Rolling Thunder

by Mark Berent

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1415 Hours Local, 27 January 1966

  O-1E over War Zone C

  Republic of Vietnam

  Parker yawned and squirmed in his seat. He had flown so much with Travers in the last few days that he felt a permanent part of the airplane. He had found it hard to tell Travers how much the flight suit meant to him. Up front he saw Travers pull out Monaghan's sketch and compare it to the terrain features sliding underneath. Travers nodded.

  “Ok, Toby," Travers said over the intercom, "that's it," he pointed down at the clearing, "that's the China Boy LZ. I've got it," he waggled the stick to show Parker he had control of the airplane.

  Parker transmitted the search call on 30.2, the Mike Force emergency frequency. "China Boy, China Boy, if you read come up Fox Mike." Everybody knew the call was usually pointless. Of course China Boy would be all over the Fox Mike if they heard an airplane. But sometime, so the reasoning went, a survivor might be hidden and not hear the sound of the searcher's engine. The survivor might be listening constantly, but not transmitting to save his battery because the power required to put out a voice signal was many times that used by merely listening. So he wouldn't push the transmit button until he definitely had someone to talk to.

  "China Boy, China Boy, this is Copperhead Zero Three. If you read come up Fox Mike." Parker heard only random static rush in his headset.

  Travers held the plane in a pylon turn at 1500 feet direct­ly over the LZ as both men stared straight down.

  "Hey," the red-haired pilot said, "I think I see something." He tilted the little plane into a steeper bank and dropped down to 1000 feet. "Look 10 meters to the west from the northeast corner of the LZ at the base of the tree line. See that clump of bamboo that juts to the south?" Parker said he saw the bamboo grove. It was a thick clump, maybe ten feet across, of tall, green bamboo stems soaring up to 20 feet or so topped by thick clusters of green leaves. "Just at the south end of the grove, what do you see?" Travers asked.

  "Something dark and moving," Parker answered looking at a moving dot of color that did not match the green of the bamboo or the brown-green of the elephant grass that covered the entire LZ.

  "Let’s get closer," Travers said, dropping down to 500 feet. He kept the engine rpm up and had the airplane flying just over the redline speed of 128 knots. The controls were stiff and quick and the air rushing past the struts and through the three empty rocket tubes sounded like a waterfall.

  "Jeez, I dunno," Parker said, "that dark color does look out of place and, hey, I think it's moving."

  "By Christ, we'll find out," Travers said between gritted teeth as he rolled the tiny airplane on its back and pulled through what looked like the second half of a loop in what pilots call a split-S. Travers deliberately left the throttle up causing the engine to scream and the plane vibrate badly as the airspeed needle crept 20 knots past the redline to quiver at 148. He flattened out 10 feet above the saw grass headed north toward the bamboo clump. Their hearts beating wildly, both men stared intently straight ahead, Parker peering over Travers's shoulder. The plane was such a part of Travers he didn't have to give any conscious thought to controlling it. As with all good pilots, he willed it to be where he wanted, and it happened. They were headed straight toward the bamboo grove, well below their tops.

  "Toby," he yelled to Parker over the wind noise not using the intercom, "I'm going to pull up and bank left. Look straight---AAAHHHHFFF," Travers belched out air and slumped forward over the stick forcing the plane down as a cluster of 7.62mm slugs from an AK-47 tore into the plexiglass windshield and doors.

  For an instant Parker was frozen as the wheels of the O-1E dipped into the six-foot-high saw grass. Then, hardly aware he was doing so, he grabbed Travers by his collar with his left hand while trying to pull back on the control stick with his right. The O-1E went down in the grass and the wheels slammed into the ground as Parker simultan­eously pulled on Travers, worked the control stick, and fiercely punched the rudder pedals first one way then the other trying to maintain lateral control and still get the airplane back into the air.

