25th Infantry Division Huey The Story The purpose of this site is to help pictorially document the basic UH-1D and UH-1H as they were in the 1960's, flying in Vietnam. For those who were associated with these aircraft it's an opportunity to see and hear it again. For helicopter aficionados who are interested in the Huey, I hope you enjoy the video. In country, there were many add-ons, or equipment that was slipped in, or attached, to enhance the mission. After Vietnam there were some modifications to Army UH-1H's, such as wire strike kits, two antenna mounts on the nose, painting the cockpit black, and adding some small exterior lights for its new night vision role. Except for some slight changes, this aircraft now looks as it did in 1969. Two VHF radios and a new transponder have been added to the center console. The original radios remain. A white VHF antenna was added to the top of the aircraft, and an ELT was added so that it can fly in today's world. The nose mounted pitot tube was recently relocated to the roof. Except for Dustoff, every Huey had M-60's or greater. There are a number of good Web sites that are affiliated with particular aviation unit organizations that offer great photos and stories. I will not try duplicate them. Ron Leonard's http://25thaviation.org/, however, is one of the best and is the book on the 25th Aviation Battlion, 25th Infantry Division while at Cu Chi, South Vietnam. This site, simple in nature, is about the legendary Huey. When you walk up to a historic aircraft of the past (P51, P38, P47, B17, B24, etc.), you sometimes think, how did they fly all of those missions, with just this. It's the same with the Huey. How did we do all of that with this aircraft. Thinking back, things sometimes seem larger than they really were. Looking physically smaller now than the big memories that were created all those years ago, I remember them as bigger than life, accomplishing good things, and effecting the lives of many. Flying the Huey in Vietnam with a crew of four was exciting and dangerous, as one can imagine. It was so neat, books have been written about it. The aircraft performed very well, but circumstances would sometimes put you in a difficult position. Night flying could often be the the most dangerous. The first and second platoons of the Little Bears (A Co. 25th AVN BN) rotated between flying nights one week, days the next. We had no nav aids. We were given grid coordinates and, from our maps of the area, flew to the various locations using pilotage and knowledge of the area. Making an approach to a landing zone in the jungle on a pitch black night in bad weather--with thunderstorms, high winds, to either a strobe light in a helmet or a flashlight, which I've done, with the crew talking you down between the trees, was pretty exciting stuff. There were accidents. Watching young men risk their lives to help others, whether they were grunts or aircrews, is powerful medicine. Most Army aircrews I knew would race to danger. We also knew we were a lot better off than the guys in the field. One afternoon in August 1969, I watched John Driscoll repeatedly attempt to deliver a heavy load of ammo and mortars to a little outpost near the Cambodian border called Patrol Base Kotrc. Each time he made an approach, the bad guys would launch their own mortars into the LZ, trying to take him out. The Huey was loaded to the max, you couldn't see the crew chief or gunner. So you can't come in hot and expect to stop on a dime. They had it timed nicely, so at just about touchdown the mortars would start falling and he'd have to abort and lumber out dragging the skids through the mud. Look over your right shoulder and you saw trees exploding from incoming, look left and see mud flying up from the mortars landing in the rice paddies, while guys on the ground are running around, arms flailing, doing their jobs. I'm thinking, I'd get down if I were them. After numerous attempts he got the job done because these guys needed the ammo for the night fight. I had a great view, I was his copilot. For John it was just another day at the office. On another occasion with a different pilot, we had just dropped a load of flame bath from 1500 feet over a contact area, then circled around to pick up wounded. Coming in low and hot, flying over rice paddies and tree lines, we lost sight of the smoke marking the LZ. Then all of a sudden it's coming up, flared too much, dragging the tail rotor through the rice paddy. Even though my feet were not on the pedals, I could feel the vibration from the damaged tail rotor coming through the floor of the cockpit. We spun around once or twice and spent the rest of the day lying in 4-5 inches of water, watching air strikes. I thought I was going to get scalped by the shrapnel of the Air Force's 500-pounders. It was making a whizzing sound as it passed overhead and splashed around us. I was sure I was going to take one in the forehead. We were close enough that the instant you saw the orange flame of napalm, you could feel the heat. Later a Dustoff from the 159th out of Cu Chi was shot down next to us, attempting to pick up the wounded that we were going to pick up. I watched Mike Finnigan from the Diamond Heads (B Co. 25th AVN