yotanka
12 November 2002, 12:08
http://www.heraldnet.com/Stories/02/11/11/16073705.cfm
Vietnam through the gunsights
By Brian Kelly
For about 12 months, he saw Vietnam from the door of helicopter gunship, staring over the sights of a machine gun.
But Rodney G. Chelius, Jr. was a sailor, not a soldier. And later this week, Chelius will be honored for his time away from the water.
The 53-year-old Lynnwood man will be inducted into the Enlisted Combat Aircrew Roll of Honor aboard the USS Yorktown at Patriots Point Naval and Maritime Museum in South Carolina. He's being honored for his tour in the "Seawolves," Helicopter Attack (Light) Squadron 3.
Squadron 3 has the reputation of being the most decorated in Naval history. Its men were awarded more than 16,000 Air Medals in Vietnam, more than 150 Purple Hearts and about 100 Bronze Stars, as well as a half-dozen Presidential Unit citations and other awards.
Chelius was nominated for induction into the honor roll for his heroism and bravery while flying 305 combat missions in Vietnam and Cambodia in 1971 and 1972. He received 11 Air Medals, a Navy Commendation Medal, the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry and other awards for his actions as a door gunner in a Bell UH-1 helicopter, the "Huey" that's become an icon of the conflict.
When Chelius tells people of his Navy tour of duty in Vietnam, though, many assume he served on an aircraft carrier or destroyer. Almost all are surprised to learn that the Navy had helicopter squadrons in the war doing many of the same things as the Army units portrayed in Hollywood movies.
They were there, in large part, because the Navy needed protection for its patrol boats in the Mekong River Delta, a system of more than 2,500 miles of streams, rivers and canals.
Chelius went into the Navy in February 1969. After he was sent to Japan as an ordnanceman, he volunteered for duty in Vietnam, and volunteered for the "Seawolves," Detachment 5.
He was 22 when he arrived in Vietnam, and the welcome came quickly.
Chelius was on the receiving end of a rocket attack before someone from his detachment came to pick him up his flight from Can Tho. On the 20-minute truck ride back to Binh Thuy, the duty driver told the new arrival about his last helicopter ride. A bullet drilled his flight helmet, passed through and hit the visor, then ricocheted out.
That's when, the driver said, he didn't want to fly anymore.
"I'm thinking to myself, 'What did I get myself into?'" Chelius recalled.
The swagger, the "I'll-be-a-hero" attitude, quickly disappeared.
"You get that tingling feeling, and your John Wayne's leaving you rapidly," he said. The detachment's duties covered the gamut from search-and-destroy to impromptu medical evacuation missions. Most were flown at night.
One of the missions in Chelius' roll-of-honor nomination recalled a low-level attack strike on a moonless night in January 1972. An outpost on the Cambodia-South Vietnam border was under a rocket and mortar attack by Viet Cong and North Vietnamese soldiers. Chelius was in the trailing helicopter of two Hueys sent to help.
After raking the enemy with his M60 machine gun, Chelius' helicopter was hit by a hail of enemy fire.
Ignoring a restriction against making medical evacuations, the aircraft landed in the thick of the fight to pick up several wounded soldiers. Chelius jumped out, firing to keep the enemy at bay while the wounded were loaded.
Once they were inside, he kept shooting, standing on one of the helicopter's skids as the Huey took off. He then ducked back in to help treat the wounded.
It was war, but there are many memories that make him laugh now. Stupid mistakes, like grabbing the rope that held the enemy flag at a conquered bunker (it set off a grenade). And practical jokes, like the time someone put a pet monkey's name and phony Social Security number on an awards list, and visiting brass called out "David C. Monk" for a front-and-center pinning ceremony. (The monkey, wearing a miniature green uniform and beret, was trotted out by one of the flight crewmen, Chelius said. After one of the officers bent down and pinned wings on the monkey, David C. bit his hand.)
Chelius comes from a uniform family. His father was a Navy tail gunner in World War II and had a later career overseas for the Army as a civilian, and Chelius' son now serves in the Marines.
While Chelius made it through his one-year tour in Vietnam relatively unscathed, his life changed while he was in Hawaii waiting for his flight home. He was hit while riding his motorcycle by a drunken duty truck driver, and Chelius recalled his doctor telling him he had 213 fractures. The accident left him disabled, and he left the Navy in the early 1980s.
Today, he's happy that his nomination for the aircrew roll of honor gives him a chance to help the Seawolves Association find former veterans from the squadron.
The association has had trouble finding former Seawolves, because the records of their fellow servicemen are classified because of the secrecy of their missions. Mostly hit-and-miss phone calls, word of mouth and the Internet have reunited about 670 of the 3,000 or so former squadron members since Vietnam.
The nomination itself is an honor, Chelius said, but he defers credit to those who served before him in Korea and World War II.
"I'm really honored to be in with a bunch of guys like that. It's like being around my heroes," he said, adding that last November was the first time that a "Seawolf" had been inducted.
