The operations and intelligence briefing on 19 December 1968 at FOB 2 (Forward Operational Base), Kontum went routinely and sketched out the locations of reconnaissance teams (RT’s) on the ground in the areas of operation (AO’s): T-7 "Ban Blade," J-3 "Little June," I-6 "Hip Shot." The mission on this day was the insertion of a nine-man RT into AO H-6, team code name "Little John."

Following receipt of a "Good Day" (secure on the ground) from the RT, the Panther fire team was asked to proceed to Juliet-nine, and "strike" a wooden bridge on Route 96. Described as very hard to see from the air, the target was so concealed that even Covey FAC (Forward Air Control)---in slow flight---had not been able to get a visual on it. The 30-meter long bridge was constructed on a crossing to a high banked tributary feeding the Dak Xou river 300 meters to the west of a curve in the river called "The Bra." This natural twisting and turning of the river in and around large sandbars and connecting tributaries created the appearance—viewed from the air—of a large brassiere. To aviators and RTs alike, The Bra was significant for two reasons. First, it served as a checkpoint for aircrews and recon teams flying over a vast and uncharted Laotian jungle with few landmarks. Second, it served as a warning beacon to all U.S. aircrews operating in the area of one of the most dangerous spots along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. This reputation was justly earned based on enemy contacts, activity, and losses in aircraft, crews and recon teams.

RT’s reported the newly discovered bridge camouflaged and well hidden in a tree thicket 200 meters north of the main river crossing, which was an underwater stone and concrete ford. Route 96 was originally part of the main road system of Laos but now served as the North-South high-speed thoroughfare of the Ho Chi Minh Trail network. This particular segment of Route 96 was in the open and very visible for relatively long stretches and therefore heavily bombed. It was always immediately repaired and well maintained for the passage of truck traffic that usually traveled at night and parked in the day. From Route 96 at the Dak Xou River ford, Route 110 splits eastward through The Bra, paralleling the river to South Vietnam's Central Highlands.

The 361st AEC had been flying FOB missions on a daily basis since September 1968 and had on a routine basis been tasked---after completing RT insertions---to recon and hunt for trucks, truck parks, training areas, animal corrals, sampans on the rivers, and any other legitimate targets of opportunity. The request, on this day, concerned me to the extent that the 361st and the 57th AHC had experienced heavy action in mid-November just north of The Bra (see the book SOG: the secret wars of America’s commandos in Vietnam by John L. Plaster pages 208-213). The 361^st and the 170^th AHC both experienced the loss of an aircraft eighteen days earlier on 1 December. The mission on that day was a B-52 post strike bomb assessment on the Ban Tram 37 logistical command, based near the bridge site on Route 96. The Bikinis (17Oth AHC) and Panthers (361st AEC) each lost an aircraft. While in-bound, descending through the dust from a half-mile of utter devastation caused by hundreds of 500-pound bombs, the NVA anti-aircraft (AA) fire hit the Bikini slick---with the RT still on board. The slick made a hard landing less than a kilometer north of the target Bridge, and 75 meters west of the main road. As the Panthers covered chase/pickup slick Bikini 29 going in to help the wounded and injured crew and RT, our fire team lead, Captain Harold Goldman and Warrant Officer Mark Clotfelter took 12.7mm heavy weapons hits and went down. I continued to cover Ken Harper (aircraft commander of Bikini 29) till they were airborne with the downed crew and RT and clear of enemy fire. Harold’s emergency radio was pulsing in my ears as I stayed low and fast, homing on the beeper. I found them down in the high elephant grass on a sand bar in the middle of The Bra. The Bikini chase/pickup for Harold and Mark was on the spot and everyone got out alive and without creating a capture situation or the requirement for an E and E (Escape and Evasion). As a lone single attack Cobra, we covered the pickup, strafed and burned the downed Cobra, and promptly covered the 67 kilometers back to Dak To.

