CHAPTER 1
The Enemy Below
"During the Vietnam War 7,013 UH-1 Helicopters servedin country ... of these 3,305, were destroyed ... with a lossof life of 1,074 Huey pilots and 1,103 crew members."
Bright green tracers penetrated the "Triple Canopy" andfollowed us like a cat drawn to a fleeing mouse. Slowly at first, thenin an ever-increasing staccato, the deadly steel-jacketed rounds zeroedin on us and began punching holes in the body of our Huey ... tearingoff golf ball sized chunks of cast aluminum from the superstructureand sending them shooting in all directions.
I wondered how much punishment our chopper could absorbbefore a vital component was hit, sending us plunging to our deathsin the jungle below. The time for negative thoughts however, had longsince passed ... "my only concern was to pick up the wounded andkeep them alive until we reached the safety of a medical facility."
Scanning the dense foliage below, I looked for signs of an unseenenemy ... a glimmer of light from a fixed bayonet or possibly a gunbarrel that's bluing had long since worn off ... but what I saw wasnothing!
Our altitude was somewhat over 100 meters, well above the topsof the highest trees, yet somehow the bullets zeroed in on us withdeadly accuracy. I felt like the unwilling target in a Fourth of JulyShooting Gallery.
Below us, combat engineers worked feverously, clearing awayjungle and trees in an effort to build an emergency Landing Zone(LZ) for us. In the span of a few minutes, they had set out C-4 PlasticExplosives and "Det Cord" against all trees and brush within theproposed new LZ. It was a frantic battle, a battle against time andan enemy determined to destroy us.
"Fire in the hole ... Fire in the hole" rang out over the radio ofour chopper just as the explosives below detonated in a massive, earshattering, heart-pounding explosion. The result was an area, 50meters in diameter and free of any objects that could cause a potentialproblem for a helicopter landing.
Somewhere below us, the 311 NVA Battalion was engagedin a desperate battle with Delta Company of the First InfantryDivision and B Company of the 70th Combat Engineer Battalion.The engagement was a pointless and wasteful struggle of men andmaterial for a plot of land that had zero value to either side save theprice in lives that men were willing to pay for it.
Within seconds, the radio in our chopper sprang to life again ..."bring in the Medivac ... I say again bring in the Medivac! The LZ ishot ... I say again the LZ is hot." The hot referred not to the steamy100 plus degree ambient temperature in the Landing Zone below usbut rather the intensity of the direct incoming fire from the enemy.We had come into hot LZ's before, but never one taking such intensefire.
"Mike Echo Six Niner, be aware, we have control over less than50 % of the area surrounding the LZ," the RTO (Radio TelephoneOperator) on the ground barked out into his PRIC 25 Radio. Hisvoice was clear and concise yet embedded within it was a sense ofurgency and yes ... even fear.
"Shit," I quietly mumbled to myself, as a cold shiver ran downthe length of my body. I never believed much in organized religion,but maybe this was a message to me from a higher power telling methat something bad was about to happen.
Our Huey suddenly started taking a terrible pounding fromenemy fire. Red and Orange lights on the pilot's console suddenlycame to life, blinking on and off in rapid succession ... warning us ofimpending disaster.
In an effort to minimize exposure to enemy fire, our pilot decidedto approach the newly created LZ at a higher rate of speed thannormal, then dive down into it at a steep angle and pull up just beforehitting the ground. It was a risky move, but given the damage thatwe continued to sustain, a worthwhile one.
I could feel us pick up air speed then suddenly the pilot pushedthe nose over into a steep dive. I felt like I was on an E-Ticket Rideat Palisades Park. I could feel the G forces on my body pushing meback into the aluminum-framed seat. As we approached the groundbelow, we leveled out and went into a hover. "Holy Shit," I thought,"we made it"!
Nearing the ground, I could see scores of men, wrapped in bloodsoaked bandages sitting, standing and laying around the outer edgesof the LZ ... but there were too many of them ... far more than ourchopper could hold.
Behind the wounded were the dead, covered in ponchos. Thehurricane like force of our helicopter blades blew the ponchos offthem, revealing a macabre like setting of mangled bodies, lost livesand unfulfilled hopes. Other choppers would later take out the dead,but for now, the living came first.
As the landing skids on our Huey hit the ground, the woundedwere quickly brought to us ... some on litters, some carried by comradesand others helped by soldiers on either side of them.
On the ground, chaos reigned! Men were running in everydirection. The sound of gunfire was everywhere, along with explosionsfrom enemy B-40 rockets, hand thrown grenades, LAW (lightAntitank Weapon) Rockets and rounds from our M-79 grenadelaunchers. Within seconds, our Medivac was loaded with woundedand dying but as fate would have it, we were overloaded beyond ourmaximum lift capacity.
In other words, we could not take off!
I knew, as did the pilot and copilot that with such a staggeringweight on board, we would never lift off the ground but first wehad to try. Pulling slowly upwards on the Collective stick with hisright hand, the pilot tried to coax the UH1-D upwards. The enginesmoaned and groaned and strained as they tried to overcome thelaws of physics that controlled the situation, but it was not to be.We were pinned to the ground as surely as if we had been weldedto fixed metal structures whose roots were buried deep within theVietnamese earth.
The co-pilot turned to me and started yelling something into theintercom built into his helmet. I saw him mouth the words but heardnothing but static and the background noise of the engines throughmine. Designed to drown out 90% of all external noise (specificallythe engine noise) and allow us to communicate freely, the intercomsystem had suffered a catastrophic failure ... probably a machine gunround from below.
In our down time at Camp Coryell, we practiced and practicedand practiced for catastrophic failure scenarios including loss of theintercom. Reading lips was one of them and it proved to be a basicskill that was difficult to master. We believed that the odds of everhaving to use it were near zero. We were wrong!
Armed combat has a way of turning the unexpected into theexpected and of separating the fool and coward from the everydayhero!
I pointed at my helmet and shook my head from side to side,indicating that I could not hear him.
Watching his lips, I could make out the words "too much weight",then he held up four fingers indicating four men. We had to lightenour load by removing some of the wounded, but which ones.
The wounded were stuffed into our chopper like sardines in acan ... many were critically wounded. The decision on who wouldstay and who would have to get off fell clearly on my shoulders ... aresponsibility I did not take lightly.
Seeing the co-pilots gesture, three of the wounded quickly slidoff the skids of the chopper onto the ground and hobbled off into thebattle that surrounded us. It was a selfless act of bravery ... sacrificingthemselves for their buddies. It was but one of many that I wouldwitness this day.
We were, however, still one man heavy and since there was notime to re-evaluate the medical conditions of those onboard, I madea drastic decision ... I would stay behind.
I yelled into the microphone in my helmet to the pilot and copilotthat I would give up my spot, forgetting that the intercom was dead.The pilot pointed to his helmet and shook his head. I then pointed atmyself and pointed at the ground indicating that I would stay.
Reluctantly, the pilot agreed and shook his head to indicate so."Good luck" he mouthed. I would certainly need it!
I grabbed my aid bag, ammo, rifle and pack, jumped off and gavethe pilot the thumbs up signal. I wondered if I had made the rightdecision. Only time and God could answer that question.
The engines revved up and this time Huey # NP667 startedto lift off. Within seconds, my ride home cleared the treetops anddisappeared. A big lump formed in my throat. I was now part of amajor battle for yet another piece of worthless ground.
I quickly put on my gear and moved into the thick undergrowthjust outside the LZ. Suddenly, from behind me, I felt a tap on myshoulder. "Shit!" I thought it was an NVA. I turned quickly in thatdirection with my finger now on the trigger of my M-2 Carbine andstarted applying pressure to it. What I saw was the smiling face of asergeant from the 1st Infantry who immediately pushed the barrel ofmy rifle away from his chest.
"No more choppers coming in here Doc," he said. "It's too hot.We're pulling in both units to a tighter perimeter, then we're gonnacall in air strikes."
"We've got wounded out here," he said, "our medic is dead andwe need your help."
"OK," I yelled out, trying to make my voice heard over thedeafening noise of gunfire, death and pain. We made a mad dashto an area about fifty yards away, where the wounded had beenmoved.
They were scattered everywhere ... wrapped and covered withblood soaked bandages. Some grimaced and screamed in pain whileothers lay quiet and motionless as the forces of life slowly ebbed fromtheir bodies and souls.
Amidst all of the horror, screaming and dying, my mind flippedfrom kill and survive mode, to "Back Home Mode." It wasn't aconscious choice on my part but suddenly I flashed back to thewoods behind my grandparent's house in Iselin New Jersey in 1964.There, I spent many wonderful hours playing with friends or justby myself. It was there that I caught my first fish in the creek thatflowed from Colonia thru to Iselin. It was a beautiful and naturalsetting. Hardwood trees with large green leaves were everywhere. Itwould have made an ideal setting for a picnic with the family or agirlfriend.
