I had watched the fire barrel, a 55 gallon drum at the corner of the hootch
for the past two weeks. It was not out of curiosity, though I was curious,
but dread of what I knew was in store for me and that barrel. Each day, the
crewmembers of Medevac, brought left-overs from the mess hall and
dumped them inside the barrel adding to the stench of the previous day's
fermenting garbage. One could hardly pass the thing on their way to the
showers or latrine without being overwhelmed by the odoriferous onslaught
of putrefied waste; even the smell of diesel and dung in flames, held a
sweetness compared to the dreaded barrel.
I stared at the barrel with trepidation, knowing we had a common destiny,
but unaware of when that time might come. I almost wished this inanimate,
stinking, repository could speak; that it could forewarn me of the coming
events. One of my new friends, at Medevac, had appraised me of the ritual;
a kind of passage that each crewmember must endure in order to gain the
acceptance of these wild crazy men of the sky. These warriors who
swooped down into hot LZs to pluck the wounded from the jaws of death;
men who held their grit while hoisting patients and withstanding the
withering fire of Charlie Cong. I was both exhilarated and mortified at the
prospect of joining their ranks; from Infantryman, to leading Montagnards,
and now, to flight, yet, maintaining that razor's edge of life and death, as
adrenaline coursed through one's veins. I had decided to become a
Medevacer, at any cost.
Finally, the uncertainty drew to a close; about an hour before darkness
came, I was informed that tonight would be the night. My initiation was at
hand; the proper concoctions of rotten food, ceremonial hemp and a shot,
or two, of booze having been added to the red receptacle, I was to undergo
my formal christening into the unit; 15th Medevac.
As crew chiefs, medics, gunners, clerks, maintenance members and others
began to appear, alcohol flowed freely, but not for me. There was a reason
for this, as I was later to learn. They milled around, joyously, at the
prospect of my coming discomfort; waiting for the pilots to put in their
appearance. Mike Vinyard, crew chief extroidanaire, had a penchant for
carrying a .45 Colt Automatic, rather than the standard issue .38 Police
Special that everyone else wore, except Ferg; he favored a captured
Tokerev. To pass the time and, of course, heighten my discomfort, it was
decided that I should be blindfolded and made to disassemble and
reassemble his trusty weapon. The general attitude was, that with Mike
being the only one familiar with the weapon, it would cause me great
consternation completing this task.
So it was that I was placed on a lounge chair, blindfolded with Dan Brady's
scarf and handed the weapon. To everyone's puzzlement, and my delight, I
cleared the weapon, tore it down to it's basic components, smiled, and put it
back together again. Unbeknownst to the assemblage, I was on very
intimate terms with the .45, as well as with a myriad of other small arms. To
say the least, I had gotten off on the right foot.
As darkness approached, the crowd became more raucous and the pilots
appeared; having already fortified themselves with numerous rounds at the
O'. Club. It was time to get this little party underway and, if not for my
informant, I would have gone into the whole affair weary of the outcome,
but with the coaching of this anonymous tipster, I had a few ideas of my
own. Reedy, Arky, Brade, Tom, and others, escorted me outside to the
barrel; the stinking dreaded barrel where a crowd of some, 40 to 50
members of Medevac were assembled in various stages of inebriation. Now,
all I had to do was follow instructions.
Little Okie seemed to be the Master of Ceremonies, chewing that large cud
of tobacco, affectionately called "The Roach". The name was derived from
it's appearance, looking much like the huge Florida beetle, after being used
and spit from the mouth to the ground. Like the tracks of a train, you could
follow Okie's movements by the discarded roaches on the ground. Several
grasping hands helped me climb into the barrel of slime, while others
chuckled and whispered unheard jokes. Someone handed me a beer, a hot
beer; I was to chug-a-lug beer until I puked. It doesn't take a lot of hot
beer in a rancid barrel to turn one's stomach so, mid-way through the fifth
beer, I barfed. Then, to add insult to injury, eggs were broken and placed
inside a steel pot, which was placed on my head, and I was instructed to
sink down to my chin in the gooey slime and sing the Medevac Song. Not
knowing the words, my hearty cohorts helped me with the lyrics. Then, as I
again rose to a full upright position, a bayonet was placed between my
teeth, in true John Wayne fashion, as Johnny Uebelacker and others
snapped away with their trusty cameras. Once this was over, there was to
be one final insult.
The Roach, which Okie had been coddling all this time, was removed from
his mouth and offered to me. It would be an insult to refuse this cherished
symbol of manhood and so, I placed it in my mouth. Little did the crowd
know that my tipster had, also, informed me that no other member could
refuse it, either. So, with great aplomb, after a couple of exaggerated
chomps, I passed it to another of the men. He, in turn, took his chaw and
passed it; over 40 men passed the roach that night.
Finally, they decided that I had been a good sport, they were drunk enough
and we could remove my carcass from the barrel and throw me in the
shower. I shocked everyone with a dare; there was an above ground
swimming pool down by the green line and I dared them all to strip and
follow me down, in the middle of the night, for a midnight swim and
cleanup. Medevacers were never to be outdone so, we all stripped on the
spot, headed across the flight line and down to the pool. The "Old Man",
Payne, even drove down in a jeep with our beer.
