THE TROUBLE WITH LURPS
By Long Knife Pilot, Les “Same-Same” Smith
July 2017
We were at 2500 feet heading southeast
after a scramble departure from the ramp at Don Tam. It
was about 0330 on the blackest night I have ever seen.
I was the aircraft commander of a UH-1H Huey “slick” leading a
flight of three aircraft.
Being the Aerolift Platoon leader my callsign was Longknife
two-six.
The other two were Crusader Cobra gunships, up and behind,
providing cover and much appreciated moral support.
Fortunately, no matter how dark it is, you can easily discern
the difference between land and water.
Using the northern most fork of the Mekong river I could make
out enough way points to navigate. The trouble would
come when we had to move away from the river.
Every little hooch had lanterns in and around them that
burned with a very bright, white light. With no moon, no
clouds, and no river to follow, it would be like flying on the
inside a snow globe.
It would look, and feel, like we were in deep space,
surrounded by stars.
The possibility of vertigo would increase dramatically.
I reminded my co-pilot, as well as myself, we needed to keep
our eyes inside the cockpit and on the instruments more than
normal.
Our government loves to create an organization or
a system, give it a name, and use the initials of that name to
create a word.
An example, familiar to us all, is NATO.
The North Atlantic Treaty Organization which is pronounced
“nay-tow”. During the Vietnam war, the army came up with
the term “Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol.”
When abbreviated, it became LRRP. When pronounced, it
evolves into “LURP”. Accordingly, the troopers who made
up those patrols were called “LURPs”.
Volunteers from the 9th Infantry Division made up
the original LURP teams.
By the time Dong Tam was fully operational and "D" troop was
in the process of moving into our new quarters, the LURPs had
been placed under
the 75th Ranger Battalion.
This story involves a patrol made up of troopers from the 75th
Rangers and aircraft from D Troop (Air) 3rd Squadron, 5th
Armored Cavalry Regiment.
Specifically, Longknife two-six (slick) and two Crusaders
(Cobra gunships).
I didn't keep a journal or even take notes back
then. I wasn't one for taking pictures.
Sadly, I don't remember the names of my crew or those of the
Crusaders along with me that night.
I never envisioned that one day, 48 years later, I'd be
relying on dusty memories to relate the story that follows.
The LURP teams were usually made up of 5 Rangers
who were required to move from the insertion landing zone
(LZ), through suspected VC controlled territory, to the
extraction LZ, collecting intelligence about the enemy and
terrain.
The distance between the two LZs varied but often required the
team to move faster than they would have preferred.
Sometimes the route was pre-planned and at other times the
teams were free to make their way as needed. Of course,
this was often done at night.
A patrol moving at night can move quickly or quietly, but
cannot move quickly quietly.
The missions would begin with a briefing at our
flight operations late in the afternoon.
Their planned route, the LZs, radio frequencies and call signs
were coordinated and maps updated.
We would launch just before dusk and do a high flyby of the
insertion LZ. Once confirmed, the slick would move off,
come down to low-level, and approach the LZ.
The team would disembark and make for the tree line as the
slick departed in a different direction from the approach
healing. The aircraft would remain nearby until the team
was safely in the tree line and good communications
had been established. After returning to Dong Tam the
aircraft crews would be on standby until time to make the
extraction the next morning.
OK. So, what was the trouble with LURPs? Well,
they usually got into trouble! As in the old west, the
cavalry would then ride to the rescue.
The normal cruising speed of a UH-1 was 90 knots. This
night we had a long way to go and it sounded like the patrol
was in deep trouble, so I lowered the nose, added power, and
took the aircraft up to 110 knots. The redline is
120 knots but anything much above 110 and the airframes really
started to vibrate, grumble and groan.
A couple of other times I went to 115 knots but those were to
get badly wounded GIs to the hospital.
I gave control of the aircraft to my co-pilot so I could check
the maps, co-ordinate with the gunships and the patrol, and
get some sort of plan organized.
I set the patrol’s frequency in the FM radio,
passed the frequency to the Crusaders to verify they had the
proper information, and attempted to make contact.
No response. I tried again with the same result. I
hoped we were
still too far away because I didn’t want to think about the
alternative. I waited a few minutes, which seemed like
hours and tried to contact them again.
This time they answered.
As usual, the radio operator (RTO) was whispering and I really
couldn’t make out much of what he was saying. All I
could hear was a tremendous amount of gunfire.
I told him to speak up, he didn’t need to whisper anymore
because “Charlie” knew where he was.
He replied, “sorry sir, force of habit”.
