The Toss of a Coin

Originally published in The Mohawker Newsletter #29, Late Summer 1997

Editor's Note: Issue 26 of the Mohawker featured a synopsis of the MIA status of Captain John Wayne Lafayette by Brian Lindner. CPT Lafayette was the observer on board OV-1A 63-13117 shot down on 6 April 1966. Also on board was Captain James W. Gates. Both were declared as MIA. Witnesses to that shoot down as well as being shot down themselves at virtually the same time were then Captain Harry F. Duensing and SP4 Larry R. Johnson who were on board OV-1A 63-13116. Mr. Johnson has provided a detailed personal description of the incident that, with his permission, I have condensed. It is compelling reading and a tale he has labeled....The Toss of a Coin.

It was a hot and humid April afternoon at the Hue Phu Bai airfield as usual. With no reconnaissance missions scheduled and no other routine duties pressing at the moment, the most desirable place to be was in our air-conditioned equipment maintenance van. The quiet and cool setting was abruptly ended when one of our pilots opened the door and said he needed a T.O. for a special mission. Our policy had been to rotate these flights among the six or seven observers assigned to our unit. Well, it was either me or SP-4 Underhill, the only other T.O. in the van at the time, but whose turn was it? A brief disagreement was settled by the toss of a coin. "Heads", I said, but after a few bounces and a wobbly roll, tails it was!

I arrived at the flight line and found that Captain James W. Gates was already aboard SPUD 6. He indicated that I would be in the other aircraft, SPUD 5, with Captain Harry E. Duensing. Captain John Wayne Lafayette was to serve as observer with Captain Gates.

We boarded our aircraft and strapped ourselves in. The unpadded seat, harness, waist strap, leg restrains, flack vest, helmet, belt and 45 caliber pistol, and pockets stuffed with radios, maps and other survival paraphernalia sometimes made the flights a test of endurance. Flying at tree top level at times with some beautiful scenery tended to compensate for the lack of comfort. Just before takeoff we armed the ejection seats. It's a combined nervous and comfortable feeling: nervous in that it's like riding a rifle barrel hoping the trigger isn't pulled, and comfortable knowing there is a way out.

Once airborne both aircraft headed West for a routine trip across the fence, a phrase we used because of security and politics to mean across the border into Laos. Our unit's primary assignment was troop and vehicle detection along the Ho-Chi-Minh trail. This particular mission was largely visual in nature with some use of the bay-mounted camera.

Approximately two hours of flight time had passed in the area around Moung Nong, south of Sepone (Tchepone), Laos when we began a second traverse from one valley to another from West to East through a shallow pass. Captain Duensing and I were in the lead Mohawk and had just reached the apex, when we heard a loud SNAP directly beneath us. A small puff of smoke curled up between us and a second or two later the aircraft began to shudder and vibrate slightly. Captain Duensing radioed our sister ship and said, "we're hit," followed by Captain Gates' response, "Ya, Harry, you're on fire," and "we're hit"!

We had taken two rounds, presumable from a 30 or 50 caliber machine gun. A second round had hit our left engine, causing the fire and vibration. After feathering the engine (prop) and extinguishing the fire, immediate action was taken to compensate for the power loss. Maximum power was applied to the right engine. It seemed to throb or pulsate. Next, the drop tanks were jettisoned. I happened to glance out the window just as the right tank peeled away from the wing. In the OV-1A there is a stick on the observer side. It had been drawn full back and to the right and was vibrating against my right leg. All trim, aileron, and rudder controls had been adjusted which resulted in a temporary smooth and level flight attitude. Even so, I began mentally and physically to prepare for a certain command word that I felt would soon be given. It must have been an aileron cable or rod severed by the fire or other hits that caused us to experience a gradual roll to the left "Mayday, Mayday," yelled the captain on the radio. He then gave the command "GO"! Without hesitation, I raised both arms and pulled a large plastic ring located above the headrest, forward and then down. Suddenly the lights went out! Now you may think that the time lapse between the SNAP and the GO was of considerable duration but I doubt it was much more than sixty seconds, if even that long. I've always felt that the difference between rescue and capture was that precious minute or so of flight time which allowed us to put some distance between us and the enemy.

The cool air blowing in my face ended the blackout caused by the jolt and the acceleration force of the ejection. Just how my strapped on helmet came off without my head still in it I'll never know. Awake, but in a stunned, semiconscious state, I glanced to the left and saw a large column of black smoke ascending from the crash site. The mountains in the distance appeared to be rising, giving me the first awareness of descent. Better think about landing, I thought. But when I looked down all I could see was the tops of some trees coming up at me. I'm not sure whether I blacked out again or simply closed my eyes to avoid the danger or distress, probably the latter. There was no awareness of any contact with tree limbs or a sudden stop. Upon opening my eyes, I found myself suspended from a tree, at a slight angle, so that one foot just rested on the ground. I reached up, released the two clips holding the parachute to the harness, and turned around to see Captain Duensing about thirty or forty feet away doing the same. Considering the nonsimultaneous ejection and the difference in our weight, to have landed so close to each other has got to be totally against logic and expectation. Years later Captain Duensing told me that he had seen me briefly during the descent but had made no attempt to coordinate our landing. Had we landed even a hundred feet or so apart, the chance of finding each other would have been slim and would have greatly complicated rescue efforts.

