by Dennis Foley
At the crash site Hollister placed Allard’s team on the high side of the clearing to cover the area with observation and, if necessary, small arms fire. Once they were in place and ready, he and Team 2-3 moved to the aircraft to try to determine what had happened to the pilots and what needed to be done.
On the move, Hollister and Team 2-3 used traditional infantry maneuver techniques. Half of the six would move while the other half covered their movement. After a few long steps the moving element took up hasty covering positions and the second half moved. While they were moving, Allard’s team stayed above and behind, covering everyone. Using this technique got the entire patrol to within twenty feet of the tail of the fuselage without being fired upon.
Hollister held up 2-3 and then motioned for Camacho to move forward so they could both look into the cockpit while Davis kept the rest of 2-3 at the ready.
Hollister’s heart was pounding in his temples as he and Camacho moved. He prayed that neither the plane nor the area around it had been mined or booby-trapped.
Behind them the rest of 2-3 watched as Hollister and Camacho edged forward, reaching out with their fingers to feel for trip wires as they kept their eyes on the cockpit.
After a few well-placed steps, Hollister reached a point where he could see what had happened—the plane had simply crash-landed in the trees. The pilot had skillfully slipped the plane between most of the trees, stripping off the wings while doing it, only to hit one fifteen-inch tree trunk dead on the end of the prop shaft. The tree didn’t give and the plane crumbled.
Looking at the amount of damage to the wing tanks, Hollister was surprised that there had been no fire. He assumed that the ripping away of the wings had somehow prevented that.
Edging forward, he stopped at the cockpit door. He turned back to see if the others were in position before he made another move. They were.
Vinson held up the handset and pointed off and up into the night—he was in contact with the choppers Hollister could hear orbiting in the distance.
Hollister motioned for Camacho to hold back in case the door was booby-trapped. He then ran his fingers around the edge of the door and peered into the cockpit to see if anything was connected to it.
He considered pulling out his flashlight and making a more detailed search. The red-filtered light wouldn’t do much more to give away their position, but the extra time it would take made him decide just to take a chance. He took a deep breath and yanked the door open.
Nothing happened.
He let out the air trapped in his lungs and leaned over to look into the cockpit, only to find the small piece of Hell.
The tandem-seated pilots were trapped in the crash. The engine had been pushed into the lap of the command pilot, killing him instantly. The force of impact and weight of the engine collapsed the front pilot’s seat onto the ankles of the co-pilot in the rear seat. He was still alive, unconscious and pinned by his broken ankles to the floor of the plane.
Hollister turned and motioned for Doc Norris to hurry to his position—following his path. He then looked back into the cockpit. The co-pilot must have suffered a great deal of pain, as plenty of thickened blood covered the floor of the cockpit. From what Hollister could see, the injured pilot had torn off the legs of his flight suit and made them into hasty tourniquets before losing consciousness.
Looking up, Hollister could see more signs of the co-pilot’s earlier agony. Above him on the bulkhead was a first aid kit; on the other side and also out of his reach was a universal, multipurpose cutting tool designed for crash survival. The co-pilot had clawed the quilted plastic insulation material from both sides of the plane, trying to reach the two rescue items. They were still in place just beyond the bloodstains he left on the shredded insulation.
The patrol members moved from a posture of caution, security, and noise discipline to noise, speed, and effort at the expense of security. Hollister called the gunships in to circle the crash site and be their eyes from above, and told them to assume that the only friendlies in the area were in or near the downed plane.
The patrol’s security was or would very soon be busted by the medical evacuation that was coming up. So the choppers prowled the crash site with their searchlights on even though it took any doubt away from where the Americans were working.
Eerie shafts of light illuminated the margins of the clearing, cutting through the windblown vegetation but making it that much easier for the team at the aircraft to work.
