Medal of Honor

by Matt Jackson

  “Roger, we should be there in four minutes.” Bob looked up and could see black smoke rising from the trees at his one o’clock position. He adjusted his heading. “Gunner Two-Three, I have smoke.”

  “Chicken-man, he’s down on the edge of the clearing. The other little bird’s trying to get in but doesn’t think anyone made it.” Bob and Tim exchanged looks.

  “Jonesy, Dorsey, guns up. This may get hot. I’m going to make a low pass over the little bird and see if we can spot any movement. Jonesy, it’ll be on your side, so be looking for movement,” Bob directed.

  “Roger, sir.” There was no need to tell them to get the guns up; they were already up and ready. At treetop level, Bob pointed the aircraft just to the right of the smoke. To his left was a clearing about half the size of a football field, just beyond the downed aircraft. The field was hourglass-shaped and the aircraft was on the larger portion. At ninety knots airspeed, he quickly passed the downed bird. He could see the crew. They were in the cockpit, and they weren’t moving as the fire spread across the aircraft. The other little bird and both Cobras were engaging ground fire coming from the far side of the field.

  “Gunner Two-Three, Chicken-man, I don’t see any movement. They didn’t make it. The fire has pretty much covered the aircraft,” Bob observed. The aircraft was an OH-58A Kiowa, which had replaced the OH-6A Cayuse helicopter as the observation aircraft in the early 1970s. It didn’t have the maneuverability nor the crashworthiness of the OH-6A.26

  “Roger, Chick—shit, we’re hit. Going down!”

  Bob’s head snapped to the left in time to see Gunner Two-Three crash in the middle of the field. As soon as the aircraft hit, it rolled onto its side, which was typical with the Cobra due to its narrow shape. As it rolled, turning rotor blades were ripped from the rotor head and spun off in two directions. The cockpit canopies popped open on impact. Both pilots were moving to un-ass the aircraft.

  “Chicken-man, Gunner Two-Five here. Can you get them, and we will cover.”

  “Roger.” Bob executed a hard deceleration and pedal turn in order to turn into the downed aircraft without overflying where all the fire was coming from. As his skids hit the ground, both pilots were getting to their feet about one hundred feet from the aircraft. Dorsey opened fire on the right side, engaging enemy fire from the area of the burning little bird.

  “We’re taking fire!” he screamed. Jonesy joined the crescendo of machine-gun fire as well but said nothing at first. Unlike Dorsey, this was not Jonesy’s first rodeo when it came to being shot at.

  “Crap, they’re all around us!” Jonesy yelled when he saw openings in the ground where some of the fire was coming from. Bob and Tim could do nothing but sit and wait for the two pilots to sprint to the aircraft. Suddenly one pilot stopped. Bob thought he was hit, but he turned and ran back to the downed Cobra.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Tim asked apprehensively as a bullet hit his armor seat plate. The second pilot was almost to the aircraft, with puffs of dirt kicking up around his feet and an occasional green tracer passing around his body.

  “Shit, I’m hit,” screamed Tim, grabbing his lower leg. “Oh sweet Jesus, that hurts.”

  As Bob watched, the pilot that had returned to the aircraft was now running for all he was worth with something in his hand—a piece of paper, it appeared. Bob started bringing in power, knowing that as soon as this guy was on a skid, he was coming out. Tufts of grass were kicking up around him. The first pilot to reach Bob’s aircraft literally dove into the cabin behind Tim.

  Everyone was hollering for him to hurry. Ever so slowly, a NVA soldier rose up from the ground about fifteen feet away from the aircraft on Tim’s side. Tim sat in terror as there was nothing he could do. He watched as the soldier raised his AK-47 assault rifle to his shoulder in slow motion and took careful aim in Tim’s direction, a wide grin creasing the soldier’s face. He didn’t shoot, though, as his head turned into a fine mist from Dorsey laying several 7.62 machine-gun rounds into him. Tim just sat dumbfounded and frozen.

  “Dammit, I’m hit,” Jonesy announced, but his gun continued to fire.

  “Jonesy, where are you hit?” Bob asked.

