“Rog. I’ll do that.”
Sam continued a slow orbit over the fight. The Rangers were having a difficult time moving off the LZ toward the trees. A small group leapt to their feet and charged the wood line only to lose half their number to the withering fire. The survivors flopped prone and began inching back to the comparative safety of the defensive perimeter. Sam was concentrating so intently on the carnage below that he was startled when a new voice cut into the radio.
“Blackjack One One, this is Ramrod Lead. How do you read?”
Sam switched to his UHF radio. “Ramrod Lead, this is Blackjack One One. I’ve got you five by five. We don’t have a lot of time for briefing so listen up. The situation is this: We’ve got friendlies pinned on an LZ. They’re taking heavy fire from the trees to their east and northeast. There are five choppers down and one other has been shot out of the fight. There are at least two .50 calibers and numerous automatic weapons in the area. You’ll have to make your run-in along a north-south line to keep from overflying the friendlies. You’ll need an east break-off target. Elevation here is about fifty feet and the best bailout area is as far to the west of the LZ as you can get. Go ahead with your lineup and your ETA.”
“Sounds absolutely charming. OK, Ramrod is a flight of two A-1s. We’re wall-to-wall with Mark-82s and a full load of .50s. If you’re working where all that smoke is off our nose we ought to be with you in a couple of minutes. We’re coming in from the east at five thou.”
“I’m sure that’s us. We’re the only smoke in the area,” said Sam, trying to match the languorous tones of the Spad pilot. “Incidentally, I’m out of marking rockets so we’ll have to do with smoke grenades. Stand by one and I’ll get the gunships cleared off.”
Without waiting for a reply he quickly switched back to his VHF radio. “Pink Lead, Blackjack. If you folks can clear to the west and stay below a thousand feet I’m about ready to bring the A-1s in and go to work.”
“Roger that. Pink Flight, if any of you are still left out there, let’s clear to the west at five hundred feet. Get some, Blackjack!”
Sam was already switching back to the fighter frequency as he watched the remaining gunnies wheel abruptly away from the tree line and head west. He peered through the dust and rising smoke and picked up the blocky frames of the approaching A-1 flight. They looked to be a couple of thousand feet higher than his orbit. “Ramrod, this is Blackjack. Got you in sight. I should be at your two o’clock low.”
The lead aircraft tilted up on one wing. “Got you, Blackjack. Is the target that big batch of woods east of where the choppers are burning?”
“Affirm. I’m heading that way now. I’ve got all sorts of colored smoke in here so don’t be surprised if it changes on you.”
“Roger. Two, let’s arm ’em up and take position.”
“Two. Roger.”
Sam turned until he was east of the tree line, well back over the heavily forested area, figuring that there would be less opportunity for a gunner to track him through the thick foliage. He shoved the throttle forward to the stop and dropped the Bird Dog’s nose below the horizon. All 213 horses of the Continental engine screamed in protest at such ham-handed treatment. He watched the airspeed indicator nudge the red line—115 miles per hour! Jesus! This was ridiculous! He’d had automobiles that could go faster than this.
He leveled at a thousand feet and reached behind the seat, groping for a smoke grenade. He picked one from the cluster. There was the clash of metal against metal as something struck the fuselage hard. He forced his eyes toward the trees and saw that he was almost to the bunker complex. He pulled the pin from the grenade, keeping the handle depressed. He altered course slightly, waited, and finally threw the grenade toward the ground. Simultaneously, he tromped heavily on the rudder, shoved the stick to the side to stand the Bird Dog on its wing, then sucked back hard on the stick. The aircraft responded with an unbelievably quick change in direction before the excessive forces caused the air flowing over the top of the wings to burble and the wings stalled. The aircraft pitched down nearly three hundred feet before Sam could release enough back pressure on the stick to let it regain flying speed.
Once out of the immediate danger area he climbed back to his perch at fifteen hundred feet and looked at the red smoke just beginning to boil through the tree canopy. “OK, Ramrod. That’s your first target. Lead, hit my smoke.”
“Rog. Hit the smoke. Lead is in hot from the north. FAC and target in sight.”
