by Mike Jenne
Pausing momentarily to draw a deep breath, Henson knelt down and used the sharp point of a pine needle to indicate the pertinent points on his map to the three squad leaders.
“First squad, be prepared to deploy a tracking team if the survivors are not at the pod. Second squad, provide a detail to destroy sensitive items on the pod. Service and support remain the same. Command and Signal. I will be at the center mass of the search grid, and will displace to the pod when it’s found. Order of succession is APL, then first squad leader, second squad leader, third squad leader, and then by order of seniority. Signal. Primary FM freq is 37.25, alternate is 30.75, air freq is 40.50. Current signals plan and SOP code words remain in effect. Any questions?” Henson looked over the men and saw no indication of confusion or questions. “Good. Choppers in eight. Squad leaders, give me an up when you’re ready.”
The squads rallied in tight clusters to examine their maps and collaborate on their parts of the plan. Only a few minutes passed before each of the three squad leaders indicated their readiness to execute. Despite any discord that they might have in their off hours, the Flight consistently came together in the field and worked in unison. Henson respected them for that. After his conversation with Lewis, most of the signs of racial animosity had disappeared; the undertone was still there, like it always was, but he felt like he was an integral part of this group.
He folded his map and jammed it in his thigh cargo pocket. He took the bulky PRC-25 tactical radio from the radio operator who normally carried it, made sure that the primary and alternate frequencies were pre-set, then stowed it in his rucksack. It was an extra twenty pounds on his back, but carrying the cumbersome radio enabled him to monitor the situation and communicate without going through an intermediary. Besides that, it freed up an extra man to fill out the search grid, so they could cover more ground on each successive pass.
He heard the faint but unmistakable sound of the helicopter rotors beating the thick morning air. Finn had already organized the men in a cross-load plan that dispersed leaders and other key personnel among the six aircraft, so that the loss of a single helicopter would not cause the mission to immediately grind to a screeching halt. Making their final checks, the men knelt in two lines on either side of the landing zone, facing out from where the helicopters would land.
The aircraft arrived. Their doors were painted orange, indicating that they were flown by student pilots from the Army’s aviation school at nearby Fort Rucker in Alabama. Finn gave a hand signal, and the men quickly boarded the aircraft. Henson clambered into the lead chopper and knelt down just behind the communications console between the two pilots. The crew chief handed him a radio headset. Henson spread his map out on the console and quickly conferred with the fledgling aviators, verifying the primary and alternate landing zones near the search area, and what actions the aircraft should take if they took fire coming into the LZ.
As he chatted with the pilots on the intercom, Henson noticed the crew chief open a laundry bag stuffed with food; from the bag, the aviator furtively passed out candy bars to the candidates seated in the back. He leaned forward and offered a king-sized Baby Ruth. Shaking his head, Henson politely declined. The crew chief appeared confused by the apparent snub.
Tracing the aircraft’s progress on his map, Henson smiled as he realized that it was a case of mistaken identity. The “orange door” student pilots normally flew in support of Ranger School students undergoing Florida Phase, the third and final segment of the grueling eight-week course. Apparently, thought Henson, this student aircrew wasn’t completely sure of who they were ferrying and had just automatically assumed that they were Ranger students.
At Eglin, when the Ranger students executed their final twelve-day patrol in the swamps, their food consumption was limited to one C-ration meal per day. Since the neophyte Rangers moved almost nonstop all day long, one meager C-ration provided less than a third of the calories that their bodies were actually burning in a twenty-four hour period. Consequently, the Ranger students were always starving, and there was a longstanding tradition that the orange door crews snuck extra food and goodies to them.
Skimming the treetops, the pilots flew low and fast. The pilot gave Henson the two-minute warning. He affirmed, flashed two fingers to the other candidates, and then handed the radio headset to the crew chief. The LZ was barely large enough to accommodate two aircraft at a time, so the candidates were dropped off in three serials.