Our "Well, now what do we do? conference was quickly ended by two or three shots in the distance followed by the shouting of a couple of one syllable words sounding like "Ho", "Ho"! If fantasy had existed momentarily, it was certainly replaced by reality. I chambered a round in my 45 which I had never fired and hoped it would not be necessary to do so. We proceeded in a northeasterly direction, opposite to the sounds, as fast as we could, which didn't exactly break any land speed records due to an extremely dense growth of shrubs, trees, and worst of all, tangling vines. At the same time, caution, quietness, and frequent stops to rest and listen were necessary due to an almost certain pursuit by the enemy who would have no difficulty in locating our parachutes. After a few minutes I suggested that we discard our flack vests because of their weight, the heat, and the poor maneuverability through the vegetation. We buried the vests and leg straps under some leaves to conceal our trail. I doubt we had gone more than a quarter of a mile when we happened to stumble into a small clearing perhaps thirty feet in diameter with a small shrub or two in the center. At least it was an area where we could see more than a few feet in any direction. Thirst, fatigue, and pain must have convinced us that this was the place to call home and so it was for the duration.

Suddenly there was absolutely nothing to do but wait and listen. Tension, apprehension, biting flies, and perhaps worst of all, the heavy weight of silence, became unwelcome guest. By now the effects of the ejection had begun to set in, namely, dull aches in our backs, necks, and legs. "Well, at least Captain Gates knows where we are," I said , desperately seeking something positive "Well, they're down too," was the totally unexpected response! Obviously some of the radio traffic had not registered. Contrary to our situation, their ejection occurred right after being hit which was like going from the frying pan to the fire, i.e., from a disabled aircraft to right in the laps of those who did the disabling.

At this point a realistic assessment of the situation made things look bleak. We were some sixty to seventy miles from the nearest friendly forces in rugged, densely vegetated terrain, having no food or water, in the middle of an area well known as a hot bed of enemy activity. We were also suffering from severe compression sprains, and had little or no survival training. To walk out and avoid capture would have been highly improbable. Captain Duensing at this point had laid down at the edge of the clearing with visible pain in his back and right leg. I couldn't see any problem but it was determined later that he had been hit with a small piece of shrapnel. Terribly alone, I sought the only source of comfort and power that I knew could possibly deliver us from almost certain destruction. I too laid down by the small bush and offered a short but, needles to say, humble and sincere prayer. "Father in Heaven, if I have ever needed you in my life, I need you now, please help us!"

Some confusion and conflict still exists as to just how we were located or, for that matter, just how anybody knew to start looking for us. The after-action report filed by one of the Jolly Green crews says, however, that a "Mayday" from one or both of the Mohawks had been picked up at certain grid coordinates which, for the record, were approximately 16° 18' N and 106° 37' E or map coordinates XD 750 030. Regardless of who and how, our valley soon became a beehive of activity.

No less beautiful than an angel from Heaven was the sight and sound of that little O-1E Forward Air Controller (HOUND DOG). He circled a few times very low until finally he passed close enough to our little clearing to see my waving arms. Can you imagine the feeling of seeing him smile and wave back? He left our area as quickly as he came, for the time being, presumably to look for Captain Gates and Captain Lafayett. News that the helicopters were about twenty minutes away was comforting at first but time soon became a watch monitoring nightmare.

The tempo of key events quickly increased starting with the arrival of additional aircraft types including Jolly Green Giant helicopters, prop driven Skyraiders, and at least one Phantom jet fighter. Memory, dimmed by the initial twelve years delay in writing, recalls a frustrating problem with radio communication. Jolly Green's UHF radio was inoperative, meaning that we could not talk directly to him or vice versa. Therefore, HOUND DOG had to show Jolly Green where we were. Easier said than done with ground fire being picked up all over the valley.

With Jolly Green 54 now in the vicinity, HOUND DOG returned to our clearing, opened his window, and threw out a smoke grenade to mark our location. "Oh boy, now everybody knows where we are, they had better get us soon," commented Captain Duensing. Jolly Green made a pass to the side of us but stopped too far away to be able to see us. About that time one of the Skyraiders made a dive at a nearby enemy position. He dropped what looked like napalm canisters. I couldn't see them hit but heard them explode. Shortly after this a jet fighter made a low-level pass, in the same general area as the Skyraider, and cut loose with a high speed mini-gun or cannon.

