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Laotian Highway Patrol

by James A. White, Jr.

517 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0845; ISBN 1-55395-131-X; US$37.50, C$43.29, EUR30.50, £21.50

Laotian Highway Patrol allows the reader to take a front seat in a combat helicopter during the Vietnam War and get inside the head of the combat helicopter pilot during non-flying hours.

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about the book      about the author      excerpt      catalogue info

About the Book In a terse narrative, James A. White, Jr. provides a warrior's view of a period of covert warfare during the Second Indochina War, the Vietnam War, and a personal view of a man's love for combat and the country in which he is fighting. From the command pilot's seat of an AH-1 Cobra gunship, the reader experiences the daily grind and thrill of combat flying in the secret war of Indochina. White, a decorated veteran of the Marine Corps, Army, and Air America, reminisces on his tour with the Griffins flying out of Camp Evans and Quang Tri in support of MAC-V-SOG (Military Assistance Command - Vietnam, Studies and Operation Group) covert operations and Operation RIPCORD in the A Shau Valley. White also reveals the personal side of being a warrior in an unloved war separated by space and temperament from wife and children. He glowingly reveals his love of the Vietnam for which he is fighting and his Vietnamese family. From an awe for the terrain and development of Vietnam to his informed naiveté with the indigenous people and their customs, he demonstrates his fond memories of this combat-crippled land. The spirited and salty narrative opens at Quang Tri CCN (MAC-V-SOG Command and Control - North) with an account of the prelude, conduct, and aftermath of a "no extraction is routine" mission to recover RT (Reconnaissance Team) Coral, a Special Forces team of Americans and Montagnards. In the telling of this mission, and throughout the narrative, the reader is introduced and educated in the language of air combat helicopter-style and tantalized with introductions to the equipment of Snakes (Cobra gunships) and Slicks (non-gunship Hueys): All Hueys should be set up for strings and every crew member flying should have a stabo rig on. The nylon webbed harness, called a stabo rig, has several D-rings attached to it. If you're shot down and not able to be picked up by a landing Huey, a hovering Huey equipped with strings can get you out. The crew-chief and gunner throw several strings down and you hook onto them. The ride is sickening, scary, and gut-wrenching. This mission and the others related are fact. To protect the identity of certain participants and to simplify the telling, names have been changed and characters in the narrative are sometimes amalgams of actual participants. The missions themselves are related, when appropriate, from White's first-person viewpoint. The missions are told in the language used by operations personnel and couched in the dialogue common to the Vietnam era of helicopter combat. Well, another typical CCN mission. As time marches on, things get worse and worse. Just our luck, but then we wouldn*t expect it any other way. I switch to UHF as the package with Tex leading arrives. Without being told, they join into Marty's and my loose daisy chain. 'Okay, here's how it goes.... I'll head directly toward Kilo, break over them in a tight two-seventy to the right. I'll then nail the Sierra portion of the Lima Zulu, then turn toward you. When I do this, Fox Lead will head toward the Lima Zulu, with all four Bears on you. You'll go in, pick up, and do a three-sixty and come out the same way. Do not... do not... do not overfly the Lima Zulu. 'Chalk Two will start heading for the Lima Zulu after a forty-second separation, understand?" I wait for a reply, which comes right away. "Chalk Two will enter and leave the same way as Lead. I don't think we'll need strings but be careful of the scattered trees to your nine o'clock going in. Chalk Three and Four will hold a high orbit here and Lead will return here after the pick-up. Questions?' There's silence on the radios. I know they are talking on the unit VHF, but it will only last a minute. 'Bear Lead, Fox Lead, ah... let's do it!' So much for any more questions.... As the narrative unfolds and White approaches the end of this episode of his combat experience, he finally lets us in on the rewards to be expected from combat in the most intensive covert actions fought in this century. The only physical awards one can possibly get are the few patches that we wear. To most of us, the Laotian Highway Patrol patch says it all. Though copied from a stateside law enforcement unit, it represents a lot more to us. We don't ticket speeders or those making U-turns, we kill them. The Ho Chi Minh trail is really the most dangerous highway in the world. And we, the aerial law enforcement, have the toughest beat of all. Those who see it know that we earn our flight pay. Laotian Highway Patrol is a warrior's remembrance of a unique time, place, and association of people in time of crisis and danger. The personal nature of this narrative leaves the reader grateful for the chance to walk in another's shoes during this memorable time.