There we were at a pool party at two o'clock in the morning; playing
volleyball in the water and having one heck of a good time. Someone,
knocked the ball out of the pool and out into the barbed wire of the green
line. The men manning the bunkers were beside themselves and, I guess,
someone called it in. Fergy crawled through the razor wire to retrieve the
ball and received the only wound that night, for his trouble, a laceration of
one of his butt cheeks. Even that didn't dampen our spirits.
As a result of the report from the guard, the M.P.s arrived to break up our
little party, but laughed so hard that they could hardly contain themselves.
They actually talked us into returning to our own area and offered to give
us an escort. There we were, 40 plus strong, naked, walking up the road in
the glare of their headlights singing the Medevac Song. I was a Medevacer,
officially. Acceptance was instantaneous and mutual; I had a family, now.
It was the last swim we had in that pool. I suppose the V.C. decided that we
didn't deserve such luxuries and, shortly thereafter, perforated our beloved
pool with rockets and mortars. I would have to wait until my turn to go to
the field site at LZ Mace, with a short hop to Ham Than and the South China
Sea to swim again, but that crazy night in June of 1970, I'll never forget.
Old gunners never forget.
Wait, wait, wait. The passage of time was beginning to exact its burdensome
toll: anxiety and frayed nerves. When I had finished chow, I walked the 50 or
so yards from the HHC Mess Hall to the Battalion Aid Station to await Babcock,
the Dispensary driver. At around 1930 hours, several guys mildly taunted,
"Are you still here? Maybe they ain’t comin’ for you, slick. Look, thereâ
€™s always the club." Maybe Babcock wasn’t coming. What should I
believe? The scheduled 1800 hours rendezvous had long since passed. Never
the less, I did not want any part of the EM club. I was not enamored with the
prospect of finding delightful companionship and intellectual stimulation. Nor,
did I have a thirst that needed to be quenched. If I wanted a Pepsi
generation drink, I could scrounge up something. Besides, if I were inclined
to drift away from the Aid Station, I would have headed over to the nearby
15TH MED Medical Laboratory. Sergeant Johnson or Sergeant Anderson
would welcome me, and I would bathe in the intellectual stimulation they
offered. They knew that I had been a student before Sam stamped me with
the US prefix; and, they encouraged me to follow through on my plans to
complete my education. They were helpful in pointing out the benefits that
the GI bill offered. Moreover, through associating with these out of the
ordinary NCOs, I learned things that had useful applications. By observing
and discussing their work, I learned about specimen preparation and
analytical procedures. The knowledge that I gained was indispensable when
Dr. Packanowski asked me to perform several types of tests. Too, Anderson
and Johnson always had something unusual to relate. There was the time, for
instance, when Hugh O’Brien came to the Lab to have a malaria smear
done. That’s, Hugh O’Brien, the actor who played Wyatt Earp in the
Warner Brothers TV series! But, I suppressed the desire to visit the Lab,
because an incident that occurred when I worked for Sergeant Green dusted
me with distasteful psychological residue. In a sense, I was gun shy. I did not
want to contend with harassment and cutting remarks. Yet, there was a glow
of humor that took the edge off of my anxiety. There was that memorable
time when I figured that Bell would arrive late, and I decided to saunter over
to the EM club. No sooner had I walked through the door, and I was stricken
by the incredulity of the vision before me. I knew this guy when I was in
Basic Training at Fort Bliss, Texas! He wore the chevrons of a Sp/5, but he
was a Sp/4 when he had been the Company Clerk of Delta-3-3. "Hey, Snell!",
I excitedly called out. Snell instinctively snapped his head toward the sound of
my voice and fixed his gaze on me. His bespectacled face projected a quizzical
look. Yeah, I know this guy, but from where? "Snell!", I repeated. "Basic
Training at Bliss! Remember?" I continued to approach the bar, where he was
seated. Then, the spark of recognition was ignited, and he excitedly thrust out
a hand shake. "Right! Holy shit! This f_ _ _ _ _ _ Army is somethin’ else.
Whoever said ‘small world’ wasn’t kiddin’. Least not as far as
the Army goes." We reminisced for hours. And, I did something that really
smacked of poor judgment. I quaffed staggering quantities of rum and Coke,
courtesy of Sp/5 Snell. The clock merrily ticked away to 2230 hours. Then,
Sp/4 James Bell made his appearance. And, he was mad. "Man, where the f_
_ _ you been? You don’t even want to know what’s waitin’ on
you!" I nodded at Snell, and in a rambling monologue, I argued that Bell
was the culprit. He blew the 1800 hours rendezvous. Bell contorted his
sweaty face. "Say, what? Man, you’re f_ _ _ _ _ -up! Hope you like goinâ
€™ to LBJ!" When I arrived at the Villa, at 2300 hours, my reception
committee was less than hospitable. Only skillful oratory and an act worthy of
an Oscar persuaded Sergeant Green that I was fit for duty. Miraculously,
spirits-induced giddiness fled from the stone, cold reality that laced me. The
prospect of being sent to Bong Son was no joke. My interlude was
terminated by Babcock’s welcomed arrival at around 2000 hours. "Hey,
Babcock!" I called out. "What’s up? I hope Carney knows this ain’t my
fault!" Babcock waved me off. "No, uh-uh. Everything’s numba one. We
have a bad thing goin’ on. The theater caught fire and a whole bunch got
f _ _ _ _ _ - up." I anxiously inquired, "Any burn casualties?" My knowledge
of burns was basic - that is, burns have always been the nastiest of wounds;
and, if not treated under a strict, sterile field, infection could rapidly develop,
causing the patient to experience an agonizing death. Babcock shook his
head, "No, nothin’ severe. But, we have beaucoup cuts, abrasions, facial
injuries, and some broken bones the 616th will handle. " No severe burns. I
was relieved. "And, what about IVs?" I asked, tentatively. I had an anti-IV
disposition, due principally to my negative experiences with Sergeant Green
and Sp/5 Harry Nelson. "Beaucoup!", Babcock drew out the last syllable.