"If you don't get us on the next pass forget it because they are all around us!" Captain Duensing reported hearing this radio communication from Captain Gates and Captain Lafayette probably to Jolly Green 55, the second of the two rescue helicopters. To my knowledge that was the last such transmission. Hopes of at least a POW status were later dashed by declassified documents that allege that they were shot and buried by PAVN forces within an hour of their ejection while defending themselves and, at the same time, trying to escape.

Once again, HOUND DOG returned and dropped a second smoke grenade marker out of his window. Jolly Green again passed to one side and overshot us. We then heard a three or four round "burst" from probably an AK-47. Whoever fired that weapon couldn't have been more than a hundred meters from us. The two of us aimed our 45's in the direction of the shots thinking "Well, this is it." The dense growth was now our best friend and defense.

Dusk was just beginning to set when Jolly Green returned a third time to our area. Again they were off course and overshot us by one, maybe two hundred meters; however, this time they stopped in the only position which, because of a break in the tree line, permitted a direct line of sight between us. Four frantically waving arms and voices silently yelling, "Over here, over here," finally caught their attention and soon the beautiful machine was hovering about twenty-five feet directly overhead. They lowered a pod or rather a tree penetrator by cable. I ran a few feet, grabbed the cable, returned to the center of the clearing, and wrapped both legs around the pod. Rather than calling it panic, call it a case of overwhelming desire to, pardon me, get the hell out of there! We did open the pod and found a collapsible seat with a mess of straps. Again, with a to hell with this attitude, and this time with the captain's directive, I repeated the initial action of wrapping my legs around the seat which, now deployed, was at least easier to hang on to

Slow, by this time, could be defined as a twenty-five foot cable ride. With safety so visibly close, tension for me reached a climax. Again the mental self-defense mechanisms were induced. The clenched teeth and little or no breathing surely created a bullet proof barrier. As I neared the open door, four arms literally yanked me aboard. The floor was slick with hydraulic fluid which was still leaking from a severed line. "Oh no, not this one too," I thought. This was the target of that burst! As soon as Captain Duensing was pulled aboard we started to gain altitude. One of the crewmen stuck his M-16 out a window and emptied a clip at the ground to keep heads down.

For nearly two hours emotions and tensions had been held in check. Release of said tensions occurred, only after safety had been assured, in the form of deep sights and some tears. Engine noise prevented any attempt to talk to the crewmen so I pointed at Captain Duensing and at my self and raised two fingers. Again I raised two fingers then pointed out the window. A nod in the affirmative by one of the crewmen led be to believe that our two companions had also been picked up. Happiness, however, soon turned to sorrow.

Twilight had faded into darkness as we approached the Nakhon Phanom Air Force Base air strip. Located in Thailand by the Mekong River, it was the origin of many rescue attempts. Landing was momentarily delayed until the crew had completed a manual deployment of the landing gear. It had been rendered inoperative by the severed hydraulic line. We were escorted to a vehicle and then taken to a nearby first-aid station for physical examination including some X-rays. "Can I have a band aid?", I asked upon discovering a laceration on my leg just at the top of the boot line. The top of my sock was a little stiff from some dried blood. Not exactly a gaping wound, in my opinion, but it did get me three stitches and a Purple Hart which I received along with the Air Medal and "V" Device several months after my discharge. Time had not permitted us to jettison the canopy prior to ejection, so I assume that a piece of the fractured Plexiglas had hit my leg.

The tranquilizer soon took effect. When I awoke, sort of, I was lying on a stretcher in the reception area of a medical facility, not in Thailand, but at Clark Field in the Philippines. A nurse was leaning over me asked, "Specialist Johnson, what happened to you, do you know where you are?" "I had to eject from a Mohawk," I said, to which she responded to someone else in a puzzled tone of voice, "He had to eject from a Mohawk?" Since ejection's often result in sever compression sprains and sometimes ruptured or herniated disks, I assumed that was why we were still undergoing tests. Two days later we boarded a Hercules C-130, awake this time, and headed for the Camp Zama convalesced center in Japan for three weeks of R & R before returning to Viet Nam.

Who would have guessed that the landing at the Phu Bai air field would have been nearly one month after the takeoff instead of the normal three to four hours? Major Drexel E. Sanders called me into his office for a visit and a debriefing during which time he asked, "When you landed which way did you go and why?" After my explanation he explained that a study of reconnaissance photographs of the area had revealed numerous gun emplacements and evidence of enemy activity described as pie shaped with a narrow sector missing. We had landed in the center of the pie and chosen to walk via the missing sector.

Those who have been associated with the Mohawk and its mission share a special experience and identity almost like being a family. I consider it an honor to have served with the men and machines of that unique chapter of military and aviation history.

Larry R. Johnson, SP-4
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