Medal of Honor

by Matt Jackson

  “Yeah, we heard them but didn’t know what they were saying.”

  “You wouldn’t even if you could speak Vietnamese. They say the guys were speaking Korean.”

  Frank shot a look at the two Vietnamese soldiers, who just nodded. “Okay, guys, we’re getting out of here. There’s nothing more we can do, and they’re going to overrun us on their next push. Dai-uy is forming up what’s left of the company. We’re going to break out to the south through the opening that Lieutenant Thacker pointed out to you,” Salley said, pointing at Lieutenant Bellem. “Staff Sergeant Stokes will be the last US advisor following the company out and will lead you guys out behind the company. They’re going to be moving fast, so you need to keep up. I’ll be in the lead element in case we run into an ambush.” With that, Patterson, Jarboe and Kelly began moving out of the bunker. Tonjes paused long enough to allow Lieutenant Thacker to enter, then departed.

  Lieutenant Thacker entered the bunker, carrying his M16 in one hand and an AN/PRC-77 FM radio in the other.34

  “Where in the formation are you going to be, Brian? We’ll move with you,” Frank said.

  “I’m not going. I’m going to stay here and call artillery fire to cover your escape. The artillery should hold them long enough for you to get some distance. When I think it’s held them long enough, I’ll take off after you.”

  Everyone just looked at this young man. Finally Lieutenant Guidone stepped forward and shook his hand. “Thanks, Brian.” As Lieutenant Zuccardi and Bellem walked out of the bunker, they shook his hand as well. They all knew the sacrifice he was making for them.

  Outside, Sergeant Stokes was squatting next to the gate leading through the wire. The ARVN company was rapidly moving through the wire in an orderly fashion. Each man had his weapon and equipment. Some semblance of a military formation was evident. As the last ARVN passed Sergeant Stokes, he motioned for the seven crew members to follow him, and they started out in a trail formation, one behind the other. Only Lieutanant Zuccardi, Guidone and Bellem carried personal sidearms which were .38 caliber pistols; about as worthless as a pea shooter. All the M16 ammo had been used so no one bothered to carry one. The M-60 machine guns from the aircraft were out of ammo too. As they moved down the hill into the jungle, towards Firebase Five, the first of the incoming artillery could be heard where the command bunker had been, a wall of steel impacting across the overrun firebase. Everyone wondered if it would be enough to keep the NVA at bay.35

  With artillery impacting behind the column, they moved rapidly down the hill from the firebase to the jungle. Everyone was able to keep up, with Frank and Jim close to Sergeant Stokes and Gordon bringing up the rear. As they moved, frequent stops and changes in direction were necessary as the lead elements of the ARVN company were constantly running into enemy forces, sometimes successfully avoiding ambushes and sometimes not so successfully. Each change in direction was hastily executed but generally in the direction of Firebase Five.

  “How far is it to Firebase Five, Sergeant?” Specialist Jarboe asked.

  Sergeant Stokes looked up at Jarboe. “It’s a long ways.” Stokes was tired. It had been a long night and a longer day for him. The speed of movement was based on two major factors: the enemy contacts and the ruggedness of the terrain. Both were impeding their progress, and now the NVA had started dropping mortar rounds on the fleeing column, which produced tree shrapnel that could be as deadly as being hit by the metal from the round. Everyone was attempting to maintain some level of noise discipline as they moved, but eighty ARVN soldiers and fourteen US soldiers weren’t the quietest group. Add to that the screeches of the monkeys that felt threatened by the incursion of humans into their domain, and it became obvious where the unit was moving towards. After a couple of hours, tragedy struck. NVA mortars were becoming more focused on the location of the column. The dense jungle canopy caused the rounds to detonate high in the trees, turning tree limbs into deadly wooden shrapnel. With each burst, everyone dove for whatever cover they could find to crawl under. Sometimes the only thing to do was prostrate oneself on the ground and pray.

  “Ahhhh, ahhhh, oh God!” Patterson screamed, scaring the crap out of everyone, moments after a round impacted in the top of a tree. He was lying on the ground and thrashing about.

  Lieutenant Guidone was the first to get to him. “What happened?”