  The plane wobbled and bucked, slewed left and right with each wild turn, the wings dragging first left then right just on the edge of a ground loop, Parker acting instinctively, employing skills and strengths from an internal reservoir never before tapped. But he knew it was all over when two black-clad figures aiming AK-47s popped up in the grass slightly forward and to his left, their muzzle flashes beginning even before they assumed their shooting stance. Parker's heart gave violent thumps that he was hardly aware of as he confronted death from the grass winking at him from two flashing fiery eyes.

  After a split second of wild throat-clutching panic when his mouth filled with an incredible taste of copper, time stopped and he saw with great clarity of detail the two men in black pajamas shooting at him and, with hands still clutching Travers and the stick, throttle at full scream, he ruddered the stricken craft straight at the two men to kill them and die himself but the two men crumpled suddenly, one firing wildly in the air as they were ripped by bullets from behind.

  In the split second it took place, Parker realized that in setting up his death drive at the two men he had regained control of the aircraft and was almost at flying speed. He eased back on the stick, still holding Travers, wondering why the engine didn't quit. The wheels cleared the grass and Parker looked down to frame a picture of four tiger-suited men; two crouching, two standing and shooting. He laughed insanely to himself and looked up to see he was below the approaching tree line. He horsed back on the stick in violent reflex, wheels brushing leaves, and felt the first nibbling shudders of a stall as the tiny plane traded what little airspeed it had for barely enough altitude to keep from crashing into the tree tops. Parker held it two feet above the trees as the engine pulled the O-1E beyond stall to flying speed.

  Realization flooded Parker that he was still alive and had a lot to do. As the airspeed built up, he slowly climbed, heading away from the LZ until reaching a safe altitude. He let go of the stick and pulled Travers full back in the front seat and reached down and moved the knob that locked his shoulder harness holding him upright off the stick though Travers's head rolled from side to side on his chest. With all of Parker's senses concentrated on the task at hand, he didn't smell the blood soaked into Travers's flight suit and around his ankles to drip on the floor boards.

  Parker circled back to the LZ in time to see the tiger-suited Mike Force team in a shoot-out with black figures advancing on the hidden position the Americans had given away when they brought down the two VC shooting at the O-1E. Without hesitation, Parker pushed the nose down into a screaming dive wondering fearfully if the airplane would hang together as he reached over Travers and fired the remaining rocket at the black figures. He pulled up and switched to UHF Guard channel.

  "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Copperhead Zero Three at the 320 radial for 42 miles off the Bien Hoa Tacan. I found China Boy and I need all kinds of stuff; F-100s, chopper gunships, and a Dustoff to pick 'em up they're under attack and wounded. I say again; Mayday, Mayday. Anybody copy?" His voice was high-pitched and frantic.

  Instantly the air was full of transmissions, squealing and blocking each other out. Realizing what had happened, they all shut up. One voice took over.

  "Copperhead Zero Three, this is Ramrod Control on Guard. We got you. Go 273.4." Parker rogered and switched his UHF to the new frequency to clear Guard channel.

  Back at the 531st, Lieutenant Colonel Demski was running the map room command post. Bannister and Monaghan, airborne in an F-100F, call sign Ramrod Three Three, heard the Mayday and headed for the China Boy LZ just minutes away. Demski told his assistant, Major Bob Derham, to make the necessary calls to Slingshot on HF to get the rescue underway, then transmitted to Parker.

  "Zero Three, Ramrod Control. You'll get it all. Break Break, Ramrod Three Three, you up this freq?"

  "Roger Control, Three Three. We're at the LZ at 20 thou. We got the FAC
in sight. Break, break. Copperhead Zero Three, do you read?"

  "Yeah," Parker burst on the radio, his voice high-pitched now as the enormity of the situation sank in. "Yeah, get down here. The bad guys are closing in but I'm out of Willy Pete to mark for you. Wait a minute," he said.

  He knew Travers kept some smoke canisters for such a situation. He edged forward and fumbled over Travers's shoulder to grab the canisters clipped to the map case. Travers moaned and clutched at Parker's arm.

