by Robin Moore
“I suppose one helicopter costs more money than the whole Viet Cong guerrilla army spends in a month,” Frisbie said.
Harvey nodded. “That’s about right—if you can translate this war into money.”
A montagnard striker, radio on his back, came up with Lieutenant Duong. “Sir,” Duong said, “A team want talk you.”
Harvey took the handset from the battery pack on the radioman’s back. He heard his XO calling him. “Grant, Grant, this is Handy, Handy!”
“I read, Handy. This is Grant.”
“Med evac on the way from Da Nang. It’s an all-VNAF operation.”
Harvey threw a regretful, sympathetic glance at the two wounded men. “Handy, this is Grant. Understand an all-VNAF med evac on the way.”
“That is Roger, Grant. Sorry about that. I tried to get a U.S. med evac but no go anymore unless American wounded on the ground.”
“Roger, Handy. Understand.”
“Grant, this is Handy. I’ll be standing by. If the usual happens maybe we can get U.S. evac tomorrow. Ceiling coming down fast here.”
“Thanks, Handy. Grant out.”
“Handy out—standing by.”
Major Harvey looked serious as he put down the set. “Frisbie, in a few minutes you are apt to see one of the big sweats you’ll be getting here.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Just watch, you’ll see.”
He turned to Lieutenant Duong. “Maybe you’d better check security. Make sure everyone’s at least one hundred meters out.”
“Yes, Dai-uy.” Duong, followed by a four-man security squad, started into the bush.
“How soon will the med evac be coming in, sir?” Frisbie asked.
Harvey pointed down the valley to the east where the cloud cover was now resting on the peaks of the mountains and falling. “Just keep looking that way, it shouldn’t be long now. Da Nang is a fifty-minute chopper flight from here.”
We all strained our eyes down the valley, and after about ten minutes of staring into the dull-gray sky we heard the unmistakable sound of rotor blades and engines. Then, suddenly swooping down, we saw the VNAF T-28 fighter planes with their yellow markings. The planes stayed as high as they could without disappearing into the overcast. “And that,” Major Harvey said, “is the Vietnamese Air Force conception of flying cover security. Stay out of range of groundfire at all times.”
We heard a groan from the strikers as the choppers came closer. The identifying yellow patch painted on the hump behind the pilot’s seat of the H34 could be seen plainly now. The strikers had been through this before. Lieutenant Duong, who unlike most Vietnamese officers had taken the trouble to learn the montagnard language, began giving orders. We all took cover in the bush as the wounded were carried into the now open LZ. The two helicopters were circling high above us. Sergeant Raskin pulled a second greensmoke grenade from his belt, activated it, and threw it beside the first, which was giving off the last of its smoke.
“The sons of bitches see us,” Raskin growled. “Why the hell don’t they come on in?”
The strikers watched hopefully as one of the yellow-backed helicopters began to descend uncertainly toward us. Lower and lower it settled toward the LZ. When it was fifteen feet off the ground and still descending, its rotor blades fiercely slashing the air, blasting us with a tremendous downdraft, Major Harvey yelled, “By God, they’re improving.”
The two wounded men were being carried toward the chopper’s open door, and the litter with the corpse had been lifted on sturdy montagnard shoulders preparatory to pushing it into the H34 when—pang! pang! pang!
Three bullets tore through the chopper’s fuselage. The striker wounded in the leg had actually placed a hand on its doorstep when in a loud snarl of power the pilot reversed the rotor blades and the chopper leapt skywards. It shot up out of range, circled the LZ once more, and headed back out of the valley for Da Nang.
Major Harvey silently watched the choppers disappear. Groans and curses came from the suddenly demoralized strikers.
“Fourteen hundred hours,” Harvey said checking his watch. “Maybe we can get an American air evac.” But his tone belied his words. “Duong, take a squad and find that sniper. Quick.”
“Yes, Dai-uy.”
“Sir, I’ll go with Duong,” Captain Frisbie volunteered. “We Aussies specialize in anti-sniper training.”
