by Dennis Foley
The two flights of choppers crossed each other just west of Cu Chi. They exchanged waves, but no radio traffic. As Hollister’s lift entered the approach pattern to land at Cu Chi, he began to monitor the cross talk between Sangean, his pilots, and Sergeant Nessen. The timing worked out so that as Hollister’s choppers landed at the Old Warrior Pad to pick up Sergeant Glover’s team to take them out, Sangean was picking up Nessen’s team.
The pickup at Cu Chi took longer than the one in the field. First there was a warning light on in one of the slicks that needed attention. Once that was resolved, First Sergeant Morrison came out to Hollister’s ship idling on the pad to ask him to hold up.
The first sergeant needed to find a soldier who had to be taken out of the training exercise to go home on emergency leave. His mother had been in a car accident and wasn’t expected to live. Morrison’s problem was that he wasn’t able to track down the soldier and was afraid they were about to insert him into the training LZ. No sooner had he explained the situation to Hollister than Sergeant Dewey ran up to say they had found him.
Hollister’s second lift got off twenty minutes late, and that bothered him. En route to the LZ again, he switched to the Admin frequency to talk to Sangean without tying up the Tactical frequency the pilots and the teams needed. “Six, Three. Over.”
“What have you got?” Sangean replied.
“I’m more than a little concerned that I might have misjudged the turnaround time.”
“Yeah, we might just be getting our root in a wringer here. Let’s see how the next few teams go. We may have to break off and try this later on in the week.”
“I don’t want to take so long doing this that we’re creating a target area for any hotshot VC looking to put a notch on his AK47 butt.”
“I hear you. Let’s see how it goes. Then I’ll decide if we pull the plug.”
“Roger that,” Hollister said. He waited for Sangean to say anything else and heard no more transmissions. He flipped the toggle switch back to the Tactical frequency and took a look at his watch. It was taking too much time. He had been at it long enough to know when to worry. He decided to see what he could do to decrease the turnaround.
Sangean’s lift had picked up Nessen’s team without a hitch. The two flights crossed each other again at the Cu Chi base camp perimeter. That meant the alternating flights were lopsided and Hollister had to pick up the lost time. “We got any more speed in these babies?”
“I’ll see what I can do. But know that next time back we have to go to the refueling point for some chopper juice,” Keith replied.
The increased speed was almost unrecognizable.
Two more series of inserts and extractions plus a refueling stop went smoothly. During that time Hollister filled three pages of his notebook with cryptic notes he would use to critique the performances later.
As he made a note about the apparent lack of fitness of one of the soldiers on the LZ who couldn’t keep up, he was interrupted by a call from Sangean.
“We have a monkey wrench from higher. If you haven’t put your load into the LZ yet—hold up. I’ll be right back to you. Stand by.”
“Wilco. Standing by,” Hollister replied. He looked down at the team he had just inserted and shook his head—too late. He then looked around the chopper, toward the copilot, with whom he could make eye contact. He shrugged as if questioning. He saw Keith raise his hand. “Pick up on guard.”
Hollister flipped the toggle switch in the overhead box to allow him to monitor the aviation emergency frequency. It was a mess of overlapping conversations and excited messages. Somewhere to the north a battalion of the 1st Infantry Division had locked onto an NVA unit that was standing to fight. The division commander had requested that blocking forces be placed behind the enemy unit to prevent their escape. The problem was with air assets. There were not enough organic choppers available to move the blocking force.
“They’re gonna yank us for sure,” Keith said.
“Shit!” Hollister responded. “You sure?”
“We’re the only slick platoon in the whole fucking corps area that isn’t committed to combat ops today. Who else are they gonna pull?”
“Okay, then let’s get ready to scoop up this team we just inserted. I’m going to give Sergeant Jackson a warning order, just in case we have to let you guys go.”
Hollister flipped to the Tactical frequency. “Six, Three. I’m going to give One-two the word to stand by for our lift to extract him.”