Henson was impressed with the pilot on his aircraft; the man skillfully maneuvered the helicopter into the small clearing, flaring just in time to land with a slight bump. Almost certainly the pilot would be in Vietnam in a few weeks, flying a similar Huey in combat. In seconds, the candidates tumbled out of the two aircraft and they were gone, with the next two already on final approach. Without hesitation or any instructions, the first hasty team moved out on the run, scrambling toward their intercept point.
The second serial of helicopters landed, dropping off their charges, followed rapidly by the third serial. All three hasty teams were moving, as Henson guided the remainder of the men to the starting point for the search grid.
They had been searching for several minutes when a booming clatter of gunfire erupted to the northeast, far off in the distance. Henson suspected that one of the hasty teams had encountered an “enemy patrol.” He knew better than to jump on the radio and immediately demand information; the patrol was busy and would report as soon as they were able.
The radio crackled, and Henson pressed the black headset against his ear. “Sierra Six, Hasty Two is in contact, enemy patrol, five personnel, over,” was the team’s initial report. Henson spoke briefly, acknowledging the message.
Moments later, there was a second report. “Sierra Six, Hasty Two has engaged a five-man enemy patrol at Echo Juliet 336899. All enemy Kilo-India-Alpha. No friendly casualties. Conducting hasty search. Will Charlie Mike in two, over.” The voice was calm and businesslike, declaring that the hasty team was unharmed, that they would quickly search the bodies for maps and documents before continuing with their mission.
“Hasty Two, Sierra Six, copy Charlie Mike in two, out,” replied Henson, writing down the coordinates for the skirmish and quickly checking his map. Unfazed, the search line proceeded through the pine woods and oak thickets, looking for the elusive ejection pod, covering a thousand-meter swathe with each successive pass through the search area.
The radio crackled again. “Sierra Six, Hasty One is set, over.” The brief message informed Henson that the first hasty team had arrived at their intercept point. “Hasty One, Sierra Six, roger set, out,” replied Henson, checking his watch. Not bad, he thought, They must have really been trucking to hit their mark that quickly. Within just a few minutes, the other two hasty teams called in to report that they were also at their assigned locations.
He pulled off his bush hat and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. With the backstops in place, the rest of the mission was essentially just a monotonous slog through the pines and thick undergrowth, running the grid, then re-setting it and running it again, over and over, until the pod was located. As the sun progressively crept up in the sky, with the heat becoming relentlessly oppressive, he knew it was easy to lose focus and become complacent.
After two hours of relentless searching, he heard a clicking noise to his right; the next man was passing a signal that the target was located. Henson signaled the men to halt and then went to investigate the finding. The ejection pod was located in a grassy clearing approximately the size of a baseball diamond amid short clumps of saw grass and sumac bushes. Dented and scraped, with several patches of bare metal glinting through its dull paint, the unusual object had obviously seen better days.
The first squad had already formed a security perimeter around the pod. The squad leader signaled Henson that he had already spotted two men through the Perspex windscreen and that one appeared to be conscious and communicative. In a hushed voice, Henson spoke into the radio han
dset, informing the far-flung hasty teams that the pod had been found. “All Hasty elements, Sierra Six, Bingo at Echo Juliet 33649206. Two pax. Over.”
Henson motioned an approach team to move forward. Weapons at ready, the four men advanced on the pod from the rear on either side. Two of the men crept forward with crash axes and other tools; their job was to extricate the crew. Finding the pod intact, with no need to bash their way into the cockpit, the pair unlatched the clamshell cockpit and pried the sides open.
“We are an Air Force rescue team,” Henson declared to the conscious pilot, waving an American flag in one hand while holding his GAU-5 at the ready with the other. “Follow our instructions and you will not be harmed. Put your hands out where we can see them.”
Pale-faced and sweating profusely, the stand-in pilot nodded weakly, playing his role to the hilt. Leaning forward in his seat and gurgling quietly, the co-pilot was unresponsive; the cadre had apparently directed him to feign unconsciousness. Two taciturn instructors stood by quietly, scribbling down notes.
