The man that I was giving first aid to was a sergeant. He was a small fellow with sandy blond hair. It surprised me to see that he was an older fellow probably in his late twenties or early thirties. Just about all of the others in the recon platoon were very young. I examined him very quickly and took note of the fact that he had a sucking chest wound, through the lung on his heart side. The holes from the projectile were the same size on both sides, indicating that he had been hit by an armor piercing bullet. The size of the holes also indicated that it had been a round from something around a fifty-caliber probably a Chinese or Russian 51. The openings would easily accommodate my thumb. I could find no other wounds on his body. Mentally I searched for the proper procedure. I reached for my wallet and quickly withdrew the plastic picture holders, I tore one off. I cut it in half using my pocket knife and stuck one piece in each of the holes front and back. I needed a bandage to secure the plastic in the holes, so I cut the bottom of my fatigue shirt off and tied it around him. Having done that I asked the sergeant how he felt. He said that he was doing all right and that he could breathe a little better. I took him at his word and started to drag him back toward my helicopter, which was some one hundred seventy-five meters away. Moving him along the ground proved to be a very difficult task. I would inch backwards eighteen inches at a time and then pull him to me. This procedure had to be repeated over and over across the seemingly endless meters of old paddies. We finally made it to the last hedge row between us and the helicopter. I had glanced back to see that Tom and his wounded man were coming. They were not too far behind us.
From my appraisal of the situation, I decided that it would be useless to crawl along the ground. We would be in the open, an easy target if we poked along the way we had been going to get to where we were. I decided to pick the man up and carry him over my shoulder and make a run for the helicopter. I hoisted him up and got him positioned over my shoulder before I made a run for it. I zigzagged across the open area of the LZ moving toward the helicopter. Bullets hit the ground around us in profusion, but amazingly enough, I was not hit, nor was my charge hit by any of them. In my mind, as goofy as it sounds, I could visualize something like this in a John Wayne movie, not in real life. Our desperate run had paid off; we made it to the helicopter. I put the sergeant in on the floor, in the aft compartment. He seemed to be doing fine, even after his bumpy ride on my shoulder.
I squinted looking back across the LZ. Tom had followed my lead having put his man on his shoulder, he was moving across in a fashion similar to mine, bobbing and weaving across to the waiting helicopter. He put his man in on the back floor beside the first. I took a look at him. He did not seem to be doing very well. He was in a great deal of pain from a gun shot wound from a large caliber weapon (Probably another 51 Cal) in the lower abdomen. (The enemy was smart enough to use a caliber that was slightly larger than what we used. Therefore, they could use our ammunition, but we could not use theirs.) There was nothing we could do for him. I could smell the stench from the ruptured intestines, as the fluids oozed from his abdominal wound. With a wound like that there was nothing that we could do for him, except try to stay the flow of blood and get him to the medical field unit a soon as possible.
As I examined both men I had been almost oblivious to the bullets that continued to hit the ground around the helicopter. Some hit the helicopter as I jumped into the right front seat. Another officer came running from the north of the LZ. He was a pilot that I did not know and was therefore newer than me. He climbed into the vacant left seat. Again I looked and did not recognize him. In the bustle and commotion of the fire fight he introduced himself and asked me if he could fly co-pilot for me. "Fine," I said. He sat in his seat and did nothing.
I started spinning the turbine over for the start, anxious to get the wounded back to a medical unit of some sort. The starter motor whined and the rotors began turning. There was only one problem the flame in the turbine engine had not ignited properly. I would have to abort the start and try again. I continued to crank the turbine over as I cut off fuel, according to the abort start procedure. I began the start procedure over again. The turbine caught and started to burn, we were in business. The RPM started to climb as the bullets continued to hit around the helicopter. The turbine and rotor RPM gradually came up to speed and I hurriedly took off to the north and climbed as rapidly as I could, while taking up a heading for LZ Hammond's medical helipad.
At altitude we were able to relax a little while in route to LZ Hammond. The man that was flying co-pilot for me had introduced himself as Captain Allison Smithson. He had not been checked out in the Huey and had been riding along that morning as part of his check out, since nothing of any consequence was going to be happening.
"Pleased to meet you, Captain," I said.
"Do you mind if I fly some," he asked.