“This is Six. Roger that. I got the word. They want the slicks and the guns ASAP. Pull that team. I’m turning around with my load to head back to Old Warrior.”
“Roger. Break. Houston One-two, this is Three. Have you monitored?”
Sergeant Jackson replied, in a hoarse whisper, “This is One-two. Roger. I copied. Understand—prepare for extraction immediately?”
“That’s affirm. We’re going to make a wide orbit and wait for you. Tell us when you’re ready—but make it fast.”
The sergeant promised his best, and Hollister looked over to the copilot for acknowledgment. He nodded.
As they made the first orbit, Hollister heard Keith groan over the intercom. “What?” he asked.
“Shit’s getting ready to hit the fan. On the aviation freq there’s a big flap about what constitutes ASAP. They want us now and not after your people are finished pulling this team,” Keith said.
“No fucking way!” Hollister replied as Sangean’s voice filled his headset.
“Three, how long?”
“Stand by. Break. One-two, how close are you?”
Sergeant Jackson’s voice was jerky and breathy, obviously on the move in the trees. “You can start in now. My guess is we are zero three from the tree line.”
“Roger. Break. Six, we should be able to make this happen in under one zero mikes.”
“Getting real heat. Higher wants us to leave the team and come back with these choppers or some other unit later in the day.”
Out of reflex Hollister looked out at the horizon for any signs of bad weather. The memory of being left behind and switching chopper units, turning it all into a nightmare for him, was as fresh as the day it had happened on his first tour. “Neg-a-tive! Bad, bad move. We can pull them out and have these choppers back at your location in under two zero minutes.”
“You firm on that?”
The fact that Sangean seemed to trust his recommendation felt good to Hollister. He wanted to make sure he was right. “Hold one.”
He looked back to the copilot and asked over the intercom, “How are we on fuel? How soon can we be on the deck? Are my numbers realistic?”
Keith answered, “Good on fuel, we are zero two out. Everyone’s on their toes. Numbers are good—if we don’t run into any problems.”
“Thanks,” Hollister said and switched back to Sangean. “I really don’t want to farm this pickup out. It’s too long on the ground on a compromised PZ. Hell, who doesn’t know where this team is? My guess is the only one who could fuck up their location is a new chopper crew. Over.” He quickly keyed the intercom, “Sorry, no offense.”
The copilot looked over and smiled, forgiving Hollister his remark.
“Okay. You go with what you got. I’ll get them off our backs. Out,” Sangean said without hesitation.
The insert chopper skimmed along the PZ as if it were gliding. The air was calm, and the winds were still. Sergeant Jackson’s team burst from the trees and headed to the chopper—last man facing to the rear.
Then the order of march got screwed up. The soldier who was having trouble keeping up fell behind the one who was providing rear security. Jackson dropped back and tried to help the stumbling soldier, who was gasping for breath, his legs giving out under him. This created two groups on the PZ—one of four and one of two.
“Shit! We don’t need this!” Hollister said. “Chase, you in position?” he asked because the chopper was directly behind and slightly below the C&C and Hollister couldn’t
see him.
“That’s affirm,” the belly man replied.
“Okay, stay sharp. Don’t know where we’re going here, but I got a feeling this could go sour. Let’s not be asleep if it does.”
The chase clicked back in acknowledgment.
The pickup ship sat on the PZ, light on its skids, waiting for the team to get on board. The first three LRPs jumped in and waited for Sergeant Jackson, the tail gunner, and the stumbling soldier to get to the chopper.
Within twenty meters of the chopper, the soldier began to vomit, buckling over and quickly emptying his stomach contents.
“Oh … shit,” Keith remarked over the intercom. “He just puked all over one of his buddies.”
“That’s the least of his troubles. He’s got to face those guys when they get back. He’s gonna wish he’d stayed on the LZ,” Hollister said.
After several more very long seconds of dragging the exhausted soldier to the chopper, the other half of the team got in and the pickup pilot announced, “Coming out.”
