The Possums of Nui Oat

One ex-Sioux pilot now a senior army instructor likened the experience to standing in a bucket and pulling up on the handle. Things tended to happen rather slowly and one had to keep uppermost in the mind that the Wright brothers actually succeeded so many years ago. Flying a Sioux under those conditions was an act of faith.

Army Reconnaissance Flying in the Vietnam war reached a level of expertise that may never be seen again.

‘Thank God for that’ echo the Colonel Blimps as they sip their gin and tonics in the messes across the nation, for if Australian Army Aviation was anything Vietnam it was ahead of it’s time and a little beyond the understanding of the traditional army career officer of the sixties.

161 Reconnaissance Flight was the Australian Task Forces reconnaissance unit based at Nui Oat in Phuc Tuy province South Vietnam as from 1966. Equipped with six Sioux 47 G3B-1 Helicopters and three Cessna 180 fixed wing aircraft the flight provided a variety of support roles to the Task Force.

Phuc Tuy province was at the Southern tip of South Vietnam bounded by the South China Sea to the east with Saigon some forty miles west of the Nui Dat base.

Operations carried out by the flight were as varied as they were unusual. Although the book described reconnaissance as the main function, Australian ingenuity soon sprang to the fore and began developing operational techniques that never reached the flight manual. In fact many remain secret to this day.

The aging Sioux bore the brunt of recce work in the early days although the Cessna 180 certainly performed its share of labor. As a recce platform, the helicopter is unequalled. Of course, the statistical boffins will get involved in cost-effectiveness ratios which on paper look impressive, however since very few of them have ever been involved any further than submitting their findings to the typing pool I suggest their evaluations are best suited for the use which paper has been found most effective for.

Visual Reconnaissance (VR) was carried out on a round-the-clock basis including some night operations. Flying at tree top level above the thick jungle canopy at around sixty to seventy knots the pilots of 161 Reece Flight were continually on the lookout for the elusive Vietcong.

If ever there was a modern parallel to the Indian scouts of the old west it was the pilots of 161 Reece flight – the Possums of Nui Dat as they were known by their radio callsigns.

Low-level reconnaissance presented hazards not really appreciated by those not directly involved. Aircraft tend to impart a sense of immunity due possibly to the isolation from the ground which is very hard to explain to the uninitiated. 16 gauge aluminium cannot however be compared with a inch armour plate, this point was often very hard to get across to senior officers who should have known better.

The hazard not usually appreciated was that bullets nearly always approached an aircraft from beneath and generally only one portion of the anatomy pointed in that direction. The lack of appreciation of this problem went to the ridiculous extremes where the administrators concerned replied that requests for seat armour would have to be supported by documented evidence plus about a year’s trials by ARDU before a solution could be devised.

161 pilots solved the problem themselves with a little horse trading with the Americans and chunks of half-inch laminated armour were soon installed beneath pilots’ seats while the paper merchants continued to devise their application forms to be completed in triplicate.

One of the most unusual aspects of reconnaissance flying was that in the early days, the book specified army aircraft were not permitted to carry armament. This role was reserved for the RAAF. Rightly or wrongly this dogma was regarded with contempt by most pilots for there is nothing more frightening to be shot at and not being able to shoot back.

The rules might have said that weapons couldn’t be fitted to Army aircraft but they didn’t say they couldn’t be carried by the crew. The result was that a variety of weaponry was soon adapted for use by the observer and pilot. These included the M60 machine gun, M79 grenade launcher, M16 rifle and a wide assortment of grenades.

Shades of WW1. It was soon discovered that it was quite easy to shoot holes in wing and wheel struts, landing skids, rotor blades and even the propellor if the weapons were not handled correctly.

Grenade throwing became a specialised art form. With reminders of the classic James Bond movie From Russia With Love where the observer drops a pinless grenade beneath the seat pan and all fumble desperately for a few frantic last seconds uppermost in many pilots’ minds a special grenade-throwing procedure was developed.

Line-up aircraft with target and enter a degree dive. The observer leans out of the cockpit with the grenade held at arm’s length. The pin is then pulled with the other hand keeping the grenade still outside the cockpit. Teeth are not used. The theory behind this method was that if the observer was hit by ground fire the grenade would be dropped outside the aircraft.

I recall being an observer during an action against a group of VC who were blazing away at us from a patch of jungle. All went according to the drill and the grenade was released. I glanced outside and I’ll swear that grenade was flying formation just a few feet away. I will never forget Roger C’s excitement when I nudged him with a ‘look it’s following us’ expression. Roger broke hard left and pulled the collective into his armpit in an effort to get away from that horrible little green ball of explosive.

