Medal of Honor

by Matt Jackson

  “Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir.” Dorsey was getting flustered. Mr. Fairweather and Alston looked at each other and smiled. Out the forward window, Dorsey could see six aircraft lined up in front of his aircraft. No one was behind him or on his side. Good, we’re going to be off by ourselves, I guess. Over his radio receiver, he heard, “Yellow One is on the go,” and the lead aircraft started down the runway, with each subsequent aircraft following. Dorsey held on to the seat and the post next to his seat, leaning back as far as he could, not wanting to look down at the shrinking ground. At least this thing isn’t bouncing up and down.

  As the aircraft continued to climb, Mr. Fairweather appeared to be chasing the other aircraft and closing rapidly, according to Dorsey’s calibrated eyeballs. Then he heard over the radio, “Flight Yellow One, come up staggered left.”

  The aircraft in front began to change positions. The number two aircraft moved to the left of and slightly behind the number one aircraft, as did the number four aircraft with the number three aircraft. Mr. Fairweather was moving their aircraft so it was no longer behind the fifth aircraft but slightly to the left and back, as well as slightly above and very close. Oh shit.

  “Mr. Fairweather, sir.” Dorsey was on the intercom.

  “What’s up, Dorsey?” Mr. Fairweather asked.

  “Sir, why are we so close to that aircraft?” Dorsey’s voice cracked a bit.

  “Calm down now. We fly one to one-half rotor blades apart. This is one rotor blade and normal for us. You want a tight formation so when we go into an LZ, all our guns are suppressing the enemy. Too much space and it leaves gaps in our coverage. We’ll be fine.”

  As the flight continued, Dorsey sat back and wished he were anywhere but here. That aircraft looks awfully close, and it’s a long way to the ground. Why don’t we have parachutes? But everyone seemed pretty much at ease. Even the crew chief in the other aircraft appeared to be sleeping. Mr. Fairweather was smoking a cigarette, and Lieutenant Gore, who was flying the aircraft, was looking all over the place. Dorsey began to relax, just a bit.

  After a half hour, Dorsey noticed a change in pressure in his eardrums. The aircraft was on a descent, but there was only jungle out there. Dorsey’s apprehension began to climb again.

  “Okay, guys, we’re picking up the grunts in a bit. We have three turns for eighteen sorties to get in this morning. Prep will be four minutes and two minutes of suppressive fire going in and coming out. Dorsey, this is your first combat assault. You open fire when I tell you to, but be sure and clear the bottom of the aircraft from stumps, logs underneath and trees and saplings by the tail rotor. Jonesy, you back him up. Don’t shoot any of the grunts when they get off the aircraft. Shoot just the tree line, and if you see green tracers, shoot at where they’re coming from. See anyone in khaki uniforms, you can shoot them too. Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” Dorsey responded.

  “One question, Mr. Fairweather. If Dorsey screws up, can I shoot him?” Jonesy asked.

  “Right after I do,” Mr. Fairweather indicated. As the aircraft approached the PZ, Dorsey could see six groups of soldiers standing in a pattern similar to the formation of the aircraft. As the aircraft set down, a group of grunts approached the aircraft from two sides and began climbing aboard. Two moved to the interior of the cargo area and sat on the floor as there were no seats. Two sat on the floor of the aircraft cargo area on each side with their feet dangling out of the aircraft. They didn’t ask for seat belts. Their rucksacks were on their backs but didn’t appear to be totally full. One guy pulled out a pack of cigarettes with a lighter and offered them to his buddies. God, these guys stink, Dorsey thought. From their outward appearance, they hadn’t bathed in days if not weeks. Their faces were covered in stubble along with black and green streaks from camouflage grease that had been partially rubbed off. Most had bags and black circles under their eyes. Immature mustaches adorned a few faces. There was no joking or jocularity with these guys.

  “Coming up,” Lieutenant Gore said over the intercom.

  “Clear right.”

  “Clear left.”

  And they were off the ground and moving forward and upward. The grunts continued to sit in the door, talking little but pointing at different landmarks. Sure don’t want to screw up in front of these guys. Wonder how Avanti’s doing about now? Wonder if he’s in this unit? Hell, he’s so new I doubt they have his ass in the field yet. As the flight continued, Mr. Fairweather broke Dorsey’s train of aimless thought.