Harvey nodded. “Right. Be careful.” He looked at the menacing cloud cover. “In another hour or two nobody will be able to fly into this mess, not even Mr. Pomfret.”
Harvey looked uneasily after Frisbie and Duong as they headed into the thickly wooded terrain. A squad of 12 montagnards followed them. “I hate to let the Aussie go out like that with no experience behind him.”
“There’s only one way he’s going to get experience,” Sergeant Raskin said. “The way we got it.”
It took half an hour for Harvey, relaying through his A team, to put through another request for a med evac. This time he made it clear he wanted an American pilot. The reply finally came back that Vietnamese Air Force would not authorize an American pilot to evacuate non-American strikers. The following morning, if the LZ was secure, another attempt would be made.
“By tomorrow morning,” Harvey raged, “the VC’s will be all over us. It will be impossible to provide the kind of security the Viets insist on.”
“That chopper pilot could have made it easily,” Raskin cursed. “Sonofabitch, one sniper and he’s scared off.”
“Nothing we can do but wait here and see how Duong and Frisbie make out.” Harvey sat down, his back to a tree. We all sat in dejected silence, Raskin checking his wounded men every so often, waiting for the patrol to return.
“At least we’re going out after the sniper,” Harvey said at last. “Last time I was at the B team in Da Nang the MAAG advisers at ‘Eye’ Corps were having a hell of a time teaching one of the ARVN divisions how to cope with snipers. Every time a sniper opened up on a battalion, all three companies would fall back in confusion and the officers would abort the operation.
“Those poor guys advising the Vietnamese battalion commanders tried their damnedest to make them send out squad-size groups to track down and kill the snipers. Even if they didn’t get them, the VC snipers would know that a killer squad would always be after them and this might discourage them.”
Harvey looked out in the direction his patrol had taken. “Finally, the senior American advisers convinced the Viets to send out an advisory on how to deal with snipers. I saw it and it was good, right out of Advanced Infantry School at Benning. It explained how to organize and arm the killer squads—everything was there. In Da Nang all was happy at MAAG. No more VC snipers turning back a whole battalion.”
Harvey pushed the jungle camouflage cap back on his head. “Well, hell, we’re not going to change the Viets all that easily. Three weeks later the division commander put out the new directive, and we got a translation of it. It directed all battalion commanders to withdraw and set up ambushes in case the sniper attacks.”
Bad as our situation was, Raskin and I both laughed heartily—then suddenly cut it off. To the west we heard small-arms fire followed by the sound of exploding grenades. Then silence. Twenty minutes later Duong reappeared; beside him was a montagnard, a broad smile on his face, brandishing a severed ear. The rest of the grinning montagnards followed Duong into the clearing, one carrying the sniper’s weapon, a U.S. M-1 Garand with telescopic sight. To our shock, the last two were carrying Captain Frisbie, grimacing with pain.
One look at the Aussie, and Raskin ran across the LZ to him, kit in hand. By the time Harvey and I reached Frisbie’s side, Raskin had slit the leg of the Aussie’s fatigue pants and was examining the messy puncture that went through the shin and out the calf.
“Pungi-stake wound,” Raskin growled. “A mean sonofabitch.” He took a morphine surette and gave Frisbie a shot in the arm.
“That was damned stupid of me, sir,” Frisbie said between cl
enched teeth. “I’m sorry.”
“They’re hard to see,” Harvey said. “We get a lot of guys with pungi stakes in their legs.”
The morphine began to take effect and Frisbie lay back. Silently Raskin handed Harvey three pungi stakes. “One of the yards pulled this one out of the captain. He picked up a few others that were in the bush, just as I taught them.”
Harvey looked at the sword-sharp bamboo stakes, which are placed in heavy grass at about a 45-degree angle to the expected direction of enemy approach. Frowning deeply he handed one to me. As we all feared the points were smeared with an evil-smelling brown-black coating—human excrement the VC use to poison the stakes.
“We’ve got to get him out fast, sir.” Raskin turned the Aussie over, slit the rear of his pants, and jabbed a long needle into the exposed buttocks. Harvey nodded. Perhaps the leg could be saved if Frisbie got to the military hospital in Nha Trang fast enough. I’d seen horrifying infections boil up in a few hours from such wounds.