Hollister looked around for any sign of a threat to the chopper’s flight, then up and behind them to check on the chase, the FAC, and the gunships still orbiting the PZ. He looked back down to check on the progress of the pickup ship, which was gaining speed and some altitude as it reached the end of the large clearing.
Then Hollister saw the slight puff of smoke coming from a point across the landing zone, near the alternate landing site. He automatically drew a mental line from the firing point to the slick trying to get up and out of the landing zone. The fields of fire for the enemy marksmen was clear.
“Taking fire! I’m taking fire! Breaking right,” the pilot of the pickup ship hollered over the radio.
“We got him,” Captain Stanton said. “We’re rolling in on ’em now.”
Hollister looked over his shoulder and spotted the Cobras breaking out of their orbit and crossing under his chopper toward the source of the enemy fire.
“I’m in a trick!” the pickup pilot yelled. “Fucked-up pedals!”
“He’s got some control linkage damage. He’ll have to set it down. Hold on a sec,” Keith said as he switched from the intercom to the pilot of the troubled ship.
The sun was starting to close in on the horizon—far beyond Cambodia. Hollister couldn’t remember the light data he had read that morning, so he held his arm out full-length and bent his fingers ninety degrees to his palm. He counted four fingers plus between the horizon and the sun. With little quick math, twenty minutes per finger, he estimated that he had from eighty to a hundred minutes before dark made their life really miserable. He had a bad feeling about it all. He had to act fast.
“All right. Listen up. Chase—you get on them. If they go down, pick up the crew. We’ll take the C and C in for the team. I don’t want to mix loads. You got that? Chase?”
“Roger that.”
“One-two?”
“Roger. Over.”
“Up front?”
Keith waved his left hand so Hollister could see it above the armor-plated slide near his window.
“Okay. Break. Houston Control. We have a chopper going in. Have taken fire. Request additional gunships, security element, recovery aircraft, and replacement slicks. Details as soon as I can …”
Sangean’s voice came up on the radio. “Okay. We got it. We are screwed on the backups. My complete flight has been released to refuel en route to Big Red One. I’m going to see if I can get them back. Do what you have to. Keep me advised.”
The crippled chopper wobbled across a row of trees and found a large cluster of geometric rice paddies that would serve as a decent landing zone. At less than fifty feet off the ground, the chopper flew askew with its tail drifting out to the left.
“He’s going to put it near the intersection of those two tree lines,” Keith said.
“Fine. Tell him to get out, leave the chopper, and haul ass to the chase. Got it?”
Keith gave instructions to the aircraft commanders of the crippled ship and the chase ship and then came back to Hollister. “Okay, they got it.”
“Any more fire coming out of that position?” Hollister asked.
Stanton came up on the radio at the end of his third firing pass. “I’ve put eight pairs of rockets in there, a couple dozen forty-mike grenades, and a shit-pot seven-six-two minigun ammo.”
“And?”
“And it looks like to me that we’ve fucked up their sight picture. No firing for the last few minutes.”
“Okay,” Hollister said. “Let’s widen your orbit to cover the two slicks and still be able to smoke the enemy position if they start some shit again.”
Hollister looked back toward the chopper going in. It landed roughly, making rippling rings in the paddy water. Even before it came to rest, everyone bailed out. The crew went to the rear toward the spot they gauged the chase to be picking for a landing, and Jackson’s team ran toward the tree line for concealment.
Hollister knew that no one wanted to be inside a downed chopper for several reasons, one of which was the likelihood of fire. He watched the chase ease into the spot behind the downed chopper and pick up the four-man crew. The chase wasn’t on the ground for more than a few seconds before it lifted off again.
“Okay, One-two, we’re inbound to pick you up. We are on final now. Stand by,” Hollister said to Sergeant Jackson and his team in the trees as the C&C began to slide down the same slot the chase had just used.
“Houston Three, this is Six. Do not pick up One-two. I say again. