Written by Milan Omar Georgia, Jr.
I graduated from high school in June 1966, and by November 1967, I had been drafted into the U.S. Army. My formal induction happened in February 1968, and from that point on, my life took a direction I never could have predicted.
Basic training was at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, followed by Advanced Individual Training (AIT) at Fort Gordon, Georgia. After that, I was accepted into Officer Candidate School (OCS) at Fort Benning, Georgia, and upon graduation, I was sent to helicopter flight school. That meant training at Fort Wolters, Texas, for primary flight instruction and then to Fort Rucker, Alabama, for instrument training. By the time all that was done, I was an officer and a pilot—just in time for Vietnam.
Into the Stingers
In May 1970, I arrived in Vietnam and was assigned to the 116th Assault Helicopter Company, stationed at Cu Chi. I was placed in the Stinger Gunship Platoon, which provided air support to ground forces. Our main job was to back up the 25th Infantry Division, the 11th Armored Cavalry, and the 4th Infantry Division (until they were sent home in June 1970). We also supported the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) when needed. Basically, we were their Uber—just with a lot more firepower.
Two weeks into my assignment, I was made platoon leader. I had barely gotten used to flying gunships, and suddenly, I was in charge of some of the best pilots in our company. These guys had been flying combat missions for months, even years in some cases, and they knew what they were doing. Me? Not so much.
The previous platoon leader, a senior captain, had been reassigned to special duty with the 25th Infantry Division. That left me, a fresh lieutenant, in charge of an entire gunship platoon. The reality hit fast: I didn’t know much about leading combat aviators, and I knew even less about flying in real-world combat. My only option was to shut up, listen, learn fast, and do my best to make sure nobody got killed on my watch.
First Combat—A Harsh Lesson
One of my first missions was a Search and Destroy (S&D) operation with a pilot nicknamed “Nasty Al.” We spent hours circling a small rise near a landing zone (LZ) where the 25th Infantry Division had taken fire earlier. They’d lost a couple of men but couldn’t locate the enemy sniper.
At first, we saw nothing. Just a scraggly, dead tree at the top of the rise. We circled, hovered, flew out and back—still nothing. But just as we were about to call it off, a burst of AK-47 fire rattled against our aircraft.
Our crew chief shouted, “Taking fire! They’re shooting up my bird!”
Nasty Al immediately banked away and climbed a little higher. Then he calmly said, “Bring me hot.”
That was my cue. I checked the circuit breakers, flipped the big silver switch forward, and armed the rocket pods. Two pairs of rockets fired straight into the tree—BOOM. A body tumbled out. It was a woman, an AK-47 still clutched in her hands.
I just sat there, stunned. It was the first time I had ever seen someone killed, and we had done it with 2.75-inch folding-fin aerial rockets—each carrying ten pounds of high-explosive warheads designed to tear through everything in their path.
She had been hiding up in that tree, waiting to pick off more American soldiers. If we hadn’t found her, she would have. That’s what I told myself. But that didn’t change the fact that we had just obliterated a person. It was my first hard lesson in war: the Army trains you how to kill, but it doesn’t teach you how to feel about it afterward.
Expanding the Fight
After a few months in Cu Chi, our unit was moved north to Chu Lai to support the Americal Division in preparation for their planned invasion of Laos. The mission, codenamed Lam Son 719, was meant to push the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) out of their sanctuaries in Laos.
Then, Congress stepped in and changed the rules. American forces were no longer allowed to invade any country outside of Vietnam. Instead, we were only authorized to insert and extract ARVN troops. We could drop them in and pick them up, but we weren’t allowed to fight alongside them. That restriction made an already dangerous mission even worse.
We flew into Cambodia, too, supporting U.S. and ARVN operations. The war had no borders, no clear lines, and no guarantees. Every mission was a gamble. Some guys made it home. Some didn’t.
Coming Home
I finished my tour in May 1971 and returned to the U.S., where I was assigned to Fort Bliss, Texas. I worked as an adjutant to the commanding officer in the School Brigade, and later, I had my own command at Battery A, Headquarters Command. But by 1973, President Nixon was pulling back troops through the Reduction in Force program, and I was one of those released early. My service officially ended in August 1973.
Looking back, my time in the Stinger Gunship Platoon shaped me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. The guys I flew with were some of the best helicopter pilots in the war, and I owe my survival to them. I only wish all of them had made it back home.
Some people call Vietnam a “conflict” or a “police action.” Those of us who were there know better. It was a war. A brutal, no-holds-barred war that took more than 58,000 of the best people of my generation. We were the sons and daughters of the Greatest Generation, and we wanted to win.
A select few of us were Stingers.