Henson directed the Flight’s PJ to focus on the co-pilot. “We’re here to rescue you,” he said to the pilot. “But we need to authenticate you before we can move you. Are you injured?”
The pilot slowly shook his head.
“Do you have a blood chit?” Printed on cloth or waterproof paper, a blood chit had an American flag on one side and phrases in different languages on the other, requesting assistance in exchange for a reward. Most importantly, it bore a unique serial number to identify the bearer. The instructors had constantly stressed the importance of positively authenticating aircrew members. Until the survivors could be authenticated, which might take hours even if their information was transmitted immediately, they had to be handled with the utmost care and guarded as if they were enemy combatants.
Although the candidates moved slowly and deliberately, the scene was quietly abuzz with activity. Three men examined the pod to identify all the equipment that had to be salvaged or destroyed before the Flight departed the scene. The HF radio operator assembled his radio, switched it on, and made contact with their headquarters. With a competent operator, the HF—high frequency—radio could literally transmit a low-power signal around the world.
Only a few seconds passed before they received word that the aircrew was legitimate. Henson breathed a sigh of relief and then contacted the hasty teams to pass on the good news. “All Hasty elements, this is Sierra Six. Papa Charlie verified. Fall back to my position. Over.” The three hasty teams responded and let Henson know that they were moving to his location.
“Outstanding job, Henson,” declared an instructor. “You’ve just set the class record. The mission is complete, so everyone can stand down, grab some chow and relax.” The instructor pointed at the PJ, who was already re-stowing his medical gear. “Baker, Captain Lewis wants to see you over at the pod. Now.”
Henson was elated. The candidates clapped and cheered, and several came up to slap him on the back and offer congratulations. Now that he was two for three, he felt as if a ponderous yoke had been hoisted off his shoulders.
It had been an exceedingly long and stressful morning, and he was famished. He found a tree to lean against and flopped down to eat. Using a tiny P-38 can opener, he sliced into a can of C-ration spaghetti. As he spooned up the cold glop, he couldn’t help but notice that there was a heated argument ensuing at the pod. As best as he could tell, Lewis had some issue with the medical treatment that the PJ, Steve Baker, had bestowed on the co-pilot. The discrepancy appeared to be the focus of a disagreement between Captain Lewis and the other instructors. From the looks of things, most sided with Baker and argued on his behalf.
Henson watched as Lewis berated Baker and the instructors backing him. The squabble went on for several minutes, and then Baker returned to join the other candidates. He sat down quietly, not making eye contact with Henson, and finished stowing his kit. As he pondered what might have happened, Henson watched the trucks arrive to take them to the Safety Range.
The candidates relaxed for a few minutes until a sergeant called them to assemble at the trucks. “The captain has some observations on this morning’s search,” he declared. “We’ll load up afterwards.” Henson noticed that the sergeant, who had been the primary grader for the exercise, seemed uncomfortable and made every effort not to look in Henson’s direction.
Lewis leaned against a hand-carved oak walking stick as he spoke. His comments reminded Henson that this was not a training regimen for the fainthearted or shy. Criticism was harsh, immediate, and brutally public. “Henson. Shrewd plan, tactically sound. Excellent ground search, well executed. But your PJ failed to identify internal bleeding in one of your survivors, so you’re coming off the field with one for two. You’re an overall failure for this mission.”
The harsh words stunned Henson like a mallet. With one brief sentence, Lewis had dashed his triumphant redemption into the mud. Several candidates shook their heads, and a murmur grew in the ranks. Lewis’s summary judgment was blatantly unfair. Moreover, since it was his second failure, it warranted Henson’s immediate dismissal from the course.
To Henson’s left rear, an angry voice erupted. “That’s not fair! He shouldn’t be held accountable for Baker’s mistake.”