Sam eyeballed the lead attack ship’s run-in line before he spoke. “Cleared hot, Lead.”
The Skyraider rolled nearly inverted, then plummeted toward the ground in a sixty-degree dive angle. Its speed brakes jutted into the wind to prevent excess speed from building during the dive. Sam imagined that he could hear the roar of the big radial engine as it wound up tightly. Two shapes fell from the wings and sped toward the jungle as the A-1 pulled agonizingly into its recovery. Streams of tracers followed as its nose slowly crept above the horizon.
“Lead’s off east,” the pilot grunted.
“Ramrod Two is in from the south. FAC and target in sight. Where do you want it, Blackjack?”
The southern accent told Sam that this was also an American pilot. Unusual. Normally there would be only one to a flight. “Put yours about thirty long on Lead’s smoke.”
“Rog. Thirty long.”
“Cleared hot, Two.”
Sam watched the new explosions with a critical eye. He’d requested them to be dropped thirty meters north of the lead ship’s craters; they were. “Good bombs, Ramrod Flight. I’ll remark and we’ll do it some more. How are you two fixed on fuel?”
“Enough to take out homestead papers,” Ramrod Lead said laconically.
Sam shoved the power up again and aimed toward the LZ, hoping that it was the last time he’d need mark for the flight. He steered toward an unsullied section of the woods and reached for another grenade. Resting his left elbow on the window ledge, forearm sticking into the slipstream, he waited to drop the grenade.
Sam never saw the .50-caliber stream of high-explosive shells. The little aircraft never had a chance. Sam watched with stunned eyes as the engine disintegrated, chewed apart by the shells. Before he had fully comprehended his situation, the aircraft was thrown on its side and engine components began to rain back through the Plexiglas of the windscreen. Several smaller metal pieces grooved Sam’s face on their way to their final resting place in the rear cockpit bulkhead. Something large and solid caromed across the top of his helmet, momentarily dazing him. A smaller piece cracked the sun visor of his helmet, breaking off the bottom half over his left eye and cracking the remainder so badly that it was useless. He slowly became aware that he was taking deep rasping breaths, but doing nothing. He pulled his head up with a jerk as he gained rational thought. Sight was impossible through the mutilated sun visor, so he viciously slammed it up with the heel of his hand.
Odd. He still couldn’t see. His immediate fear was that his eyes were injured, for a thick red haze constituted his entire forward field of vision. Suddenly, he realized that the smoke grenade had been jarred from his hand and had rolled somewhere beneath his seat when the aircraft went on its side. Red stinging smoke billowed through the cockpit, so dense that Sam had trouble seeing even his instrument panel. In truth, he realized as the smoke cleared momentarily, there was little to be seen, for the .50 caliber exploding shells had left holes the size of a large coffee can all through the panel.
Sam could hear the hissing of the smoke canister as it purged itself of its pressurized contents. He realized with a start that the only reason he could hear it through the cocoon of his helmet was a complete absence of engine noise. OK, he thought, trying to steady himself, let’s just see if we can’t get all of this into perspective. The engine is definitely out because he’d seen it go. Besides, pieces of its innards were lying in his lap. No chance of restarting that sucker. He didn’t know whether he was right side up or inverted
because some asshole had rolled a smoke grenade under the seat. Since he could hardly see the instrument panel, much less outside the cockpit, it was just possible he was coming down right on Charley’s head. Besides that, all that fucking red smoke was making him sick to his stomach and he was sure he was going to puke.
Sam tried to get his head out the window but his fastidiousness only got him a lap full of vomit as the slipstream hurled it back into the cockpit. This is really not my day, he thought. And worst of all, he was embarrassed. He could imagine the spectacle he was making of himself to both the friendlies and the Viet Cong. A powerless airplane that couldn’t hit 120 knots when it was well, floating down in a whimsical fashion, belching red smoke like an aerial circus entertainer.
He found that if he used cross-control pressures he could slip the aircraft and draw some of the smoke out of the cockpit through the open window. Unfortunately, that maneuver cleared only the portion of the windscreen that was scarred. It did show him to be approximately right side up, however.