To this day we don’t know why that grenade exhibited startling aerodynamics and even our beer-assisted mathematics back at the 161 mess proved beyond a doubt that hand grenades cannot fly. But then again maths also say that neither can Bumble be and at about this time General Westmoreland was boasting that the war would be over by Christmas. Mistakes were possible.

By this time the Cessna fraternity had begun to adopt a far more aggressive attitude mainly due to the fact that they were starting to take more ground fire than usual. In the early days the VC tended not to reveal his position by firing on reconnaissance aircraft due mainly to the response the pilot could bring to bear in a very short time, such as artillery or possibly an airstrike. However the escalation of the war and the introduction of North Vietnamese regulars meant that artillery response was not readily available. The NVA tended to be less intimidated by aircraft and the result was that ground fire was definitely on the increase. It was also rumoured that there were bounties payable for shooting down aircraft.

The 180 had always been cleared for carrying target-marking rockets but with the introduction of helicopter gunships by the Americans it was found that the 2. 75 inch rocket could now be had with twelve and sixteen-pound H. E warheads which meant with four tubes the little Cessna now packed almost the same punch as a battery of 105 howitzers. The sight system was a chinagraph cross on the windscreen individually calibrated for each pilot.

The most amazing thing about the use of rockets from the Cessna was that every time 161 Reece flight was visited by Australin politicians the H. E rockets were removed and replaced by the smoke version. It seemed that politicians didn’t like to be reminded that they’d committed Australians to a shooting war and smoke seems so much more harmless than H. E.

Possibly the greatest exponent of using the Cessna 180 as a weapon was known to the boys a Father. This nickname came about because Father was just that to all the members of the flight.

He’d come up through the ranks starting as an apprentice at fifteen and eventually gained a commission and his pilot’s wings. From there he became an instructor and what he didn’t know about the Cessna 180 wasn’t worth knowing. Everyone respected Father for his professional ability but probably his most endearing feature was that nothing ever seemed to worry him. As a result he became one of those people everyone could talk to about their problems and I guess that’s where the name came from.

He had his own devilish cunning which revealed itself one day on a flight to Bin Hoa airbase, a massive concrete affair that would put Tullamarine to shame. We joined the circuit with the sky looking like the pages from Jane’s aircraft.

“Roger Possum take 15 left, your number 20 behind the C- 141. Caution wake turbulence. ”

We’d dropped in to visit the PX and as Father taxied to dispersal he noticed a pile of bombs on their carriers near our parking revetment. Not that there was anything unusual about the sight of bombs at an American airbase mind you but these were only little ones, about 250 pounds.

“Who uses them?” Father queried a huge USAF negro. “A-37s from the 604th” he replied.

Father glanced at our tiny 180 sitting defiantly near a row of revetted 101 Voodoos. I could see the wheels turning. The standard kit for the 180 was a 250Ib bomb rack under each wing designed to carry a streamlined cargo container known as a torpedo. “How can I get some?” Father pursued.

“Man you can have all you want. Watcha flying?”

Father pointed at the 180 and surprisingly our friend merely rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

“You guys Australians?” he asked squinting at the kangaroo emblem on the fuselage roundel. “Any time you want there’s plenty for all. ” He’d obviously dealt with lunatics before.

After the PX visit we cranked up the 180 and queued for takeoff with the rest of the airshow. Father was a little remote and I knew he was thinking about those bombs.

We were cleared for departure along with about thirty others in Le Mans fashion.

“Possum please expedite and make an immediate left turn. Four F-100s behind you. ” The Yanks always used the incentive plan and we banked about sixty degrees at forty knots as the sky filled with afterburners and the smell of JP-4.

“You can’t be serious. ” I finally said after we left the hornet’s nest of Bin Hoa well astern.

“Why not” asked Father “What’s the difference between 250Ibs of baked beans or 250Ibs of H. E?”

I must admit to my mind the effects of either are very similar. i could appreciate his logic.

Sure enough a couple of days later back at Nui Oat one of the Cessna’s appeared with the supply racks fitted.

“Want to come to Bin Hoa?” Father asked.

So it was later that day the little Australian 180 mixed it with the big stuff over Bin Hoa and taxied to the bombing-up area. Our negro friend wasn’t on duty but the crew were only too pleased to donate to the Australian war effort. They seemed intrigued by this unique weapon system, which they excitedly admitted as they craked the 250s into place could end the war. They’d be home for Christmas thanks to the Aussies.

At this point I must admit I was a little nervous at the sight of that Cessna looking so aggressive. Father solved that for me.