Considered collectively, these events were clear indications to our G-2 (intelligence) folks that something was important to the enemy about the Juliet-Nine AO. It had been our experience that critical information about enemy movement and activity was not always passed on to the aircrews supporting the SOG. Mission brief at Kontum assured us that the NVA logistical headquarters had been destroyed and that the SOG radio relay site called "Leghorn" on top of the mountain over looking the valley had not reported anything unusual in the AO. No RT’s were on the ground in the area.

As air mission commander and 1^st Platoon leader, I had adopted the practice of discussing with the fire team members the options we had in the conduct of an impending mission. WO Mark Clotfelter was my co-pilot/gunner. He came to the company in September, fresh from Cobra school and was already a seasoned veteran on FOB. 1LT Paul Renner was first Section Leader, flying wing as Aircraft Commander (AC) with WO Ben Ide as his co-pilot/gunner--the new guy on board. Paul joined the company in November and was fast learning the long-range cross-border operations of FOB. I had deployed from the United States with the 361^st and at this point had extensive experience with the 5^th Special Forces and their methods and requirements of operating on FOB. On this day we discussed the mission to destroy the bridge on Route 96 for a few minutes in the fire team and mutually agreed to look the bridge over in the course of a low recon once we completed our "Little John" RT insertion into AO H-6. Subject to the tactical situation of the other RT’s, our fuel/ordinance status, and on-site area and target information, we would decide whether—and precisely how—we would attack the bridge.

The insertion of "Little John" was uneventful, with a quick "Good Day" from the RT. Covey FAC reported all quiet, with the other three RT’s and cleared us to engage the secondary target. In addition, Bikini 29 had fuel to chase/pick up if needed. We headed up Route 96 moving low and fast over the broken jungle to the Dak Xou River ford. It took two passes, scrubbing off speed, to get a straight "look down" to see the bridge structure well enough to get an accurate fix and call the fire mission. Once both Paul and I had a good visual and no challenges to our presence, Paul called the fire mission: "From the South to the North, parallel to the road-25% HE (High Explosive/17lb rockets)-Left break." Low angle, fast shots under the tree cluster made up the first pass and drew the usual pop and crack of small arms from the trail sentries. The second pass---on the out-bound leg from the target—was greeted by a sudden shift in volume of fire with the small arms sonic cracks rising to a chorus. I could see Paul in-bound covering our break, and suggested a right break, and I would turn in behind him to cover so he could disengage from the target.

Within seconds, the cacophony of small arms fire rose to a thunderous level with hundreds of enemy troops suddenly standing up in the grass and tree lines emptying their Kalashnikovs on us.12.7mm and 37mm Heavy-weapons fire started streaming in as well. Paul broke right and began to shed parts and descend---at an alarming rate---into the open, grassy field covered with enemy troops, some of which were running to get out of the way. Not a word was exchanged as he flared and set down in the grass along Route 110; enemy troops shooting and running in all directions. With a lightning stroke and cloud of dust, the rotor struck the ground and separated. We followed in a wide sweep, getting real low and fast to avoid the AA guns. Mark was shooting the 40mm in a wide circle around Paul and Ben’s point of impact. Keying the mike, I reported to anyone listening on the net, "Bikini 29, Panther 16, I’ve got one down on The Bra and need help". In only seconds Kent Harper’s reassuring voice crackled back, "Roger, on the way."

A series of independent, yet interrelated actions and events were rapidly running simultaneously—and threatening to spin out of control. Paul was struggling desperately to extricate Ben from the aircraft, communicate on his emergency radio, and at the same time deal with their defense with his uncooperative Swedish-K. He could hear the enemy troops shouting orders and tactically moving around their exposed position. From the air, we could see hundreds of enemy appearing from virtually every direction in the flat, open grassland on both sides of the Dak Xou River. Mark and I were shooting back with everything we had, hugging the ground less than 50 feet over pith helmets and flaming AK muzzles. Bikini 29 suddenly appeared on a quick short final, settling into the epicenter of the ground and air fight that was growing in intensity, and becoming thick with dust and HE smoke. Grass fires exploded into flames and heavy smoke was everywhere. Small arms and heavy weapons flashes with tracers were cracking from almost every direction, bouncing and crisscrossing in a confusing array that made it difficult to tell what was enemy and what was friendly fire.

