If the tail rotor will stay together just a couple more seconds!
"There, to the right," he said to Billy-Joe. "Stay on the controls with me!" With both of them working the controls with all their might, they managed to steer the gunship toward a small opening in the jungle not much wider than the rotor cone.
And then he saw that the clearing was not as wide as the rotor cone.
Billy-Joe made the same judgment.
"Oh, shit!" he said.
Oliver flared the gunship out high, just above the treetops.
He was in effect landing there-except that the ground was twenty feet below him instead of a couple of inches.
The gunship stopped flying and fell straight down.
The tail rotor struck the trees; the tail-rotor shaft severed.
A moment later the gunship hit the ground in a slightly nose-down attitude. The skids instantly collapsed, absorbing some of the shock. And then the fuselage touched the ground with a bone-jarring crash.
The tail boom ripped off.
The main rotor head and the transmission tore loose and shifted forward.
The rotor blades, still moving, sliced the nose of the gunship off neatly, with a horrifying screech of tom metal, just forward of the. instrument panel.
Almost as if it was happening to someone else, Oliver waited for the next blade to slice through his door, and then him.
Instead, it struck the ground and stopped.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Billy-Joe said.
Oliver looked at him a moment, and then they both unfastened their seat and shoulder harnesses. They stood up and just walked forward, where the nose and instrument panel had been.
Then, as if waking up, Oliver became aware that the engine was running out of control. He knew what caused that: When the transmission and main rotor head had shifted forward on impact, the short shaft between the engine and the transmission had either broken or tom loose. Because there was no load on the engine any longer, it was about to tear itself apart.
When that happened, it would scatter parts as lethally as a hand grenade, except that the parts would be bigger.
When he looked into the cabin, he saw that Staff Sergeant Paul Thornton, the crew chief, had not only survived the 'crash' but was already on his feet, working on the quick disconnect on the fuel line. Seconds later the insane howl of the engine suddenly died. "Tiger Lead, Bikini Two. Tiger One just went in. Crashed. He hit hard. Shit, it blew up." Oliver looked at the walk-around, an emergency FM transceiver in his hand. He didn't remember grabbing it before leaving the gunship. He put it to his mouth.
"Bikini Two," Oliver replied, "why did Tiger One go down? Are there any survivors?"
"I think he got hit after he cleared the LZ. Looks like some people came out of it."
"Bikini Two, we're on the ground," Oliver said. "Even if we had another ship to pick us up, it couldn't land where we are without hitting the trees. I'm going to torch the bird and dee-dee out of here. We'll call you on the emergency radio later. H He walked quickly to the side of the crashed ship and looked inside.
"Everybody all right back here?"
"The black guy took a slug in the leg," Corporal Williamson said matter of factly. "Where the fuck are we?"
"Sergeant Thomas to you, asshole," Thomas said.
"He told me he didn't think it got an artery, and he can still move."
"We're going to torch the ship," Oliver said, "and then dee-dee into the jungle."
"If you torch it they'll know where we are," Thomas said.
"They know where we are anyway," Oliver replied, thinking simultaneously, I don't have to explain myself to this guy. "Maybe if they think we crashed, they won't be so anxious to look for us."
"And maybe they will," Sergeant Thomas said.
"You find the thermite grenades, Billy-Joe?"
"Williamson threw them out," WOJG Daniels replied.
"Shit!"
"I know how to set it on fire," Staff Sergeant Paul Thornton, the crew chief, said.
"Do it, Paul," Oliver ordered.
Master Sergeant Thomas took a small, hand-held radio from his pocket and spoke into it. "Bulldog Six, Three. We're down."
"Three, Six, we'll find you. Eight," Father Lunsford replied.
"What does that mean? Eight?" Oliver asked.
"It means whenever the little hand points to eight, I'll key this thing for fifteen seconds," Sergeant Thomas said. "He'll home in on us."
"And they'll send somebody to pick us up, right?" Corporal Williamson asked.
"Not today," Oliver replied. "Not in this soup. And it's dark already. Probably first thing tomorrow."
He felt Sergeant Thomas's eyes on him, met them, and saw in them that Thomas thought that he was either a fool or a liar.
"Let's get into the jungle," Oliver said, and pointed toward the east.
"I think we ought to go west," Sergeant Thomas said.
"Do what I tell you, Sergeant, will you, please?" Oliver said, coldly furious.
Master Sergeant Thomas shrugged his shoulders and moved to the east.