The two wounded montagnards tried unsuccessfully to conceal their relief at the sight of the wounded Australian. Now there was a chance of an American-piloted medical evacuation.
Harvey motioned to the radio operator to follow him out of Frisbie’s hearing.
“Handy, Handy, this is Grant, Grant. Come in.”
“Grant, this is Handy.”
“Handy. The Aussie got a pungi stake in the leg. A shit-dipped one. If we can’t get him out today he may lose the leg. See if you can get the B team to call direct to Army Aviation. Mr. Pomfret will come in. We got the sniper. That doesn’t mean the VC’s won’t try to move up more snipers and maybe even heavy machine guns. But if Mr. Pomfret knows the whole situation he’s one man that will make a try for us.”
“Roger, Grant. I will try to contact Army Aviation immediately. Will call you back as soon as I make contact. Handy out.”
Harvey breathed deeply. “I knew I shouldn’t have let Frisbie go out. There’s an art to steering clear of pungi stakes. We should have given him a week of training first.” He walked back to where Frisbie lay. “Feel any better?”
“Thank you, sir. The morphine’s working quite well now.”
“I’ve requested an American med evac, Frisbie. There’s one man that might come in for you, Mr. Pomfret. He’s the finest skin-ship man in the whole world. He should have gone home six months ago but he says he couldn’t sleep at night knowing there’s nobody out here that can get Special Forces guys out of the jungle the way he can.”
The details of my flight with Mr. Pomfret came back clearly as I stood at the LZ—this time on the other side of a med evac operation. It was almost the same time of day, the ceiling was dropping fast, and we had no idea how well the LZ was secured. I wondered if Mr. Pomfret really would come in himself. Now that he had decided he could go home, it didn’t make sense for him to go on taking chances.
The radio operator called to Major Harvey to take a call from the A team. He returned a few moments later. “A single skin ship is going to try and get through. They can’t risk a gunship escort.” Harvey looked around for Lieutenant Duong and asked him to make a thorough security inspection. “And maybe we send two squads beyond the security perimeter to knock out any snipers that might start shooting.”
I bent over Raskin, who was trying to get Frisbie’s wound as clean as possible. Already the skin was puffed and purple.
“How’s the leg, sir?” he asked. “Do you feel it through the morphine?”
The Aussie nodded, gritting back his pain.
Raskin shook his head. “This is a mean sonofabitch,” he said to me. “I’d rather take a round any day.”
It was nearly 5:00 in the afternoon when the distant chuffing of a helicopter echoed down the valley. Raskin, who had done all he could for Captain Frisbie, stepped into the LZ and when he saw the Huey coming in just under the cloud cover he pulled the pin on a smoke grenade. The chopper headed directly towards us, dropping as it came.
“Those are brave sons of bitches,” said Harvey. “Right in range of any VC’s. No gunships.”
The chopper was directly over the LZ, ten feet up, when to our horror we heard the unmistakable deep staccato bursts of a .50-caliber machine gun about five hundred yards west of us. This heavy machine gun is the most effective anti-aircraft weapon the Communists have in Vietnam. With an accurate range of six hundred yards or better, it has been responsible for many of our aircraft losses.
We saw rents tear the side of the ship, and the door gunners open up futilely with their M-14’s. Still the skin ship settled down until, six feet off the ground, another machine-gun burst caught it. The chopper listed and then plummeted, the whirling rotors digging into the ground, windmilling the fuselage onto its nose and then down on its left side. All of us ran to the wreck, the turbojet engine steaming and screaming. Then the engine noise died. Both door gunners climbed out the skyward door, miraculously uninjured. They slid open the door to the co-pilot on the right and helped him out. He seemed uninjured also. Pulling the pilot out was more difficult. The crew chief climbed back inside the plane. We could hear groans from inside. Raskin jumped up on the side of the fuselage and helped the crew chief extricate his pilot. The pilot’s helmet had been knocked or torn off his head in the crash. I recognized Mr. Pomfret instantly. So did Major Harvey.