I could tell he was young and pretty shook up so I spent a
couple of minutes calming him down, telling him that we were
on the way and would be there soon.
Told him we didn’t need to use all the proper radio procedures
and call signs because we were the only two that would be
talking and saving time was important.
We turned more easterly as the river turned south resulting in
our flying into another dimension.
We were almost instantly surrounded by a black void sprinkled
with “stars”.
No horizon, no up, no down. Most dramatically, no
sensation of speed.
My co-pilot still had the controls and was doing an excellent
job.
I, on the other hand, was extremely busy, with one eye on the
map, one eye on the gauges, and the other eye on him.
I called the RTO to let him know we were just a couple
minutes out and asked for a situation report.
He came back with “very low on ammo, one walking wounded with
a slight arm wound, and get us the hell out of here”.
As we passed the end of a large tree covered area we could all
see why.
My heart stopped, my mouth ran dry, my stomach
turned. That all seemed to happen at once when I saw
their situation. It was as bad as it could have
been.
Maybe worse.
They were in a very large, clear, dry area with heavily treed
areas to the north and west. Almost perfectly straight
tree lines extended south and east.
The patrol was in the northwest corner of the clearing, down
behind a rice paddy dike, about 75 to 80 meters from either
tree line.
You could pick them out by the 5 streams of red tracers
heading out.
Thinking of due north being 12 o’clock, there were 8 to 10
streams of powder blue, light green, and white tracers
crisscrossing their position from 1 o’clock,
counter clockwise, to about the 8 o’clock position.
There was dead silence from all 3 aircraft for a
time before guys started making comments about the vision
before them. I, for the first time in my life, was
terrified.
I don’t mind admitting I was scared to death by what I
saw. I cussed every decision I had ever made that put me
in this position.
I didn’t want to go down there. I knew it could mean
death for my crew and me.
Whether it was pride, peer pressure, or the Army Aviators
creed, I shook it off, got on the radio to the RTO and told
him we were on station and would need a couple of
minutes to come up with an extraction strategy.
I have no doubt he understood why.
We held off to the south and came up with a game
plan that was very simple in theory. We could only pull
it off if we were able to maintain the element of
surprise.
Charlie couldn’t hear us due to all the gun fire.
There are 9 navigation lights on a UH-1. One
white light on the end of the tail boom, and if you think of
the passenger cabin of the aircraft as a rectangular box,
there is
one light on each of the 8 corners.
There are 4 red lights on the left side and 4 greens on the
right.
No matter from which angle you view the aircraft you will
always be able to tell which direction the aircraft is
heading.
In combat, you don’t want the enemy to see you at night so the
bottom 4 lights were covered with black paint.
The 4 lights on the upper body were blacked out on the sides
so they could only be visible from above.
There are two switches on the forward, right side of the
overhead panel that control the navigation lights. A
3-position switch for “off”, “dim”, and “bright”.
There is also a 2-position switch for “steady” and
“flash”. “Steady”, “dim” was the normal setting for
cruising at night.
Using this setting the Crusaders up and behind could keep
track of us.
They were not nearly as troubled with the loss of orientation
because they could use us as a reference.
We came up with a plan. One member of the
patrol would move away from the rice paddy dike, and any other
obstacles they were aware of, shade his strobe light inside
his “boonie” hat, and shine it south and elevated at a
slight angle. Most importantly, he could not allow any
light to be seen by Charlie. I would come in at about 25
to 30 feet so that I’d be above most of the incoming
fire.
I would land with my chin bubble about 2 feet from the strobe
light. The beginning of the extraction would be on my
signal as I approached the LZ.
I would call out “short final” on the FM radio.
The Crusaders would begin their attack with rockets. No
miniguns. There were enough tracers in the air
already.
I should be just about on the ground when the first rockets
detonated and the patrol would move to the aircraft.
I wanted all 5 members of the patrol to enter on the left side
of the aircraft so my crew chief could get a positive head
count. We absolutely could not leave anyone in the
LZ.
To do so would mean a second trip into the LZ with no hope of
surprise. I would then pick up, pedal turn to the right,
and depart low level to the east.
I told the crew chief and door gunner they were not to fire
for any reason because it would give away our position.
With all the planning complete and everyone
briefed, I took control of the aircraft and started a
descending spiral.
I picked up the strobe and set up to approach from just a
little east of due south.
This seemed to be the best angle to avoid the incoming
fire. I called out " OK, got your light and I'm inbound,
and going dark".
Crusader lead answered with "We're ready and you’re covered".
It was normal procedure in "D" troop that once
the slicks turned inbound everyone stayed off the
radios.