  Patterson could barely talk he was in such pain. That was when Tonjes noticed blood on the seat of Patterson’s pants. Gently rolling Patterson over on to his stomach, Frank cut his pants open to expose his buttock. Patterson had been impaled by tree shrapnel across his butt, and one large piece had been driven straight into his rectum. The level of pain must have been intense. Looking about, everyone realized that Patterson was not going to be able to walk with that stake sticking in him, but they feared that taking the stake out would cause excessive bleeding. The decision was quickly made that they would take turns carrying Patterson. There was no thought of leaving him. Picking Patterson up, the group moved out, following the ARVN company. With each step, Patterson felt the stake but struggled not to cry out for fear of giving away their position.

  They continued as best they could but fell further behind the ARVN company and eventually lost contact with the company. At one point, Sergeant Stokes raised his hand. He’d heard something. Everyone immediately took a knee and pointed outward. They were recalling the infantry small-unit tactics they’d all learned in their basic training. They remained still, listening and looking.

  “Did you hear that?” Sergeant Stokes asked Lieutenant Guidone in a whisper.

  “Hear what?” Guidone whispered back.

  A telephone was ringing very close by. Then a voice answered in Vietnamese. The NVA soldier was about twenty feet away, in an underground bunker. Guidone looked down and noticed he was kneeling on a telephone wire running to the bunker.

  “Yeah, I hear him, and it doesn’t sound like he’s ordering a pizza. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Guidone motioned for everyone to move quietly away from the bunker.

  As they continued to move, the vegetation thinned to small trees randomly dispersed. After another hour of moving, halting for the occasional break and to switch who was carrying Patterson, everyone heard the welcome sound and looked skyward as a Cobra gunship flew over, immediately banked hard and turned around. They prayed he had seen them, but also that he hadn’t mistaken them for NVA. This could be good or it could be bad.

  Making a second pass over the group, the Cobra rocked left and right several times to indicate he recognized them. Suddenly, a deep sense of hope rose in each of them. They knew the Cobra would report their position and provide some cover for them as they continued to move towards friendly forces. The occasional small-arms fire in what they figured was the vicinity of the ARVN formation told them that the NVA were still in the area. The intensity of the fire was nothing compared to what they’d experienced on the firebase, however. Artillery could still be heard impacting back on Firebase Six.

  The group continued to move forward. The sound of more helicopters could be heard in the distance as the group came upon a small clearing. Sergeant Stokes was carrying a AN/PRC-77 FM radio and had it on the Gambler frequency when a lone aircraft was seen overhead at about two thousand feet. His radio crackled.

  “Gambler Four-One, Gambler Six, over.”

  “Gambler Six, Gambler Four-One India, over,” Sergeant Stokes responded.

  “Gambler Four-One India, put Four-One on, over.”

  “Gambler Six, no can do. Four-One actual is up ahead and separated from us. He is on point. Over.”

  “Roger, Four-One India.” You could hear the sadness in the senior advisor’s voice. “Four-One India, how many Uniform Sierra do you have with you? Over.”

  “Gambler Six, I have eight. I say again, I have eight. One is badly Whiskey India Alpha. over.”

  “Roger, understood one Whiskey India Alpha, correct?”

  “Gambler Six, affirmative.”

 
; “Four-One India, can he walk?”

  “Gambler Six, negative.”

  “Roger, Four-One India, I will get back with you. Gambler Six out.” Everyone’s spirits were rising higher knowing that someone now knew where they were and help would be coming shortly. They continued to move, hoping to find a clearing big enough for a chopper to land. There did not appear to be any, however.

  A few minutes later, they heard, “Gambler Four-One India, Gambler Six, over.”

  “Gambler Six, go ahead, over.”

  “Gambler Four-One India, I have two choppers inbound to your location for pickup. Get your personnel on these two birds, over.” What Gambler Six had left unspoken was the fact that no aircraft were available at this point to extract the ARVN soldiers. He was concerned about getting the US advisors and flight crews out of there. Once that was accomplished, he would address the issue of extracting the ARVN soldiers with the ARVN chain of command.

  “Roger Six, we’re standing by. Over.”

  “Gambler Four-One India, contact Chicken-man One-Eight on Fox Mike four one point five, over.”