  “In the hand.” Enemy soldiers were now popping up from holes in the ground all around the aircraft. They had landed in the middle of an enemy bunker complex.

  The lone pilot was ten feet in front of Bob when the pilot’s legs went out from under him. The red stain that immediately appeared in the center of his back and across his legs told the story. Bob could now clearly see the piece of paper, a photograph of a woman and a baby. Everyone was screaming and shooting as Bob pulled in the rest of his power, pushed the cyclic forward and accelerated in a hail of bullets to get out of that field.

  Once they were clear, no one said anything as they circled the field. More NVA were coming out of the ground in the middle of the field, converging on the fallen pilot, who wasn’t moving. Gunner Two-Five witnessed their actions and flew into a rage, expending all fourteen flechette rockets into their midst and strafing the area with minigun fire.

  Bob was flying the aircraft as Dorsey came forward and pulled Tim out of his seat, grabbing a first aid kit. The lone Cobra pilot had his own first aid kit and was wrapping Jonesy’s hand.

  “Quan Loi Tower, Chicken-man One-Eight, over,” Bob called on VHF radio.

  “Chicken-man One-Eight, Quan Loi Tower, over.”

  “Quan Loi Tower, Chicken-man One-Eight declaring an emergency. I need medics standing by for two wounded. Over.”

  “Roger, Chicken-man One-Eight, you are cleared for a straight-in approach to runway four-five. What’s your ETA?”

  “Tower, I am twenty-five mikes out, over.” Bob hoped he could get there faster than twenty-five minutes as he knew the aircraft had some damage, he wasn’t sure how much.

  “How you guys doing back there?” Bob asked no one in particular.

  “I’ll be okay, sir,” Jonesy answered. “Might just get me a trip to Japan for a week.”

  “How about Mr. Triplett?” Bob asked, attempting to look over his right shoulder at Tim.

  “I suspect he may get further than Japan,” Jonesy answered. “We stopped the bleeding, but it’s a nasty jagged cut that took a good chunk out of his calf.”

  Finally the intercom went to private.

  “Bob, there was nothing we could have done. If we’d stayed any longer, we would have lost the aircraft and we all would have been killed. If he would have just not gone back, he would have made it. You did the right thing,” Tim said. Bob said nothing but just stared ahead.

  A few minutes later, another voice came over the intercom, one Bob didn’t recognize at first.

  “Hey, Chief.” It was the other pilot, wearing a headset Dorsey had given him.

  “Yeah?” Bob replied without looking back to see who was talking.

  “Thanks. You could have stayed out, but you came in for us. He should never have gone back to the aircraft—for what, I have no idea.” Bob did.

  “There was nothing you could have done, and to stay there any longer, we would all be laying back there. Don’t beat yourself up over this. You did the right thing. Hell, you came in and stayed long enough for us to get to the aircraft and then some. You did everything you could,” he said. Bob didn’t respond. The remainder of the flight passed in silence.

  On their arrival at Quan Loi, an ambulance was waiting at the base of the tower with two stretchers and four medics standing by. Touching down in front of the tower, Bob rolled the throttle back and shut down the aircraft. Three medics quickly had Tim on a stretcher, but Jonesy passed on being carried and was walking with the one medic that was carrying the empty stretcher. The remaining LOH and Cobra had followed Bob back to Quan Loi and landed behind him.

  Climbing on the skid to Bob’s open door, the rescued Cobra pilot placed his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough. You did what needed to be done so we all could get home. He shouldn’t have gone back.” And with th
at, he squeezed Bob’s shoulder and then left to fly home with his unit. Dorsey slowly started picking up bloody bandages. This was the first time he saw who he was shooting. He had never killed anyone before. Dorsey had been running on adrenaline and now it turned his stomach. He began to throw up.

  With concern, Bob asked, “Dorsey, are you okay?” Bob had experienced this himself before on a hot landing zone.

  Wiping his mouth, Dorsey responded, “Sir, I’ll be fine. I just ain’t ever killed a man before.”