"So what else is new?", I glumly replied. At that, I could feel the embryonic
beginnings of a knot in my stomach. The night shift, especially, inflated my
angst. Many were the times when, after being given the "works" by Green
and Nelson, I had to deal with situations that could have reduced anyone to
the dysfunctional state. I could not speak the language, I could not listen to a
patient’s pleas and importunities with understanding. And, I could not
assuage the misunderstandings of family members and friends. Their
reasoning apparently was, if the content of an IV bottle were emptied in short
order, the medicine would be replaced and that would benefit their sick
mother, uncle, or whomever. Far too often than I cared to recount, my efforts
to follow all doctor’s orders to the T, as Sergeant Green had written on
the patient’s logbook, were awash in a sea of tears. Sometimes, though,
the PF Medics, Thai, Thua, or Duc would mercifully rescue me and explain why
the IV should not be tampered with. Fortunately, no patient was lost due to
faulty IV treatment. Never the less, the persistent down-side of IV treatment
had to be dealt with: collapsed veins and the resultant infiltration of IV fluid.
An infiltrated IV could miraculously transform a puny arm into one of
Herculean proportions. The patient also suffered from the accompanying
discomfort. Additionally, there were my often abortive attempts to restart the
IV. In some patients, finding an uncollapsed vein was improbable, if not
impossible. Frustration, kindled by the tirades of Sp/4 Dave Simpson,
pushed me perilously close to the limit of endurance. Simpson had been with
Charlie Company, in Phan Thiet, before he was assigned to the Dispensary.
Simpson greeted Babcock and I as we pulled into the Dispensary compound,
just shy of 2030 hours. Simpson briefed me on the injuries sustained, Doctorâ
€™s orders, and treatments in progress. As I scanned the Wards, I confirmed
what Babcock had told me: there were, indeed, beaucoup patients receiving
IV treatment. I struggled to achieve a semblance of inner composure. After
all, Green and Nelson had DROSed , and under the oversight of Carney and
Rozzelle, my situation had moderated. But Simpson’s presence and a
compilation of bad experiences caused my well established defense
mechanism to take control: survival by not letting anyone play with my mind.
So it was that images of canned Ramar Of The Jungle scenes flashed through
my mind: the Savannah was ablaze and thundering herds of elephants,
rhinos, giraffes, zebras, and wildebeests were fleeing from the advancing,
engulfing flames. The TV commercial for a popular kids cereal, Crispy Critters,
blended into these out of place images: The one and only cereal that comes in
the shape of animals! Then, the things that I imagined had happened during
the fire - the confusion, panic, and stampeding- became juxtaposed with the
bizarre melange that danced and swayed through my mind. This was
absolutely ludicrous as well as highly inappropriate for the current state of
affairs! Yet, all I could do was laugh. Predictably, that fractured Simpson’s
fragile shell of tolerance; and, in his Down East accent he yelled, "What the f_
_ _ are you laughin’ about?" I knew I needed breathing room. So, I
retreated beyond Simpson’s reach. I shrugged and coolly replied,
"Simpson, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me." I could feel the
nastiness of the scowl etched on his sweaty face, as I turned obliquely to face
the Ward full of patients. It was another hot, sultry night in An Tuc. I hoped
the generator would not quit. I had patients to attend. And..beaucoup IVs to
monitor. Reflections: The An Khe Theater was a very popular center of
entertainment for the locals. Films were shown, but mostly, stage
performances and music were offered as live performances. Westerners
would be reminded of opera if they attended such a performance.
Fortunately, the structure was sturdy, and was not composed of wholly fire-
prone materials. If it had been one of the usual wooden fire traps, the
situation on that night, so very long ago, would have been dire beyond
imagination. The people who were in need of assistance were glad that the
Dispensary medical services were available that hectic night. Thankfully,
casualties were relatively light. What became of the theater? Well, it is as
good today as it has ever been. A tourist confirmed this by means of the color
print that he brought back. A physical connection to the past sometimes can
grant a measure of satisfaction. Still, though, the desire to know the things
that happened during the intervening years is irrepressible.
