Paul Marchesseault – The Flying Battery Commander – Part One

The Boys of Battery B

Paul Marchesseault

Captain Paul relaxing during a pre-flight inspection

There is no better introduction to Captain Paul Marchesseault than the following quote from his own account, posted on the web as Paul’s Story, and available in its entirety at www.vietvet.org/visit/maps/paulstory.htm .

I was an aerial observer in L-19s and H-13s in Vietnam from October, 1966 – September, 1967. I flew a total of 104 missions out of Tuy Hoa (north & south fields), Song Cau, and Qui Nhon. I still have my folded 1:250,000 Joint Ops Graphic sections dated 1965 covering the coast from Nha Trang north to the Phu Cat airstrip a few miles northwest of Qui Nhon.

On these maps you will see some hand written notations. Our maps at the time did not always reflect reality … as on Map 00 and Map 02 where the red pencil line that I had to draw in myself indicates the true route of Highway 1 along the coast. … Other notations of mine include blue ink spots which represent either runways or artillery positions.

Paul has over 2000 photos, his own and from the collections of his Vietnam buddies. Add to this an impressive memory for detail, and Paul is a treasure trove of historical information. In preparation for our phone conversation he sent me a list of his stories, each with a tantalizing title.

 

Running out of Gas in Mid Air … Twice!

I had two jobs in Vietnam. For the first three months I was battalion Liaison Officer tasked with keeping our headquarters informed of the actions of the 101st Airborne Brigade, the Korean Capital “CAP ROK” Division, the 47th ARVN Regiment, and some Special Forces teams operating in our area. Following that I spent seven months as commanding officer of B Battery, 5th Battalion, 27th Artillery.

Told the Liaison Officer had the secondary duty of aerial observer, I learned I was going to fly several times a week registering artillery, conducting airborne fire missions, and performing visual reconnaissance (which we referred to as trolling for Charlies.) I had only been in a light plane once before – on a date with my first wife – and had enjoyed it, so I looked forward to this part of the job. Little did I know that the hazards of flying would bother me for the rest of my life. I still wake up in the middle of the night dreaming I’m about to crash, get shot down, or be expected to land a plane by myself.

My first sobering moment came on my very first flight. The pilot was intent on teaching this aerial novice Piloting 101. He took us up to 5000 feet and proceeded to train me how to fly the plane from the back seat with just a joy stick and trim tabs. You have no instruments whatsoever. I practiced level flight, climbs, dives, and eventually graduated to stalls and spins before he declared me ready to be his GIB (guy in the back seat). This picture gives you some idea of the back seater’s view:

My view from behind the pilot

Over 95 percent of my flights were in a tiny, single engine plane, designated the L-19 by the Army, but affectionately known as the Bird Dog. Usually a flight began as a registration mission of a howitzer battery (105s, 155s, 175s, or 8-inch) but quite often we’d receive a fire mission in midair. The pilot would fly to the target area and dive low enough to see exactly where the friendlies were and pray no one on the other side was taking aim at us. Then you’d climb to about 800 feet and tell the battery to start shooting. When it was all over you’d drop back down to almost ground level to check the results for an after action report. When you’re tooling around a hundred feet off the ground, it’s frightening as hell. Years later I asked one of my regular pilots, a guy named Jim Stanley, if he knew we were ever shot at. He said “yeah.” On one of his ground inspections after a mission his crew chief pointed out a bullet hole in his wing, just inboard of one of the wing mounted rockets.

Paul getting into his L-19 Bird Dog

One of my most exciting flights occurred on November 23, 1966. During a registration mission we heard a “May Day” call from another Bird Dog that had just crashed in the Central Highlands northwest of Tuy Hoa. On board were the Pilot, CPT Disbrow and his back seater, 1LT Whiteside. There is an X on my map (Map 02 ) that marks the spot. I had met both men through my liaison role, but did not know either of them personally. My pilot notified crash rescue at Tuy Hoa south field and before long an HH-43 “Huskie” helicopter arrived to pull these guys out of the jungle. I talked with the chopper pilot after the mission and he told me he had let out nearly 80 feet of cable but never once saw the men on the ground during the extraction.

Below is an excerpt from Vietnam Air Losses describing the event. This book contains a detailed review of all the fixed wing losses suffered by the USAF, USN and USMC over a 12-year period. It documents over 575 Bird Dog losses. The O-1 is the Air Force version of the L-19 Army Bird Dog.