  "AAAHHHH, GOD, he screamed, "Help me. I'm hit. I'm dying. Help me, Toby. Help me." In his delirium Phil Travers began to thrash and jam the stick. Parker hastily disengaged from his clutching hands, snatched a smoke, pulled the pin and dropped it out the open panel of the right window. He had to quickly grab the stick to level the wings as Travers savagely writhed and flung his arms about, hitting the stick and nudging the throttle back. Parker jammed it forward. The canister fell to one side of the clearing sending up billowing clouds of white smoke.

  "China Boy is in the bamboo 50 meters north west of the smoke. The VC are due west headed north. No bombs, they're too close to the friendlies. Quick, get some 20 mike-mike down to hold 'em off," Parker transmitted.

  Bannister, who had been letting down at top speed, throttle back, boards out, instantly rolled in off-heading, wrong airspeed, switches not set yet but knowing he could correct it all as he got closer.

  Parker could see that Bannister's first pass would make the VC stop for a minute or two, but then they would fan out to flank the China Boy team. Travers thrashed more, and screamed. Parker fought the stick and hollered on Fox Mike for any Slingshot helicopter. "Slingshot, Slingshot, where are you?"

  Still listening on FM he switched to Ramrod Control. "Where the hell are those choppers? Phil is full of holes and I've got to get him home."

  "Take it easy," Ramrod Control said, “we--"

  "ALRIGHT COPPERHEAD," a loud voice cut in, "SLINGSHOT DELTA'S UP. YOU READ?"

  Parker ignored Ramrod and switched to take Slingshot Delta's call.

  "HOW FAR OUT ARE YOU," he demanded of Slingshot.

  "Five minutes, five minutes, Copperhead, we've got three gunships and two slicks. Five minutes." Parker rogered and switched back to Uniform. He could see the VC flanking move and had to correct Bannister's next pass. Travers screamed and thrashed almost dumping the plane upside down.

  "Phil, Phil," Parker sobbed, trying to fly the plane and pat the delirious man's shoulder, "it's all right. We're going home soon. Just another pass. Hold on, hold on. I'll get you home." Travers was becoming uncontrollable. His wild and terribly strong attempts were now focused blindly at the stick. He thought Parker was wounded and needed saving. "I'll get you home," he mumbled, head slumped on his chest eyes trying to focus on the control stick as he grabbed it in a choke hold with both hands and snatched the plane straight up into a stall.

  "Oh God, Phil, no, noooo," Parker yelled. He grunted as he fumbled at his holster and brought forth his .45 and clumsily hit Travers on the back of the head. "Forgive me, forgive me," he sobbed. He saw his first blow was ineffect­ual. He tried once more then slammed him as hard as he could. Travers’ bloody head slumped to his chest and he released the stick.

  Parker recovered the aircraft from the first wing dip of a spin and quietly told Bannister where to drop his nape and that Slingshot Delta was due in five minutes. He orbited the plane at 1000 feet to better see from where the VC were mounting their attack. After knocking out Travers, some inner mechanism completely dissociated Toby Parker's mind from the man in the front seat. He noted with complete detachment that he was, for the moment anyhow, operating in a completely auto­matic mode. Bannister had put in his last napalm when the pickup helicopters called in on Fox Mike.

  "Ah, Copperhead, this is Slingshot Delta. We're ready to go to work. We got Frogs, Hogs, and Chunkers to prep the LZ and high and low Dustoffs to make the pickup. You copy?"

  Parker knew from previous conversations with Travers that Frogs and Hogs were Huey helicopter gunships with various mixtures of miniguns and 2.75-inch rockets while a Chunker mounted an M-75 grenade launcher.

  "Roger, Slingshot," he transmitted, "set up your pattern and get to work. I've got an F-100 orbiting for whenever you need him. And go 273.4 on Uniform so we're all on the same freq, acknowledge."

  "Acknowledged. Slingshots go 273.4"

  "Ramrod," Parker said after switching to UHF, "hold high and dry. Slingshot will pick them up. Break, Break, Slingshot, you got the bamboo clump on the north edge?"