| Ghost Writer by John Zwalinski The Ghost Writer The intense Central Highlands sun mercilessly beat down on the corrugated metal roof of the long building that contained the Dispensary’s four Wards. Undoubtedly, the roof was creaking and straining as the blistering heat of the sun expanded the metal. Inside, we had to contend with an uncomfortable temperature that would have been unbearable, were it not for the small measure of relief that the noisy, oscillating floor fans provided. AFRVN was transmitting the sounds of the 5th Dimension tune, Up, up, and away, my beautiful, my beautiful balloon! I thought, Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice. Thai’s radio, tuned to the RVN station, announced the time. BEEP-BEEP- BEEP! Hai gio! 1400. We finished dispensing early afternoon medications; and, admitted several patients that Bacsi Mang sent our way. Shortly thereafter, Thai, Thua, and I were caught-up in an amusing scene. In the intense light of day, a rat dared to make a rude appearance, and we had it trapped between the medication closet and the corner of the wall near the Medics station. Now, I knew from the tales that I heard as a kid, that the rats that populated grain elevators were nasty. So nasty, in fact, that mean feral felines wanted no parts of them. True, the current venue was not a grain elevator, but I knew that this rodent, when cornered, could be aggressive and inflict a nasty bite. I dismissed the idea, really, a brainless musing, of putting an M- 16 round through the beast. Instead, we chose to do shooting of a different kind. Thua grabbed a can of insect spray, the generic olive drab GI version of Raidä, or whatever. This stuff, though, had a high concentration of DDT. The spray seemed to be doing the job; because, the rat was on its side, flailing away. Predictably, our activity attracted a curious entourage of onlookers. They were shouting in spirited, sing- song Vietnamese. Thua interpreted, "What do you do? What do you do?" The English equivalent sounded humdrum. I recognized one of the kids with whom I always joked. So, I did a silly whistle through my lower lip and teeth and hollered, "Hey! Hey!" The typical response would be a playful barrage of Vietnamese profanities, with a unique, and I thought, humorous imitation, "Hey! Hey!" But, this time I was treated to the cute response, "Why chu see-peak wheet-wheet?" What it was, was a question: " Why are you whistling?" Ah, wheet-wheet means whistle. Sometimes, I would hear the variation, "Why chu whittle?" I was so enmeshed in the festivities, that I took no note that Sergeant Tung stepped into the Ward. "Hey!", he called out. Unwittingly, he signaled the crowd to didi the area. I snapped around, and I could not help but be amused by his quizzical look. I swiped the sweat away from my forehead, and waved, blowing off the nonsense that puzzled him. "This? No sweat! We’re tryin’ to kill a rat. Itâ €™s trapped behind the medication closet." Sergeant Tung, one of a handful of ARVN interpreters who worked at the Villa during the hiatus of Sergeant’s Dai’s and Sergeant Tinh’s tenure, did not bother to acknowledge my explanation. Obviously, he had something important to discuss. "I want for you to help me with something." I noted the papers he was holding and tapping on his free hand. "Sure", I said, "I just hope I can." The papers that Tung held consisted of a letter written by Mr. Mang and Tung’s translation. As I skimmed Tung’s translation, I perked up. A glance at him told me that he could not quite get a read on my widened eyes. "Is it something wrong?" he asked, with a hint of anxiety. "No. No." I patted him on the shoulder. "I see that Mr. Mang has written this letter to General Tolson. That made me take note." I was not certain that Tung exactly understood what I meant by, "take note". But, his approving nod confirmed that he appreciated that I understood that this letter bore a significant message. Mang expressed gratitude for the Cav’s assistance in maintaining the An Khe Dispensary. He personalized the General’s role through the embellishing expression, "You well know the suffering of the Vietnamese people." Mang , the Civil Servant, had savoir faire. He recognized the need to tap the power and authority of the Cav’s CG. If Tolson believed that his people played a significant role in the "hearts and minds" mission, General Westmoreland’s cause celebre, the Dispensary would continue to receive support through the 15TH Medical Battalionâ €™s MEDCAP. It would, in raw parlance, "stay in business." I did not think to question why Tung asked me to evaluate his translation. That he did not approach one of the other GIs, was lost on me. "Tung", I assured, "Your translation is very fine. I understand that Mr. Mang is very grateful for the help the Cav gives to the hospital." "Ah", Tung responded with a snappy nod. "Then, I can finish letter and give Mr. Mang sign and send to General Tolson?" "Um.." I hesitated. "Wait, Tung " I tapped on the Medics desk, "I have an idea. Let me read over your text. I’ll expand on what Mr. Mang has to say." "Expand? What is this?" Tung peered at me through a squinty eye. "You have told me.." "Sure", I reassured, "Your translation is very fine." "But", I explained, "When I attended Penn State University, I was placed in English 2, Expression Of Ideas. I did very well in that course. I just think that you will like what I will write and Mr. Mang will like the good job that you did. Besides, the General should be very pleased when he reads the letter." "Then, that is very good." Tung nodded approvingly. "You can do it." Tung understood that I would remain in the background; and, as far as anyone would know, the translated letter would be his jewel. Surely, Mang would be so pleased that he would utter the Vietnamese equivalent of , " I couldn’t have said it better myself!" My task was basic, really. I had to make certain that the text did not project insincerities. Sugar coating of any sort would defeat Mang’s intended objective: to keep the An khe Dispensary operating. The General would read: Sir, you have shown compassion for the Vietnamese people who must daily wage a battle against the ravages of suffering, sickness, and death. Your compassion is expressed not only in words, but in your deeds and largesse. You recognize that access to medical treatment plays a critical role in the people’s lives. You have made it possible for very materially poor and sick people to be treated by the finest doctors and receive the finest of medicines. So often, we have witnessed the joy of parents when their child is rescued from certain death. And, the joy of husbands and wives as their loved ones recover from sick bodies. How can we possibly thank you? What