Medal of Honor

by Matt Jackson

  “Sir, if I may explain,” Fender jumped in.

  “Mr. Fender, you will have an opportunity to explain yourself. Right now I want to hear from them.” He looked back at Kelly and Dorsey. “Well?”

  “Sir, I was honestly looking along the tree line and didn’t notice a tree in the PZ on our approach. I was more concerned about taking fire and getting out of there than any trees in the PZ. I scanned the PZ and didn’t see any, so I was concentrating on the tree line,” Kelly responded.

  Major Adams refocused his eyes on Dorsey. Without waiting, Don started talking. “Sir, I was scanning the PZ on the approach, and once we were on the ground, I was looking at the tree line also and getting the downed crew out and back on our aircraft. As we started coming out, I didn’t notice a tree on our flight path as I was in the cargo bay getting a first aid dressing on the Vietnamese copilot,” he explained.

  “So what I’m hearing is no one saw a tree but you had a blade strike. Am I understanding this right?” Major Adams asked with a bit of frustration. “Mr. Fender, did you see a tree?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mr. Reid, did you see a tree?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So if no one saw a tree, why did you report a blade strike?” the major asked everyone.

  “Well, sir, we heard what sounded like a strike, so I thought it best to report it right away and have Maintenance check it out when we got back.”

  “All right, this has been reported as a tree strike to Battalion. There have been enough tree strikes in Battalion as it is, and people are getting killed because of it. No more. Mr. Fender, this is your third reported blade strike since I’ve been in command. I’m pulling your AC orders until you get a check ride with the unit IP. You’re dismissed.”

  Everyone was in shock that Mr. Fender had just lost his AC orders, especially since it couldn’t be confirmed that there had been a tree strike and there was no damage to the aircraft. As they left the orderly room, Kelly turned to Fender.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but we didn’t see a tree in that PZ. Plenty of stumps, but I swear I didn’t see a tree. This sucks.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. I suspect the major is sending a message to everyone that we have to tighten up our procedures. I’ll get my AC orders back. Don’t beat yourselves up over this. Let’s go get some cold beer,” Fender said, leading the way.

  A few days later, Lockwood, the company clerk, came into Fender’s room. “Mr. Fender, the CO wants to see you in his office.”

  “I’ll be right up there.” Fender started getting his boots on.

  As he walked up to the orderly room, he wondered, What am I going to get my ass chewed over now? He knocked on the door to the CO’s office as no one was in the orderly room to announce him.

  “Sir, you wanted to see me?”

  “Mr. Fender, yes, come on in and sit down,” Major Adams said. This is good. He’s smiling, Fender noticed. He took a seat.

  “Mr. Fender, I’m restoring your AC orders. I received a letter this morning through Battalion and Group, from Colonel Huynh Ba Tinh, commander of the Third ARVN Airborne Division,” Major Adams said, handing a piece of paper to Fender. “It was sent to Lightning Bolt Six and has been forwarded to me. Colonel Tinh is officially recognizing you and your crew for the rescue you did the other day. I spoke with Colonel Islem, and he agrees that it would probably not be right to pull your AC orders under the circumstances. I believe a request for the Distinguished Flying Cross is being prepared for you and for your gunner, with Air Medals for Mr. Reid and Mr. Kelly. Good job.” Major Adams extended his hand to Fender, who stood and accepted it.

  “Thank you, sir. We were just doing our job,” Fender mumbled.

  “Well, go tell Ops you’re back on AC status and have them put you on the board. Go on.”

  Chapter 21

  Nothing Changes

  “Wake up, Lieutenant Cory. You have a zero-six-hundred-hours takeoff. It’s zero five hundred hours now.” Different Ops clerk, but same wakeup announcement as the last time. Cory just needed to figure out a way to get them to bring him a cup of coffee when they came to wake him.

  “Okay, I’m awake. Who am I flying with today?” Cory asked. It was his first time back in the air since returning to Nam. He wasn’t getting the usual orientation flight as he was very familiar with the area.

  “You’re flying with Mr. Sinkey,” the clerk responded before heading to the next room to wake another pilot.