"No, not at all," I replied. Who was I to contradict a Captain, only being a lowly Warrant Officer. "I'll take care of the radios while you fly, Captain."
"Thanks," he said.
We continued cruising as fast as the ship would fly toward LZ Hammond. I radioed ahead relaying what had happened, just in case they had not heard. Smith seemed to be doing just fine, in straight and level flight, so I relaxed until we came within sight of the Med-Evac pad. Captain Smithson flew as I called in telling the medical people what to be ready for. We started our approach. I kept my hands lightly on the controls just in case something out of the ordinary would happen; it was also SOP (Standard Operating Procedure). As luck would have it, something did. This guy was a good pilot at all. In fact, he was terrible at making an approach. He seemed to have no control of the ship while trying to descend for a landing. I thought to myself that he must be an ROTC product. I tactfully took over control of the helicopter and landed on the medical pad. The Corpsmen at the 15th MED EVAC unit unloaded our wounded quickly and we immediately took off. We had received a call, on the FM radio, that we were to pick up another squad at our Troop LZ, then take them back into the area we had just come from. Things had livened up even more after we had taken off from the fire fight.
We went to our LZ, loaded as rapidly as we could, took off and headed back to the fire fight. I asked the Captain if he would do the radio work while I did the flying. I reminded myself that I was the command pilot of the ship. It didn't matter if the man in the left seat was a general; I was in charge. Captain Smithson acknowledged my command and graciously mentioned that he felt better with me in control, especially since we were going back into a very hot area.
Within a matter of fifteen minutes we were coming up on the area of the fire fight. I observed what was going on and made the decision as to where I was going to put the squad in and how I would go about it. I had noticed some of our men motioning for us to come in at one spot. I turned the ship and started an extremely fast (Hot) approach into the LZ. The gooks were popping off what seemed like thousands upon thousands of shots at us as we rapidly came down to deposit reinforcements. They shot frantically hoping that the ship would crash into our own men. The grunts bounded out of the helicopter and took cover.
Again I pulled collective pitch and made the Huey climb as fast as possible to get out of the effective reach of the weapons that were being fired behind us. We reached altitude and I asked Captain Smithson to call our unit and tell them that we would have to refuel before we could pick up the second load of troops. They acknowledged the transmission so we proceeded to the POL to refuel. The day had turned out to be quite exciting.
We took on fuel with the turbine still running and went as fast as we could to pick up the waiting grunts. I figured that there were lives hanging in the balance. The more men that we could get into the area the better chance we would have of keeping everybody alive.
While we had been flying, the only other lift ship in operation had been flying identical missions, bringing in more troops. We had been operating on our own, moving troops and evacuating wounded while almost all of the command had been either shot down or wounded.
Captain Smithson radioed that we were on our way from the POL. I pulled in pitch and rocketed away from the POL, landing at our pad in less than a minute. My adrenalin level was high, I was doing things automatically; the machine I was flying was an extension of me, just the way it was supposed to be. The level of activity, since I had been shot at and wounded, was at a fever pitch, and I loved it. The flying was terrific. I knew what was going on, because what my ship was doing was what was going on.
The troops were eager to climb into the helicopter as soon as we landed. I hardly let the helicopter settle onto the ground. I kept it light on the skids so that I would be able to pull in pitch and lift off as soon as the last man was in.
We climbed back to altitude, where I again pushed the Huey for all it was worth, tipping the air speed indicator to over one hundred and twenty knots. We again approached the area of the fire fight. We surveyed the area to see if these men needed to go into another field in the vicinity or back into the same LZ we had put the others in on our last flight. While we were contemplating our next move we received a call to put them in the original LZ, then go back to LZ Hammond and await further orders on the action. "Oh crap", I said. "Here we go again, to the waiting game."
We came in from the north again flying toward the enemy. Our troops were therefore located on the enemy’s north side. The automatic weapons fire had not let up since our last approach into the area. We could see the tracers that came close to the helicopter and watch as bullets tore open some of the Plexiglas windscreen. We came in fast and low trying to keep as little as possible of the ship pointed at the enemy and brought the skids close to the ground. Captain Smith had not touched the controls since his trouble on the MED EVAC pad....so I prayed that I would not be hit while bringing in the grunts. The grunts hopped out even before I had a chance to put it down. They were anxious to help their friends. The helicopter swayed from side to side as the grunts hopped out from the two open doors in the back. Tom signaled over the intercom to hit it and I pulled in as much power as I could, lifted, and did a pedal turn away from the enemy as we again climbed back to altitude and headed for Little Hong Kong and LZ Hammond to await our orders.
