by J. M. Graham
The copilot was the first to see the four figures crossing the valley, bisecting the crook in the elbow of the northern Ong Thu, black specks moving against a beige background. As the helicopter drew closer, both pilots could see that the four were burdened with weapons and were running as fast as their loads would allow. The pilots were sure the enemy could hear the helicopter coming by now, but it was obvious they weren’t stopping.
At a little over nine hundred feet, the two pilots could see the four fleeing Vietnamese clearly over the round nose of the fuselage, and the copilot kept up a running dialogue with communications in An Hoa describing the four and their weaponry.
A recent command decision made it necessary for anyone in the 5th Marines TAOR who wanted to fire on enemy sighted to ask permission first. Even when time was a crucial factor, a call to command had to be made, and while a responsible officer—or one willing to give permission—was being located, the opportunity to fire was often lost. Clearly identified enemy with weapons usually prompted those in the rear to grant permission a little quicker, but in situations where delays could be deadly, those in the field found the rule absurd and frustrating.
But Highball wasn’t asking for permission to fire. Their intention was to identify those on the ground and place their movements on the map so other Marine elements could be brought into play, leaving Highball to ferry their casualties to the BAS. The copilot reported numerous RPGs along with AKs, an RPD machine gun, and what looked like a mortar. He calculated their distance from the sports team thrust point christened New York Yankees and estimated their path would eventually intersect Nam An 5.
The pilot dipped the nose and swung the helicopter in a starboard bank, showing the open door on the right side a full view of the ground. Strader held onto the bulkhead and grabbed the corner rung of the Chief’s litter so it wouldn’t defeat centrifugal force and slide out. The Chief dug his heels in and pushed, trying to inch away from the opening, but the slippery floor fought his efforts. Strader pulled with all his might. When the gunner caught sight of the four men running on the valley floor, he instinctively brought his weapon up, leaned his cheek close to the feed cover, and squeezed the trigger. The gun shook on its mount, and an arc of spent brass flew into the air while the weapon spewed black links onto the deck that danced like frantic spiders before finding the door and falling into space. Most of his bullet strikes were lost in the grass, but a few chunks of earth jumped into the air, providing his targets with an impetus to run faster, and he swung the barrel, letting the tracer rounds guide him along the path in the grass until he caught up to the last runner. The man pitched forward in a flurry of arms and legs and an AK-47 cartwheeled away like a discarded toy.
Immediately, the underbelly of the helicopter began taking hits, although the enemy runners hadn’t even broken stride. Heavy rounds punched through the deck and disappeared through the overhead as though they were headed somewhere else and the helicopter wasn’t even a serious obstacle. The strikes sounded like hammer blows coming in rapid succession. One came in under the new guy in the poncho liner, tossing him up with a jolt to land against the starboard bulkhead. The poncho liner flew free and writhed about the compartment like something alive before snagging itself on one of the jagged bullet holes.
Another burst of hits slammed the helicopter, and Strader could see frantic movement in the cockpit. The copilot was now flying an evasive action, trying desperately to lose the green tracers reaching out from the jungle with deadly accuracy. He swung the nose into the sun and increased the rpms in an effort to get distance and altitude, but a loud bang staggered the helicopter and sent the tail into a spin. The entire machine vibrated violently. While the copilot fought for control, more rounds struck the helicopter. Strader could see daylight through holes in the bulkheads on both sides.
The tail seemed determined to loop around itself again and again, and Strader knew the tail rotor was damaged or gone and that this big green machine was going down. It wasn’t a question of whether the helicopter would crash or not, but how bad the crash would be, and only the skill and luck of the pilot could determine that. Above the noise of the machine shaking itself apart, Strader heard an insistent voice. “Reach! Reach!” the Chief screamed with all the force his lungs could muster. He also knew the helicopter was going down, and the constricting straps made him completely helpless. “Reach!” he screamed again.
Across the deck, the gunner lay slumped on his side with one foot hanging out of the opening. His helmet banged spasmodically against the forward bulkhead and rivulets of blood from under his body drew erratic lines on the deck following the dictates of wind and inertia.