  “Roger Six, Chicken-man One-Eight on Fox Mike four one point five. QSY at this time.” Sergeant Stokes changed the frequency to contact the aircraft.

  “Chicken-man One-Eight, Gambler Four-One India, over,” Sergeant Stokes called and waited.

  From the group, he could hear mumbling voices. “Come on, come on, answer him.”

  “Gambler Four-One India, Chicken-man One-Eight inbound to your location. Dropping a ladder. Send up the Whiskey India Alpha first. Over.” Fist-pumping, Frank turned and saw that the others had heard the request and were getting Patterson ready. He was in pain but was going to have to make the climb; he’d have some assistance, but this would be mostly on him. Suspecting that they would need ladders, Chicken-man One-Eight and Two-Three had returned to Camp Halloway where maintenance quickly install wire ladders that could be easily dropped from the aircraft. They were made aware of the ground parties location as the Cobra was providing the information. Coming over the trees right above the group, Chicken-man One-Eight came to a hover thirty feet above the trees and dropped the wire ladder out the side of the aircraft. As the ladder hit the ground, Tonjes and Gordon grabbed it in an attempt to steady it and keep it taut for Patterson to climb. Each step was agonizing for Patterson as he started up. Each second at a hover was agonizing for the Chicken-man crew, knowing NVA were in the immediate vicinity. As Patterson made his way slowly up the ladder, hands were reaching down to grab him as soon as he was within reach. Once inside, the next man started up until five were on board.

  “Gambler Four-One India, that’s it. I’m out of here, and the next bird will be in right behind me to get the rest of you. Over.”

  “Roger, Chicken-man One-Eight.”

  “Gambler Four-One India, Chicken-man Two-Three, over.” First Lieutenant Alston Gore said.

  “Chicken-man Two-Three, Gambler Four-One India, I have you in sight and am standing by.”

  “Roger,” Gore responded as he came to a hover and the wire ladder dropped. As before, as soon as it hit the ground, the first crew member was up the ladder, followed by Sergeant Stokes. Gordon was the last to grab the ladder, making sure everyone was accounted for.

  The few ARVNs with the group saw Sergeant Stokes climbing the ladder as well. They had been scared to begin with, and now some were starting to panic. As Gordon grabbed the last rung on the ladder, Alston started pulling pitch and climbed to depart the area. An ARVN soldier grabbed Gordon’s leg and was attempting to climb up his leg to reach the ladder. The aircraft was gaining speed and altitude when the ARVN’s grip gave out. He fell the fifteen feet and watched as the helicopter departed, leaving him behind as so many were.

  Chapter 33

  Back to Firebase Six

  The next morning, Major Adams held a meeting with all the pilots.

  “Listen up. I want to take a moment of silence for Reid. He was a good pilot and a fine officer. He will be hard to replace. Let’s bow our heads for a minute,” he said, and they all did so.

  After a minute or more, Major Adams said, “Okay, update—Firebase Six has been overrun. The ARVN rifle company made its way, in part, to Firebase Five. They did manage to get some gunship support as they closed in, but I can tell you after talking to the senior advisor that they’re not happy that they got no lift support to get them, especially after we got in and got our crews out. Therefore, for the time being, we aren’t going to fly to Firebase Five either unless it’s cleared by me personally. Bad enough having the NVA shooting at us, I don’t want the ARVN shooting at us too.” He paused.

  “Question, sir,” came a voice from the gathered pilots. Before the major could acknowledge the individual, he said, “When are we going to get Reid’s body out of there?”

  “We’re not. That will be up to someone else. Right now that place is too hot to even consider going in there. Fast movers are pounding it right now as we speak with five-hundred-pounders and napalm. I’m sure they’re taking great pleasure, Frank, in using your aircraft as an aiming point.”

  “Had to give them some kind of target to shoot at, sir. Not a problem, they probably can’t hit it anyway,” Frank responded, eliciting chuckles from the gallery. It appeared, to Major Adams’s approval, that humor and morale were coming back.

  “On a more pleasant note, Patterson was medevaced to the hospital last night and is going to be there for a time, maybe back to the States even. Appears the stake went directly into his rectum,” the major explained. Several moans could be heard.