price can we place on life and well being? That was the text that I developed from the original, "You well know the suffering of the Vietnamese people." When the General read the expanded statement, would he get the sense that Mang was telling him that he understood the suffering of the Vietnamese people? Well, that is exactly what I had in mind. Tung nodded with approval as I reviewed the text. There was, however, one other important detail. I suggested, "Tung, try to have this letter typed on official stationery. That will really make a good impression. Maybe Mr. Mang can help." Tung patted me on the back. And he beamed, "Can do!" About a month later, Tung was assigned to a line outfit; and, Sgt. Thinh succeeded him as the interpreter. I did not mention Mr. Mangâ €™s letter or Tung’s translation. As for my role in this affair, it was ephemeral; insignificant, really. So, I thought. But, soon after Tinh became the interpreter, the An Khe Dispensary received a distinguished visitor. Reflections: When I think about the time that Tung came to me with his translation of Mang’s letter, I get a sense of satisfaction that I participated in something unique. At the time, I did not make the connection that that letter probably influenced General Tolson’s evaluation of the 15TH Medical Batallion’s MEDCAP initiative. Too, I have wondered if Mang asked Tung to approach me. Maybe there was a connection related to the service that I rendered; and, that I remained at the Dispensary up until the time I DROSed. My mind echoes with the words of Sp/6 Benny Koveckas, a man who was proud to be a member of MEDCAPs and who loved working sick call and patient screening. Benny would set me straight on who was running the hospital. Whenever he felt I needed an attitude adjustment, he would admonish: "If you don’t think Mang don’t have no pull, you don’t know nothin’." Benny would punctuate his stern, fatherly tongue lashing with: "If Mang says youâ €™re gone, you’re gone! Do ya think ya’d like Bong Son?" I took Benny’s words to heart, and I endeavored to do my best. Never the less, there were times when my sense of purpose faded and I needed to be readjusted. But, there is the time that I recall with the kind of satisfaction that accomplishment imparts. That one special time when I was, The Ghost Writer. |
| First Team Book A MEDICS GREATEST FEAR Since graduating from the U.S. Army Medic School, I have suffered the terror of a recurring dream. Or should I call it a nightmare? I know that someday it is bound to come true.I dream I am shuffling along a narrow sandy roadway winding snakelike through dense, moist jungle. Triple canopy foliage drapes the tops of trees two hundred feet above, shutting out the sun. A small unit of infantrymen stalk slowly ahead and behind. We walk wearily, but with increased caution. No one speaks, yet we sense from the forest that something is wrong. Maybe it is the unusual absence of birds, the silence broken only by snapping twigs under heavy payloads, clicking machine gun shells dangling in bandoleers sagging from well-worn shoulders, heavy panting of sweat- soaked men. We continue, waiting for something to happen. We are looking for it, expecting it, seeking it - yet hoping it is never found. We know it is useless to hope. This is war, My head turns up at the faint crack of a twig somewhere ahead. I am caught for an instant by an intense twinkling of sunlight slipping between emerald jungle leaves. I linger for a moment, hypnotized by the blade of light, aware of what is about to happen. There is no reason to think. I react without deciding. My legs collapse, crumbling slowly to one side, my body falling yet hanging in mid-air. A cloud of red dust puffs into the still air as my body drops heavily to the ground. I bounce and roll, tearing at my pack straps. I am still in the open - still rolling. I feel the jab and tear of jagged rocks and sticks as I roll to a stop in a shallow gravelike depression. My arms are free. My pack lies with the aid bag in a clump of weeds a few feet away. I feel no wounds. The whole length of my body is pressed flat hard against the earth, my face compressed into the soil. I try to be thin but feel grossly conspicuous. Certain my rear is high up in full view. I grind my pelvis tighter into the ground. It will go no lower. I am stiff and trembling as bullets crack and whiz randomly about. The air is full of speeding metal. I expect the shattering, hot impact at each second. I sweat in sheets, my lungs heaving, my heart pumping a rapid pulse to the brain. Any time now…Any moment…" Medic!" Bullets whine, exploding into fragments, shattering branches which drop to the ground, whole limbs ripped and torn, "Medic!" Louder he screams out to me in panic. Slowly, through the evolution of seconds, my mind can see him sprawling face-up in the chalky dust, writhing in a puddle of spreading blood coagulating in the intense noon heat. "Medic….Please…." He claws the air beckoning to me, opening and closing each hand desperately, pleading. One-hand moves back clutching his eyes, a brush of tangled blond hair caught between sticky fingers wet with blood. "Please…help me?" The jungle is roaring a rain of bullets, the air pungent with gray smoke and dust. I begin to rise. Suddenly I imagine an explosion splattering my face, turning it to jelly…I cannot move. I know he is dying. I must get up! "Please!" I try to move. I am paralyzed, lying helplessly. "Please!" Tears streams glistening down my face plunk softly into the earth. I am sobbing and falling apart.I begin to vomit. It always ends there. I awake and am relieved to remember that it is only a dream. But today I am less certain. The airline stewardess speaks into the microphone solemnly. "Good morning, gentlemen. Hope you enjoyed your flight. Please fasten your seatbelts and observe the ‘No Smoking’ sign. The weather in Bien Hoa is hazy, but dry. The temperature is now 110 degrees. Hope you will all enjoy your stay in the Republic of Vietnam" |
There is a mystique about Medevac.So much has been written of the courage,
the dedication and espirit de corps of the men inMedevac that today they live
with legend. Tradition seems to affect their every action. Pridebecomes a
primary motivation."It’s why I joined the Army," said Medevac pilot
Warrant Officer Richard Leonard. "There’s something about saving a life -
and the way Medevac does it, defying the odds - that makes it appealing.""Iâ
€™ve never seen a mission aborted," said Specialist Four Dick Gamester, who
monitors Medevac Control at Phouc Vinh. "I’ve seen missions delayed by
weather and suppressive fire, but never called off. There are nights when the
only birds in the sky are Medevac." The espirit de corps touches everyone.