Recovering gradually from his shock, Henson glanced back to see his defender. It was one of the Five White Crackers he had earlier suspected of leaving the racial threats, a skinny kid with buckteeth from Phenix City, Alabama.
“And that’s a negative spot report for you, Mister Green,” answered Lewis calmly, twirling the walking stick between his palms. “Minus twenty-five points. Anyone else care to lend their opinion?” He paused, looking over the mass of nearly exhausted men, and added, “I didn’t think so. Remember that as a leader, you’re responsible for everything your men do or fail to do. Now, fall in on your gear. There’s still a long day ahead.”
As they loaded the trucks, Baker walked up to Henson. “Sorry, Matt,” he said, heaving his rucksack onto the truck. “We’re moving fast, and there’s just no way to catch everything.”
“Water under the bridge, baby,” replied Henson. “It’s done, already forgotten.” He stuck out his hand, and they shook. It was unlike Baker to make even the slightest of medical errors. He had come here after four years in the pararescue field, including a combat tour in Vietnam, where he had earned a Silver Star and a Distinguished Flying Cross. He also wore an Airman’s Medal on his dress blues; he had received it for selflessly jumping into the crashing seas of the Bering Straits to rescue an interceptor pilot who had had ejected from a disabled F-102.
The instructor walked up. “Henson, you won’t go to the Safety Range with the class,” he said quietly. “Jump in the bed of that pickup over there. We’ll haul you back to Aux One-Oh.”
Henson nodded glumly.
“Sergeant, is there any chance that we can appeal this thing?” asked Baker. “It was my mistake, not his. It doesn’t seem right that he should be booted for my blunder.”
The instructor shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t think Captain Lewis is too inclined to change his mind.” He turned to Henson and added, “Leave your ammo and mission gear with Finn.” The sergeant glanced around to check that Lewis had departed. “Henson, you did good. Best search I’ve ever seen. Sincerely, I’m really sorry about this.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. That means a lot,” Henson said. Turning away, still quietly overwhelmed with shock that was increasingly turning to anger, he found Finn and relinquished his ammunition, radio, and other equipment. Then he climbed into the back of the pick-up truck and made himself as comfortable as he could, given the circumstances.
As he waited, he closed his eyes, fanned himself with his hat, and pondered his future. He hadn’t thought too long before he heard a voice. “What’s your name, boy?”
Prepared to be angry, he looked up and saw Glades, the Army instructor, standing next to the truck. In contrast to everyone else who had walked all m
orning through the sunbaked pine barrens, the unruffled Ranger hadn’t even broken a sweat. He was almost exactly six feet tall and looked deceptively thin. His crew-cut hair was dark brown, and his eyes brown as well. Deeply tanned, his features were square-cut, almost severely so, like he had been hewn from wood, a lethal sort of cigar store Indian. “What’s your name, boy?” he repeated.
As Henson realized that Glades wasn’t calling him “boy” as a racial epithet, his welling rage quickly dissipated. The word just seemed disarmingly natural coming from Glades, not threatening or derogatory. Glades spoke with a strange sort of accent, like a cross between sharecropper Southern and Midwestern twang, with the slightest hint of Irish inflection, a tongue that Henson could not readily place. “My name’s Henson, Sergeant,” he answered, sitting up straight and donning his hat. “Airman Matthew Henson.”
“You done well out there, Henson,” said Glades. “Very well. I just wanted you to know that.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Without speaking another word, Glades turned and left. Henson watched as a new leader was pulled out of the pack of candidates, and he mused whether the new guy would suffer a similar fate. On the way back to the compound, as the truck bumped along the sand trails and gravel roads, he reflected on his dismal circumstances. He had seen enough guys leave the training to understand that there was scarce chance for recourse. Once the instructors decided you were gone, you were gone and quickly so. Since he had been progressing so well in the course, he strongly suspected that his expulsion was racially motivated. He recalled the brother he had met at the slop chute. If the operational squadrons were a club reserved for whites only, perhaps they already had their token Negro to sit by the door for the quota checkers to see.