  “We are H minus six. There goes the artillery.” He pointed to the front right of the aircraft. In the distance, brown smoke mixed with white could be seen along with small trees flying into the air. Mixed in with the smoke and flying dirt was an occasional orange explosion. The flight slowly turned towards the chaos to their front while losing altitude. Dorsey’s mind raced as he watched the jungle being torn apart to his front. We’re flying into that?

  “Guns up,” Mr. Fairweather said over the intercom. “Keep your eyes peeled for green tracers. If you see some, drop a red smoke. You got that, Dorsey?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dorsey’s stomach churned. He really wished he hadn’t had any beer the night before or taken a bacon sandwich for breakfast. He also wished he had taken time to unload his bowels before coming to the flight line. Please, dear God, do not let me shit in my pants, he prayed. They were getting much lower to the ground. Why are the Cobras staying up so high? Why aren’t they down here protecting us?

  “Willie Pete, guns, open fire,”12 Mr. Fairweather ordered, and Jonesy opened fire, as did the crew chief in the aircraft next to Dorsey. Dorsey just sat there, frozen. Everything was in slow motion. The Cobras nosed over from on high and were punching off rockets into the tree line that bordered the landing zone. A stream of liquid fire spewed from the nose of the Cobra, impacting where the rockets were going. The grunts in the door were hosing the tree line as well with their M16s. The guy next to Dorsey was hollering something, but Dorsey couldn’t make out his words over all the noise.

  “Dorsey, open fire on that damn gun,” Mr. Fairweather finally yelled, and he was pissed. Dorsey snapped back to reality and depressed the butterfly triggers. The M60 began spewing out a stream of red tracers along the tree line and behind the aircraft off to the right side. Dorsey wasn’t sure what he was shooting at; he was just shooting. As the aircraft came in to land, he heard Jonesy say they were clear. He had forgotten to even look, he was so carried away firing the gun. As the grunts disembarked, the nearest grunt put his hand over Dorsey’s face to get him to stop shooting. Grunts got upset when a door gunner would shoot them in the back. Dorsey stopped and looked around.

  “Yellow One is on the go,” he heard on the radio.

  “Coming up,” Lieutenant Gore announced.

  “Clear,” Jonesy said. Dorsey said nothing. For him, this was too much, too fast. He was about to have seconds on his breakfast. Again the guns on the other aircraft began to fire, as did Jonesy. Finally the shooting stopped and only the roar of the engine and the popping of the rotor blade could be heard.

  “Dorsey, are you all right?” asked Mr. Fairweather, looking over his right shoulder at him. His tone was one of concern and not anger. Dorsey’s hands were on his gun, which was now in the stowed position, pointing down, and his head rested on his hands.

  “Sir, I think I pissed in my pants.”

  “Hey, look at me,” Mr. Fairweather directed. Dorsey looked up. His face told the entire story. He was embarrassed and scared.

  “We’ve all been there at some point. For your first mission, this is as bad as they will ever get, so you get through this day without coming apart, you’ll be good to go. We’ll help you through this. Nothing will be said about pissing in your pants—nothing, by no one. Do I make myself clear?” That last comment was for the crew and specifically Jonesy.

  Everyone responded, “Clear.”

  “Okay, we’re going to be picking up the next lift, so everyone be on your toes. Clear the aircra
ft for landing. Make sure there are no stumps or saplings to hit the tail rotor. There will be no shooting in the LZ this time, so do not shoot unless we’re shot at going in, and then be damn sure of your target. There will be no artillery or Cobras engaging this time either, so it should be a nice easy ride in. Any questions?” After a pause, he asked, “You good, Dorsey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look at me,” Mr. Fairweather demanded. Dorsey did, and the look of embarrassment and fear had been replaced with a look of determination. Mr. Fairweather knew he would be okay.

  Chapter 8

  Negotiations

  Dan stepped off the plane at the same airport he’d left from four months ago. The heat, the smell and the sounds hadn’t changed. Bien Hoa was still a shit-hole. Just like the times before, the first thing he had to do was brush his teeth. Some things just don’t change. He knew what would be next—a bus ride to someplace to sleep for the rest of the night, and in-processing in the morning.