In addition to his other problems, some fool was trying to talk to him over the radio. “Blackjack! Blackjack! This is Ramrod Lead.”
“What?” he answered querulously.
“What’s your status?”
Sam choked back a bitter laugh. “I’m going to crash, that’s what my status is. What else do you want to know?”
There was a long moment of silence before the A-1 leader answered. “Well, if you’ve decided that’s what you want to do, do you mind if we slide in and take some pictures? It’s really quite a show.”
Sam gave a tight little grin and shook his head at the mordant humor of the attack pilot. “Yeah, you can take your pictures, but it might be a little more helpful if you’d tell me where I’m heading. I can’t see a thing.”
“OK, come right about twenty and get your nose up a little if you can. You just might be able to stretch your glide to some rice paddies. That’s it. Just a little more. Perfect. OK, you’re by the tallest trees. Too bad. That would have made a hell of a shot if you’d have straddled one of those babies. Well, not to worry. There’s lots more chances to screw up before you crawl out of that thing. Crap! I think your smoke is going out. That is too bad. Now the scene won’t be nearly as interesting. Can you see forward at all now?”
“Yeah, I can.” What he saw was not encouraging. He estimated he was only two or three hundred feet above the ground. The attack pilot had been right. There were several large paddies just off the nose; with just a little luck . . .
He almost made it. The little aircraft stalled while he was still six or seven feet in the air, trying to milk it for distance. It fell to the earth like a rock only feet short of the rice paddy, then bounced back into the air only to crash down again, this time on its side, one wing folded under it.
Sam hung from the harness, dazed and unclear as to what had happened. When he smelled the gas dripping from the crumpled wing, he panicked and released his safety belts, only to fall through what had been a closed door. He lay beneath the aircraft on the door he’d taken with him and rubbed his shoulder, which had absorbed most of the fall. The smell of fuel was stronger and he struggled to his feet, realizing he must get away from the broken aircraft. He leaned back inside to turn off the ignition and battery and saw the stock of his shotgun in the rack in the rear cockpit. He grabbed it and a bandolier of shells and hurriedly crawled outside, then darted in again to pick up two of the smoke grenades now rolling loose on the inside of the cockpit. He slung the bandolier, put the grenades in the leg pocket of his flight suit, and began to survey the area.
The Skyraiders roared over his head, one in trail behind the other. He waved his shotgun at them before taking off in a stumbling lope for the nearest wood line. He gained the trees and belly flopped beneath some low bushes. His heart was racing; he could feel his pulse hammering away insanely in his ears. Several klicks away—to the south, he thought—he could hear the staccato of automatic weapons. He lay motionless, waiting. Waiting for what? He wasn’t sure. Sweat began to sting the open gashes on his face. He found a dirty handkerchief in a breast pocket and tenderly wiped his face, then stared in horror at the bloody rag. Tentative fingers told him that the wounds were superficial. Hah! Superficial is when it happens to somebody else. He went back to waiting.
The earth suddenly shook beneath him as the double crump of detonating bombs showed that the A-1s had gone back to work by the LZ. What the hell did that mean? Were they just going to forget about him? Logic told him that the attack aircraft had gone where they were needed most; still, it disturbed him to be left alone. Warily, he stretched his neck up as far as he could and peered through the leaves of his bush. The fuel from the leaking tank must have seeped onto the hot exhaust stacks, for small flames had ignited and were building around the wrecked aircraft. Sam was torn between getting away from the flaming wreckage, knowing it would attract every unfriendly in the area, and staying close by, knowing it was also his sole source of contact with a rescue effort. He decided to stay, for the moment.
Sam’s scrutiny had picked up a well-traveled trail that led into the darker recesses of the forest. That concerned him, since it lay roughly in the direction of the Viet Cong bunkers by the LZ some kilometers away to the southwest. If that were the case and the VC retreated, as inevitably they must when more and more firepower was deployed against them, odds were that Sam could soon find himself in the middle of a very cranky group of enemy soldiers.
