the company frequency for help- a very calm (too calm) Chinese voice from our communications center in Saigon, said, “Captain Flurth, pleas you stop saying help and say where you are.”
Because I spent so much time climbing I was close enough to my departure airport that I actually was able to fly a few patterns before landing. I was losing about 1000’ each time around so, when it looked right, I extended the flaps and dead-sticked it into the field, rolling off in the yellow gravel parking area. There were two passengers in the back who hadn’t said a word the whole time- I had forgotten all about them.
By the final circuit I had overhead a few fast movers (jet fighters,) two helicopter gun ships and a company Helio courier. The Helio landed behind me, I jumped in and we headed back to Saigon with the two passengers.
Later that day, a company chopper trying to sling my Porter under a helicopter back to the maintenance base dropped it from two thousand feet and it wound up a ball of smashed aluminum. Scratch that one you think? But, no, the company sent the data plate to Taiwan where an exact copy of the aircraft was fabricated. This, of course, enraged Pilatus, the manufacturer, who tried suing and all manner of expressing displeasure at this blatant disregard of their patent rights.
One of his lessons was about trying to blend into the local population which was the obvious secret of the Viet Cong. Of course, this didn’t work well for us- we were all a hundred pounds heaver and a foot taller than the average Dink.
When we were given an opportunity to see if we could hide from Army trackers for practice, Immediately, I understood that the Viet Cong idea of hiding among the local locals was a great concept. All my pals went tearing ass out into local swamp to hide while I ran around them far to the east and spent two lovely days “hiding out” in the Aussie BOQ, swilling Fosters, laying on the beach and chowing down at their mess. All I had to learn was how to say was “G’day mate, how’s the warts on y’r bum?”
At the appointed hour, I wandered up to the rest of them, dry, tan, well- fed and wearing an Australian army Tee-shirt a boonie hat and sunglasses. My pals were mosquito bitten, dirty and hungry. All had been caught and spent a day being screamed at while tied up undergoing fake interrogation.
The trainers were pissed at me as were the flea bitten pilots. ‘OK, WHERE YOU HAVE BEEN!” screamed the chief trainer. “Escaping and evading, sir” I said. “just what you told us to do. I was blending in with the locals and learning to say “good on yr, mate, have another Fosters.”
I learned not to ever shoot at the bad guys. If you hit or kill one of their buddies, they will surely kill you when they catch you. Once you get away from the plane, don’t stop, split up and run, don’t try to hide close to the aircraft, run as far and as fast as you can. The biggest mistake people make is trying to hide- With fifty guys chasing your fat white ass you can’t hide- they will find you. These guys live in the jungle, they are in terrific shape and likely a lot younger than the average company pilot.
I knew where every Special Forces base in the entire rotten, snake infested, miserable country was. I knew the locations of every friendly town, hamlet, ville and of course, all the two hundred plus airports. We all knew all this and we all understood that if, or when, we went down, we could expect nothing good if we were caught. This was the principal reason that I tried very hard to get out of the Porter and intro something with two engines.
Unlike the guys who flew up north where the flying exploding telephone poles and AA stuff was everywhere, there wasn’t any of that down south. The very worst worry was having the bloody engine quit and only having one. My second engine failure in the Porter happened six or so months after the first one. This time, the engine just suddenly quit cold- immediately- like switching off a light bulb.
Anyway, it just quit cold, the prop feathered but this time, I knew I was in trouble- there were no airports within range. I called the company- again they said to stop screaming and tell them where I was. I headed back to the south and saw what looked to be a road that might work. I had a couple of helicopters near by who had heard my “may day” calls and there were some armed Army choppers on the way. The road I thought I had seen from more than two miles up turned out to be the flat top of a wide rice dyke. It may have been ten to fifteen wide and plenty long for the Porter even without reverse power.
I got it down OK and immediately four or five little guys in black PJ’s came up from the fields to say “hi.” They were working in the patty and weren’t toting AK’s, so I felt a little better. There was a gunship flying around and one of my company choppers was landing. I remember giving the coffee kit to the Vietnamese and whatever else they wanted out of the plane. I jumped on the chopper and flew back to Saigon. Later that day the local VC torched the plane and the company office poggies tried to blame me for not staying with the machine- idiots!
It turned out that the beastly French engine had a fuel control pump that had a drive shaft keyed to the engine accessory case such that if the pump sensed any resistance the drive shaft was designed to shear, thus hopefully saving the gear case or the fuel control unit (FCU) but, of course, causing the engine to immediately quit! This “safety feature” in a single engine aircraft was something of a problem, the engine survives but the plane crashes- go figure!
I remember one flight heading back to Saigon during the summer monsoons. I was at two thousand feet descending into heavy rains, trying to stay visual and not doing too well. The Porter was into some very rough air with absolutely no visibility and pounding rain. Suddenly, the pitot system failed and all the vacuum instruments went haywire. I was flying on needle and ball only. Somehow, we remained upright and busted out the north side of the storm. I never