The relationship between Marine helicopter crews and infantry in Vietnam was forged in the crucible of combat, creating an unshakeable bond that defined the war. The “grunts” on the ground and the “aircrew” above developed a symbiotic relationship that went far beyond mere military necessity, it was a brotherhood built on mutual trust and respect.
Helicopter crews, along with their fixed-wing O-1 “Bird Dog” brothers, formed the critical air support network that became the lifeline for infantry units in the field. The UH-34 “Seahorse” (nicknamed “Dog” by the crews) served as the workhorse in the early years, while the UH-1 “Huey” became the versatile backbone for utility missions. The fearsome AH-1G/J Cobra “Snake” provided vital close air support and convoy escort, while the CH-46 “Sea Knight” (affectionately known as the “Phrog”) and the powerful CH-53 “Sea Stallion” handled the heavy lifting of troops and cargo.
These aircraft delivered supplies, ammunition, and reinforcements to remote landing zones (LZs) often under intense enemy fire. The Bird Dog pilots flew dangerously low to spot enemy positions and direct both helicopter gunships and fixed-wing aircraft onto targets threatening the Marines below. More critically, they evacuated the wounded during desperate medevac missions, with crews pushing their aircraft to the limit to save their fellow Marines. The sight of a medevac Huey or Sea Knight inbound, often escorted by Cobras, meant hope for wounded Marines awaiting extraction.
If I live to be a hundred years old, I will never forget how the helicopter crew personnel on various choppers “saved my butt” on many occasions during my tour of duty in Vietnam.
~Loyde P. “Snake” Arender
The infantry understood the risks these aircrews took. They witnessed helicopters taking heavy fire while hovering over hot LZs, pilots maintaining position despite wounded crew members and damaged aircraft. The distinctive whop-whop of approaching helicopters became music to the grunts’ ears, it meant support was coming, whether in the form of supplies, reinforcements, or extraction from dangerous situations. The UH-34s, despite being older aircraft, earned particular respect for their reliability and their crews’ willingness to fly into the hottest landing zones. Later, the Hueys and Phrogs continued this tradition of dedication.
For their part, the aircrew members developed immense respect for the infantry they supported. They saw firsthand the brutal conditions the grunts endured, trudging through deep jungle, rice paddies, and mountainous terrain while carrying heavy loads and engaging in fierce firefights. Flying over the dense canopy of Vietnam’s jungles, crews could spot the signs of recent firefights, seeing their Marine brothers below engaging the enemy in close combat. The pilots and crew chiefs often went above and beyond official protocols to support their ground-side brothers, knowing that their actions could mean the difference between life and death.
To all those pilots, helicopters crews, there are no words to explain how we felt on the ground! I served with 1st Recon Bn. 1970-71. More than once did helicopters and gun ships come to our rescue! Being surrounded about to be over run, you guys were like the hand of God. On June 14,1970 our Recon team had walked into an ambush, and it was bad! Real bad! No where to run. We had dead NVA all over. 3 of us were wounded, I was out of ammo. I thought it was all over. We had 2 cobras circling us, when all of a sudden a 46 tries to land, about 50 ft away from us. We tried to make it but by the time we got there the 46 had taken several hit and had to take off. Now I’m thinking about pulling the pin on my last frag and just lay on it. I know that sounds crazy but I wasn’t gonna let them take me alive. 3 machine guns had us pinned down. Just about that time that 46 tries another attempt to pick us up. His nose was hanging over a river but he set his tail down and we all scrambled on. It was a miracle that we got out. If it hadn’t been for all those pilots and crews I wouldn’t be here. All I can say is THANKS with all my heart. You guys looked like angles from heaven to us on the ground!
~Robert Grace
The Marines’ integrated air-ground team became particularly evident during major operations. Bird Dog pilots would circle overhead, spotting enemy movements and calling in air strikes. Cobra gunships would swoop in low, their 20mm cannons and rocket pods suppressing enemy positions. CH-46s and CH-53s would then deliver fresh troops and supplies, while Hueys provided command and control or medical evacuation. Each aircraft played its crucial role in supporting the Marines on the ground.