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About the Author James A. White, Jr., known as "JAW" in the U.S. Marine Corps and as "Sneaky" in the U.S. Army, was a warrior of the Vietnam War. His first tour in Vietnam, he served as a U.S. Marine helicopter gunner and crew-chief on CH-46 type aircraft with HMM-262. During this tour he became the first enlisted Marine to receive the Distinguished Flying Cross since World War II. After completing his U.S. Marine Corps service, White transferred into the U.S. Army. There after a short Vietnam tour as an infantry Sergeant, he became a Warrant Officer/helicopter pilot. As a pilot White flew for two tours in Vietnam on Cobra gunships and LOH scout helicopters. He flew many missions along the DMZ and into both Laos and North Vietnam. Among his decorations are three Silver Stars, five Distinguished Flying Crosses, three Purple Hearts and 130 Air Medals. Since his retirement from the U.S. Army, White has been active with assorted veterans' groups. He co-founded the HMM-262 (Vietnam) Association and is a life member of Special Operations Association, Vietnam Helicopter Pilots' Association, Vietnam Crewmembers' Association, Khe Sanh Association, Disabled American Veterans, and other veterans' organizations. He currently resides in California.

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Excerpt

    "Hawk Lead, what's your ETA?" asks Covey.
    "We're... we're about five out," Jimbo says.
    We all scan toward the northwest trying to see the Air Force O-2 Cessna Skymaster flying low over Viper's area.
    "Got him! Two o'clock near the top of the second ridge," Mask blurts.
    "Hawk Lead, I've got your flight. Proceed west, turn north into the next valley. Proceed half way up the valley and then turn east for your approach. It will be over the low ridge and Papa will be at your twelve o'clock. They're on the west side of a small finger running to the south from this large east-west ridge line I'm over now. Copy?" This Covey FAC is a seasoned pilot with CCN Laotian missions.
    "Roger Two-Two. Whiskey up on Fox Mike?" Jimbo asks as he rolls into a wide northwest turn headed for the valley.
    "Sneaky, lay back until we expend," says Nix as I look around for Killer's aircraft.
    "Whiskey Romeo Papa, Night Hawk Lead, what's your situation?"
    A faint panting sound whispers through my headset, as if someone had just finished running ten miles.
    "Night Hawk, we're approximately forty mikes from the ridge top. We're in the base of a small clump of trees. Got movement to our Sierra and Whisky, over."
    "Roger Papa, hang in there. We'll be there in a minute," Jimbo promises.
    "Hawk Lead, we've been given clearance for a Prairie Fire, initials Delta Lima Delta. Copy?" Convey relays to us.
    "Roger, Delta Lima Delta," Nix answers.
    Flying around in Laos at tree top level must do wonders for his bladder and bowel control. I'll make a point to rib Jimbo about it tonight.
    "Put those initials on the window and pay attention!" I yell to the owner of the quickly responding gloved hand, writing hurriedly, but ever so neatly on the plexiglass. "Killer let's orbit clear of the valley while they expend," I order as I start a large, left-hand orbit.
    "Rog," acknowledges Scoop, Killer's co-pilot.
    Killer is letting Scoop do some radio work today. It's good training because he'll soon be up for Aircraft Commander. He doesn't look like a take charge type and his voice breaks into a high pitch whenever he gets excited, but he'll make a good AC. He just made Chief Warrant Officer 2 and always has his nose stuck in a book. That's how he got the name "Scoop". When we catch him reading we ask him, "What's the scoop?" He's smooth on the controls and a very good instrument pilot. He pays attention to mission details. In Laos, this can mean life or death.
    Instruments are my weakness, which is why I learned the valleys so well. I'd rather fly at treetops than on instruments. I'm good at following rivers, roads or railroads to get where I need to, especially during monsoons. Problem is, the only railroad runs north-south next to QL-1 and we don't get any missions in that secured area. I know the valleys and how to get from one location to another by crossing from valley to valley, even during bad weather. But, all this doesn't help when it's dark.
    "Hawk Lead, I'll roll in from the north and put a Willie Pete at the western edge of Papa's location. You ready?" the Air Force FAC asks.
    Jimbo on UHF, "We gotcha Two-Two." Then switching to VHF, "Doc keep a sharp eye on where it hits, we may not get another fix."
    From our location, we can watch the O-2 start its downward plunge toward the bright green finger.
    "Night Hawk Lead, Hillsborough over," a crystal clear voice from the high altitude overall Air Mission Controller for Laos booms on UHF. "Will you need fast movers?"
    The C-130, flying at forty thousand feet, is equipped with rows of radio booths with controllers to direct air traffic.
    "Hillsborough, Night Hawk Gulf. Lead is engaging a target at this time. He'll be with you in a minute," I radio using my official call sign.
    Hillsborough would never figure out who Sneaky is. I'm not listed in the SOI as Sneaky White. It would take them forever to figure out we were using unauthorized call signs.