23 November 1966 … An O-1 flew a visual reconnaissance mission in support of the 101st Airborne Division over hilly terrain 30 miles southwest of Qui Nhon. The aircraft was hit by ground fire and crashed a few minutes later. Both crew were subsequently rescued by a USAF helicopter… Capt D.E. Disbrow (survived), 1Lt. Whiteside (survived).

Unfortunately my pilot had stayed in the area throughout the rescue and was now dangerously low on fuel. So instead of returning to our base at Tuy Hoa south, he diverted to Tuy Hoa north hoping to get back on the ground before we ran out of gas. Sure enough, the engine quit as he banked onto final approach. I remember thinking, Oh Jesus, we’re not gunna make it. We’re out of gas. That prop was straight up! I held my breath until our plane rolled to a stop. The next thing I recall is that we had to climb out and push it off the runway, because there was a C-123 coming in right behind us.

This type of thing had happened once before. Jim Stanley admitted to me in an email that he wasn’t aware of his fuel situation at all times. Once we were 25 miles away from base out over the Central Highlands looking for targets when the engine quit. Everything was quiet all of a sudden. You have no idea how quiet an L-19 can be when the prop stops. The plane is mostly engine, and the rest seems like a giant vibrator; it’s a very noisy aircraft. All of a sudden you’re not hearing nor feeling anything. You’re a glider above a hostile jungle with who knows what waiting below.

What had happened, he had his fuel tanks on manual. There was a left tank and a right tank in the wings. He ran his left tank dry and hadn’t switched tanks. It scared the hell out of me. Not only me, I believe it scared the hell out of him, too! We were probably a good 30 seconds just floating leisurely toward the ground while he attempted to restart the engine. He finally realized the switch setting and got the damn thing started again, and we landed safely.

Here’s an excerpt from the email I received from Jim after I asked him if he recalled running out of gas twice with me on board:

I do remember a bad habit of not watching fuel. An observer was flying with me on two occasions that are memorable. We were flying South just west of Tuy Hoa about 50 or 100 feet over the jungle canopy. About the time we got to the River valley and the terrain began to slope down toward the river, the nose got heavy and the prop stopped straight up and down. I had run one of the fuel tanks bone dry and the engine quit. Managed to get the engine restarted before we got to the ground. Another time, same observer, we were landing at Tuy Hoa North. The old D models we were flying were a little heavy so we usually landed with a little power to soften the landing. Don’t remember which happened first, but just shortly before touchdown I realized I had full throttle and nothing was happening and, again, the prop stopped. The landing and rollout went OK. After that, when we flew together, I had very good assistance with fuel management. I often wondered how I would have effectively explained either of those situations to an accident investigation board.

I breathed a big sigh of relief when told I would be replacing Ernie Dublisky as commanding officer of B Battery effective December 11, 1966. I wrote in one of my letters home, “Man, I’m glad I am finally done with this flying stuff.” I’d get anxious over it. The shoot-down of that airplane on the 23rd of November stuck in my mind. I was glad to be away from flying.

It wasn’t more than a week or two after I took over the battery I was told by Colonel Munnelly, “Hey, we have a shortage of people that know how adjust artillery from the air, so you’re going to have to continue doing it as a sideline.” So I did it from then on until the week I left, flying two or three times a week.

Just before the Christmas truce in 1966 the entire battery was airlifted by Chinook helicopters in to the village of Song Cau. Less than a week after we arrived, an Air Force Bird Dog crashed 600 yards from our battery position. This is one of several pictures I took of the crash site.

 

Air Force O-1 Bird Dog crash

I had to take off and land over this scene for several weeks until the wreckage could be removed. But would you believe it? The two guys in this plane had walked away from the crash! They were extremely lucky, or maybe not so lucky. A gust of wind had blown their plane towards the water’s edge during landing. It was high tide at the time and they dipped a wheel into the water causing them to flip upside down. The aircraft was ripped apart but the crew had survived.

Here’s what “ Vietnam Air Losses ” says about this incident: 

0-1 s/n 51-11955 from Nha Trang crashed 30 Dec 1966. No casualties. Ruled pilot error.

My life as Battery Commander was far less exciting. Fortunately I had the battery during a relatively quiet time. Though the battery had been mortared numerous times before I took command, and many more times after I left, it didn’t happen once during my entire time in command.