This mutual respect manifested in countless ways. Infantry units would risk everything to secure LZs for incoming helicopters, often drawing enemy fire to themselves to protect the vulnerable aircraft during landing and takeoff. Aircrew would brave the worst weather and heaviest fire to extract pinned-down units. Stories abound of helicopter crews returning to hot LZs multiple times until every Marine was extracted, regardless of their own aircraft’s battle damage. The Bird Dog pilots would stay on station until they were literally running on fumes, ensuring their brothers below had the aerial coverage they needed.
I wanted to let you guys know I would not be here now if not for you. I never knew your names but I rode the ladder and SPIE rig to have my butt extracted out of the jungles of An Hoa and DaNang with the 1st Force Recon Co. in 68 and 69. (Musk Ox or Paddle Boat)
Semper Fi, Bob Stockham, Radio operator 1st Force, 5th Platoon 68-69, RVN
The development of close air support tactics during this period reflected this partnership. Helicopter gunships would work in close coordination with ground units, with infantry helping to mark targets and provide guidance. The effectiveness of these combined operations proved decisive in many engagements. The Cobra gunships, in particular, became renowned for their ability to place accurate fire danger-close to Marine positions when needed.
Perhaps most poignantly, this relationship was cemented during medical evacuations. Medevac crews would often land under the heaviest fire, knowing wounded Marines needed immediate extraction. The grunts would fight desperately to protect these helicopters during loading, while crews worked feverishly to stabilize casualties in flight. Corpsmen aboard the medical evacuation helicopters became experts at providing care while in flight, often working in darkness and turbulence to keep their patients alive.
Today, Marine veterans from both communities still speak with deep emotion about this relationship. Infantrymen remember specific helicopter crews who saved their units in desperate situations. Aircrew members recall the faces of grunts they extracted from battle, or the units they supported mission after mission. This mutual respect and understanding between Marine aviation and infantry continues to influence Marine Corps doctrine and culture today, representing one of the enduring legacies of the Vietnam War.
The bond between Marine air and ground forces in Vietnam exemplified the Corps’ motto of “Semper Fidelis” – Always Faithful. Whether in the air or on the ground, they remained faithful to each other, demonstrating extraordinary courage, sacrifice, and dedication in some of the war’s most challenging conditions.
For every story told about Marine aircrew and infantry bonds in Vietnam, thousands more remain forever untold, living only in the memories of those who served. Some tales were never shared because those involved gave their last full measure of devotion. Others remain locked away in the hearts of veterans, too personal or painful to express. The aircrew members who flew mission after mission, the door gunners who provided covering fire during hot extractions, the crew chiefs who helped pull wounded Marines aboard while under fire, and the grunts who fought their way through hell below, they all carried out their duties with extraordinary courage and dedication. For Marine aircrew, there was a saying that captured their dedication to their ground-side brothers: “The best medal is a live man’s smile.” No medal, citation, or commendation could match the profound satisfaction of seeing their fellow Marines survive another day because of their efforts in the air. This simple truth epitomizes the deep bond between Marine air and ground forces, a bond that transcends time, rank, and military occupational specialty.
Those infantry Marines who show disdain for their “POG” (Personnel Other than Grunts) brothers, particularly aircrew, have likely never experienced a combat situation where Marine air personnel pulled them out of a shit sandwich. Ask any grunt who’s been in heavy combat about the aircrew who evacuated their wounded, brought them ammunition when they were running low, or provided gun support when they were in danger of being overrun, they’ll tell you there’s nothing sweeter than the sound of those rotor blades coming to their rescue. In combat, the distinction between POG and grunt fades away, replaced by the reality that every Marine, regardless of their MOS, plays a crucial role in the mission and the survival of their fellow Marines.
Semper Fi
I took early retirement in 2009. Having free time to clear my head, I started to write down memories of experiences from my Vietnam tour in 1966-67. I was 18+19 years old then and considered myself an “everyman” Marine. This seems to be the place to share a Vietnam story.
I had the 81mm mortar 0341 MOS from ITR at Camp Geiger. In Dec. 1965, when I joined 3/5 staging at Camp Pendleton, I was an extra man in the mortar platoon, so I became one of the platoon’s mule/jeep drivers. In Vietnam on our numerous combat operations (when in the field and there was nothing to drive) I was the rear guard and/or accompanied the platoon Lieutenant when need be. When we were stationary, I was, usually, an outpost guard.