  "Roger."

  "Right at the southern base are four of our guys and the Nungs. We have no radio contact. The VC are on all three sides and closing. You control your own pickup, I'll stand by with the Hun if you need--OH MY GOD, my engine quit. I'm going in."

  The little plane, in a steep bank at low airspeed, immediately stalled as the last drop of gas exploded in the cylinders.

  "Roll level, get your nose down," he heard Bannister shout over the UHF. "Put it down in the grass. Slingshot, cover him on each side. I'll strafe in front of him."

  Parker righted the plane and concentrated on recovering flying speed as Bannister slammed his fighter into a wrenching turn, dove past the struggling O-1E and started firing into the tiny area directly ahead of Parker. The Slingshots whopped into position and started working over both sides of Parker's intended landing path.

  In seconds the air was full of smoke and flames as rocket after rocket sped to the ground exploding and setting fires, the 7.62mm miniguns saturated the saw grass, the M-75 blooped 40mm grenades into pockets of advancing VC as Parker flopped the O-1E onto the ground between the advancing figures and the stranded Mike Force.

  The right wheel hit a hummock buried in the grass and folded back dropping the right wing which dug in and spun the plane into a half circle before coming to rest, propeller bent back. The painted mouth looked like it was biting into the earth. Slingshot leader hovered directly over the broken airplane as Dustoff landed 100 feet away next to the Mike Force team. Parker barely noted all the shooting and explosions of battle as he flicked open his seat belt/shoulder harness and tumbled out of the sprung right door into the space formed by the folded wheel and the broken right wing which was over his head like a lean-to shack.

  He flipped over on his back and pulled his tangled feet out then rolled onto his knees, still crouched under the wing, to reach the door panel next to Travers, bent back on itself where the wheel strut had collapsed against it. Parker pulled the hinge pins and wrenched the door from its sockets. He didn't even look for Travers's pulse, but started wrenching at the fastener to free his seat belt.

  His world had narrowed into this small sweaty place under the wing in the crushed grass. Battle sounds faded and he felt he had all the time in the world. He fumbled and tugged at the metal fastener. It was covered with slippery red blood and had been fused shut by the slugs that tumbled into Travers's stomach. Toby Parker didn't know he was making keening sounds in the back of his throat.

  The Dustoff helicopter flattened the tall saw grass like wheat in a windstorm as it settled to the earth between the crashed plane and the bamboo clump. Asian men in tiger suits, the Nungs, rose from the tall grass to run to the landing bird nearly giving the pilot heart failure until he realized these were the friendlies. Wolf Lochert and Myers yelled at Spears and Haskell to cover them while they ran in the direction of the crashed O-1E. Flames from grass fires set by Bannister's napalm and Slingshot's rockets cracked all around while advancing toward the American position. Acrid smoke swirled out in rolling whirls from the rotating helicopter blades, which would keep the fire at bay until liftoff. The VC crept and knelt and fired from spots as they fought to get through the flames to overrun the Americans.

  Crouching low, carrying their weapons, Lochert and Myers reached the crashed O-1E and took in the scene instantly. Lochert bent and jammed himself under the broken right wing then straightened his body lifting the wing on his back while Myers, seei
ng Parker's problem, slid his K-Bar knife out and slit Travers's shoulder harness and lap belt.

  "I'll get him," Parker said. He pulled Travers out by his arms and with Myers's help slid him over his back into a fireman's carry and walked on his knees clear of the wing. Myers scrambled after him. Lochert ducked out and let the wing and airplane crash back onto the ground. Flames had already started biting into the tail section. The grass fire smoke was a dirty gray wall around the airplane.

  "Which way?" Parker coughed.

  "This way," Myers yelled, heading for the helicopter. Lochert pushed Parker along behind the running captain then turned to fire long bursts into the smoke wall in the direction from which he knew the VC were coming. He heard the battle sounds with perfect clarity and, as did Myers, was able to determine exactly who was firing what weapon from where and whether the shooter was excited or calm.

