. When the flight was over, he went over my grade, which was a B, having marked me down from an A for some miniscule failure, which criticism I took submissively, but in truth couldn’t remember doing.

After that check ride, things got a bit better. Scarves may have been the biggest factor. Our flight commander was a hard-nosed strict disciplinarian named Major Hanon. Now there is always some rivalry among the branches of the Army and Major Hanon was an Infantryman. At some point, during our briefings, he made some comment about Armor, saying something to the effect that Tankers have 22 inches of steel between their ears.

There were some other Armor officers in training, and we wanted to make some form of rebuttal. Now our uniform was a flight suit with open neck. We came up with an idea to all wear yellow cavalry scarves with our flight suits, and even though we would technically be out of uniform, we would be making a statement for Armor Branch. The next morning, we showed up with our flashy yellow neck decorations not really knowing, and fearing a little, what the reaction would be. Major Hanon made some slight remark noting the scarves and then added It would be nice to see some more color around here, thereby encouraging the pilots from other branches to wear their distinctive scarves. Tensions seemed to ease a bit after that.

Subsequently I, like Steve Brague, kept my head down and tried not to let my civilian tendencies show. In a sense, there was no room for civilians in the Army. During World War II, the Army expanded so greatly that the civilian perspective had space. The Viet Nam War expansion was incremental and Regular Army norms held sway throughout. Not long after I started combat flying, I stayed at Quan Loi one night for a command and control flight to kick off with a large operation early next morn. The operation was delayed a day so with nothing happening in the AM, Squadron Command decided to hold a career counseling night for the officers present. The two command-post tracks and tent in between became an impromptu meeting room. Several of our Squadron headquarter people took turns outlining career paths. My only career path was to get out of the Army as soon as my term of service was complete; so I was not the target audience. One Major took as his topic Working with civilians. He had served previously in such a position and began describing civilians as if he was describing Siberians or South Sea Islanders. I had an urge to stand up and shout You want to see what a civilian looks like? Look! Right here! Of course, I did not, but I came away with a feeling that the divide was pretty deep. The concept of the citizen-soldier did not seem to be part of the thinking of Army Brass. You were one or the other: a citizen or a soldier.

Thus was Dick’s mind set as he began his tour.

How is this work significant? This will ultimately be decided by the readers.

My view is it is an engaging, well-crafted book that gives a rarely seen phase of how the Army operates in a war zone. There are other books written by observation helicopter pilots. Feel free to hunt them down and compare. I believe that we need books like this from all those who had specialized roles to fully understand what it means to do their mission every day. But there is a fallacy here. We are hearing from the ones who were dealing out the chaos and mayhem. It is even more important to hear from those on the receiving end; and even these wouldn’t be complete stories. This means that you the reader have to make judgements of what the lessons are.

Dick is taking us on a journey. It is one man’s perspective. I believe he has presented an objective view of his activities. He has shown us the highs and the lows. He does not glorify the U.S. Army nor does he unduly criticize it, but he points out its short-comings. He shows us a few of the adverse consequences of the fog of war⁵, the fascination with their own technology, and its excessive use to no effect. Though not stated, he shows us no substantial gains of the war itself and his participation. At this late date, it is clear that we should have learned these lessons before going into Afghanistan.

But be honest with yourself. Do you find yourself getting wrapped up in this engaging story? Can you picture yourself in some of the same situations? Are you different at the end of your reading? Remember that once in it, Dick had little recourse but to see it through and that it was many times more intense for him.

The book shows that the very process of participating alters those involved in a way that diminishes their humanity. This is not the intent of this book and it is not spelled out explicitly. The book gives the factual account of someone who is living war every day.

Rob Greene, December 2021

Chapter 1

The Outcasts of the Quarterhorse

The date was September 13, 1966; the place was the bus terminal in San Francisco. I had just come from Massachusetts the day before. It was my first time on the West Coast and of course there were quite a few first impressions. On the negative side were the prices; ten dollars for a substandard hotel room, sixty-five cents for pie a la mode, but the positive side offered an entire record store window display devoted to the Rolling Stones. My mood was one of uncertainty and mild trepidation. I was an Army Second Lieutenant, a helicopter pilot on the way to Viet Nam.

I had managed to arrive at the terminal moments too late to catch the bus for Travis Air Force base, so I sat down for a lengthy wait for the next bus with a paperback copy of The Conspiracy of Pontiac, by Francis Parkman. I would read a line or two of the book, then look at the clock, go back to the book, then look up at the clock, continuously, in fear of missing my bus and plane; a mistake which I suspected would be as unpleasant as stepping in chewing gum.

During my wait at the bus terminal, my attention drifted from the book as I kept thinking that I would meet Steve Brague at Travis. Steve had been one of my best friends in flight school. I would walk up behind him and say something witty, I thought. I don’t know why I expected to see him. His port call, for all I knew, could have been a week before or two weeks after mine, and I had no knowledge when he would be processing through Travis. But, I expected to see him there. After a long wait my bus came and all too soon I arrived at the air terminal at Travis Air Force Base. As I stepped off the bus, there among the crowd of soldiers, marines, and random luggage, I saw directly in front of me a brown lumpily packed duffle bag marked BRAGUE in bold black letters. I had no sooner walked inside the terminal when Steve came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

It was a very pleasant reunion. I had not seen him since our graduation a month earlier from flight school at Fort Rucker, Alabama. Steve was quite tall with short dark hair. Although he walked with a very slight stoop, he was otherwise very well built and athletic looking with his dark tan. When under the Army’s eye he was a bit guarded, but once out from underneath, he was forceful, dynamic, and intellectually active. We did our processing together, which went fast and painlessly except for the five immunization shots I had to have. After the paperwork was out of the way, we went into the coffee shop and had a chance to chat. Steve, it seemed, had missed his flight from New York and, as a