Seconds later, I flashed back to the reality of warfare and realizedthat the trees that surrounded me might help save my life by slowingdown any bullets with my name on them, transforming a kill shotinto a wound shot ... at least that's what I hoped.
Six months earlier, I had volunteered to extend my Tour of Dutyfor an additional seven months. I wanted to fly Medivacs and Iwanted to get out of the army early but most of all, I wanted a BritishSports Car!
It was a decision made by a twenty two year old, obsessed withowning a Red or British Racing Green sports car. I calculated thateven after sending most of my paycheck home during my first tourthat I would be short on money to buy my Triumph.
I was determined to make enough extra money in Vietnam,possibly save a few more lives and return to civilian life with a brandnew sports car ... you know that low slung, five-speed sex machinethat was a chick magnet.
As a medic onboard a chopper, I would earn flight pay in additionto combat and base pay. "What a deal, I thought ... after only 18months in Nam I would have enough money for my hot new car.Wow ... Holy shit!
What could possibly go wrong, after all, I had conquered my fearof death during my first tour so this should be a cakewalk. In myhaste to "sign my extension papers," I neglected to factor in the NVAand VC into my "Sports Car Acquisition Equation"!
The enemy was everywhere; there was "nowhere to go and noplace to hide." The fighting was all around me. There was no frontand no rear to this engagement. If I was a negative thinking guy, Imight have classified this as being a "Custer's Last Stand" Scenario.
The wounded were scattered everywhere. I went from man toman, looking at their wounds and how they were bandaged. At FortSam during medical training, we were required to make out a medicaltag for each wounded man such that when that wounded soldierreached the next level of medical support, usually a field hospital,the nature of the wounds, the treatment and any drugs(morphine)given would be written out.
It was a brilliant idea, but in this combat situation, it was a wasteof time. In the time it takes to make out a med card, a medic canbe treating multiple patients. The decision to tag or not tag a manwas the medic's decision. I was never forced to make the distinctionbetween seriously wounded and walking wounded; the woundedmade that decision for me.
The walking wounded asked for nothing more than a bandage anda return to the fighting. We all recognized that in this engagement,every man played a critical role in determining how many of uswould survive.
Based on the number of casualties that I saw and the ferocity ofthe firing around me, I knew that this might well be the last day onearth for many of us, including me.
The word passed quickly from man to man ... we were completelysurrounded!
I grouped the most seriously wounded together in one smallopening in the undergrowth. Surrounding them were six guards, sixguards to protect those who could no longer defend themselves.
The medical supplies that I carried with me as I left the chopperbarely scratched the surface of what I needed to treat so manywounded.
A hand on my shoulder and a concerned look on the first sergeantsface told me the situation was worsening. "Doc, they're breakingthrough ... defend yourself!!!!
I turned my attention from the wounded and reached down formy M-2 carbine. It was loaded with two 30 round magazines tapedback to back and I had already chambered a round but had purposelyleft the safety on.
Crouching down into an almost kneeling position, I changedmy concentration to the jungle that surrounded me. Small armsfire around me intensified and I knew that the enemy was close ...probably only a few yards away, but I could see nothing beyond a fewpitiful feet to my front. I could feel the adrenalin pumping thru mybody and setting off heightened levels of sight and sound awarenessin me. It did one other thing to me also; it pissed me off!
I raised my rifle in the direction of the heaviest small arms firing,switched off the safety and pushed the selective fire switch forwardinto the "Auto" position changing my semi-auto rifle into a machinegun. It was my intention to loose as much firepower at the enemy assoon as I could. It had to be a confirmed sighting, however, and notjust sounds or the movement of bushes for it was my guess that theenemy troops and ours were now intermixed ... a no win situationfor either side.
Suddenly on my left, only a few yards away, a small group ofNVA burst out of the undergrowth and headed straight for us.
I fired an extended burst of about ten rounds, dropping all butthree of them. Ak47 rounds tore up the ground around me as theNVA came ever closer. More enemy to the right ... I then fired alonger burst, maybe 15 rounds or so.
Suddenly, an explosion knocked me off my feet. I felt a burningsensation in my left leg and knew at once that I was hit. Lookingdown I saw that the color on my left pant leg had changed from greento a dull red as blood was oozing from my leg. There were a couple ofsmall punctures in my ripstop nylon pants just above the knee. I sawno other evidence of a wound, so I removed my survival knife andripped open the pant leg just above the wound just to be sure thatthere wasn't a more severe wound that I had missed. There wasn't!
I reached up to the first aid pack that was attached to my webharness, ripped it open and placed the bandage over the oozingblood. Then I tied it tightly to my leg. I was good to go.