You can’t get into the program unless you volunteer and even then the
competition is tough. Specialist Four Mike Vineyard, a helicopter mechanic at
15th Med, worked in the maintenance shop before he got a shot at a crew
chief position in Medevac. "I frequently flew door gunner when we’d go
after a downed bird," he said. He didn’t have to go. He didn’t get flight
pay for it. "You just do it," he said. When a bird goes down, everyone heads
for the pad. It’s like a brotherhood." That startling routine response to a
call that seems beyond that of duty is part of the mystique of Medevac. Yet
there is another side. "It gets to be a little hairy at times," said Medevac pilot
Captain Ernest Bayford. "But I wouldn’t say there’s excessive strain
on anyone." He’s right, of course. Medevac teams lead a very comfortable
life when the going to slow. Half their time is free. Even at the brigade field
hospitals, where the teams are on call 24 hours a day, they have no duties
until suddenly, though routinely, they are called to scramble. "Downed
aircraft, let’s go! " Captain Bayford shouted from the doorway of the
crew quarters. It was 2:21 p.m. and the scramble was on. The crew reached
the chopper at full stride; in minutes it was airborne, hitting 100 knots at
treetop level. The bird climbed to 2,000 feet; then nine minutes after the call
and ten miles northeast of Quan Loi, the descent began. They circled once at
300 feet as a Cobra gunship pulled in behind. The downed aircraft was
somewhere in the thick green foliage below. A Light Observation Helicopter
(LOH), flying as low as it could, finally spotted the wreckage and marked it
with purple smoke. Aircraft commander Bayford banked the ship to the left
and hovered over the now visible downed helicopter, its slender tail
protruding through the bamboo. It was 2:33 when Specialist Five William
Meeks attached the yellow, torpedo-like jungle penetrator to the cable hoist
and lowered it to the bamboo below. On the ground a man grasped it and,
shielding his face from the entangling bush, rode the cable skyward. He
looked straight up at the chopper with a strained smile, drawing closer, closer
until he could touch the skid, grab the medic’s hand and pull himself
aboard. "We’ve got to get the pilot out! We’ve got to, got to!" he said
again and again, breathing heard as he lay against the cabin wall. The whine
of the hoist started up again, bringing the rescued door gunner to the side of
the ship and inside. He clutched at the medic-crew chief. It was 2:35. "Heâ
€™s trapped. I couldn’t budge him. He waved me away," the man blurted
out. "We’ve got to get him out, we’ve got to," said the door gunner.
"They will. They will," answered the medic. The ship gained altitude slowly,
banked to the left and circled again at 300 feet. It was up to the Blues now -
the crack infantry element of the 1st Squadron 9th Cavalry, already airlifted
to the area and maneuvering toward the downed aircraft and its pinned pilot.
The Medevac chopper circled above. Specialist Meeks turned at once to his
patients, wrapping and taping the crushed toes of the door gunner. As the
chopper passed over the crash site for the fourth time, a thick cloud of white
smoke erupted from the bamboo below, and there was a bright red flash
from the ground. "Hey, man, our ship just blew up!" the wounded door
gunner shouted. He turned to the medic with his eyes wide and fearful. The
medic talked into his radio mouthpiece, listened, and then looked up at his
patient. "He’s all right. The Blues got him out. He’s okay."
The helicopter circled down to land in a yellow meadow close to the crashed
and burning chopper. The rescued door gunner looked past the medic. A big
smile shot across his face and he flashed the "V" sign at the freed pilot, now
sprinting toward the ship."You’re the greatest. You’re the greatest,"
the rescued pilot cried to the Medevac crew as he climbed aboard. Then he
turned and lunged at his own two-crew members who caught him in a wild
embrace.
the dedication and espirit de corps of the men inMedevac that today they live
with legend. Tradition seems to affect their every action. Pridebecomes a
primary motivation."It’s why I joined the Army," said Medevac pilot
Warrant Officer Richard Leonard. "There’s something about saving a life -
and the way Medevac does it, defying the odds - that makes it appealing.""Iâ
€™ve never seen a mission aborted," said Specialist Four Dick Gamester, who
monitors Medevac Control at Phouc Vinh. "I’ve seen missions delayed by
weather and suppressive fire, but never called off. There are nights when the
only birds in the sky are Medevac." The espirit de corps touches everyone.