As if a lightning bolt suddenly struck, there was a thunderous crash and shudder that ran the entire length of the Cobra airframe. Instantly, an enormous effort---with wildly exaggerated motion in the cyclic---was required to keep from hitting the ground at 150 knots, as the SAS (Stabilization Augmentation System) dropped off the line. A quick scan of the instruments and a confusing attempt at working unresponsive switches revealed a total electrical failure. There were no radios, intercom, guns, warning lights, gauges—nothing! We managed to stabilize the aircraft, keep it flying, but knew instinctively our air-worthiness was likely to play out very quickly. That meant it was imperative that the recovery efforts on the ground be completed damn fast---otherwise, we’d all be on the ground fighting the enemy with our pistols and Swedish Ks!

Although it could only have been a couple of minutes that Bikini 29 had been on the ground, It seemed a lot longer and for a long few seconds I wasn’t sure he was coming out at all. They were struggling with Paul to get Ben out of the badly crushed aircraft, requiring the co-pilot, gunner, and crew chief---all working together---to complete the task. Finally, Bikini 29 was up and running low, nose down, blades forward over the grass. Door gunners shooting. Kent was on his way out and taking hits. We turned east, hiding between the riverbanks, badly swaying and wobbling at high speed. We held off climbing out till safely clear of The Bra and open ground. The loss of radio and intercom is difficult anytime in an aircraft, but in tandem seats it forced us to use hand signals to communicate and assess our battle damage. Without gauges or warning lights, fuel and hydraulics were of immediate and critical concern. If the cyclic and collective were going to freeze in place, we were determined that it was going to be in the "running fast and straight for the border position."

The landing at Doc To was clumsy, as was the shut down by manually pulling the throttle stop solenoid. Climbing down from the cockpit, I passed a Jagged 6-inch hole, which appeared to be the result of a 12.7mm passing under my seat and through both center box beams. The main wiring harness was hanging in half and still smoking. Turning, I could see Bikini 29 setting down on the medical pad with the crew carrying someone hanging over a stretcher. Running toward the Medical bunker, I could see Paul in step with the crew and hovering over the stretcher. I couldn’t see Ben standing anywhere, which gave me a sinking feeling.

Once inside the medical bunker, a whole new and desperate struggle began, and it was clear Ben was in very serious condition. Paul was covered in blood and totally exhausted. The doctors and corpsmen worked frantically and aggressively with long hypodermic needles, tubes, I.V’s, pounding and pressing him desperately trying to find or spark life. It was chaotic yet coordinated, with each of four men working simultaneously on different parts of the patient. Gradually, their motion slowed and quite settled over the medical team as we stood over Ben. Each of us present endured a terrible and private agony as the realization settled in that time and medical science to save Ben had played out. I didn’t want them to stop. I felt helpless and clearly out of my element in this bunker of medical heroes. I’m sure for Paul it was a mountain of frustration to have it come out this way after going through so much to save Ben. Given the nature of Ben’s wounds, he was probably gone in Paul’s arms coming out of the front seat. I would guess Paul suspected as much, but he fought for even the slightest chance for his co-pilot---no matter how small. Despite the outcome, his efforts were truly heroic.

I followed the corpsmen carrying Ben to a small shack setup for formal identification and processing. I was helped through a process that was never part of my training and I was learning why. The forms seemed complicated and impersonal. There were no noble words, just impersonal terms and facts about death. There was no ceremony, just a bluntness very removed from the advertised view on war and fallen warriors. I struggled to collect and list Ben’s possessions, signing for everything including his remains.