After giving Doc Norris a chance to look at the unconscious co-pilot, Hollister decided that there was no way to take the wounded man back to the insert LZ or to the pickup zone that they would use later. He would never survive the move. So, he instructed Davis to have half of his team clear a small hole in the cover for a chopper to medevac the injured flyer out on a cable. The other half went to work trying to free the lone casualty.
And as they did, he came to, screaming. His cries could be heard for thousands of meters in the night as they pulled his broken legs from the grip of the dead man’s seat.
Anxious that time was against them, Hollister made a quick look around the perimeter and tried to anticipate any problems. Not seeing anything, he moved over to Vinson.
Vinson held the handset away from Hollister and gave him an update. “I’ve called for the medevac and asked for a ship with a winch—but I told them if they didn’t have one available, we would do with a slick with a McGuire rig.
“Iron Mike told me that his guns are running low on fuel so he’s gonna be replaced on station by a pair of B models in two zero. Gladiator has two more ships on standby back at the base camp to replace his when needed.”
Vinson took a breath and smiled. “So, what’s left? Who do you need to talk to?”
Hollister took the handset. “Is it okay with you if I tell the Old Man what the situation is?”
Vinson felt a little foolish. “Oh, yeah. I knew there was someone else. Sure, sir. Go ahead and tell Cap’n Michaelson. But I’d bet that he knows what’s going on from the radio traffic.”
“Don’t assume anything when it comes to radios—especially when he’s in a chopper.” He raised the handset to his face.
“Six, this is Two-six. Over,” Hollister yelled into the mouthpiece over the sounds of the circling choppers.
Captain Michaelson answered promptly, “This is Six. Go.”
“This is Two-six. We are getting the whiskey india alpha out of the bird dog, and as soon as we can evac him we’ll get the KIA out. If we can get the wounded pilot out without much sweat, I’d like to evac the body the same way. I’m not sure I want to tie up half of my element carrying the KIA while we work our way back to our LZ. Over.”
“This is Six. Yeah, go ahead and try that. Gladiator just advised me that the Dust-Off is inbound and it does have a winch. Go ’head and use it with the WIA and we’ll use our chase for the KIA. Over.”
“Has Gladiator got an ETA on the Dust-Off? Over.”
“Standby.”
Waiting, Hollister looked around. They’d removed the copilot from the plane and moved him clear of the fuel tanks. Doc Norris was working on him by the light of a red-filtered flashlight, making Norris and his patient an easy sniper target.
Hollister watched Norris while he waited for Michaelson to come back up. He hated that Norris had to use the light, but he had to see what he was doing.
Norris didn’t seem to be as concerned as Hollister was. He pinned two empty morphine Syrettes through the pilot’s flight suit collar and bent the needles over so that the receiving medics would know what drugs had been administered to the injured flyer at the crash site.
Davis and Theodore had fabricated splints out of split bamboo poles and held them in place while Doc Norris tied them snugly against the man’s shattered ankles.
Hollister looked at the others. While the living pilot was being prepared for the trip out, Camacho worked at removing the front pilot’s seat to pull the dead man out from under the plane’s eng
ine.
“Two-six, this is Six. The Dust-Off is zero two out. You ready for him?”
Before answering Michaelson’s question, Hollister turned to Doc Norris. “You ready for the Dust-Off or what?”
Doc Norris didn’t even turn around. He simply raised his bloody hand and held up three fingers.
“We need about three more mikes. Can you have the Dust-Off come up on my freq and I’ll vector him in?” Hollister asked. “Over.”
“Roger that. Stand by.”
Hollister looked around again. He knew that this was the time when soldiers got too interested in what was going on inside their circle and not in what they were supposed to be doing—providing security.
Two of Allard’s men were looking back toward the crash site. He wasn’t sure if his voice would carry that far over the chopper noises. So, he picked up a rock and threw it at the duo.
It worked. As soon as they realized who threw the rock, they turned their attention back to their slices of the patrol’s uneven perimeter.
“Two-six, this is Dust-Off Five-niner. Over.”