You can’t get into the program unless you volunteer and even then the
competition is tough. Specialist Four Mike Vineyard, a helicopter mechanic at
15th Med, worked in the maintenance shop before he got a shot at a crew
chief position in Medevac. "I frequently flew door gunner when we’d go
after a downed bird," he said. He didn’t have to go. He didn’t get flight
pay for it. "You just do it," he said. When a bird goes down, everyone heads
for the pad. It’s like a brotherhood." That startling routine response to a
call that seems beyond that of duty is part of the mystique of Medevac. Yet
there is another side. "It gets to be a little hairy at times," said Medevac pilot
Captain Ernest Bayford. "But I wouldn’t say there’s excessive strain
on anyone." He’s right, of course. Medevac teams lead a very comfortable
life when the going to slow. Half their time is free. Even at the brigade field
hospitals, where the teams are on call 24 hours a day, they have no duties
until suddenly, though routinely, they are called to scramble. "Downed
aircraft, let’s go! " Captain Bayford shouted from the doorway of the
crew quarters. It was 2:21 p.m. and the scramble was on. The crew reached
the chopper at full stride; in minutes it was airborne, hitting 100 knots at
treetop level. The bird climbed to 2,000 feet; then nine minutes after the call
and ten miles northeast of Quan Loi, the descent began. They circled once at
300 feet as a Cobra gunship pulled in behind. The downed aircraft was
somewhere in the thick green foliage below. A Light Observation Helicopter
(LOH), flying as low as it could, finally spotted the wreckage and marked it
with purple smoke. Aircraft commander Bayford banked the ship to the left
and hovered over the now visible downed helicopter, its slender tail
protruding through the bamboo. It was 2:33 when Specialist Five William
Meeks attached the yellow, torpedo-like jungle penetrator to the cable hoist
and lowered it to the bamboo below. On the ground a man grasped it and,
shielding his face from the entangling bush, rode the cable skyward. He
looked straight up at the chopper with a strained smile, drawing closer, closer
until he could touch the skid, grab the medic’s hand and pull himself
aboard. "We’ve got to get the pilot out! We’ve got to, got to!" he said
again and again, breathing heard as he lay against the cabin wall. The whine
of the hoist started up again, bringing the rescued door gunner to the side of
the ship and inside. He clutched at the medic-crew chief. It was 2:35. "Heâ
€™s trapped. I couldn’t budge him. He waved me away," the man blurted
out. "We’ve got to get him out, we’ve got to," said the door gunner.
"They will. They will," answered the medic. The ship gained altitude slowly,
banked to the left and circled again at 300 feet. It was up to the Blues now -
the crack infantry element of the 1st Squadron 9th Cavalry, already airlifted
to the area and maneuvering toward the downed aircraft and its pinned pilot.
The Medevac chopper circled above. Specialist Meeks turned at once to his
patients, wrapping and taping the crushed toes of the door gunner. As the
chopper passed over the crash site for the fourth time, a thick cloud of white
smoke erupted from the bamboo below, and there was a bright red flash
from the ground. "Hey, man, our ship just blew up!" the wounded door
gunner shouted. He turned to the medic with his eyes wide and fearful. The
medic talked into his radio mouthpiece, listened, and then looked up at his
patient. "He’s all right. The Blues got him out. He’s okay."
The helicopter circled down to land in a yellow meadow close to the crashed
and burning chopper. The rescued door gunner looked past the medic. A big
smile shot across his face and he flashed the "V" sign at the freed pilot, now
sprinting toward the ship."You’re the greatest. You’re the greatest,"
the rescued pilot cried to the Medevac crew as he climbed aboard. Then he
turned and lunged at his own two-crew members who caught him in a wild
embrace.
Snore
The Initiation
LASH
A Fire at the An Khe Theater!
A DOG'S TALE
The MEDEVAC call was, a Trooper Hit..... We went out on a, balls to the wall,
pick-up and wound up with a Shepherd in a rigid litter that was passing as a GI.....
It seems the Scout Dog had a head wound, with an Abdominal Patch Bandage
(APB) on like a bonnet and he looked like the 'Grandmother Character' in Little Red
Riding Hood.
Truth: You won't believe this........
The Handler had accidentally cut the dog with a machete, while they were tracking
the enemy. No one had thought of complications or SOP (standard operating
procedure) and, because of their love of the dog, the Ground-Pounders wanted an
immediate pick-up. The Patrol Leader called in a WIA (wounded in action),
MEDEVAC request. We picked up a Blue Max (gunbird) escort, as the AO (area of
operations) was known to be periodically hot.
After we boogied to the coordinates, we established ground radio contact and
called for smoke. The Gunner identified the smoke color as 'goofy grape', which
was verified, and, as the crewchief and gunnner directed the AC (Aircraft
Commander) down through the canopy, I kicked off a rigid litter through the hole
in the triple canopy jungle and started lowering the hoist.
On the ground the patient was strapped in and hooked to the hoist cable. I spoke
to the pilot, over the intercom: "Patient is hooked up, I'll take the slack and you
take the weight" (which he did). "Okay....here he comes....half-way to the skid....at
the skid......(then, a long pause)....the patient is half-way back down.......the patient
is back on the ground." The Gunner and I had gotten the hell scared out of us, for
as we reached to grab the canvas handles of the litter of the hooded ridid litter, all I
could see was the Biggest Rack of Teeth (Chacking-Chacking), in my life; I think I
pissed my Nomex pants.