  Morning came at 0600 hours, and Dan was up and dressed when an NCO arrived at the officers’ quarters to start their day. The NCO was a bit surprised that Dan was already dressed in worn jungle fatigues with a First Cav patch on each shoulder.

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but your current unit patch only goes on the right shoulder, not both,” the NCO pointed out to what he thought was a dumbass junior officer.

  “Excuse me, Staff Sergeant, but when one returns to his former unit, he gets to wear the patch on both shoulders. Now where is officer in-processing located?” Dan asked.

  “Sir, we aren’t scheduled to begin in-processing until oh nine hundred hours,” he replied.

  “Sergeant, are you in-processing too? I didn’t ask what time we in-process. I asked where it’s located. Do you know?” Dan was reaching his limit of dealing with this rear-echelon staff sergeant.

  Taken aback that a junior officer would stand his ground, the NCO responded, “Yes, sir, officer in-processing is located in building 2340.”

  “And where is building 2340?” Dan asked as he picked up his duffle bag and hat.

  “Sir, it’s straight down this road about a half mile, but no one’s there yet. They aren’t expecting us until oh nine hundred hours,” the NCO said with resignation.

  Heading out the door, Dan said over his shoulder, “Sergeant, they have their schedule and I have mine. I’ll get a ride. Thank you.” And Dan was gone. The air was still on the cool side for Vietnam, so at 0630 hours the walk wasn’t bad. Dan’s duffle bag was only half-full of clothes he’d brought back to Vietnam from his last tour, which had ended in August 1970. A bit of leave, eight weeks at the Infantry Officers’ Basic Course at Fort Benning and he was back in-country. He wanted that infantry assignment and knew that time was running out with the president’s program of Vietnamization. Since the Cambodia Incursion, US forces were pulling out of Vietnam, letting the Vietnamese Army take over the fight.

  Arriving at building 2340, Dan noted that someone was inside. He also smelled coffee. Knowing the doors were never locked and couldn’t be, Dan walked in and set his duffle bag down. The building was a typical hooch, fifty feet long, twenty-five feet wide, tin roof, screened sides for the top half, wood planking for the bottom half with sandbags up the sides to the screens. Concrete pad for a floor. A single door was at each end of the building. About fifteen feet in was a railing with a swinging gate to keep customers on one side and worker bees on the other.

  As the door closed behind Dan, a voice called out, “We’re closed until oh nine hundred hours.”

  “I know, but I smelled coffee and was wondering if you could spare a cup,” Dan said.

  Coming around a wall of filing cabinets, a master sergeant appeared. For a minute he looked Dan over, noting that Dan wasn’t wearing brand-new jungle fatigues. “Hey, sir, I guess I can do that. Come on back,” the master sergeant replied.

  Walking back to the rear, Dan approached the master sergeant, who was also wearing a Cav patch on each shoulder. “Master Sergeant Jackson,” he said, extending his hand. Master Sergeant Jackson was a bear of a man, towering over Dan. This guy could play middle linebacker on any pro football team, Dan was thinking. The master sergeant was wearing a combat infantry badge and airborne wings on his chest. It was obvious he wasn’t an armchair commando.

  “Lieutenant Dan Cory. Glad to meet you, Master Sergeant, especially if you’ll share some coffee.” Dan’s hand felt small in the paw of Master Sergeant Jackson.

  “Come on back and we’ll get you a cup. All I have is condensed milk—otherwise it’s black, but fresh,” Master Sergeant Jackson indicated as he limped down the hall.

  “Are you okay?” Dan inquired, noticing the limp.

  “Yeah, I took a round on the end of my last tour. Got medically boarded out of the infantry and was given an option to medically retire with only fifty percent or take an MOS change, so I took the MOS transfer to admin. It’s okay, although I do miss being in the field, with real soldiers. No disrespect meant, sir,” Jackson added.

  “None taken, Master Sergeant. And condensed milk will be just fine. My dad is former Navy enlisted and would take me on his submarine when he had weekend duty. We drank coffee, and I came to develop a taste for condensed milk,” Dan explained.

  “What’s your daddy do now?”

  “He’s still in the Navy, only now he’s a commissioned officer. He was here in Saigon while I was on my last tour and rotated a week before me to take command of a Navy base in Coos Bay, Oregon.”