Strader fought the vertigo that was stealing what little stability he had and grabbed the litter end, pulling it until the Chief’s entire body was lying on top of Tanner. Their eyes met again, and Strader hoped that his weren’t revealing the level of fear he felt. In contrast, the Chief’s stare seemed to have a purpose. It was steady and intense, as if he was trying to commit Strader’s face to memory, as though it was the last face he would see and he wanted to carry it with him into the next world.
The Chief’s look had a calming effect on Strader, clearing his mind. There was no benefit to panic. He had to assume they would survive the landing. If he assumed wrong, it didn’t matter, but if he was right, they would have to get away from the helicopter. He grabbed his M14 and pulled up one of the backpacks that had been tossed about since they left the ground. The Chief’s web belt was near, and he looped it over his shoulder.
In all the dozens of helicopter lifts he had experienced in the last year, his greatest fear was that the one he was in would fall out of the sky or be shot down. One of the most profound reliefs he had felt yesterday after reaching An Hoa was that that fear would never be realized. Now here he was, living the nightmare. By all rights he should be back at the base picking up his laundry and wondering what the chow hall menu would be. Instead, he was riding a crippled machine full of the dead and dying in an out-of-control spiral to the ground.
The copilot struggled with the controls. The rudder pedals were of no use, and he tried to use the forward speed to stretch the glide. All he could do was try to keep the wheels facing down and auto rotate to the valley floor. He worked at the throttle, slowing the spin and keeping the nose up. Finally he lowered the collective at his side; without lift, the helicopter dropped like a stone. At the last second he increased the blade pitch in an attempt to cushion the landing, but the spin caused the helicopter to hit hard on the right strut, collapsing it and pitching the machine to starboard. The huge blades struck the ground with tremendous force, sending shattered chunks spinning into the air and leaving the jagged stumps to beat at the earth until the rotor hub finally stopped turning. The 34 lay like a fallen beast in a steaming cloud of its own making.
The port strut held the body up, cocking the angle of the fuselage so the deck was a slippery incline to the open doorway. Everyone in the compartment, living or dead, bounced on impact and slammed against the new guy’s body on the starboard bulkhead. The odor of fuel oil and freshly turned earth filled Strader’s nostrils while he tried to orient himself. The Chief’s weight was pinning him in the corner, and when he tried pushing him away, the Chief’s groans turned into curses in an incomprehensible language. Strader crawled free and climbed to the opening. The jungle’s edge was only a few hundred feet away, and no firing was coming from it. A loosely formulated plan began to develop in Strader’s mind that included getting into those trees.
The copilot’s voice drifted down from the cockpit. He was giving the downed chopper’s position as two points west of the Dodgers thrust point, all the while trying to get the pilot’s unconscious body free of his shoulder harness. Three figures in black pajamas with AK-47s were running toward the helicopter for all they were worth. “Get away from the chopper,” the copilot yelled, pulling his helmet off and dropping it. “Hostiles are on the way. You don’t have much time.”
The Chief was wriggling toward the opening with all the speed and agility of an earthworm. “Reach,” he said. “Cut me loose.”
The Chief’s cartridge belt with the big stag-horn knife was still looped over Strader’s forearm, and he drew the blade and slipped it under the web belt buckled across the Chief’s thighs, the blade tip an inch and a slip from a castration. He pulled up hard, and the razor edge parted the ribbed layers like they were made of paper. He repeated the process with the chest belt. The Chief pushed himself up on his elbows, but his head swam and he rolled back.
“Come on, Chief. We have to go,” Strader said. He retrieved the backpack from the jump seat where it had landed and looked around for his rifle.
The Chief held his hand out. “Give me my knife,” he said.
Strader hesitated, looking down at the big blade in his hand.
The Chief sat up, found Strader’s loose rifle, and pulled it across his lap. “Give it to me,” he said.