  “Rectum? Hell, sir, it nearly killed him,” came a lone voice in the peanut gallery, followed by an outburst of laughter.

  “Glad to see your sick sense of humor is returning, people,” Major Adams scolded with a grin on his face. “Okay, we’re rolling into April now and it doesn’t appear that our mission profile is going to change. Anticipate single-ship resupply missions with some six- and twelve-ship formations. I don’t see us flying psyops missions or sniffer up here, nor Night Hawk. I want you all to be careful about the enemy fire. If it’s too hot, you abort the mission. If you sense a setup, you abort the mission. It’s your call, aircraft commanders, and I will back you. I don’t want to lose anyone else, so let’s be smart about what we’re doing. Okay?”

  Returning to a serious tone, he continued, “Having said all that, today’s mission is a twelve-ship, two-turn combat assault, moving the ARVNs. The PZ is the airstrip at Dak To, and the LZ just north of Firebase Six.” He paused momentarily and pointed at the map. Multiple groans and mumbled words of profanity could be heard. “Lieutenant Zuccardi will be Yellow One with Mr. Zuccardi as Yellow Two. I’ll be flying Chuck Chuck and will provide navigation guidance and artillery coverage. We will be escorted by eight Cobras. Thirty minutes prior to our insertion, there will be a B-52 strike in the vicinity of the LZ. We’ll have a six-minute artillery prep on the LZ. We probably will not be able to land due to obstacles created by the prep, so the troops will have to jump. Get them out fast. Any questions?”

  “Sir, any reason given as to why we’re taking the Ruff Puffs up there?” Lieutenant Gore asked. He had made aircraft commander prior to the unit’s move north. He’d joined Chicken-man in September of 1970 back in Lai Khe. His additional duty was unit administrative officer.

  “Besides trying to get Reid’s body, it seems that when the firebase was abandoned, they didn’t remove the breechblocks or spike the howitzers, and they didn’t blow all the ammo. The NVA shelled Dak To last night from those guns. Good enough reason to go back?” the major asked. No one responded. “Crew assignments and aircraft are on the board. We crank in forty-five minutes,” he added, checking his watch. “See you on the flight line.”

  Mr. Rob Poggi had made aircraft commander a month or two before leaving Lai Khe. He was short in stature and solidly built. Other pilots would offer him a booster chair when he climbed into the cockpit, adjusting his seat all the way forward and all the wa
y up so he could see over the instrument console. He was from Queens, New York and wanted to be an architect when he returned home. He checked the crew assignments on the board and told his copilot that he would meet him at the aircraft. His copilot today was a new lieutenant who had graduated from West Point and attended flight school right after the Officers’ Basic Course. Second Lieutenant Frederick B. Hodges, commonly called Ben, was a Florida native with a permanent tan. With his dark hair and clear blue eyes, he could be the poster child for a recruiter. Rob had been fighting with gastric distress for the past couple of days, which frequently happened to everyone due to the malaria pills they were required to take. He thought it best to stop off at the latrine before going to the aircraft. Once before, he hadn’t, and he’d had to return to the hooches to change his flight suit and take a quick whore’s bath. He didn’t want that happening again.

  Arriving back at the aircraft, Rob saw that Ben had completed the preflight and was sitting in the right seat.

  Looking over at Rob as he climbed into his seat, Hodges asked, “You okay? Look a bit piqued.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay now. Damn shits from the malaria pills,” Rob mumbled. “Let’s crank it up.”

  Ben was fairly new in-country, having joined the unit once it had reached Camp Holloway. He’d had an orientation flight, but this was his first real combat assault. After five months of flying in Vietnam, Rob had lost count of how many combat assaults he had flown. Looking over, Rob realized that Hodges looked very much like he had on his first mission as he was wearing his flak jacket as well as his chicken plate. Rob had worn his flak jactet, but since no one else did back then, he’d never worn it again. Everyone wore a chicken plate, but the flak jackets were usually relegated to being used as pillows. He said nothing about it to Hodges. To each his own.

  “Flight, this is Yellow One. Give me an up,” came the call, and each chalk responded in sequence that they were ready to go.

  “Flight, we will depart to the south and take up a staggered right formation. Yellow One is on the go.”