  Great, I taught Sinkey how to fly. Let’s see if he remembers anything I taught him, Cory thought as he put on his pants. Strolling out of the hooch and approaching the piss tubes, Cory was met by none other than Sinkey.

  “You going to breakfast?” Sinkey asked.

  “Yeah, are you?”

  “I’ll meet you over there.” Sinkey headed back to his hooch to finish dressing.

  When Cory arrived in the mess hall, his nostrils flared as the smells were much better than he’d expected. Fresh-baked cinnamon rolls, cooked bacon, real eggs cooked to order, coffee that wasn’t burnt. As he moved down the serving line, it all appeared appetizing even. Standing behind the cooks, an unfamiliar mess sergeant was observing and supervising the actions on the steam line. This was a definite improvement over Cory’s previous experience.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” the mess sergeant said, observing this fresh-faced officer.

  “Good morning, Sergeant. I must say this certainly looks like an improvement over what was here three months ago. Where’s the roast beef?”

  “Sir, roast beef is for dinner or lunch but has no place in breakfast. Not on my serving line. You’re that new pilot that was here before, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Lieutenant Cory. I was here for eighteen months and just came back. You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, got here about two months ago and have been working to get this place squared away. First thing I needed to do was get this mess hall cleaned up. Now that that’s done, I can concentrate on serving some decent food. We’ll have cinnamon rolls each morning, and if you can give us a heads-up, we’ll fix a sack lunch for your crew to pick up in the morning if you want.”

  “Oh my God, this is an improvement. For now we can stick with C-rations at lunch. That way we can appreciate your dinner cooking more. But thanks,” Cory added before he moved down the line with a Western omelet, crisp bacon, two link sausages, and hash browns cooked with bits of onion and green peppers. Can’t pass up a cinnamon bun. Keep eating like this I’ll have to start running again.

  After he poured a mug of coffee, he saw Sinkey sitting at a table with two other pilots he hadn’t met yet. He approached them.

  “Mind if I join you?” Cory asked.

  “No, sit down. I’m Frank.” Frank was a lieutenant who had arrived just after Cory had left in August. He was still a right-seat pilot but was coming up on his fourth month, so he’d be making aircraft commander soon. Cory set his tray down and shook Frank’s hand.

  “I’m Bob,” the other officer said, also extending his hand. Cory noticed that Bob was a warrant officer. He’d arrived about the same time as Frank, so he was also a right-seat pilot. Sitting down, Cory looked at both officers and noticed their name tags.

  “Wait one, are you two brothers?” Cory asked.

  “No, why do you ask?” Frank asked with a smile.

  “You both have the same last name—Zuccardi. Hell, we’ve never even had two Smiths at the same time. You’ve got to be related.”

  “Truth be told, we’re not related and didn’t know each other until we arrived here. We were in the same flight class but never ran into each other. We aren’t even from the same part of the country. Maybe our ancestors were from the same village in Italy, but who knows?” Bob answered.

  “Well, nice to know I’m in the company of fellow Italians. My ancestors came from Poggi, Italy, at the turn of the century.”

  Sinkey had been taking this love fest in. “Okay, you guys. Are y
ou going to start swapping recipes for spaghetti sauce? What are you guys flying today and who with?”

  “I’m flying with Captain Beauchamp and it’s an ash and trash mission for the ARVNs,” Frank answered.

  “And I’m flying with Mr. George, on what I don’t know,” Bob answered.

  “Well, you both be careful. Mike just came back from his extension leave and may be a bit rusty. Captain Beauchamp is getting short, so I doubt he’ll be taking any unnecessary chances,” Sinkey added.

  “Dan, I heard you were in the unit before. How many hours have you got?” Frank asked.

  “I have about two thousand hours in-country and spent eighteen months here in Chicken-man before I went back to the States to attend the Infantry Officers’ Basic Course. I even taught this guy how to fly,” he said, indicating Sinkey.