BN) earn a silver star by laying down columns of smoke flying on the deck in a Slick, between us and the bad guys, to obscure a flight of infantry that was about to be flown in, thinking, man that's pretty brave. Being a relatively new guy, from flight school I remembered that you were not suppose to leave any communication gear for the enemy. Before I left that day, I pulled the radios out of the aircraft and put a couple of M16 rounds in each. It really wasn't necessary. Good thing they didn't mention anything about the rotor blades or engine. Around April or May, 1970, I was north of Tay Ninh on a sniffer mission, and got hosed down from the left. I kid you not, the gunner had six bullet holes around him. His helmut cord had been cut in two, and one of the handles of his M-60 had been cut off. One hit him in the middle of his chicken plate, but didn't go through. He did take one for his country in the arm or shoulder, but it passed through cleanly. He was from Idaho, and I can't remember his name. Later, I extended and flew Dustoff. I've picked up wounded who died while en route, and it's a sad feeling. For just a moment in time, you know that it's the start of a long painful journey for the families that are going to be notified. I almost caused an accident while transferring another patient who I thought was going to die, from the 12th EVAC at Cu Chi to the hospital in Siagon. I was hauling ass, hoping that this GI will not die on this aircraft, and will make it home alive. I came in too hot to the hospital pad with a slight tail wind that I thought was a headwind. To stop from over shooting the pad, I stood that Huey on it's tail, and it shuttered on the way down. I barely caught it at the bottom, and felt really stupid. It must of looked awful, because even the tower at Hotel 3 asked me if everything was ok. That was my introduction to complacency. Throw in a couple of near collisions with other aircraft, or picking up LRRP's by rope on the side of Nui Ba Den and having the hydraulics shot out was pretty exciting stuff. Situations like these, and flown by many others over many years, effecting the lives of even many more, are a few of the reasons Hueys are held in such high regard and are woven into the American psyche of the Vietnam War. This is the reason that just about every time you see a film clip about the war, there's a Huey in it. Strap in a crew of four, mount a couple of M-60's and there wasn't a place we wouldn't go. We didn't know it then, but it was a legend in its own time. Remembering Two Most of us probably had favorite crew members we enjoyed flying with. Here are two I always wanted on board. One was gunner, Frankie Carl Vassaur. He helped cover the pilot's back side. I flew with Frankie and his crew chief Doug Kemmis many times. He was a solidly built Oklahoman, who, if you were going to get into trouble, you wanted onboard because you knew he would put his life on the line. Unfortunately, he did so one last time on one of those dark night flights on May 8,1970. On June 6, 1970 his death made the front page of the Tulsa Tribune. Before he left for Vietnam, Frankie left a letter in a sealed envelope with " To be opened only in the event my death," in a safe deposit box. He wrote: "As you all must know, I like a smiling face, laughter, and a healthy morale. In a situation such as this, these factors are sometimes lacking in connection with family and loved ones. "Remember this! I asked for this assignment and I am prepared for any ill effect it might bring about. We all have to meet our creator and I can't think of a more honorable way to go than fighting our enemies in defense of our way of life. Don't cry for me, for I have completed the journey that every one of you must travel. "To whoever opens this letter, please don't let my effects go in vain, these writings are meant to bring comfort in a time that some people think are trying. I love you all. Frankie" Another crewman was African American gunner Frederick Curtis Marsh from New Jersey. He died in an aircraft accident a few weeks before Frankie, on April 17, 1970, just weeks into his second tour. I only flew with him twice. The last flight was memorable. On this particular day we put in 10 hours without shutting down. On one leg of many sorties we flew that day, we had just landed to pick up another load of supplies to deliver, and it was hot. Out of courtesy he asked if I would like my door opened and I said yes. Crews often did this so the pilots could get some ventilation while sitting on the ground. When the pilot's armored seat plate is in the forward position, it's easier to open the door from the outside. He had just asked, when a young soldier hopped up on the step of the skid and through the open window, proceeded to tell me about the next sortie. Just as this soldier started telling me about the mission, Sgt. Marsh opens my door and knocks him off the skid. I was surprised by the timing, and you could tell by the look on the soldiers face, he was too. But Sgt. Marsh was taking care of his pilot, and forever endeared himself to me. I didn't know it at the time but Sgt. Marsh was thirty years old when he was killed. Ten years older than me. Thank you Sgt. Marsh. Tim Horrell