The pilot roared, ""What the hell is going on back there!" I said, "Tell them to
un-hook the litter and I'll retrieve the cable and send it back down with the jungle
penetrator for the Dog Handler to ride up on so, we can get that 'Big Bad Wolf' in
the aircraft......"
Everything went smooth, as the Handler came up and sat in the Gunner's Hell Hole
and assisted in getting the patient inside the chopper. The Dog's Handler
apologized, saying that he didn't think there would be a problem, condsidering that
he had sent the dog up in a secured litter. I said, "Yes, like a Barracuda in a Row
Boat."
All went smooth, after that, except when we came over the FSB (Fire Support Base)
wire and landed on the pad. The Battalion Aid Station's dog ran out to jump in the
aircraft, because we sometimes gave him a ride to the Fuel Point (POL) and back.
When we'd drop off a patient, we'd let him get in a little flight time and return him
to the pad.
This time, however, as he was in mid-jump to enter the aircraft, he caught sight of
that big "Rack of Grandma's Teeth" and was confronted with a 'snarl' like he'd
never heard. That dog did 180 in mid-air, butt scrunched, paws paddling and did a
spectacular, medal winning, side-roll flip and hit the ground running, in the other
direction, of course. Not only did he get points for his acrobatics, but was graded
highly for his swift sprint back to the Aid Station. I never saw that dog, again.
Ironically, the Scout Dog was an Active Duty Soldier, complete with Name, Serial
Number, 201 File, as well as Medical and Dental Records. I think, as an SFC, I did
outrank him. After all, he WAS a dog, but on this run he was a Priority 2 pickup,
which graded him above Vietnamese Soldiers and Civilians. If they had only
known......................I'm sure Vietnamese-American Relations would have been
greatly affected.
pick-up and wound up with a Shepherd in a rigid litter that was passing as a GI.....
It seems the Scout Dog had a head wound, with an Abdominal Patch Bandage
(APB) on like a bonnet and he looked like the 'Grandmother Character' in Little Red
Riding Hood.
Truth: You won't believe this........
The Handler had accidentally cut the dog with a machete, while they were tracking
the enemy. No one had thought of complications or SOP (standard operating
procedure) and, because of their love of the dog, the Ground-Pounders wanted an
immediate pick-up. The Patrol Leader called in a WIA (wounded in action),
MEDEVAC request. We picked up a Blue Max (gunbird) escort, as the AO (area of
operations) was known to be periodically hot.
After we boogied to the coordinates, we established ground radio contact and
called for smoke. The Gunner identified the smoke color as 'goofy grape', which
was verified, and, as the crewchief and gunnner directed the AC (Aircraft
Commander) down through the canopy, I kicked off a rigid litter through the hole
in the triple canopy jungle and started lowering the hoist.
On the ground the patient was strapped in and hooked to the hoist cable. I spoke
to the pilot, over the intercom: "Patient is hooked up, I'll take the slack and you
take the weight" (which he did). "Okay....here he comes....half-way to the skid....at
the skid......(then, a long pause)....the patient is half-way back down.......the patient
is back on the ground." The Gunner and I had gotten the hell scared out of us, for
as we reached to grab the canvas handles of the litter of the hooded ridid litter, all I
could see was the Biggest Rack of Teeth (Chacking-Chacking), in my life; I think I
pissed my Nomex pants.
The pilot roared, ""What the hell is going on back there!" I said, "Tell them to
un-hook the litter and I'll retrieve the cable and send it back down with the jungle
penetrator for the Dog Handler to ride up on so, we can get that 'Big Bad Wolf' in
the aircraft......"
Everything went smooth, as the Handler came up and sat in the Gunner's Hell Hole
and assisted in getting the patient inside the chopper. The Dog's Handler
apologized, saying that he didn't think there would be a problem, condsidering that
he had sent the dog up in a secured litter. I said, "Yes, like a Barracuda in a Row
Boat."
All went smooth, after that, except when we came over the FSB (Fire Support Base)
wire and landed on the pad. The Battalion Aid Station's dog ran out to jump in the
aircraft, because we sometimes gave him a ride to the Fuel Point (POL) and back.
When we'd drop off a patient, we'd let him get in a little flight time and return him
to the pad.
This time, however, as he was in mid-jump to enter the aircraft, he caught sight of
that big "Rack of Grandma's Teeth" and was confronted with a 'snarl' like he'd
never heard. That dog did 180 in mid-air, butt scrunched, paws paddling and did a
spectacular, medal winning, side-roll flip and hit the ground running, in the other
direction, of course. Not only did he get points for his acrobatics, but was graded
highly for his swift sprint back to the Aid Station. I never saw that dog, again.
Ironically, the Scout Dog was an Active Duty Soldier, complete with Name, Serial
Number, 201 File, as well as Medical and Dental Records. I think, as an SFC, I did
outrank him. After all, he WAS a dog, but on this run he was a Priority 2 pickup,
which graded him above Vietnamese Soldiers and Civilians. If they had only
known......................I'm sure Vietnamese-American Relations would have been
greatly affected.
| By: FlghtPltSgt James McDonald (Content Edited) |