  “You both were over here at the same time. I didn’t think that was allowed,” Master Sergeant Jackson mumbled.

  “It is unless a request is submitted by one to be sent home. Neither of us requested it. Pissed Mom off, but…” Dan added.

  They arrived at the master sergeant’s desk, where he took a seat and motioned for Dan to sit down. Master Sergeant Jackson decided it was time to ask the nature of this visit. “So, sir, what brings you through my door besides the smell of coffee?”

  “Well, I just arrived back in-country with orders to the division. I want to get an infantry assignment and thought I would get over here before the other RLOs that came in on my flight show up,” Dan explained.

  “You just got back in-country? How long have you been gone? Those aren’t new fatigues, and I do believe I can still see red clay from this area in them seams,” the master sergeant said.

  “I’ve been gone about four months to attend the Infantry Officers’ Basic Course because I was a warrant officer and received a commission back in May. Now I want to get an infantry assignment. Thought I best get back here quick before everyone goes home.”

  “Sir, I hate to tell you, but you’re a day late and a nickel short. We aren’t filling any vacant infantry officer positions. In fact, we’re excess infantry officers. Anyone new coming in is being put on shit details, counting CONEX containers and supply issues, or being transferred out and doing convoy security missions up north. Not something most officers signed up for. The infantry battalions are standing down and will begin rotating home in about three weeks. I’m not sure why you were sent here. I think only the 101st is leaving a brigade up north in the central highlands, and we’re leaving Third Brigade down here in Three Corps, but they’re over-strength infantry officers now.”

  “No, I sure as hell don’t want to be on shit details. Infantry Branch didn’t tell me this when I begged to get back here to the division,” Dan said in disgust, not divulging that it had sort of been indicated that this could happen to him.

  “Word is that infantry officers being assigned to Eye and Two Corps are being assigned to transportation companies,” the master sergeant stated.

  “What for?” Dan asked.

  “Seems they’re running convoys through a lot of ambushes up that way, so they’re assigning infantry officers to organize convoy security. They’ve been taking deuce-and-a-halfs and mounting quad and dual .50-calibers on the beds and making them gun trucks dispersed through the convoy for secur
ity,” the master sergeant went on to explain. He looked up from his coffee. “You’re a pilot, right, sir?” he asked, indicating the aviation wings on Dan’s uniform.

  “Yeah,” Dan said.

  “Sir, I can keep you off shit details. We’re cutting four aviation units loose and reassigning them to the First Aviation Brigade. Three are lift companies and the other an attack company. Are you Cobra qualified?” he asked.

  “No, just UH-1 qualified.”

  “Well, then, if you don’t want to be on shit details, I can put you back in the cockpit. You’ll leave the division when the transfer occurs, but you’ll be flying and not counting CONEX containers.”

  “That beats the alternative, I guess. What unit is it that’s being left behind?”

  “The attack company is Delta, 227th. The lift companies are from the 227th Assault Helicopter Battalion. You familiar with those?” he asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Dan said with a suppressed smile. “I was in Alpha Company.”

  “I’ll clear it with the major and have your orders ready around noon to send you back to them if you want. You can go by Supply and get your field gear and some new uniforms, skip in-country school and fly out this afternoon to your unit. It’s at Lai Khe, wherever that is.”

  “I know it well, Master Sergeant. And thanks.”

  Chapter 9

  Good Old Days

  When it rains, it pours. Monsoons in Vietnam were seldom matched anywhere in the world. Nothing stayed dry. Dampness permeated everything. Why go to the company showers? Just step out of your hooch before the rain stops. What was really nasty was the mud created by the intense rain. The tarmac was covered in metal sheets or a diesel oil/tar mixture, so the mud wasn’t bad there. All the aircraft sat on metal sheets inside the revetments.

  SSG Chuck Stevens sat in the maintenance tent drinking a cup of coffee. He and his crew had been attempting to work on an aircraft out on the flight line, but the rain had them taking shelter in the maintenance tent for the time being. Stevens was on his second tour in Vietnam, his first being in 1965, when the First Cav Division had originally deployed from Fort Benning to Vietnam. He was considered a “plank holder” for the company as he had been a member when it was created back at Fort Benning.