Oliver looked at the helicopter. Sergeant Thornton had somehow-Oliver had heard no noise-ruptured a fuel cell. JP-4 was spilling out, forming a puddle. Thornton took a Zippo from his pocket, opened it, and worked the lighter fluid-soaked cotton wadding out of the bottom. Then, using the lighter, he ignited the wadding and tossed it into the puddle of JP-4. It burst into flame, and a moment later there was a small but growing cloud of dark smoke. The J~-4 fuel was really beginning to burn.
"That ought to do it, boss," Thornton said. "I'll stay and make sure." Oliver and Thornton waited fifty feet from the downed gunship until the JP-4 was burning furiously, then they followed Master Sergeant Thomas and the others into the jungle.
When two hours later the first Nung mercenary appeared, silently stepping out of the forest in the near absolute darkness, he so frightened Oliver that he really thought for a moment he was going to faint or be sick to his stomach, or both.
He leaned on a tree, weak and dizzy, while the mercenary conducted a whispered conversation with Master Sergeant Thomas, of which Oliver understood not a word. In what Oliver, with growing annoyance, decided was in Thomas's own sweet time, Thomas came to him.
"Father took a couple of hits," Thomas explained laconically.
"Where is he?"
"They're bringing him," Thomas said impatiently. "As I was saying, the pain must be pretty bad, 'cause Father gave his radio to this guy and took a needle. One of the Nungs took some hits, too, so that's three people who can't walk out of here."
"We're going to have to walk out of here, Thomas," Oliver said. "There's no other way. The rain is not going to stop."
"I say we wait until it clears," Thomas said. "They know we're here; they'll send something-maybe an Air Force Jolly Green Giant-after us. "
"You don't listen good, do you, Sergeant?" Oliver flared.
"I said the weather is not going to lift. And Charlie is going to comb this area looking for us. We have to move; and given that, I think we should walk toward Vietnam, not away from it."
"You don't think Charlie will think we'll head toward 'Nam?' Thomas asked. "And look for us there?"
"I think I've had enough of this discussion, Sergeant," Oliver said. "If Father Lunsford is out of it, I'm in charge."
"Yes, Sir!" Thomas said with exquisite sarcasm.
Father Lunsford was truly out of it. When he appeared, ten minutes later, supported on one side by a Nung mercenary and on the other by Technical Sergeant Peter Alonzo, the crew chief of the other shot-down gunship, he was deep literally-in the arms of Morpheus.
Sergeant Alonzo told him that the pilot, copilot, and door gunner of the gunship had been killed in the crash when they went in; he had been thrown free and was bruised and sore but otherwise all right.
Captain George Washington Lunsford's reaction to their predicament was a cheerful smile and certain philosophical observations.
"For yea,
though I walk through the valley of death," he pronounced, smiling happily, "I will fear no evil for I am or maybe Doubting Thomas is-one or the other-the meanest sonofabitch in the valley!"
"How are you, Father?" Oliver asked.
"It smarted," Lunsford said, his face serious, frowning.
"Oh, my, how it smarted! You may have noticed that I have availed myself of the proper medication?"
"I've noticed."
"I place this brave little band of brigands and all-around feather merchants in your capable hands, Brother Oliver," Father said. "There being nobody else around to hand it over to. Doubting Thomas is all balls, and one hell of a radio operator, but he can't find his ass in the dark with both hands." Then he smiled even more brightly. A moment later, he went limp, and his eyeballs rolled white.
[THREE]
United States Air Force Hospital Clark Air Force Base Republic of the hilippines
3 October 1963
"Attention to orders," the portly little light bird with the Adjutant General's Corps insignia on his lapels said more than a little pompously. "Headquarters, U.S. Military Assistance Command, Vietnam, 30 September 1963.. . ."
"Excuse me, Sir," Captain George Washington Lunsford said very politely, "I can't quite hear you." He gestured toward his right ear, implying that he was a little hard of hearing.
Lunsford, wearing a purple bathrobe, was sitting on the bed; and the light bird had just pinned on him the Purple Heart medal (fourth oak leaf cluster) which had been given to the Colonel by an AGC captain, who had accompanied him.
The AGC light bird then turned to Oliver, cleared his voice, and boomed, "Award of the Silver Star Medal. For valor in action against an armed enemy, the Silver Star Medal is herewith awarded to First Lieutenant John S. Oliver, Jr., Armor. United States Army. Citation: Shot down while attempting to recover by helicopter a long-range Special Forces patrol operating in enemy-controlled territory in the vicinity of Dak Pek, Republic of Vietnam. . . ."