Gently, Raskin and the crew chief laid the warrant officer on the ground. The medic knelt beside him, opening up the front of his flying fatigues. Pomfret’s eyes fluttered. He seemed conscious.
“He isn’t wounded,” Raskin said. “I can’t find any broken bones.”’ Gently, he explored for damage and then his face tensed as his fingers felt under the helicopter pilot’s neck.
“Get a litter out of the chopper,” he commanded.
The door gunner jumped up on the fuselage, and reaching inside pulled out a stretcher. Unfolding it, he locked it into shape and laid it beside his pilot. The co-pilot, a young 2nd lieutenant, looked down anxiously. “Is he all right?”
Pomfret’s. eyes opened and he looked up. Hoarsely, he rasped, “I can’t move. Can’t hardly feel anything.”
“Help me get him on the litter,” Raskin ordered.
Tenderly, as Raskin steadied his head and neck, the crew and Major Harvey lifted Mr. Pomfret off the ground and placed him on the stretcher. They carried him off the LZ.
Pomfret looked up anxiously at Raskin.
“It’s your neck, sir. Seems a vertebra got cracked out of place.”
“You mean I got a broken neck?” Pomfret closed his eyes, his voice dying. “I can’t feel anything. Can’t move.”
Harvey looked at his watch. It was 4:45. “Do you think we could get another skin ship in, Mr. Pomfret?”
Pomfret struggled with each word. “Maybe,” he said faintly. “Can you knock out that fifty?”
“I’ll take two squads out myself,” Harvey said harshly. “We’ll get it—at least we’ll harass them so they can’t shoot straight.”
Pomfret swallowed. The lines of his face knitted together. “Tell the B team to send Nichols. Tell Nichols I’m down.” He mustered his strength, then: “Nichols will get in. But get that fifty. . . .” Pomfret’s voice was gone now, his breathing fitful.
“We’ve got to get him out, sir,” Raskin said. “With a broken neck he’ll die out here overnight. Maybe they can do something for him in Da Nang, but he really should get to Nha Trang.”
“Right.” Harvey ran over to the handset and told his A-team XO to get through to Lieutenant Nichols personally and tell him what happened.
“Raskin,” Harvey said after signing off, “you’re in command here. If Lieutenant Duong comes back tell him to go out again and look for the .50-caliber machine gun. Tell him for Christ’s sake to get out five or six hundred meters. We’ve only got another hour and a half of daylight, not even that with the cloud cover so damned heavy. If the chopper comes in and sets out safely I want you to move everyone up onto that hill for the night. I’ll join you up there
. The code for tonight is nine.”
I was careful to remember that—and glad I could count to ten in Vietnamese. If anyone challenged with a number, identification was the number that added to nine.
Harvey stooped beside Captain Frisbie. “See you later. They’ll have you out with us again in a couple of weeks.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said weakly. “At least I shan’t go walking into another pungi.”
“Good man.” Harvey dropped to one knee alongside Mr. Pomfret’s stretcher. “Radio message went through, Mr. Pomfret. I’m taking two of my best squads after that gun now.”
Pomfret tried to answer but his voice failed him. Major Harvey patted his shoulder, stood up and signaled the montagnard company commander.
“Need another American on this mission, Major?” I volunteered.
Harvey grinned and shook his head. “You stay here. I want you alive to remember all this.”
The squad fell into place and marched out behind him into the jungle.
Harvey had been out half an hour when Sergeant Raskin rose from Mr. Pomfret’s side. “I’m going to walk the security perimeter. If the chopper comes in before I get back here’s a smoke grenade.” He pursed his lips grimly. “You can wave them off if the groundfire is too heavy.”
“Roger.”
I stood at the edge of the LZ, smoke bomb in hand, staring out toward the hills in the west where the VC .50-caliber machine gun had been an hour ago. I wondered how Harvey was doing.
I stopped by Captain Frisbie’s stretcher. The second shot of morphine had put him partially to sleep. Mr. Pomfret’s eyes were closed—Raskin had given him some medication also.
