"Our link was Easter Sunday . . ."

 Vietnam vets return to site of a battle that marked their lives indelibly

BY FRED STETSON


VINH LONG, VIETNAM - Forty years ago, in an early morning mist, 10 American helicopters took off from Vinh Long airfield in the Mekong Delta. The helicopters, carrying some 120 allied Vietnamese troops, would soon land in a rain-soaked rice paddy with knee-deep mud 10 miles southeast of Vinh Long. On most days, this would be a routine mission. This day it was not.

The troops, about a dozen in each aircraft, sat randomly, without safety belts, on the metal cargo floors. The UH-1 HUEY helicopters flew in a tight formation of two Vs of five with the pointed end of the V forward. I was on the left side of the first V, in what was known as the the "Gold 3" slot. As in other combat missions, I flew at a 45-degree angle, and distance of about three rotor disks, from the lead aircraft, "Gold One." In the cool air, the ride was smooth, but the aircraft radios crackled with urgent traffic.

This day, a large, dug-in Viet Cong force fortified with heavy machine guns, motors, recoilless rifles and small arms, decided to stay and fight. As our allied Vietnamese troops scrambled off our aircraft and raced for cover in the landing zone, they fell as if cut by piano wire stretched in their path at knee level. My friend, and fellow pilot, Lt. David Eastman of New Hampshire recalled that "some didn't even make it out of the aircraft."

Just a few weeks ago, six Americans who participated in this battle returned to the Mekong Delta, to find the battle site. Chief Warrant Officer Ron Cone of Modesto, Calif., one of the helicopter pilots, organized the trip, believing such a visit would be a meaningful experience that would help close a chapter in our lives that we'd like to close. Personally, I've had a lingering love affair with Vietnam, and, as much as the battlefield, I wanted to revisit Vietnam - the country.

One of those who were unable to accompany us on the trip was Army Capt. Jon Myhre, who now lives in Sebastian, Fla. Not only was Myhre an excellent pilot, he was a beloved pilot. In Army aviation circles, there's sometimes an unspoken or even outspoken division between warrant officers and commissioned officers. Warrant officers, who are career pilots, sometimes look askance at commissioned officers, especially those who move on to administrative jobs. When in Vietnam on the first of his three tours, Myhre was a warrant officer who bridged the gap between both groups.

A gentle soul, who played the guitar in his spare time, he had a fierce loyalty to those who flew with him, and this was reciprocated. As a second and then a first lieutenant, I technically outranked Myhre when we flew together and before he was promoted. But the thought of pulling rank on him, of behaving in a superior manner, was the furthest thing from my mind. As he did for other green lieutenants, he helped me learn to fly in Vietnam's combat conditions.

My respect for him actually preceded our first meeting. Before I sat down in his room, and we had our first chat, I'd learned he'd accomplished a notable feat. Once, while flying at night above the clouds, he had an engine failure. This happened on a black night high above the black Mekong Delta. Landing an aircraft in those conditions, when there is little visual horizon to tell you when your aircraft is level, is a challenge. Doing the same without a working engine is doubly challenging. Myhre got his helicopter safely on the ground and he and his crew walked away unhurt.

He had a deserved reputation for competence in the most trying situations.

But, on that fateful day in the landing zone 40 years ago, Myhre, flying a UH-1 HUEY called "Outlaw 17," was shot down by enemy fire. The time was 8:50 a.m. A MEDEVAC helicopter swept in to pick up Myhre and his crew. But the enemy, the Vietcong, shot that aircraft down. Then, 40 minutes later, Col. Jack Dempsey, commander of our parent unit, the 13th Aviation Battalion, circling high overhead, radioed that he would attempt another rescue. Gunship pilots on the scene advised against it. Dempsey flew down to the landing zone and was killed instantly.