Vietnam through the gunsights
By Brian Kelly
For about 12 months, he saw Vietnam from the door of helicopter gunship, staring over the sights of a machine gun.
But Rodney G. Chelius, Jr. was a sailor, not a soldier. And later this week, Chelius will be honored for his time away from the water.
The 53-year-old Lynnwood man will be inducted into the Enlisted Combat Aircrew Roll of Honor aboard the USS Yorktown at Patriots Point Naval and Maritime Museum in South Carolina. He's being honored for his tour in the "Seawolves," Helicopter Attack (Light) Squadron 3.
Squadron 3 has the reputation of being the most decorated in Naval history. Its men were awarded more than 16,000 Air Medals in Vietnam, more than 150 Purple Hearts and about 100 Bronze Stars, as well as a half-dozen Presidential Unit citations and other awards.
Chelius was nominated for induction into the honor roll for his heroism and bravery while flying 305 combat missions in Vietnam and Cambodia in 1971 and 1972. He received 11 Air Medals, a Navy Commendation Medal, the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry and other awards for his actions as a door gunner in a Bell UH-1 helicopter, the "Huey" that's become an icon of the conflict.
When Chelius tells people of his Navy tour of duty in Vietnam, though, many assume he served on an aircraft carrier or destroyer. Almost all are surprised to learn that the Navy had helicopter squadrons in the war doing many of the same things as the Army units portrayed in Hollywood movies.
They were there, in large part, because the Navy needed protection for its patrol boats in the Mekong River Delta, a system of more than 2,500 miles of streams, rivers and canals.
Chelius went into the Navy in February 1969. After he was sent to Japan as an ordnanceman, he volunteered for duty in Vietnam, and volunteered for the "Seawolves," Detachment 5.
He was 22 when he arrived in Vietnam, and the welcome came quickly.
Chelius was on the receiving end of a rocket attack before someone from his detachment came to pick him up his flight from Can Tho. On the 20-minute truck ride back to Binh Thuy, the duty driver told the new arrival about his last helicopter ride. A bullet drilled his flight helmet, passed through and hit the visor, then ricocheted out.
That's when, the driver said, he didn't want to fly anymore.
"I'm thinking to myself, 'What did I get myself into?'" Chelius recalled.
The swagger, the "I'll-be-a-hero" attitude, quickly disappeared.
"You get that tingling feeling, and your John Wayne's leaving you rapidly," he said. The detachment's duties covered the gamut from search-and-destroy to impromptu medical evacuation missions. Most were flown at night.
One of the missions in Chelius' roll-of-honor nomination recalled a low-level attack strike on a moonless night in January 1972. An outpost on the Cambodia-South Vietnam border was under a rocket and mortar attack by Viet Cong and North Vietnamese soldiers. Chelius was in the trailing helicopter of two Hueys sent to help.
After raking the enemy with his M60 machine gun, Chelius' helicopter was hit by a hail of enemy fire.
Ignoring a restriction against making medical evacuations, the aircraft landed in the thick of the fight to pick up several wounded soldiers. Chelius jumped out, firing to keep the enemy at bay while the wounded were loaded.
Once they were inside, he kept shooting, standing on one of the helicopter's skids as the Huey took off. He then ducked back in to help treat the wounded.
It was war, but there are many memories that make him laugh now. Stupid mistakes, like grabbing the rope that held the enemy flag at a conquered bunker (it set off a grenade). And practical jokes, like the time someone put a pet monkey's name and phony Social Security number on an awards list, and visiting brass called out "David C. Monk" for a front-and-center pinning ceremony. (The monkey, wearing a miniature green uniform and beret, was trotted out by one of the flight crewmen, Chelius said. After one of the officers bent down and pinned wings on the monkey, David C. bit his hand.)
Chelius comes from a uniform family. His father was a Navy tail gunner in World War II and had a later career overseas for the Army as a civilian, and Chelius' son now serves in the Marines.
While Chelius made it through his one-year tour in Vietnam relatively unscathed, his life changed while he was in Hawaii waiting for his flight home. He was hit while riding his motorcycle by a drunken duty truck driver, and Chelius recalled his doctor telling him he had 213 fractures. The accident left him disabled, and he left the Navy in the early 1980s.
Today, he's happy that his nomination for the aircrew roll of honor gives him a chance to help the Seawolves Association find former veterans from the squadron.
The association has had trouble finding former Seawolves, because the records of their fellow servicemen are classified because of the secrecy of their missions. Mostly hit-and-miss phone calls, word of mouth and the Internet have reunited about 670 of the 3,000 or so former squadron members since Vietnam.
The nomination itself is an honor, Chelius said, but he defers credit to those who served before him in Korea and World War II.
"I'm really honored to be in with a bunch of guys like that. It's like being around my heroes," he said, adding that last November was the first time that a "Seawolf" had been inducted.