Hollister looked up through the treetops and tried to distinguish the medevac chopper from the others. He had no luck. “Five-niner, this is Two-six. Will you give me a visual? Over.”
“Rog. Watch my nav lights.”
Hollister looked up through the hole in the tree cover chopped out for the medevac. All he could see was the faint outline of two gunships and two slicks. Then one of the ships flashed all of its lights on and off twice. Hollister noted the relative location of the red and green lights on the sides of the chopper, so he could determine the direction of flight.
“Got it, Five-niner. My location is out your left door. Watch for my mark. Over.” Hollister motioned for Vinson to turn on the strobe light.
“I got it,” the pilot said. “I’m going to make a pass and take a look. Watch my ass for ground fire … okay?”
Hollister simply clicked the press-to-talk button twice—to tell the pilot that he understood and would comply.
The chopper made a high pass over Hollister, a hard right turn away from the crash site, and kept in the bank until he was heading back toward the site again. As he did, he quickly bled off altitude and picked up airspeed to come across the opening in the canopy at high speed—reducing his exposure.
The chopper crossed the treetops in an exaggerated, nose-down attitude. Suddenly the chopper broke right and up and the pilot’s voice came back over the radio. “Okay, my man. I got you. What’s the condition of the WIA? Can he take me reeling him in? Over.”
“No choice. He’s lost lots of blood and looks plenty shocky. It would take us a couple more hours to clear an LZ large enough to get you in here. Don’t think he has that kind of time. Over.”
“Okay. It’s yer call. I’m going to lower a horse collar. Can you strap him in it and send him up to me?”
“Roger that.”
“We’re inbound now. Watch for my wire,” the pilot said.
“Standing by,” Hollister said. He dropped the handset to the crook of his neck, put two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear-piercing whistle to get everyone to look his way.
“Dust-Off’s inbound. Let’s make this fast!”
CHAPTER 10
THE DUST-OFF CHOPPER GOT louder and louder, but no one could see it through the tree cover. Then its chin-mounted searchlight dimly penetrated the canopy two hundred meters north of the patrol and small sparkles of light flickered through the trees as the pilot eased the chopper toward the evacuation site.
Suddenly the light moved directly over the patrol and flooded the tiny clearing, painting everyone with such intense light that it washed the color from their uniforms and equipment. It looked liked they’d been dusted with white powder.
Though Hollister was more optimistic about the chances of getting the injured pilot out okay, there were plenty of negatives. Once the Dust-Off chopper stopped its forward crawl over the hole, it was like placing a pin in the map and telling every VC in the area exactly where the evacuation was taking place. It also told them that every American was working without benefit of hearing or night vision. So, all enemy eyes in the area would be focused on the chopper marking the patrol’s location.
The pilot brought the chopper to a steady hover only fifty feet above the rescuers. If he took ground fire and lost power, it would most likely mean the lives of those waiting below the chopper for the cable. They all watched anxiously as the violently whipping branches thrashed the skids while the pilot settled into the treetops.
Doc Norris and Davis carried the injured pilot to a spot directly below the chopper as the medic in the Huey’s open door threw the switch lowering the winch line with the horse collar.
Wanting to reassure the chopper crew, Hollister raised the handset to his lips and cupped the mouthpiece with his hand to cut down on the feedback of chopper sounds. “You’re looking good, Five-niner. Just keep it coming. You’re right on the mark. Fifteen more feet.”
The tension in the back of Hollister’s neck turned into a knot as he impatiently watched the steel cable slowly unwind, lowering the rescue device.
Davis stood on his tiptoes and reached up to grab the spinning strap. Once he got a firm grip on it, he guided it down to the injured pilot.
Doc Norris moved to the pilot’s head and lifted him to a sitting position. Without wasting a second, Davis slipped the horse collar down over the pilot’s shoulders and began to buckle it under his arms.
Suddenly Allard’s security team started firing across the top of the rescuers at something on the other side of the downed aircraft.