  “All he did was scare the living shit out of me. Get him to show you one of his autorotations where he first gets to one thousand feet at eighty knots, then closes the throttle and zero outs the airspeed. Now the fun starts. He then does a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree pedal turn, and coming out of the pedal turn, he shoves the nose over into a dive, filling the windshield with Mother Earth to build rotor rpm, and then sets it down like a flight school autorotation. Be sure and take a dump before you do,” Sinkey added with a smile.

  “I haven’t done one of those in four months. Come to think of it, I haven’t done an autorotation in four months. Can we get a couple in today?” Cory asked Sinkey. Before Sinkey could answer, three distinct sounds could be heard in the distance. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

  “Incoming!” someone shouted, and everyone was throwing themselves on the floor.

  KABOOM, KABOOM, KABOOM. Three 122 mm mortar rounds slammed into the company area, throwing dirt and rocks into the sides of buildings but doing little damage except maybe punching a hole in a screen and waking everyone up. Then it was all quiet, but no one was moving, waiting for more rounds. There were no calls for medics. After a minute, everyone got up and finished their breakfast as if nothing had happened.

  “Some things just don’t change,” Cory said as he sipped his coffee. Just another morning in Vietnam.

  Chapter 22

  Back in the Saddle

  “I’m bringing a hood so I can get some instrument time, if that’s okay,” Cory said as he and Sinkey walked out to the aircraft after retrieving their flight gear. Flight helmet, leather gloves, knee board, maps, sidearm with extra bullets and Ka-Bar knife. Chicken plate was worn over their Nomex two-piece flight suits as that was easier than carrying it. Stopping by Flight Operations on the way to the aircraft, Sinkey picked up their mission sheet, which had all the information about their mission for the day. This was something new to Cory. The mission sheet had the mission number, aircraft tail number, crew’s names, contact information for the unit you would be flying for, and the location to meet those you would be supporting. Also any follow-on missions for the day, such as if you would have a combat assault to fly later with another unit. Cory’s experience in the past was that you contacted Flight Ops when you started the aircraft, and then you received a call sign, frequency and location to fly to for your first mission. It was discovered in Cambodia that the NVA had a more sophisticated communications monitoring capability than anticipated and had been listening to aircraft mission assignments. This would cut that capability significantly.

  Arriving at the aircraft, Cory placed his gear in the right seat and Sinkey put his in the left. As the steps to the rotor head were on the right side of the aircraft, Cory started climbing up to inspect the rotor head. Sinkey walked around the front of the aircraft, holding what appeared to be a laminated checklist.

  “Dan, you check and I’ll read off the checklist,” Sinkey indicated.

  “What? I’ll just knock it out,” Cory said, looking over his shoulder as he reached for the last rung.

  “Nope. We have to use a checklist now.”

  “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “Nope, major’s orders. He wants checklists used whenever they’re available, and each aircraft has one now.”

  “Okay, if that’s what he wants. Seems like a waste of time to me, but, hey, I’m not in charge.”

  “Man, they made you an RLO and you got real smart,” Sinkey said, giving Cory a smile.

  “Real smart, sir,” Cory responded with a grin. “Start reading and I’ll do the checking.” Cory climbed up to the top of the aircraft and positioned himself at the rotor head. After fifteen minutes, Cory and Sinkey strapped in and went through the start-up checklist. Finally, in Cory’s mind, they actually started the aircraft.

  “When’s the last time you flew?” Sinkey asked.

  “July twenty-seventh, when Copenhaver crashed.”

  “That was your last flight?” Sinkey asked with a bit of a surprise.

  “Yeah, been in school since then. You want to take it out or are you brave enough to let me do it?” Cory asked.

  “Do you still remember how to do it?” Sinkey responded with bit of laughter. “Yeah, you can take us out. Hang on, guys,” he added for the benefit of the crew, “the RLO is taking us out.”

  “Oh shit,” someone said over the intercom, along with the first line from the “Hail Mary” prayer.

  Taking the runway, Cory pulled in the power and headed north. As they climbed out to twenty-five hundred feet, Sinkey made the call to Lai Khe Arty for clearance north up Highway 13 to An Loc. Cory liked the feel of the aircraft after being away for so long. The air was smooth, with some cloud buildup. Probably get some rain this afternoon as things heat up. The aircraft was flying just right and responsive to his touch. The sounds were all in harmony as they should be.