  “But you did save Mr. Triplett’s life and probably mine too. Thanks,” Bob reassured him. After a few minutes, he said, “Let’s crank her up and head for home. You can sit up front in the right seat,” Bob indicated. That would be a treat for Dorsey.27

  Chapter 26

  Warning Orders

  First Sergeant Miller had been enjoying a quiet morning starting off with cinnamon buns from the mess hall and good coffee. Lockwood was pounding away on the manual typewriter, getting out the unit morning report for the courier bird. Lieutenant Colonel Islem, the 227th Battalion Commander, had called a few minutes before. After exchanging pleasantries with Miller, he’d asked to speak to Major Adams.

  “First Sergeant,” Major Adams called from his office.

  The first sergeant stuck his head in the doorway. “You called, sir?”

  “Top, I just got off the phone with Battalion. We have a warning order to be prepared to be attached to the Fifty-Second Aviation Brigade. We can expect to depart Lai Khe for Camp Holloway up in Two Corps by Dak To by the end of February, which gives us a month to get ready for the move. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, sir, haven’t had the pleasure. Any idea when we’re getting the attachment order?”

  “Probably within forty-eight hours. Let’s round up the staff and initiate some planning. I’ll call the platoon leaders, XO and Ops as well as Doc Christeson and Maintenance. You gather the mess sergeant and Supply sergeant and let’s meet in the O club at fifteen hundred. I have zero nine hundred right now.”

  “Roger, sir. How about we get the installation property manager from the contractor as well and bring him in? They’re going to have to sign for all the installation property, such as the deep freezers and mess hall equipment, the steam table, etc.”

  “Good idea. You want to call him?”

  “Will do,” the first sergeant said and headed to the phone.

  Sitting in his office, Major Adams started thinking through what all had to be done and what questions had to be asked. He began making a list.

  1. Advance Party: XO, Assistant Maintenance Officer, Supply Officer. That should be enough to coordinate our arrival. One aircraft.

  2. Main Body Deployment:

  (a) Flight crews and some maintenance personnel self-deploy in aircraft. Note: All aircraft must be flyable before departure. Watch required maintenance inspections so we have 100 percent availability for the move.

  (b) All others: number of CH-47s for personnel. How many by load plans?

  (c) Wheel vehicles: C-130 requests. How many on load plans?

  (d) Pallet loads: Do we have current load plans? How many pallets?

  (e) CONEX requirements: Load plans.

  (f) CONEX for personal crap: fans, refrigerators, lawn chairs. Can we palletize, CONEX or leave?

  3. AO orientations for all crews: Ops coordinate.

  4. Air Movement officer. Appoint one OIC.

  5. Closeout Coordinator. Appoint one NCOIC. 1SG.

  Having completed his list, Major Adams headed over to see the Operations officer. Captain Beauchamp had been the Operations officer, but he had recently returned to the States. A new Operations officer had been in the position for a month. The unit hadn’t moved in two years, so this might turn out to be a challenge. When he went to the Operations hooch, the new Ops officer was a bit surprised to see the CO at this hour as he was usually off doing other things.

  “Morning, sir. What can I do for you?” asked Captain Curran. John Curran was an armor officer and on his first tour in Vietnam as a pilot. Being from sunny, dry Phoenix, he wasn’t quite used to the humid heat Vietnam offered.

  “Have you heard anything from Battalion yet this morning?” Major Adams asked.

  “I was just getting ready to come and see you about that phone call. Yes, sir, the S-3 gave me a heads-up. Said the attachment and movement order would be here the day after tomorrow. Do you want to go over some things?” The captain motioned to his office.

  “Yeah, that would be best,” the major said.

  “Want some coffee? It’s fresh, just made it,” the Operations NCO asked.

  “That would be good, please. With a shot of cream,” Major Adams requested.

  Moving into Curran’s office, the major noticed a large folder on his desk. The words “Movement Plan” were scrawled across the cover. Movement plans were maintained by all combat, combat support and combat service support units and were supposed to be updated quarterly. The movement plan outlined how all the unit personnel and equipment were to be moved by truck, rail, sea or air. Included in the movement plan were load cards for each vehicle, trailer and CONEX. The load card showed what each piece of equipment weighed, to include anything added to that vehicle and how it would be packed.

  “Sir, when they called this morning, I went looking for these and found them in the file cabinet. I should say Sergeant First Class Robinson knew right where they were and pulled them for me. I was sure we would be going over them.”