“Look” he said in a kindly manner “The density altitude is pretty high and I’m about all up weight. 500Ibs under the wings and half fuel. You’re over 200lbs and my own C of G has shifted a little. ” he said patting his stomach.

Father always knew best so it was with reluctance that I watched the green Cessna use surprisingly little of the 10,000ft runway and vanish into the hot Vietnam sky. I headed towards the nearest officers club to sweat out the wait.

About an hour later Father returned wearing a Mona Lisa smile. He never did reveal what he did with those bombs although he hinted once or twice about his dislike for the Australian Army H. Q in Saigon. He did let it slip that he now know what it felt like to fly a Stuka.

“All we need is a siren” he said on the flight home.

* * *

A continuing point of irritation to the rotary wing section was a thin coastal strip of marshy tidal plain about thirty miles east of the Nui Oat base. It was rumoured that the VC used it as a safe area where they rested their troops between operations. While recuperating they kept busy gathering food and repairing weapons.

The area had always showed intense activity with footprints appearing almost nightly where supply junks had unloaded on the beach.

Most frustrating feature was a large network of tidal lagoons that regularly sprouted dozens of fish nets set by the VC. For weeks the Rotary Wing fraternity had observed these goings-on and dutifully reported it to Task Force H. Q.

Task Force seemed to show a complete lack of enthusiasm apart from sticking a few more coloured pins in the map, hinting that they were monitoring the area as part of some masterful stategic plan that if executed correctly might end the war by Christmas. As the area was out of artillery range there was little that could be done however they’d put it on the contingency list for a B-52 strike.

So gathered round the bar one steaming evening a plan was devised. It’s extraordinary how creative a group of Australians can be when the need arises particularly if a few cans of beer are available.

As a result one of the most fiendish and little-known weapons of the Vietnam war had been conceived and working drawings completed by midnight. Barnes Wallis would have been proud.

The Sioux was selected as the delivery system mainly because its centrally mounted cargo hook suited the new weapon admirably. We were also fresh out of Wellingtons.

The weapon components were obtained and assembled in secrecy that would have done credit to the Manhatten project. So it was that a day later the mission cranked up at first light. Sioux 394 clattered to a hover and slid to the weapon attachment area where the device was linked to the cargo hook. Then groaning under the additional stress imposed by 200 of ‘Blue Foamo’ soap powder 394 pointed its blunt nose east and headed off into the rising sun.

Tension was high on the outward leg as the weapons fusing consisted of ten pounds of plastic explosive with a safety fuse system that no one really understood but the RAEME assured us couldn’t go off until it had (a) left the aircraft and (b) hit the water from at least fifty feet.

Speed was held back somewhat due to the drag of the weapon casing, a huge condom-shaped section of heavy-duty rubber fuel tank. Mike showed definite signs of nervousness which was understandable as we believed that this would be the first operational use of such a weapon. How big would ground zero be? Would we be engulfed by the froth ball? We both understood how the crew of Enola Gay must have felt on their way to Hiroshima.

We arrived over target just as the sun crawled over the horizon and lit the landscape in the beautiful pink hues that only the Orient seems to be capable of. Mike circled twice selecting the pool with the most fish nets.

At about 200ft and forty knots he pressed the tit. The rubber-encased device wobbled its way earthwards and hit squarely in the centre of the pond. We circled, awaiting detonation.

It didn’t come which was doubly disappointing for Mike had been looking forward to screaming “Nigger” over the radio.

So there it was, the weapon to end all wars floating obscenely like a giant black sausage for all to see. There was only one answer, out with the M-79 grenade launcher and give it some encouragement. We made pass after pass and gave that lagoon hell. In fact I recall we later counted it on our tally board back in the crew room as ‘Enemy Lagoon KIA’. Eventually, the whole contrivance let out a flatulent sigh then exploded with a satisfying bang.

The result was disappointing. Instead of a menacing mushroom-shaped suds cloud it gurgled into a moderate froth mound which rapidly subsided like a tired second-rate movie monster. Nobody had taken into consideration the hardness factor of brackish water.

Back at base Mike filled in his VR report and sent it off to Task Force. An hour later the command post phone was running hot.

“Who authorised this chemical warfare mission” squawked the senior duty officer going to great lengths to explain that chemical warfare was against the Geneva Convention and Australia couldn’t be involved in such unsportsmanlike behaviour. It seemed to escape his closeted brain that the entire province was daily being drenched with defoliants and that soap powder hardly constituted a quantum leap in chemical weapons.