To the Americans who fought on that day, this became known as the Battle of Easter Sunday (March 27, 1967). This was one of the biggest battles in the Delta until the Tet Offensive in early 1968, the turning point in the war. While much of the time, the Mekong Delta was a quiet, overlooked backwater of the American war, this day remains deeply etched in the minds of those who were there. For some, like Jon Myhre, it was a battle he relives every day of his life. As he once said, 24-7, he replays a movie in his mind, one that shows horrors, one that never lets go of him.

A few weeks ago, we arrived in Vietnam to find and explore the memorable scene. Each of us went for personal reasons, but my sense is we wanted to answer long-simmering questions, not the least of which was: What did the battle site look like today? We wanted to pay our respects, in peace, to a rice paddy stained by our comrades' blood. This is a place where many of us faced the hardest tests of our young lives. We also wanted to remember men like Myhre, who was critically wounded, and the American and Vietnamese, who lost their lives that day.

Those who made the journey (we gathered at the San Francisco International Airport and flew together to Ho Chi Minh City) were Sgt. Ed Thayer of Colorado, a gunner on one of the helicopter gunships, now a real estate broker; 1st. Lt. Rex Latham of Virginia, an American adviser to Vietnamese troops who earned a Silver Star for his courageous actions that day.

Also, Capt. Reg Farrington of Connecticut and Capt. David Radin of New York, advisers; and Cone, the trip organizer. Then a first lieutenant, I have since worked and lived in Vermont as a writer-photographer in the years since the war. For 20 years, I also flew helicopters for the Vermont Army National Guard. Latham's wife, Ellen, and Thayer's brother, Ron, an artillery officer from Virginia who served three tours in Vietnam, also joined us.

Unlike some of the others, I was not scarred by this day. Indeed, I was in the hostile landing zone for only a few moments, time enough to allow the Vietnamese troops to scramble off the helicopter. My memory is blurred, but I do recall that I wanted to be out of the landing zone as fast as possible. Cone remembers bullets kicking up mud around his aircraft like a hailstorm. I remember pulling in far more engine power than ever before, making a near vertical climb out of the dangerous LZ.

One reason the Battle of Easter Sunday means much to me is Jon Myhre, himself. I grew to admire him like a brother. I shed a tear when I think of the pain he suffered - from the bullets that ripped through the back of his leg as he huddled and clung to the muck. An allied Vietnamese soldier, thinking Jon was dead, tried to pull the American pilot's wedding ring from his finger.

Years after the war, I met up with Myhre three times: once in Fort Wolters, Texas, where he was recuperating from his wounds and I was an instructor pilot; a second time at the home of mutual friends in Alabama; and, more recently, at Eastman's home in Tamworth, N.H.

For several years, Myhre spent a fortune, locating remains of U.S. Navy Avenger planes that had gone down in the Bermuda Triangle. More recently, he's been writing a book about his experiences. For me, meeting with Jon was like reuniting with a long-lost friend or relative. Instantly, we shared our Vietnam experiences in an open, uninhibited way not possible with others who were not there.

Unfortunately, due to a medical problem, Myhre was forced to remain at his Florida home, while we visited Vietnam.

So, without him, but with memories of his ordeal, we began our search for the battle site. After the flight from San Francisco, we settled into Saigon and enjoyed delicious meals at the Rex Hotel, the place that became known for the "Five O'Clock Follies," a reference to the military briefings that the American press considered of dubious value. We visited the Cu Chi Tunnels, once a vast enemy underground complex, complete with hospital and operations centers. Today, this system of tunnels is closed to the public, but a visitor can watch a black and white propaganda film and a make a 30-yard crawl through one tunnel section enlarged for westerners. We also passed by rubber plantations and visited the Cao Dai Temple in Tay Ninh.

After this site-seeing, we headed southwest out of Saigon for Vinh Long, a provincial capital on the Mekong River. Forty years ago, our 175th Aviation Company helicopters ("The Outlaws") operated from an airfield about a mile west of the city. We had a runway, control tower, large hangers and camp-like "hootches" with concrete floors. We had an officers' club and showers; a barber shop and a chapel; Vietnamese house girls, who cleaned our rooms; and house boys who polished our boots. If memory serves, we paid them each about a dollar a week.

