The choppers are on their way, and should be above Delta HQ within minutes.

But where the f— are they?

The smoke grenade had been thrown, but of the choppers, no sign!

But wait!

What is that now?

It starts as a distant drum-beat, getting ever close, and builds to that unmistakable staccato churning, loud enough to even be heard over the incessant blasts of the battle itself.

It’s the sound of a chopper and it’s getting close!

As the Hueys bear no lights – bar their red strobe lights on top, only visible to those in aircraft above them – and it is getting dark, the chopper is difficult to see immediately. But within a minute all eyes of Delta Company HQ not currently staring down the sights at the enemy briefly turn skywards to see through the shattered canopy of the rubber trees the unmistakable hulking silhouette of a chopper, some 200 yards to the west, and hovering high . . . uncertainly.

For as soon becomes apparent, those in the helicopter cannot see them!

Weary Delta Company members having a hasty rations meal before returning to the battle area.Credit:AWM

Where the f— are they?

Up in the lead chopper, the pilots and crew strain their eyes, looking for a sign of where Delta Company HQ can be found. Yes, there is clearly a battle going on, as witness the criss-crossing of tracer bullets, glimpses of the awful aftermath of artillery cratered beneath them, but to narrow their position down to the precise point they will need before dropping their load right now looks to be impossible.

Bob Grandin’s heart sinks, even as he makes a conscious effort to suck himself into his armour-plated seat so that his penis and testicles are not exposed, on the reckoning that might give them a tiny bit more protection against the bullets that are surely about to come crashing into their chopper from below once they properly descend.

He had always known this was going to be a dangerous mission – and had bloody well told Frank it would be like this! – but, fair dinkum, this is just ridiculous. They are a slow-moving target, visible to VC surely, a giant whirling bird, slow and exposed.

Exposed! They make Lady Godiva look modest. They aren’t tempting fate, they are taunting it.

For his part, Flight Lieutenant Frank Riley barely blinks. He is a picture of concentration, focusing every fibre of his being on trying to find them.

Their one hope is that, somewhere below, Delta Company HQ will see them and follow through on the promised plan, smoke grenades.

“Nine-four, throw smoke,” Grandin radios.

“Roger. Smoke thrown,” comes the crackling reply, from a Delta Company just holding on as the enemy masses to attack once more, now that the Nui Dat artillery is no longer tearing them apart.

Lt Dave Sabben inspecting his damaged Armalite rifle after the Battle of Long Tan.Credit:AWM

And now it is those at Delta Company HQ who are confused, as the choppers have gone right over them, despite them having thrown red smoke grenades.

Lance Corporal Graham Smith, the Delta Company HQ signaller, barks into the radio: “Smoke thrown. Over.”

It is Flight Lieutenant Bob Grandin in the lead chopper who replies: “Roger that. I see orange smoke.”

Smith can’t believe it, and immediately barks back.

“No! No! Wrong! Wrong! Look for bloody red smoke! That is us!”

Frank Riley wheels around again, his eyes scanning for some sign of where the besieged Delta Company is.

Harry Smith has the red smoke grenades thrown again.

Pushing his joy-stick over, Frank Riley is able to bank the chopper and wheel it to the south, before returning to give it another go. Barely daring to breathe, Bob Grandin is convinced that they must shortly be hit by a furious fusillade of bullets from the VC. Still, Frank brings her back in for another go, until they are approximately over the mark.

“Nine-four, throw smoke,” Grandin radios again.

“Smoke thrown.”

“I see red!”

Gold. Gold. Gold.

Flight Lieutenants Riley and Grandin see it first.

Initially it is just a wisp of red against the billowing green, but now it looks like torn crimson ribbons stretching up and over the canopy.

They head back west to guide the others to the spot.

As planned, Riley and Grandin strain for every foot of altitude they can get – about 1000 feet – so they can guide Cliffy Dohle and Bruce Lane’s chopper through this downpour, calling out instructions as they go. The key is to get the second Huey in and out in a flash, even as Hughie himself sends ‘er down so fast and thick the chopper blades are like giant windscreen wipers, beating a momentary clearing in the sky.

“Albatross two, come forward!” Bob Grandin calls over the radio.

And Cliffy no doubt has done exactly that, they just can’t see him in the murk. Well, Bob and Frank found their way here via red smoke, so maybe a little more red might do the trick?

“Turn on your anti-collision light,” says Frank Riley.

And there it is! Down below they can now clearly see a rotating little red light coming from the top of the chopper, but invisible to the VC below! Bloody hell, Cliffy’s right there! Bring him in!

“Maintain heading.”

“A little to your right . . .”

(It is amazing how many thoughts can race through your mind in a few seconds, but one keeps revolving in Bob Grandin’s head. They are carrying a huge amount of ammo, right? And they are currently circling within easy range of any VC rifle, right? So, if one well-placed bullet goes into the chopper and hits the huge amount of ammo, aren’t they really a huge flying bomb? Round and round it goes: what the hell are they doing here? They have to be here or the men on the ground are as good as dead. But if one bullet from one of the enemy hits the right spot then . . . What the hell are we doing here?)

Frank continues giving Cliffy directions.

“Turn left . . . roll out now . . .” he intones. “Coming up . . . overtop . . . drop now.”

“Can you see it?”

“We can see it!”

“Nine-four, prepare for first drop,” Grandin yells into his comms.

Just below, Delta Company HQ is suddenly engulfed by the massive backwash of air as the chopper’s rotors blow off hats and knock over the remnants of rubber trees.

Everyone stand clear!

In the moment, Frank Riley calls: “Roll now!” and watches as Dohle’s chopper rolls on its side like a well-trained pooch, giving the chopper the sloping floor they need. In Dohle’s chopper, those in the back don’t have to bend their backs and heeaaavvve, as the angle and gravity does the work for them and a swift kick of a boot does the trick as the ammo boxes fall out the side, joining the rain itself in a downpour of destruction. Done! And in a moment – pulling off what the pilots refer to as a “split arse turn”, yanking the joystick to the right even as he kicks the pedal, to rotate the chopper 180 degrees under the rotor – Cliffy’s chopper has vanished west into the rain.

Frank Riley dives from on high towards the spot Cliff just left, they roll onto their side, and crewmen ‘Bluey’ Collins and George Stirling, together with the two 6RAR men, George Chinn and Owen O’Brien, start furiously kicking their own boxes to get them tumbling out the open door . . . tip, kick, the ammo falls out; as if it is one motion; as though it were careful choreography not chaotic combat.

And DROP . . . And DROP . . . And DROP . . .

The boxes vanish into the canopy as the chopper – released from the terrible weight – surges upwards. Frank flicks the joystick to take them west to Nui Dat, even as they hear the three sweet words through the crackling radio: “Beauty! Right on!”

Riley grins and replies, “All part of the service!” It is not quite that they are home and hosed, but they are certainly wet all right. All they have to do now is get through this storm – the nearly overpowering rain from above, the fire from below and the pounding in their chests – high-tail it back to base without getting shot down, and then fill out the forms to apply to the Vatican to have it declared an official miracle.

This is an edited extract from Peter FitzSimons’ book The Battle of Long Tan published by Hachette Australia on October 26

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