Mike hung up in disgust and was later reprimanded by our O. C major G. who tried his utmost to keep a straight face as he delivered the prescribed rocket.

That evening the design team whipped up the MK 2 version featuring an enormous percentage of water softeners and an improved fuse system. Work on this hideous weapon was never started after the results of the following morning’s first light recce.

Mike returned with a wry grin. The VC had removed their nets from the lagoon and on trees everywhere were black pyjamas hanging out to dry.

“Got to hand it to them” Mike said “Those buggers don’t waste a thing. ”

* * *

It was late afternoon and Roger was driving his Sioux around the province on the last light recce when to his amazement he spotted a VC flag fluttering arrogantly from the top of a high tree miles from civilisation near an old provincial highway long since crumbled to dust.

Back in the CP the radio crackled with Roger’s discovery and we gathered round the PRC 77 like a group of punters on a Satur day afternoon. By radioing his find he had of course announced it to the world and Rog swears that within 30 seconds a USAF FAC Bird Dog had appeared from nowhere and began circling like a grey vulture. This was all too much for Rog because the FAC began slow pases over the flag and damn it if the observer wasn’t trailing what looked like a length of cord with a small grappling hook.

VC flags were prized souvenirs and now the challenge had been made. It was Australia vs the Yanks. Rog tried to snag it with the chopper skid but the downwash defeated his first attempt.

The FAC made a second pass but missed so this time Roger moved in just above the hover and his observer has able to snag the flag with the barrel of his M60 machine gun.

In triumph, they pulled away with the captive flag. As Roger said this was about where the operation turned to worms. The flag had been connected to an explosive charge by wire and it detonated peppering the Sioux with chunks of metal. The fuel tanks ruptured and the chopper burst into flames.

Luckily they had on about thirty knots and with the cockpit becoming decidedly hot Rog executed a perfect running landing straight ahead on the road. They scrambled to safety while the Sioux burned to a crisp.

The USAF FAC put out a Mayday call and in minutes the area was swarming with gunships with Roger and his observer aboard a Huey heading back to base. The observer took a small but proud shrapnel wound in the foot. All Rog suffered was wounded pride and the loss of a brand new Pentax camera he’d bought in Hong Kong a week earlier.

The blackened remains of the Sioux were sling loaded back to Nui Oat by Chinook a few hours later where we all ogled the cooling remains as if it were one of those gizmos that land in the backyard in old sci-fi movies.

Those who know the Sioux will agree that its mostly vacant space loosely tied together by a lattice airframe. Considering this the number of hits that poor craft took was awesome. Fuel tanks looked like sieves and the airframe appeared to be suffering from white ants.

I believe that despite this almost total destruction they rebuilt her in the workshop. All that was needed was the original airframe identity plate (something to do with the Commonwealth auditors, otherwise anyone with a spanner could have put his own aeroplane together given enough time) and part of the cockpit monocoque assembly. The rest of the Sioux airframe is just so many spare parts and the Army had plenty of those.

Grandad Axe never had it so good.

No saga about 161 Reece Flight would be complete without a tribute to the Officer Commanding, Major George Constable. He was one of those rare professional soldiers who had the ability to rule such a group of high-strung individuals with that blend of understanding, firmness and patience that is so seldom encountered.

There is no doubt that Major George received his fair share of flak from the Task Force brass whenever he came to the defence of his pilots, something he was consistently doing. He always told us that whenever he was summoned to the commander’s office he made a habit of walking in backwards which saved him having to about face to receive the kick in the butt.

When Mike declared chemical warfare with the soap bomb it was the major who took the brunt of the task force commander’s wrath.

Same when Roger demolished his chopper it was Major George who made the situation sound believable to the desk pushers at H. Q who were always looking for worthy court martial subjects. The boss knew that discipline in this case wasn’t neccessary. Roger had learned his lesson and in fact he said he doubted if he’d ever salute a flag again let alone touch one.

Throughout his tour of duty the men of the flight respected George Constables ability and warmed to his camaraderie. He was an accomplished pilot being rated both fixed and rotary wing. He loved flying and understood what it is like to be afflicted by the aviators sense of freedom.

I will always remember his excitement when he received a telegram from home announcing that his wife had given birth to a daughter. He was due for home leave and a few days later we poured him aboard the Caribou that linked with the Australia R&R flight out of Saigon.

He returned a week later beaming and we all drank a few beers to that new babe back in the mess as George proudly passed around the photos. It gave us all an insight into the wonderment of new life amid a frustrating war.

About three days later Major George Constable was killed when his Cessna was shot down while flying convoy cover.

The date was May 23 1968.