While that may seemed plush, such living conditions were not all that uncommon in Vietnam, where many American servicemen never saw combat. But, it by no means represents the fate of men like Reg Farrington, a skilled, pragmatic former infantry officer, and Rex Latham, a deliberate, thorough and determined officer who went on to a career in the Central Intelligence Agency. Both lived and worked in the field alongside Vietnamese troops. I gained a new respect for these men, who slogged through rice paddies and swamps with fierce sun baking their helmets - while we flew in cool air at 2,500 feet.

Farrington told us he cherished his visits to our airfield at Vinh Long. There, he could walk on concrete, rather than slip about the Mekong Delta muck. He could eat from clean plates in a dining hall, rather than scrape food from the bottom of a mess kit. He would stand in the shower for 45 minutes at a time, and not step out until his small bar of soap had been reduced to nothing. Still, he recalled, when he visited his wife on an R & R in Hawaii, she told him she could still smell the rich stench of the Mekong Delta.

On our trip south we had two guides, Zen Thien and Le Hong Phu. It just so happened that Le Hong Phu was born in a small village near the site of the Battle of Easter Sunday. After driving about an hour, we arrived at the village of Hoa Binh, near the battle site, and our guides began talking in rapid Vietnamese with several people who had gathered in front of a store and a few one- or two-room houses with brick-stucco or thatch walls.

Though unclear to us at the time, the local Vietnamese knew exactly where the battle had occurred, and they told us it was about three kilometers away. Then, suddenly, without any prior notice or planning, about eight or 10 males with motorbikes circled around, ready to give us rides to the site. Each of us sidled onto the back of a bike, and off we went, passing over a concrete walkway, about three feet wide and laid over a series of connecting dike lines.

After about 10 minutes, the drivers came to a stop.

And there, before us, was an incredible sight: Rising to the sky was a 35-foot high monument, a memorial by our enemy to the Battle of Easter Sunday.

As we looked closer, directly in front of us, in a clear, brown bas-relief, we saw an unbelievable image: Three HUEY helicopters, our helicopters, the so-called American "workhorses of Vietnam," pointing to the ground, falling in flames.

"They are not going to believe this," Ron Cone said, turning to me and referring to our fellow pilots and soldiers back in the states.

I looked to my left and noticed Dave Radin with tears welling in his eyes. I reached out with my left hand to touch his shoulder.

Without any rancor, he said in a soft voice, "I'll be alright."

As we moved forward, we saw another bas-relief, this one depicting Viet Cong, hauling away a wounded solider in a sampan.

A bronze plaque on the memorial described the battle as a heroic victory for the Viet Cong, according to our guide Zen Thien. The plaque claimed that 600 American and allied troops were killed. Latham and Farrington both said that would be more than half the U.S. advisers and Vietnamese troops that had finally become engaged in the battle. One American account of the battle said that four Americans, 42 Vietnamese allies and 142 Viet Cong were killed. Twelve Americans were said to have been wounded.

There may have been a discrepancy in the casualty figures, but one thing was certain: The VC were clever and tenacious. Despite heavy fire from American jets and gunships and Vietnamese prop-driven A1-E Skyraiders, the VC remained in those tree lines and in covered positions in the rice paddies in front of the tree lines where they fought for about 12 hours before being driven away. Just before a U.S. Air Force jet would come screaming in for a pass - to pound the tree lines with bombs and cannon fire - the VC would use a series of whistle signals to communicate. Before the jet's arrival they would creep out into the open, in front of the tree lines, to avoid getting hit.

Throughout this battle, Myhre clung to his life, using every ounce of military training to keep himself alive. Not only had suffered a shattered pelvis and a broken leg that he could flop back and forth with one hand in sickening angles, but he faced the threat of being pulverized by "friendly fire."

"A scant 200 feet or so from where the VC were entrenched, and between the jets, Skyraiders and the artillery fire, I was taking almost as much punishment as the enemy troops," Myhre once recalled. "After each detonation, I would be lifted off the ground and was deaf for a long time ... large chunks of debris showered down on me, as well as hot empty shell casings.