  Myers, in the lead, running through the smoke, shot two VC from the rear as he swept over their position. Parker with Travers on his back and Lochert following, leaped over the bodies. The three men suddenly popped through the smoke into the 50-foot diameter clear arena formed by the Dustoff's downwash. Spears and Haskell stood on each side of the helicopter, firing into the smoke at shifting figures, retreated backwards to the doorways. The Nungs, upon their command, did likewise. It was far too late to get the second Dustoff in. This one would have to lift off with 13 men on board.

  Sling­shot Delta had been directing Court's strafe pattern in concert with his gunships, but they had to stop as the visibility in the LZ fell to nearly zero. As willing Nung hands pulled Phil Travers from his back, Parker bent forward onto the heli­copter deck. He and Myers scrambled on board. Spears cried out, and spun to the ground spasmodic­ally flinging his weapon almost as high as the whirling blades. The pilot was pulling up on the collective to lighten the bird. He knew it would be a difficult takeoff since the tall grass would absorb most of his ground cushion. Lochert scooped up Spears and tossed him through the door then jumped in behind him. All the men inside stood or crouched in both side doors firing outward as Haskell took a running dive in the door. A potato masher grenade arced through the open spot between the men in the door and lodged in the rear bulkhead seat webbing in front of Haskell's eyes as he lay on the floor. The heli­copter was lifting off.

  Yelling "Grenade, Grenade," which caused a Nung to jump out and scream as three bullets ripped into him before he hit the ground. Haskell snatched at the smoking wooden handle intending to toss the explosive over­board. It was too tangled. He paused, then hitched himself forward and up on his knees to cup the grenade into his belly and fold his body over it.

  The Dustoff, nose down, was ten feet in the air gaining momentum as the pilot fed forward cyclic as fast as the helicopter could take it. The men inside were still shooting downward. Only Parker, lying on the floor cradling Travers's head in his arms, saw Haskell's tuck. They were staring straight into each other's eyes as the grenade exploded.

  The homemade cast iron grenade fragmented into thirteen pieces as the low order explosive detonated. The splinters from the wooden handle and most of the fragments entered Haskell's belly, thighs, and chest. The remaining fragments tore away his hands and punctured the rear bulkhead and the flooring. One Nung, Lochert, and Parker each received fragments into the fleshy parts of their bodies causing superficial wounds.

  The roar and concussion of the explosion deafened and stunned the 12 men so badly the pilot momentarily lost control and the helicopter started a torque rotation. The wind whipped the smoke out as fast as it appeared. The pilot regained control, and set the ship on course for the landing pad at the 3rd Surgical Hospital at Long Binh across the road from Bien Hoa. The remaining Slingshots formed up to escort the Dustoff. Bannister made one last strafe pass into the flaming LZ, agreed with Monaghan who said quietly from the backseat that it had been a helluva day, and exited the target area in time to hear Slingshot calling him.

  "Ramrod, this is Dustoff. We just got the word. Long Binh's socked in. We have to recover at Bien Hoa. Can you get the hospital folks to have some ambulances ready? We got two Kilo India Alpha, six Whiskey India Alpha." (2 KIA, Killed in Action; 6 WIA, Wounded in Action)

  "Roger, Dustoff. Wilco. Great job, man." Bannister switched to Ramrod Control and told them what was happening. Demski said he'd take care of everything.

  Leading the arrow formation of protective helicopters, the Dustoff flew at its top speed of 115 mph. It wasn't the first time the pilot had pushed the Lycoming T53 turbine engine to its maximum performance. The slipstream whipped in the doors, drying blood and cooling the battle-weary men. Lochert, finished with bandaging Spears, sat strapped into a side seat, staring out the open door down at the green ridges and jungle canopy reviewing in his mind the battle scene they had just departed.

  Next to him, Myers head back against the webbing, eyes closed, also saw the battle and heard the explosions.