Strader held out the knife and waited until they made a mutual exchange. While he shoved a magazine into the rifle and jacked a round into the chamber, the Chief slipped his knife between his ankles and severed his knotted bootlaces. With his legs now free he got onto his knees and crawled to the opening. When his head reached daylight, a wave of nausea washed over him and he dumped the contents of his stomach into the grass beside the helicopter, retching until the pain in his head turned into starbursts behind his eyes.
Strader got a hand under the Chief’s arm and lifted him to his feet so that they stood on the ground with their heads protruding into the tilted helicopter. As the unstable Chief staggered, Strader pushed or pulled to keep him upright, lifting hard when the Chief’s knees started to buckle. “Can you make it to the trees?” he asked.
The trees were a distant blur, and the more the Chief tried to focus on them, the more the overwhelming dizziness tried to turn his stomach inside out. He swallowed hard.
“Can you do it, Chief?”
The Chief wavered like a tall stalk in the wind, his red-rimmed eyes giving him the look of a drunk after a three-day bender. He wanted to answer but couldn’t trust his stomach enough to open his mouth, so he just nodded.
AK rounds began striking the face of the helicopter, and the distant cracks of their reports echoed against the Ong Thu. “Get moving,” the copilot screamed. “I’m right behind you.”
The two Marines ducked past the shattered remnants of the main rotor, and Strader half-dragged, half-carried the Chief toward the tree line. The toes of the Chief’s boots dragged in the grass like a blunt plow as Strader cajoled him with a steady stream of pleas and threats, all the while moving at an angle that kept the smashed aircraft between them and the shooters. The Chief pressed a hand to the battle dressing on his head but kept his legs churning at an awkward gait.
After what seemed to Strader to be the exertion of a marathon, they reached the trees and slipped into the shadows. As soon as Strader released his grip, the Chief sank to the ground with his head cradled in his hands. Gasping for air, Strader looked back at the empty open space they just crossed. “Where the hell are the pilots?”
Nguyen had known before the first group to cross had covered three hundred meters that there was going to be trouble. He could hear the pulsating thump of a helicopter coming up the valley. His men were already well beyond the distance where they had a chance to get back into the trees before the helicopter was within sight, and he knew they wouldn’t try now because if they did, they would draw the helicopter to the main unit’s position. They would keep heading away. Their only option was to present as difficult a moving target as possible, and their only hope was Co and the heavy machine gun. Nguyen ran toward the gun’s position, but he couldn’t run far enough quickly enough, so he stopped and cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled as loudly as he could: “Ma’y bay truc thang.”
Co’s group already had the feet of the gun’s tripod firmly anchored on a small mound with a clear view of the valley. Pham and Truong watched as Sau swung the lid on the tin ammunition box open and drew out the belt and Co positioned the rim of the first round in the jaws of the feed carrier.
Truong stood upright and looked back toward the main unit. “That was Nguyen’s voice. He says there is a helicopter.”
Co reached under the rear of the weapon and jerked the operating handle all the way back, then shoved it forward again with a clatter of meshing metal parts. “I hear it,” he said, flipping up the vernier sight in the rear and peering down the long, ribbed barrel to the mule-ear front sight at the flash suppressor. He grabbed the two spade-handle grips and swung the barrel up, checking the elevation. “We’re ready,” he said.
“What can I do?” Pham said, feeling like a useless bystander.
Co pointed to the edge of the tree line. “Go there and tell me when you see the helicopter and when our people have been spotted.”
Pham ran the few steps to the rim of the valley, where the entire skyline was visible. He could hear the vibrating thuds the big helicopter engine sent ahead of itself, but it took a few seconds before the green spot in the sky came into view. It was climbing fast and following the shape of the Ong Thu. “I see it,” he said, not trying to hide the excitement in his voice.
Co dug his heels in and made an adjustment to the rear sight by sheer estimation.
Pham watched the spot in the sky, checked the progress of the crossing, then looked back to the sky. The helicopter kept climbing, well beyond the eastern edge of the lake. It seemed very high.