The time was 1315 hours when we landed. We shut down and headed for the mess tent. The Executive Officer met us on the way to the mess tent and proceeded to chew me out for only wearing half of my fatigue shirt. I wondered what in the name of heaven he could be talking about. Surely he had been on the radio and knew what was going on- that the CO had been shot down, Captains Richardson and White had been wounded, that the weapons section leader had been shot down and so forth. Everything had happened very quickly and I supposed that he may not have known what was going on. I told him and then he seemed to let up a little. Captain Smithson and I went to eat lunch and relax, that is after I put on another fatigue shirt.
Most of the Lift section pilots were already present in the mess tent when I arrived to load my tray with food.
As I walked from the mess line to find a table the Executive Officer came up to me and started hassling me about whether I had shaved that morning. I did not know whether he was joking or not, but I wasn't taking any chances.
"Yes, Sir," I replied. "I shaved at about 0400 hours this morning, Sir!"
"Well, shave again after mess Mr. Rollason."
"Yes Sir!"
I strolled over to sit with Jeff and hopefully eat my lunch without further, malarkie from the brass.
"Isn't this a crock of bull? I spend the whole morning enjoying myself and the excitement just to come back to the reality of the EO. What a bummer! Did you hear that crap; he wants me to shave twice a day now, if I'm here where it's convenient, that is."
"I shave about once a week, whether I need it or not," said Jack.
I could not decide whether Jack was lucky or not. I, while growing up, had always looked forward to having a beard and having to shave and other adolescent fantasies. It all seemed bizarre to me that this was really happening....they said it would....I just did not want to believe it.
I was brought back to the reality of lunch by someone, who had not been flying that morning, asking me what all had happened. I started to relax, relating what had happened as far as I was concerned. I talked and ate enjoying my story. I got to the part where Captain Smithson had almost bought the farm on the 15th MED EVAC pad and I got a little carried away, almost making fun of him. Captain Smithson overheard my remarks. Captain Smithson approached me later-alone-and reprimanded me. I apologized and, fortunately, the matter was dropped. I believe that he felt we were both blowing off some steam from the morning. We continued our conversation exchanging bits of information which we knew. I knew that the CO's ship had been shot down, but I was not aware that he had suffered, what was described as, a compressed back from his crash landing.
The Lift section leader Captain Richardson had, in fact, been shot on the ground while taking pictures. It had happened at the start of the shooting - he had been on a line with me and the position that had fired on me. He was wounded by being in the wrong place at the right time. The Scout section leader had been shot down, but had not been wounded or hurt at all. The Weapons section leader had also been shot down and had suffered minor injuries.
Speaking of wounds and injuries, I was beginning to notice mine. My wounds were what I considered to be superficial in nature, not worth mentioning, especially after having seen men critically wounded. There were lots of people, of all ranks, that got Purple Hearts for ridiculous non-combat wounds such as getting cut while opening a tin of food or in some cases, for just being there in the vicinity of the action. But, I was young and naive and full of noble thoughts.
I treated the wounds to my own satisfaction, in my tent that afternoon, and let the matter rest.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon waiting at LZ Hammond for further orders and/or information on the operation of the morning. Here we were again after having had a taste of what was actually going on, to be almost totally shut off. I found it to be totally frustrating. "Well, doze ar' da' breaks, fella'." I mumbled to myself.
It was late afternoon when we were called in to get the grunts. It had been a long and a slow afternoon for me, because I felt that I had a hand in starting the operation, but was excluded from almost everything else that had happened.
***
Even though we had started the day with only three Lift ships in operation, we had all four up and flight ready for the extraction that would inevitably take place that afternoon.
We had been gathering bits and pieces of information all afternoon and had found out that it had been theorized that we had stumbled upon some district meeting of NVA Officers and their Red Chinese advisors. According to the count we heard, there had been forty-five NVA killed and one Red Chinese advisor during the action of the day. We had caught them basically unprepared and with their pants down.
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