    Griffins have a joke where we meet over a imaginary spot and call, "We're at Rastus at 45 angles," mimicking jet pilots talking though masks sucking oxygen. Once a senior, very senior, controller heard us, and for a half hour tied up air traffic trying to figure out where "Rastus" was. Then Jimbo called in at position "Ruby Begonia." The laughter on the air broke the mission's cloud of seriousness.
    "Doc, I'll lay a pair just below the Willie Pete. Listen for corrections." Going from VHF to FM, "Papa, Hawk Lead in hot."
    "Hawk Lead fire two-five mikes to the two-seven-zero of the Willie Pete," a whispered voice directs.
    "Roger, inbound. Keep your heads low," is answered by a squelch break from the ground.
    "Breaking right," Nix calls on VHF.
    On FM, "Whiskey how was that?"
    "Great! Just great! Hawk Lead... can you put some three-zero mikes to the one-eight-zero of the last pair," an excited and much louder voice advises.
    "Copy and we're inbound," Doc, already in position calls.
    "We're hit! We're hit! Taking fire! Eight o'clock!"
    The high pitched scream raises the short hairs on my neck.
    "Got it spotted! Get the hell out of there!" Covey yells.
    "Ah... We're hit.... ah... Lead... I'm... ah... headed east," Doc responds in his normal laid back form, not in the high pitched screams of his co-pilot.
    "Sneaky, I'm joining up on Doc. Come over and do your runs from south to north. If you break east it should keep you away from the fifty-one." Jimbo advises.
    "Hawk, you took a lot of small arms fire from the top of the ridge as you flew over. Are you hit?" Whiskey asks, unable to hear VHF communications.
    "Taking fire! Taking fire! Ridge line to the northeast of Whiskey. Breaking south. Uh... We've got... ah... problems here," Doc radios as calm as ever, though he's just been shot at for the second time in less than thirty seconds.
    "I'm closing in at your four. Keep altitude Doc." Jimbo's worry is now evident. There's no place to sit down out here that the NVA haven't already claimed, and we have no Hueys to help with a quick rescue.
    On UHF, "Two-Two, this is Sneaky," while still monitoring Doc's condition on VHF, "I'm inbound from the south. We'll make a south to north run with an east break. Copy?"
    "Be advised Sneaky, the east-west ridge north of Whiskey has fifty-ones. I'd like to run in some hard tack first."
    "Two-Two, Let me first put some nails down and give 'em some breathing room." Without waiting for a reply I switch to FM, "Whiskey, Gulf's inbound with nails. This will be a south to north run with an east break over you."
    At the same time, Jimbo's telling Doc, "I'll check you out. Any noticeable control problems?"
    "Negative, but we took hits. Gauges went to hell but I think it's only electrical."
    "Wow! Got a big hole in the ammo bay door," Nix excitedly points out.
    Bet Jimbo loves that. I wonder if Nix has peed on himself by now. "I Peed on Myself While Flying in Laos" would be the title of his autobiography.
    "Sneaky, we're RTB. Stay as long as possible. I'll contact base and have them launch another flight. Be careful." Jimbo is escorting his shot-up wingman back to Camp Evans.
    The FM comes alive, "Gulf, we have movement to our one-eight-zero. We'll pop smoke for you."
    "Negative! Negative! Negative!" interjects Covey, before I can. "Sneaky, I've got you. Follow me in. Whiskey, do not, I say again, do not pop smoke. I'll direct Hawk Gulf."
    The O-2 is flying toward us now. He starts his roll-over, turning back toward the north.
    "Killer, I'm in with nails. Watch where I take fire, then go after him. I'll break right."
    After a single rocket is launched from the small fixed-wing, he breaks into a hard left vertical climb to get out of the way.
    Upon impact, I've already lined up my gunsight's glowing red pipper on the growing column of white smoke. With thirty pounds of torque and the aircraft in trim, I massage my thumb across the upper right red button on the cyclic, launching a pair of rockets. I push the button again and lauch another pair. Finally, a third pair is launched on target. Pulling the cyclic back and right quickly as I lift the collective, we sharply break to the east in a steep but slow climb, hopefully far enough from imminent danger.
    I announce, "Breaking right."
    "Great shot! Great shot! Keep 'em coming," One-Zero's whispered voice cheers us on.
    Flying over the team, I see a small, orange panel opening and closing skyward identifying their position.
    "Mark! Mark! They're under me."
    At this attitude I'm able to look down on them, clustered in a tight circle all facing outward.
    "Inbound. Keep your heads down Whiskey."
    Killer's now rolling over toward the green finger protruding from the ridge.
    "Sneaky, we'll stay up this push. Nine-Three Charlie is launching a flight and will pickup the package," Jimbo advises me. "We're RTB Evans. Doc thinks he can make it. Stay away from the large ridge, the eastern fifty-one is accurate as hell."
    "Have Sweet Griffin carry plenty of nails," I reply, hoping that Doc will have a safe flight back, all the while completing a tight one-eighty to prepare to roll in again.

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Catalogue Information

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