Pham had never flown in an aircraft of any kind, but he imagined it would be very difficult to see small things on the ground from that height. He had once taken a trip north of Hanoi to Tam Dao to visit the three peaks. Most everyone wanted to see the stone table on Thach Ban or the waterfall on Thien Thi, but Pham wanted to climb Phu Nghia because it was the highest of the three and because, with a name like Bearer of Good Things, it must certainly bring him good fortune. He remembered how oddly cold it was nearly 1,500 feet up and that recognizing small landmarks from that height was nearly impossible. He hoped the Americans were having that same problem now, and that they were cold too. Suddenly, the nose dropped and the helicopter went into a steep dive, and Pham knew his wishes had not been granted.
“It’s attacking,” Pham yelled as the aircraft swooped in a wide arc like an awkward bird and showed its underbelly to the mountain. A lethal stream of bullets rained down on the four runners, and Co pressed the trigger on the SGM with his thumbs and held it down. The big gun shook like it was possessed. Co twisted his body and forced the long barrel to follow the path of the helicopter until the glowing tracers were striking the bottom between the wheels. He could see the bullets hitting the target. The helicopter suddenly changed its angle, and Co fired into the left side. When it started to swing away again he heard the bang and swoosh of a rocket-propelled grenade being fired from somewhere near Nguyen’s location. It seemed foolish to Co that Nguyen would give away his position for a long shot with a grenade, but when it hit the tail at the angle that swept up to the rear blades, he made a mental note to tease Nguyen about his incredible luck.
Pham was a little forward of Co, and his ears were ringing from the report of the big gun. He could see the rounds hitting the helicopter, and he was awed by Co’s skill with such an old weapon. The unexpected sound of the RPG being fired had made him duck and had put his nerves on edge. But when the explosion followed, he could barely restrain himself from running into the valley and shaking his fists at the big machine with its mortal wound. He watched it spin and waver in the air. He could hear the engine increasing and slowing as the spin carried it out of control to the north. It got quiet in the last seconds, then twisted into the ground past the bend in the mountain and rolled onto its side.
Co stopped firing and let the barrel drop. White clouds rose into the trees from the steaming weapon, and Vo ducked down to see how many loops of the belt remained in the tin box.
“It’s down
,” Pham said, pointing with the barrel of his AK. “Shouldn’t we go after them?”
Co opened the top of the machine gun and checked the feed. He seemed unaffected by events. He closed the top and locked it down. “This is our responsibility,” he said, patting the hot gun. “Nguyen knows how to command.” As proof, he pointed into the valley in front of their position where Hoang Li and two others were running by, heading for the helicopter.
16
Strader watched from his position at the edge of the jungle and knew that no one else would be coming from the helicopter. He stretched out on the ground in a prone position with his legs splayed, propped on his elbows, and pulled the M14 butt plate into his shoulder. He wrapped the sling around his left arm and drew a sight picture from under a sagging branch laden with thick leaves. Though the distance wasn’t great, the shot would be difficult. His breathing was coming in gasps, and his heart was beating like a jackhammer. Every breath and heartbeat altered his aim and magnified the deviation. If he was going to shoot, it would have to be done quickly, holding his breath while willing his heart to calm just long enough to squeeze the trigger. If he was lucky, his first shot would have some precision, but after that it would be all general direction with little chance of suppressing any fire coming back his way.
Strader watched as three Vietnamese in black crept around the nose of the helicopter, rifles raised. He could see the tall magazine pouches strapped to their bodies and the undulating brims on their canvas hats, their matching canvas hats. It seemed odd to him. There was no coordination of uniforms among the Viet Cong, at least not the village militias or regional troops. There was rarely even any consistency in their weapons. Their ubiquitous non la conical hats and collarless shirts and dark shorts were the national dress in rural areas. The VC main forces were better equipped but still kept the look of peasant farmers just in from the paddies. But these three were trying very hard to look like VC, and the hair on the back of his neck confirmed what he already suspected. They were NVA. And the NVA did not move in small units.