Control of the operation now came totally under the lead slick
aircraft commander.
There is normally a little chatter among the crew
between turning inbound and reaching the short final
position. None that night.
Complete silence. Each of us alone with our
thoughts.
Going over our part of the mission, I remember thinking
that all the tracers provided a reference between up and down
and a way to gauge our speed.
Also, I knew that when we headed east out of the LZ we'd be
back in that "deep space" effect.
My co-pilot reached down and locked both our shoulder
harnesses and I leaned into the seatback to take out any
slack.
I got on the radio and called out "OK everybody,
short final" and focused on the strobe. Almost
immediately I heard rockets coming in over my left
shoulder.
The ranger with the strobe was lying flat on his back with his
hat and light at about waist level. I put my chin bubble
just over his toes.
As I touched down I turned my head to the right trying to
regain some of my night vision I had lost when concentrating
on the strobe light.
I sensed, rather than saw, the LURP under the nose of the
aircraft get up and move toward the door.
By the time we touched down virtually all the
incoming fire had ceased, Charlie was out gunned and ducking
for cover.
The LURPs scrambled aboard and the crew chief
told me we had all 5. I picked up, pedal turned to the
right and radioed "coming out".
We headed east, at as low a level as I dared, for three or
four hundred meters.
When I felt safe enough I started a sharp climb and radioed
"coming up". Passing through about 1500 feet I radioed
“Flash Bright”.
One of the Crusaders answered, "in sight, clear up". I
replied with "OK, steady dim".
At about 2000 feet I radioed "turning south, heading for the
river".
It seemed like hours between my calls of “short
final” and “coming up”. It was probably less than a
couple of minutes.
I doubt our skids were on the ground more than 10 to 12
seconds.
The Crusaders dropped their attack, circled
around to the river, and picked up their escort positions as
we headed west and back home.
About this time, I think something funny occurred.
I don’t remember clearly and I’m not sure it really did
happen. In the back of my mind, I believe my door gunner
said “Sir, I can still see the strobe light in the LZ”.
I know I wouldn’t have been able to see it because I was on
the other side of the aircraft.
When we got within radio range I called our operations
center and passed along a situation report and asked them to
call LURP headquarters.
Pass the word that their people were out and to send a
medic and transportation to the airfield.
The sky was just beginning to show the coming dawn when
we landed at Dong Tam.
The post flight inspection revealed that the aircraft had
escaped without so much as a scratch.
So, once again, skill and daring had overcome fear and
anxiety.
All joking aside, I think all of us involved in that
extraction, both the Rangers and those of us from D Troop,
will carry with us the effects of those few hours the rest of
our lives.
We had accomplished a mission that at first sight seemed
impossible.
We did so because we were all well trained and had the ability
to be flexible and react to a fluid situation.
I was not the only “D” troop pilot, nor was “D”
troop the only unit to fly these missions.
Recalling my own personal experience, about 75% of the time
our flight crews were rousted out of bed to make an
unscheduled extraction.
Most of those extractions were conducted under enemy
fire.
I remember none of them.
The blackness of the night, the amount of incoming fire, the
light show created by the tracers, and my heightened anxiety,
all contributed to turning this mission into an indelible
memory.
Les Smith - Longknife26
July 2017
Epilogue
I first met Rick Stetson at the annual "D" troop
reunion in late April 2016. Rick was one of the original
LURPs from the 9th Division.
I had been playing with the idea of writing this story for a
long time and
when I saw that Rick was to be at this year’s "D" troop
reunion I put together a draft for him to read.
He made some corrections and some great suggestions.
Thanks Rick.
While at dinner on Friday night of this year’s
Light Horse reunion in Daytona, Rick found out I had recently
moved to Las Vegas, NV.
He told me that the Rangers would be holding their annual
reunion this upcoming October in Henderson, NV. and asked me
to come and read this story to the group.
I begged off. I put my fear of public speaking well
above that of going to the dentist.
He countered with reading the story himself and then
introducing me. To this I agreed.
Wouldn’t it be an amazing coincidence If Rick had
been a member of that patrol? He wasn’t. He had
probably rotated back to “The World”, as we called it, by
then.
It is our hope that someone at their reunion was a member of
that patrol or knows someone who was.
As an Infantry officer, a rifle company commander, and
an aviator, I have tremendous respect for those elite soldiers
who served as Rangers.
I consider it a great honor to be invited to join them at
their upcoming reunion.
Once again, many thanks and extreme appreciation
to Leslie Lake for her always impeccable job of editing.
Get well soon.
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