"All the while, I worried that I would bleed to death from my two gunshot wounds. Again I turned around to survey my leg. The effort was met by a volley of gunfire from my VC nemesis, which kicked up the dirt and mud around me."


Back at the airfield, we thought, of course, that Myhre had been killed soon after the landing in the rice paddy. But, as night fell and stillness came over the battlefield, he lay alone, wounded, losing blood, desperate for water, fearing that the Viet Cong would sneak out to his position, strip him of his weapon, kill him.

"Several hours later, my worst fear was realized. Someone was approaching from behind me. My rifle was loaded ... My finger was on the trigger; every fiber of my body was tense, and adrenaline surged through my system. I planned to wait until the enemy was fairly close, then I would swing the weapon and kill him. The VC was almost upon me ....

"In an instant, I swung around and took aim at the shadow and began to squeeze the trigger. 'DON'T SHOOT! I'M A FRIEND!'" And he was. My God, I almost shot an American adviser!"

Latham, an adviser to the Vietnamese troops we had lifted into the Landing Zone that morning, had been searching the battlefield for his wounded soldiers when he stumbled upon Myhre. He gave the pilot water, then called to an AC-47 gunship that was flying nearby. He asked them to drop morphine.

After administering several shots of the pain killer, Latham took Myhre to a safe site, and a helicopter soon returned him to our airfield at Vinh Long.

"Jon's alive; Jon's alive; Jon's alive," I remember our platoon leader Captain Ray Leuty, a burly, hard-nosed Texan, screaming out again and again.

Several pilots and crewmembers ran to the medical dispensary, and crowded around, trying to catch a glimpse of Myhre. He was whisked away to Saigon for surgery and months of rehabilitation, and then he served two more tours as a pilot in Vietnam.

So, just a few weeks ago, we were out standing in what was once a hot battlefield, taking photos. A man who was 11 years old in 1967 and witnessed the battle showed us where our aircraft lay and burned on the field. He walked sharply about, pointing, gesturing with his hands, and talking in rapid, excited Vietnamese.

We moved forward, and, at the suggestion of Ron Cone, we formed a circle and, after a prayer in memory of those on both sides killed in the battle, we shared our thoughts. As I sat down, cross-legged, I felt tufts of cut rice stalks pushing up against my butt and legs. I cried as I recalled the sacrifices of Jon Myhre, and remembered the love and support of my wife, Kate Pond, and the dear friendship of a Vietnamese woman I loved 40 years ago.

"At some point," I later wrote my wife in an e-mail, "a rather incredible peace came over me, and I felt calmer than I had at any time up to that point on this trip." What brought that peace, I'm not exactly sure. But, I believe I realized that we vets had successfully dug our way into our past, and we suddenly realized we now had a new level of friendship, a new understanding. As one of us said: "We are now brothers."

"Most of us were strangers when we started the trip," Latham later recalled. "Our only link was Easter Sunday. ... The 'infantry guys,' Reg Farrington, Dave Radin and myself, had not seen each other since Vietnam, and only recently established e-mail contact. Furthermore, our two groups, the infantry and pilots, did not really know each other. Yet, the experience of finding the Easter Sunday landing zone, and the sharing of that day did create or cement brotherly bonds that will not be broken."

Shaking our heads in disbelief, we continued to wander about the field, Ron Cone sat on a dike line, deep in thought. Rex Latham took a picture of his hat next to a dike line, to show how shallow it was, how little protection the dikes provided against the withering fire coming from Viet Cong hidden in the tree lines.

While wandering about the landing zone, I reached down, picked up a small green rice shoot, poking up through the charred and blackened stalks.

This, I gave to Rex Latham. Soon, he promised, he would give it to Jon Myhre.


Fred Stetson is a Burlington writer and photographer.
Published May 13, 2007


 NOTE:  Fred wrote this, Dave Eastman sent me the link to it and if I can ever get hold of Fred I'm gonna ask his permission to use the report here . . .
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