"So that's where we were. I wondered where we were," Captain George Washington Lunsford said, wonderingly, innocently.
The AGC light bird glared at him and then continued.
"Lieutenant Oliver, then assigned to the 170th Assault Helicopter Company, after managing a safe landing of a severely damaged HU-IB helicopter, established contact with the Special Forces patrol, three of whose members, including the commanding officer, were wounded. He then assumed command of the entire force of thirteen men and successfully, over a period of nine days, led it through enemy-controlled territory to friendly lines. During this period there were three encounters with enemy forces. For the last five days of the withdrawal operation, Lieutenant Oliver was suffering from shrapnel and small-arms wounds to his right arm and chest, and refused available pain-deadening medication in order to maintain his full mental faculties.
"Lieutenant Oliver's extraordinary courage, superb leadership, coolness in combat, and outstanding professional skill reflect great credit upon himself and the United States Army.
Entered the military service from Vermont."
The AGC light bird handed the orders to a Medical Service Corps captain and reached for the Silver Star box. Captain George Washington Lunsford put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Then he applauded.
The AGC light bird spun around and glared at him again..
"Sorry, Sir," Lunsford said. "I guess I got a little carried away. I mean, the Lieutenant saving my life; and all." With visible effort the AGC light bird restrained himself from saying what was in his mind and turned back to Oliver.
He pinned the Silver Star on his bathrobe, then offered his hand.
"Congratulations, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, Sir," Oliver said.
The AGC light bird turned and marched out of the room, trailed by the Captain.
"You're out of your fucking mind, Father, you know that?" Oliver said.
"I always get carried away on emotional occasions like that," Father replied with no evident sign of remorse. The AGC Captain came back in the room. He tossed Oliver another blue medal box.
"Purple Heart," he said. Then he looked at Lunsford.
"Hey, wiseass, you were almost a little too smartass for your own good. I just had to talk the Colonel out of jerking you off the evac flight in the morning."
"He was going home?" Oliver asked.
"You both are," the Captain said."
"He almost didn't. I guess the Colonel figured he'd rather have somebody else go through the paperwork of court-martialing you."
"For what? Applauding this splendid young officer's superb achievements on the battlefield in defense of Mother, and apple pie, and who knows what else?"
"Keep it up, Lunsford, you'll dig your own grave," the Captain said and walked out of the room.
"You're insane," Oliver said to Lunsford. "Don't you want to go home?" Lunsford looked at him a moment, shrugged, then opened the drawer of his bedside table. He took out an envelope, opened it, and held up a sheet of paper.
"Attention to orders," he said.
"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are," Oliver said.
"You just stand there at attention like a good little lieutenant," Lunsford said and resumed reading. "Headquarters, U.S. Army Special Forces Group, Vietnam, 25 September 1963. Special Orders Number 203. Paragraph eleven. Award of the Combat Infantryman's Badge. The Combat Infantryman's Badge is awarded to First Lieutenant John S. Oliver, Armor, 170th Assault Helicopter Company, for service in ground combat while serving as acting commanding officer, Special Forces Team C-16, near the Laotian border during the period 11 to 21 September 1963."
"Jesus, is that for real?"
"Yeah, it's for real," Lunsford said. He tossed a Combat Infantry Badge to Oliver, who dropped it and had to pick it up. When he was erect again, Lunsford handed him a small sheet of green paper, officially termed a distribution form, but universally called a buck sheet.
Oliver read it. On it, in pencil, was written, "For a skinny honky, you ain't all that bad a Green Grunt. Take care of yourself. M/Sgt D. J. Thomas." Oliver looked at Lunsford.
"Well, Slats," Father said, "you ever had carnal congress with a lady of the Philippines?"
"Not yet."
"Well, since we're not gonna be able to do anything about that tonight, you're gonna still just have to hold your breath. "
[FOUR}
The Army Aviation Center & Fort Rucker, Alabama 25 October 1963
The MP on the gate leaned down and put his hands on the door of the Desert Sand 1963 Pontiac convertible. He glanced quickly inside, and then at the driver. The driver was in civilian clothes; but to judge by the luggage in the back seat, he was almost certainly in the service.
"Help you, Sir?"
"Reporting in," Lieutenant John S. Oliver said. "PCS." Permanent Change of Station.
"First stop is the MP station, Sir," the MP said. "Just-"
"I know where it is," Oliver interrupted.
The Aviators Page 4