  “So what we got today at An Loc, Mr. Sinkey?” O’Donnell, the crew chief, asked.

  “Not sure. We’re to contact the US advisor up there and he’ll be coordinating our missions today with the Vietnamese. That’s all I’ve been told.”

  “With the Vietnamese, we could be hauling anything and everything. Just hope it isn’t any of the damn pigs. They always manage to shit on the floor,” O’Donnell complained.

  “Well, if we do haul pigs and if they shit on the deck, I’ll get us back to Quan Loi to refuel and get some running water to hose the deck off before it dries,” Sinkey assured him.

  “So, Dan, how was it back in the States?” Sinkey asked, sitting back and gazing out the window.

  “It was good. Got to attend my dad’s change of command. Spent a few days with him and Mom. Spent some time with that girl who’s been writing to me for the past six months. It was good,” Cory replied.

  “So why the hell did you come back here? You volunteered, didn’t you?”

  “I came back because this is what I’ve trained to do. I thought I would be able to swing an infantry assignment, but that didn’t work out. It was back to flying or count bedsheets and CONEX containers being shipped back to the States. No, thanks. I thought if I was flying, I would be doing something for our guys on the ground. As they’re all leaving, I couldn’t have been more wrong on that note. So now, I just get to teach you guys how to fly,” Cory concluded with a smile on his face, looking at Sinkey.

  “Really? Well, who’s in the right seat today?” Sinkey grinned. “I got it,” he said, asserting his dominance as aircraft commander. Cory sat back and just enjoyed the ride.

  “When you going home?” Cory asked Sinkey.

  “I DEROS in April, but I might extend to take the early out if I can.”

  “What then?”

  “I’ll probably go back to college in Oregon.”

  “Whatcha gonna major in?”

  “I’d like to major in architecture.”

  “Really? I had been accepted to the University of Kansas School of Architecture back in sixty-five. My grandfather was a chief draftsman and I took two years of drafting in high school in one year. I really enjoyed doing that.”

  “Why didn’t you do it, then?”

  “Dirtbag high
school principal told my parents, after I left Japan to work in Oregon, that if I went to a big school I would probably flunk out. So, instead, I went to a small school in the mountains of eastern Oregon, majoring in a subject that really didn’t interest me that much, and flunked out. Two of the most worthless years of my life. If I ever saw that principal again I would tell him to go to hell.”

  “What did you do in Oregon for work?”

  “I was a chocker setter working out of Coos Bay for Sixes River Logging Company. Owner was a Mr. Smith, and I was one of the most worthless workers he had. Why he didn’t fire me is beyond me. I really was. I was immature and just plain depressed that I wasn’t going to Kansas. I guess he knew if he fired me, I would be in serious trouble as my folks still lived in Japan. He was good friends with them. Probably kept me on just because of that friendship.”

  “Good man to do that for you,” Sinkey mumbled. “You want to bring us up on Quan Loi Arty and get a fire clearance?”

  Changing FM frequency to Quan Loi Arty, Cory said, “Quan Loi Arty, Chicken-man One-Four is Chon Thanh to An Loc at twenty-five hundred. Over.”

  “Chicken-man One-Four, you are clear all the way.”

  “Roger, Quan Loi Arty.” Flipping to the intercom between the crew, he repeated, “We’re good all the way. What’s the frequency for our contact?”

  Sinkey handed the mission sheet to Cory, who scanned it and found what he was looking for. Changing frequency to FM number 1, Cory made the call.

  “Cobra Six, this is Chicken-man One-Four, over.”

  With a strong Vietnamese accent, the response came. “Shick-man One-Four, tis Cobra Sex India, wait one.”

  “They can never say our name right, can they? It’s just like the Japanese attempting to say Lilly Palloza. It always came out Rirry Parroza,” Cory said with a chuckle.

  “Lieutenant Cory, are you bullshitting us?” O’Donnell asked.

  “No, really. During World War Two, in the Pacific, Marines would call out and tell them to say the password. The Japanese soldiers couldn’t say the “L” sound. It always came out as an “R” sound.”