  Spears, strapped between two impassive Nungs, was passing in and out of consciousness. The Nungs sat with folded arms intoning silent prayers of thankfulness to Phuc Po. Parker sat on the floor, back against Myers's legs, cradling Travers's head in his lap, trying from time to time to smooth Travers's wind-whipped hair.

  Bannister and Monaghan beat the Dustoff by ten minutes. Doc Russell with three ambulances, four attendants, and the male nurse in the USAF hospital, was waiting. The 3rd Surg at Long Binh had a medical crew due in 30 minutes. The helicopter touched down just ahead of a rain squall.

  Russell got in before it had fully settled on its skids. Dried gore and blood made the interior look like a sloppy abattoir. The walking wounded eased out into the many waiting hands. Dazed and bloody, white-faced, Spears shook off offers of help as he stepped down and promptly collapsed into the arms of the nurse who eased him down onto a stretcher. The Nungs looked with ragged suspicion at all the white faces gathered in a circle around the Dustoff. The crowd of curious dispersed as the rain whipped torrents of water on them.

  Inside, Doc Russell turned from the shredded body of Haskell to kneel and examine Travers. He found a pulse and signaled an attendant to hand him the material to start an immediate plasma IV. He plunged into his medical kit to extract a needle and gave Phil Travers one intramuscular shot of a quarter grain of morphine and one of antibiotics. Parker remained with Travers, holding his hand as Doc Russell worked over him. Parker's face was black with soot, his left cheek was torn, his hands were covered with dried blood, his new flight suit was bloody and torn. He had a small skin puncture from a grenade fragment in his left thigh from which he had yet to feel the pain.

  Outside the helicopter, Lochert and Myers sat in an ambulance being swabbed and cleaned up by attendants looking for wounds. Rain drummed on the roof. In moments, all three vehicles were en route to the hospital with an Air Police jeep escort, sirens scream­ing and lights flashing.

  Though the Bien Hoa Air Base hospital was not used to treating wounded soldiers bloody and dirty directly from the battlefield, their experience with the ruination caused by aircraft accidents and torn bodies from automobile crashes had helped them to prepare for the task at hand. Triage was performed in the emergency room and patients apportioned out according to the severity of their wounds.

  The Nungs drew respectful stares as they stoically endured cleaning and stitching of wounds far deeper than originally thought. Phil Travers and George Spears were taken into the oper­ating room for immediate surgery to be performed by Doctors Conrad Russell and Robert Conley. The team from the 3rd Surg at Long Binh arrived to assist with their highly honed proficiency at treating gunshot wounds.

  Within an hour the rain storm had blown over. Parker, Lochert, Myers, and the Nungs had been cleaned up and released. Monaghan came by in a six-by truck to pick up the Nungs and Lochert. Parker and Myers remained, sitting in the hall outside the operating room.

  On his way out, Lochert had put his arms around Parker's shoulders and said what a great job he had done. Parker
merely nodded.

  Soon, pale and uncon­scious, Spears was wheeled out on a gurney. The surgeon from Long Binh said he had lost a lot of muscle and tendon from his right arm, but would be just fine. Myers, patting Parker's shoulder, left to accompany Spears to his bed.

  Parker alternately paced and sat slumped in a plastic chair. At one point he asked a passing orderly for a cigarette and smoked the first one he had ever had in his life. After a few coughs, he dragged the smoke deep into his lungs with each inhale. He kept seeing visions of Travers laughing as he related some anecdote then crumpling and crying out for help as Parker hit him with the butt end of his .45.

  The orderly passed by and gave him more cigarettes. Parker paced and smoked, and sat once again. Once he dozed slightly then jumped up when heard Travers scream for help. He looked around wild-eyed before realizing he had imagined the cry.

  Another hour crept by before the door of the operating room suddenly swung open. The Long Binh team, pulling off gloves and hats, exited away from Parker talking among themselves. Parker got to his feet to go after them just as Doc Russell walked through the door, with his sterile garb bloody and stained, and his eyes red rimmed and ancient. Staring at him, Parker knew the exact words Russell would say. And Russell said them.

  "He's gone."