As I closed on Orange Three’s left, she seemed to fall back, so I decelerated. Then she seemed to lurch too far ahead, and I had to nose over hard to catch her. My lack of formation training was showing. I kept oscillating from too far forward to too far back. Connors let me do it a few times, then said, “I got it.”
“You got it.”
We fell into position forming a straight line with Orange One and Orange Three after he took the controls. We moved in so close to Orange Three that I could hear the buzzing of their tail rotor.
“Let me show you the tricks to this formation jazz,” Connors said. His grin was partially concealed by his microphone. “First you gotta find two spots on the Huey you’re flying on that line up and put you at a 45-degree angle away from their tail. I’ll use where the cross tube connects at the rear of Orange Three’s left skid as one point and line it up with the front of their right skid, where the cross tube connects. See?” I saw that those two points were lined up, moving slowly relative to each other as the ships surged gently through the air. As he showed me, we were climbing at 80 knots along the highway, toward the pass.
“Now, those are the right reference points if you’re flying about level with the other ship. You also have to find two points that work when you have to go higher than them, like when they turn toward you or you have to miss a tree or something. If you make sure you have those reference points lined up, you’ll be at the right angle.” Connors suddenly raised us above the rest of the flight. “Look across Orange Three’s roof deck.” The rotors blinked over the air-vent bulges and antennas scattered on top. “I use the air vent on this side lined up with the forward corner of the roof deck.” With those two points lined up we were at the correct angle to Orange Three. As we drifted back down to the same level as the rest of the flight, Connors said, “When you fly formation, try to find your own reference points for every possible position. That way, you’ll never get disoriented when the going gets rough. And if you think this is bad, wait till we start doing this shit at night.”
“Night formation?”
“Yeah. The trick to that is staying close enough to see their instrument lights. You can practice by flying about this far away, one rotor diameter between the disks. Later you’ll learn to move in even closer.” He made it look easy. I was determined to be as good. I was so involved with what he was showing me that I barely noticed that we were crossing the pass. “You got it,” he said.
“I got it.” The reference points gave me something to aim for. I was soon holding us at the correct angle, without hesitating and surging as much.
“While you’re holding us on that imaginary 45-degree line, practice letting us drift farther away along that line and then back close again. No matter what the distance between us is, you should be on that line.”
As I drifted back, I wondered what Red flight thought about our yo-yo-ing around. Orange Three and Orange One were still lined up. As long as I stayed on that line, I would not interfere with Red flight. When I was a hundred yards from Orange Three, I accelerated gently to maintain the position. When I was sure I was holding it where I wanted it, I nosed forward to move back up the line. I was doing fine, but this wasn’t a training flight. As I got close to the flight, they turned left in front of us to follow Yellow One. I had to decelerate fast to keep away.
“Try to anticipate the turns,” said Connors. “As soon as you see Orange Three begin to bank for a turn toward you, you’ve got to bank even harder and slow down because you’re on the inside of the turn. If you’re on the outside of the turn, you must be ready to accelerate as they bank to keep in position. It’s kinda like cracking the whip.”
I slowed correctly and held my position, but when they leveled out on a north heading up Happy Valley, I didn’t anticipate soon enough and fell back. I moved back up feeling very much like a student again.
“Closer,” said Connors.
I thought I had been at about the right distance, but I moved closer.
“Closer.” Jesus, it looked as though we were overlapped already. I moved in toward Orange Three until I could see Resler clearly through the left door. He turned and waved. I heard the tail rotor buzz again. Way too close.
“That’s about right,” said Connors. I strained to keep from leaning away. I could see that it was going to take some time before I got used to flying this tight. “When we land in the LZs, we’ve got to stay tight so everybody can get in. And if we stay tight in the formation, we’ll all arrive at the same time, land at the same time, and get the fuck out at the same time. We can cover each other, too.”
As Connors spoke, I barely noticed our trip up the valley. Yellow One’s call brought me back to reality.
“Okay, Dukes, start your run.”
The slicks slowed from 100 knots to about 80 to let the gunships fly ahead. They were B-model Hueys and slower than ours. They were also very heavily loaded with ammunition. They eased ahead of us, dropping at the same time. Our flight continued to decelerate to about 70 knots. We were on a long approach to the LZ, about five miles ahead.
The valley was scrubby here: elephant grass, occasional tall trees, and dry rice paddies. No villages.
I saw white smoke streaming behind the gunships, about a mile ahead of us. They were in position and prepping the LZ with their flex guns and rockets. As we closed the distance and dropped lower, I could see the rockets blasting earth into the air. At 300 feet up and a quarter mile away, Yellow One radioed, clearing us to use our door guns.
“No shooting until I say so,” said Connors. Red and the gunner clicked their intercom switches twice. As Yellow flight moved toward the near end of the clearing, I could hear the faint crackling of their door gunners’ firing into the tall grass and bushes. Moments later, when our flight was within a hundred yards of landing, and the other ships had started firing, Connors said, “Fire at will.” The guns chattered out either side of our Huey. Our guns were so close behind our seats that it felt as though someone were slapping my ears with open palms at each shot. The grunts joined in with their rifles. My adrenaline kicked in and the world got quieter. I felt strangely detached from the scene. I concentrated on the cross tubes of Orange Three. Tracers from our own guns flowed in my peripheral vision. I felt Connors get on the controls with me. It was a rule. Just in case.
The sixteen slicks flared in unison with Yellow One and settled into the tall grass. My landing was almost automatic; I just mirrored everything Orange Three did. As the heels of the skids hit the ground, the grunts jumped out and bounded off toward the edge of the clearing, firing as they went. I saw no opposition, no incoming fire to remind me that I had no chest armor. None of us did.
Yellow Three waited fifteen seconds, then made his takeoff. We all watched for his tail to move and lifted when he did, staying tight so we wouldn’t straggle and delay someone on the ground.
As we climbed over the forward tree line, I heard more machine-gun fire from our flight. “See anything, Red?” Connors said as I banked hard to the left to keep up with the flight. Out his side window the trees passed directly under us. “No, sir.” The gunners were just having fun.
“Take a break. I got it.”
“You got it.”
“You did real good, Bob. I tell you, if that’s the way the assaults are going to be, we’ll all live through this.”
“Yeah. I didn’t see any return fire at all,” I nodded. “Now what?”
“We go back to the pass and wait.”