  Accepting his coffee from Sergeant Robinson, the major began leafing through the file. “First question. How up-to-date is this movement plan?”

  “Sir, the last update was noted to be three months ago by Captain Beauchamp. Did you tell him to do that?” Captain Curran asked.

  “Nope, he must have done it on his own. I wonder how current those plans are and if he consulted with anyone,” the major pondered out loud as he sipped his coffee.

  “Well, sir, looking them over just briefly, they look pretty good to me, but it would be best if we break this out at the next staff meeting and have everyone look their respective portions over and update everything. We’re going to be hit very soon with lots of questions on the number of 463L pallets we’ll need, the number of vehicles and weight for C-130 transport, and what our CONEX requirements are, just to name a few things.”

  “Well, that’s one thing I wanted to give you a heads-up on. Staff meeting will be at fifteen hundred hours today in the O club. Bring this with you and be prepared to brief it to everyone. Wish we had some way of making copies of all this. How many copies do you have?” the major asked.

  “Sir, I have five copies and that’s it. Everyone should have their own copy as well,” John agreed.

  The major looked at John over the top of his coffee cup. “You think?”

  “I said ‘should,’ sir,” John said, half laughing.

  “Okay, let’s talk missions. When I was up that way last month—or was that two months ago? Hell, I forget. Anyway, I was told we would be flying mostly in support of the ARVNs out of Camp Holloway in an area called Dak To. They are getting ready to kick off some big operation up there and helicopter support is badly needed from what I’ve heard. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Not much.” Curran said.

  “Who knows? Anyway, we need to coordinate with someone up that way to get our crews oriented to the area. I don’t think we have anyone that’s ever flown in that area before, do we?”

  “We may, sir. Mr. Barstow was up north in the sixty-eight, sixty-nine time frame. Mr. Price was up north on his first tour with the company in sixty-eight I believe. I remember him talking about spending the night in a bunker at Camp Evans the night the ammo dump blew up. Let me ask around and see if anyone has been there.”

  “Well, since we’ll be attached to the Fifty-Second Aviation Battalion, they should be able to provide us with a couple of guys. I don’t expect we’ll jump right into missions until we get most of the orientatio
n rides out of the way. Oh, who is your movement plans officer? Not you. You’re going to be busy enough.”

  “Sir, I don’t have an assistant Ops officer, so it would have to be me,” Curran said with a hanging question mark.

  “Tell me at the fifteen-hundred meeting who you would like to have for this additional duty. We’ll be cutting back on operational missions, so another officer can pick this up and get moving on it. Pick someone who’ll do a good job. This is too important to pass off to some of these guys, and that’s between you and me. Not Captain Vargus. When we get up there, he’ll be the LNO again to the Vietnamese. Guy is worthless in the cockpit and on the ground.”

  John felt the need to come to a fellow officer’s defense. “Hey, sir, he’s doing a good job as LNO with the Vietnamese. He keeps them happy and hasn’t dropped the ball on getting any missions to us. He’s doing good.”

  The major stood to leave. “And that’s why I made him the LNO. He can keep the ARVNs happy, since they can walk all over him. See you at fifteen hundred,” Major Adams said, heading out the door. Pausing, he turned back to Captain Curran. “Round up Cory, Sinkey and Price and come to my office as soon as you can.”

  At the 1500 meeting, Major Adams waited for everyone to grab a beer. This was going to be a long meeting, he figured. Throughout the day, he had seen key officers and NCOs involved in the move scurrying about. Whispered comments could be heard about a possible move up north. Nothing “possible,” it’s happening, the major thought.

  “Okay, gentlemen, let’s get this started.” He paused to get everyone’s undivided attention. “First, for those of you who don’t know him, I would like to introduce and welcome Mr. Pitts, the installation property manager with the contract company, who will be signing for our installation property when we leave. Thanks for joining us, sir.”

  Mr. Pitts was about fifty years old and was a retired Army warrant officer who served in Supply. This was a rather lucrative job for him, combined with his Army retirement check. He was the senior civilian contractor at Lai Khe but was housed on the opposite side of the airfield.