The Dust-Off pilot broke in on the radio. “Shit! We’re takin’ fire man! How close are you to hookin’ that guy up?”
Hollister tried to shake off the sinking feeling that came over him knowing that they had been busted by the VC. “Shit!” he said to himself. He heard his people firing but couldn’t hear the VC. He looked up only to see green AK-47 tracers slicing by the Dust-Off chopper. Pumping his raised fist, he gave Davis an unnecessary hurry-up hand signal.
“They’re strapping his arms down now … maybe fifteen seconds. Stay with us, man. This guy’s only got one chance. If you have to go around, he might be a KIA by the time you get back!”
“I’m going to try to hold what I got, but those fuckers have my number. For Chrissakes … put some heat on that VC fire, will ya?” the medevac pilot said without a quiver in his voice.
“You get this guy out and let me work on the ground fire.” In spite of the vulnerability of the hovering chopper, Hollister was amazed at how pilots always seemed to keep their voices so matter-of-fact.
And Five-niner was no different. “Okay, you keep those fuckers off my back and I’ll get him out,” the pilot said as calmly as if he were asking Hollister to pass the salt.
Hollister heard enemy rounds cracking over the pilot’s mike. This pilot had balls.
Since there was no one between him and the VC firing positions, Hollister pressed his rifle to his hip, careful to point the muzzle toward the ground twenty yards in front of him, and started firing three-round bursts in the direction of the enemy fire. His hope was that the rounds would strike the ground between him and the VC and skip low through the VC firing position. He knew he wouldn’t get lucky enough to hit anyone, but he wanted to do something to reduce the accuracy of the enemy fire. At his side, Theodore took the cue and did the same.
“Iron Mike, this is Two-six. Did you monitor mine with Five-niner? Over,” Hollister yelled into the handset over the noise on the ground.
Iron Mike broke in. “Hold your fire. I’ve got the little fuckers spotted. We’re rolling in on them now. I’m gonna be very low and very close to keep from hitting your people, and I don’t want to eat any of your fire. So, hold what you got till I make a pass and see what I can do.”
Hollister raised his rifle horizontally over his head and started yelling, “Cease fire! Cease fire! Hold your fire!”
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nbsp; Everyone quickly realized that the gunships were on a firing run and stopped firing while they made their passes.
Davis had tied the wounded man’s arms to his waist with a pistol belt to keep the unconscious pilot’s arms from rising, which would allow him to slide through the horse collar and fall free. Satisfied with the rigging, Davis turned to Hollister and gave him a take-him-up signal.
“Iron Mike, we’re holding up on the fire. Break. Five-niner, you can take him up now. He is strapped into the collar but cannot help himself. We are clear.”
Iron Mike clicked twice and the medevac chopper pilot replied, “That’s good, pal, ’cause I’m running out of rabbits’ feet up here.”
The gunships crossed within yards of the hovering Dust-Off chopper, firing into an area on the far side of the downed plane. They fired full bursts of minigun and rocket fire into the tight bamboo thicket. From the ground it looked like a red-hot string of metal squirting out of the minigun muzzles while small explosions flashed at the backs of the rocket pods as the rocket motors ignited. As the ordnance impacted in the target areas, tree branches, dirt, rocks, and debris were thrown everywhere.
In the center of the circle the cable slowly reeled in the pilot through the hole in the treetops. All around, the patrol members held their breath, alternately watching the pilot disappear through the canopy and searching the darkness outside the pool of light for any more VC firing.
Hollister looked around while he had the chopper lights to get a better picture of the situation. From where he stood, he could see the gunships making more firing runs while the flier got closer to the evac chopper’s skids.
Between gun runs Davis’s team fired into the suspected enemy positions and Allard’s team was still securing the high ground.
Then the medic on board the chopper reached out and grabbed the injured pilot’s flight suit.
Without waiting, Camacho and Davis dragged the dead pilot over to the spot his co-pilot had been just moments before.