A crowd had gathered around the badly damaged Cobra as word spread across Doc To that something had happened in a place no one would identify, and no one seemed to know anything about. Ben Ide had come to the 361st only two weeks earlier from a Cavalry Troop that was still operating in the area. As I exited the small shack and left Ben behind, a Cav pilot came running up frantically wanting to know if the rumor was true, that Ben was hurt. I asked what his relationship to Ben was and tried to introduce myself. But he could see through me and knew that his friend was inside. Without warning, this unnamed friend of Ben’s struck out in a rage of frustration over what none of us could change. His blind, frenzied attack was indiscriminate. Fists in the sandbags, side of the shack where Ben lay, and me. I tried to hang on to him but he was uncontrollable in his grief. Others, standing silently and just as surprised as I, came to help him in his struggle for acceptance of Ben's loss. This sealed something inside me.

The real stress of these events began to settle heavily on me while sitting on the floor of the Bikini slick in route home to Holloway. We were all physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted, ending the day in a strange way for gunship pilots---riding in the back of a slick as passengers. On this day, however, it was an honor. We owed these slick pilots and crew our lives and I was glad to be aboard. As Platoon Commander, I don’t think I have ever felt worse---returning having lost your men and aircraft. Yet in another way I was going back with something I never really expected. I saw and experienced the kind of desperate struggle that most people only read about in novels and history books, and that movies are made from. On reflection, it stuck me as the kind of situation where men rarely survive the truly important lessons of war: Paul's commitment to Ben—a man he barely knew—a man he risked everything for. Kent Harper and the Bikini Crew, who knew none of us, rode into smoke and fire without hesitation, knowing there was every chance they would not come out alive. The medical team working in impossible conditions, on men with horrific trauma they never met, in a bunker in the middle of a place medical school could never imagine. These men and women know a reality of war few people do. I felt the deep devotion of Ben’s unnamed friend and through his anger shared in his pain and loss that will be an ever-lasting torment for us both. Ben had such friends, and I met one this day. It was difficult to accept the fact that Ben’s citation will be written with a vague, fictitious location in Vietnam as the place where he fought and died. Ben’s friends may never know his true courage and contribution. For that matter, few of those we were doing this for will ever know or hear of any of these men, their deeds or stories. Ours was a clandestine mission in an unpopular war.

Our drop off by slick in front of the 361st Operations hooch in the Snake Pit brought many of the unit’s men out to meet us. Leading them was Major Robert (Jim) Rodgers, our Commanding Officer---a man I would follow to Hell. Well, some how we got there (Hell) on our own and it was time to report. Stepping a few feet away from the crowd, I gave a choking explanation of how we had lost Ben and both aircraft. How communications and equipment failed us from battle damage in the fight of our lives over a bridge strike and the chance encounter with a large enemy force. That individuals, aircrews and medical teams did their best and more, even in the face of overwhelming numbers of enemy and intense fire. That even though I felt we killed a lot of enemy and did what we could to save Ben, there was emptiness in my gut and heaviness in my heart. That I felt no victory, only loss and anger. Major Rodgers was supportive, understanding and insightful about how many uncontrollable things can and do happen so fast in combat. He spoke low and softly of the consequences in the choices we all make in war and how so much that happens can’t be foreseen or even understood sometimes. He pointed out that you can control, manage and are responsible for only so much in battle. That everyone does his part the best he can given the circumstances. I was thankful for his strength, experience, and support, which---much like the terrible loss of Ben---I have never forgotten. Major Rodgers’ kindness and understanding helped many of us go on in what we had to do.

As is always the way, in the misfortunes of war, Ben was the first of some number of heroes---actually, secret heroes---in the 361^st who would lose their lives in the months to come. Mark and I would again ride on the floor of a slick in January because of Juliet Nine, which is another story for another time. There would be more harsh lessons that some would not survive. Major Rodgers would again have to ease my anguish with the loss of Mark Clotfelter and Michael Mahowald in July. His words---with their salving effect---I wrote down and keep in my office to this day: "Wrap today's sadness in a small package, and lose it among tomorrow’s projects."