"The Importance of a Tail Rotor on Thanksgiving Day"

 By Eric Raits
Written Sunday, November 25, 2007

Contains some strong language...normal in combat.

Forty years ago, on November 23, 1967, Gator 522 was hit by a large-caliber round that severed the linkage to the tail rotor as we were trying to insert 173rd Airborne troops into an LZ (landing zone) on Hill 875 in the Central Highlands.

The 119th Assault Helicopter Company, along with many others, had been pressed into service as the 173rd had lost nearly 20 helicopters in the preceding two days trying to get troops into the battle for this hill. As we flew toward the landing area, we could see downed helicopters everywhere we looked. I seem to remember counting 14 along the way.

We tried numerous times to approach the LZ but the lead ships took heavy fire and had to turn back and set down at Dak To and regroup. At some point, someone suggested we try coming in from the wrong direction, that is, with the prevailing wind. Apparently the NVA had only prepared heavy defenses in the direction they knew we'd be most likely to come from. We didn't appear to be getting any incoming fire as we came in from the opposite side.

Door gunners and crew chiefs on all three ships were firing madly as we approached the LZ. Fighter planes were screaming overhead and 20 mm shells from their wing cannons were clattering like hail on a tin roof on our helicopters. As we got closer to the ground, the six troopers on board edged closer to the open doors and prepared to jump off. Suddenly we took a hit that made the whole ship shudder and without warning we began to spin like a Tilt-A-Whirl carnival ride, faster and faster. The troopers were taken by surprise and went flying out the doors on both sides. We spun into the ground, somehow upright and with no one on board hurt.

I looked to my left at the pilot and he turned just then toward me and I could see the beginning of a smile on his face. He had brought us down safely under the worst of circumstances! There were some congratulatory phrases passed quickly back and forth on our helmet radios.

When I looked back out the open door on my side of the aircraft, I could see a trooper with sergeant's stripes frantically waving his arms to get my attention and pointing under me. I undid my harness and bent over to look under the chopper. There were three troopers pinned to the ground face down under our skids. They were some of the guys who were thrown off when we began spinning.

I got on the radio and said, "Dave, you are going to have to pick this motherfucker up again." Dave Mason, the pilot, turned to me with an angry look and said, "I can't pick it up. We don't have a fucking tail rotor!" "We're sitting on top of a couple of our guys," I replied. Dave thought for just a few moments and said, "I'll do this by myself. You guys can get off if you want." That sounded like a fine idea to me but somebody immediately got on the radio and said, "No, Skipper, we'll stay with you." The avoidance of being seen as a coward can be a strong impetus toward the doing of seemingly brave acts and we all quickly, trying not to be the last one, chimed in with a chorus of "We're with you, Skipper."

I strapped myself back in as Dave began revving the turbine again and pulling up on the collective. We could feel the helicopter getting light and none of us had any idea what to really expect when we left the drag of the ground. As we picked up, we began to turn out of control. We spun several times in the air and ended against some trees at the side of the LZ. I don't know how many times we spun. Once again we were on the ground without anyone hurt during two landings within a few minutes without a tail rotor. And no aircraft fire, our greatest fear, as the magnesium-framed Hueys burned quickly and hot.

Much of the rest of the day is a blur in my memory. I know we hung around with the battle going on around us (nothing happening in our immediate vicinity) and waited for a Chinook to come from Camp Holloway to airlift Gator 522 out of there and back home. We helped sling our bird below the Chinook with straps and rode in the belly of the Chinook back to home base.

The cooks knew about the incident and had saved some Thanksgiving dinner leftovers for us. I've had Thanksgiving dinners in the forty years since that were fresher and fancier, with moister turkey and mashed potatoes that were not as lumpy. Dinners with foreign wines and served on china instead of a metal-partitioned tray. But I can't say I've felt the meaning of Thanksgiving better than on that day, in that dingy mess hall in Camp Holloway.

And then, the next day.

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