He squatted and duck-walked out of the bushes, pausing often to listen for any unusual jungle noise. Hell! All the noises sounded unusual. He rose carefully to a crouch and slowly crept deeper into the gloom beneath the trees. Within fifty meters he found a small depression that was probably a jungle pool during the wet season. New growth crowded the edge, which was nearly thirty meters from the trail.
Sam crawled into the depression, wedging himself beneath the low bushes, and waited. His tongue stuck to the roof of his cottony mouth, seeking moisture. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to grab the canteen from his aircraft. He searched the pockets of his flight suit until he came up with half a pack of very old chewing gum. He tried a piece and, after overcoming an initial failure to work up enough saliva to keep it from sticking to his teeth, found that it helped a little. He chewed noisily and surveyed himself. The cuts on his face were still stinging but had stopped bleeding. Gently, he dabbed the arm of his flight suit against his face, trying to blot the moisture. He noticed the entire sleeve, no, the entire flight suit, was completely darkened with sweat. He’d have to get water somewhere if his wait was too long.
The roar of the huge radial engines of the Skyraiders almost caused him to go into cardiac arrest as they buzzed the tree line where his Bird Dog burned. Sam took a long look around, then got to his feet. There were more explosions from the area of the LZ. Other aircraft must have joined the fight.
Sam stealthily retraced his route to the edge of the jungle. The A-1s had departed after one pass, the sound of their engines fading into the distance. In their place came another sound—a familiar one. It could only be another Bird Dog. On his belly, Sam slid away from the comforting haven of trees, peering suspiciously over his shoulder. The engine noise was getting louder. The last pass by Ramrod Flight must have been to show his location to the pilot of the approaching aircraft. Then he saw it, heading directly for the smoke rising from the wrecked aircraft. The new aircraft was flying low, damned low.
After peering carefully back into the forest once more, Sam got to his knees and waved the shotgun. The aircraft was close enough that Sam could see its pilot, who had his head turned away from him, watching the fire consume the wrecked O-1. The new aircraft wore the olive-drab paint scheme of the army rather than air force gray.
It overflew the wreckage and turned toward the trees. Sam waved lustily and knew immediately he’d been sighted when the pilot enthusiastically rocked the wings of his aircraft before passing over just high enough to clear the tall
trees. Sam could follow his turning flight path by listening to the engine noise. OK, he’d been spotted. But now what? Was the army pilot directing a rescue helicopter? Sam shook his head and tried to mentally quiet himself. For all practical purposes he was out of the loop on anything that was to happen. He’d just have to take what came and try to use his common sense. But, damnit! He really thought they ought to be in more of a hurry to get him out of here before the dinks came back.
Sam watched the aircraft reappear and begin a puzzling maneuver. It crisscrossed the field at fifty feet as though the pilot had lost something and was looking for it. At the edge of the paddy clearing the pilot pulled up sharply and reversed course. Sam watched the large flaps on the aircraft come down in a partial setting and heard the increased pitch as the pilot pushed on more RPMs. It came to him. No! The idiot was going to try a landing! Forgetting about any Viet Cong in the area, Sam jumped to his feet and began waving both shotgun and his free arm back and forth desperately. The surface in the clearing around the paddies probably looked smooth from the air, but erosion had created deep trenches where the ground declined toward the trees. The ditches were concealed by matted grasses. The paddies were relatively smooth but were completely inadequate for a takeoff or a landing by anything other than a helicopter.
But a landing it was to be. Either the pilot had not seen Sam’s frantic arm movements, had misinterpreted them, or had chosen to ignore them. Sam watched in dismay as the aircraft turned onto its final approach, flaps coming down full. The pilot sideslipped to lose altitude, then righted the aircraft just before it settled into a gentle, perfect, three-point landing.
There was a landing roll of a hundred feet or so before the inevitable disaster. The O-1’s main gear dropped completely out of sight into a rain-carved gully, and the aircraft stood abruptly on its nose. It paused there, as if for dramatic effect, then slowly fell forward onto its back. It was enveloped in a cloud of dust.
On Glorious Wings Page 30