During one of those search and destroy operations, we were made aware of possible “friendlies” in the area, and had stopped outside one remote village, that looked deserted, awaiting orders to enter.
There was some sort of back-and-forth discussion between the ARVN interpreters and our USMC decision makers about this location. Their consultation was providing the rest of us with some of that “spread out, one round will get you all” and “if you got ’em, smoke ’em” down time.
It had been a day or so since we‘d seen any action. I was at end of our staggered group, and was casually observing, with my M-14, an approximate 180 degrees sweep from the village to the rice paddies and back again. How everyone had situated themselves placed some of the men between the village and me. I noticed some movement at ground level in front of one of the huts, first a head appeared, then shoulders, and finally a rifle. This Viet Cong was taking aim at our radio man and the only shot I had at him was directly through and between some of the standing Marines. Being that my line of fire was closest to the radioman, I said, “Ski, do not move” as I squeezed off the round. For a split second the AK-47 looked suspended in mid-air as the VC’s body slammed back and fell into the spider hole. Not having any gun fire until that time, all eyes went to the direction of my shot. Ski just turned to me and said “He wasn‘t one of the friendlies” as everyone became aware that the village was not deserted.
Andy Syor
I was with BLT 3/5 aboard LPH-5 USS Princeton Spring/Summer 1966, During our numerous Search and Destroy Operations, the UH-34 crews dropping us at the initial LZ, moving us to other locations, resupplying us with water, ammo. and c-rations were always precise and coordinated. One particular event is etched in my memory.
The final helicopter was dropping down through the jungle and into our LZ’s small clearing. I was to be the last one onboard, and was walking backwards, toward the copter, from the perimeter, while exchanging fire with a group of hidden Viet Cong. Incoming automatic rounds had produced a straight line of bullet holes near the hatch running up toward the Door Gunner, who with his M-60, was also firing at the VC. Suddenly and simultaneously, the UH-34 was ascending, I was being pulled up and inside by my pack and the back of my utility belt, and a pair of hands were wrestling my M-14 away from me to make sure the safety was put on. Instinctively grabbing for my rifle, I saw that the hands belonged to my stern-faced lieutenant, who handed it back to me.
HMM-361 yep! The squadron of the helicopter that sits in the main rotunda of the Marine Corps Museum in DC kept two birds flying 24 hours a day strictly for Med Evacs in country. But we weren’t the only squadron doing that back in the day. It was voluntary for all the crews involved. The crews inside the “belly of the breast.” We’d fly missions all day long, most starting before day break or just at dawn. Return to base and sign up for Med Evac. Or sign up at night for the morning watch. Each shift was 12 hours long. At night we’d sleep on the plane or on makeshift cots somewhere around the ready room. There were “ice cream” runs when the LZ were lit up and friendly at worse. But the other side of the coin was tremendous hell. And everyone was worth it to the crews. Why? Because if it was us, we’d also want someone to risk it all and help us. Several years ago during a squadron party in DC, some went to the visit the Arlington’s Unknown Soldier, but five of us want to go to the Wall. We were all in our mid to late 60s then. Sadly looking at that wall before us, we were silent. “So many died.” was murmured. The one said. “But think of the many thousands we got to get out of combat and live today!” That said it all. For all the bloody hands held up for comfort, the broken bodies, the compression bandages soaked, the close calls, we were all Marines who cared for our brothers. And, we’d do it all over again! Simper Fi brothers! The Falcon YN-22
I was a 46 crew Chief ‘67-‘68 HMM 364. Been there done that. Today’s grunts have no clue. They think they are the only Marines and everyone else is a POG (people other than grunts). If it wasn’t for POGS the grunts wouldn’t exist.
My late husband, George Olin, was a 46 pilot in country in 68-69. I’ve heard him tell Robert Grace’s story from his side, of hovering his aircraft with the rear end touching the edge of a cliff so the Marines could be airlifted out. Maybe he was Mr. Grace’s pilot that day. He didn’t always fly rescue missions, sometimes he got to spray Agent Orange. George died from the effects of Agent Orange exposure in 2018.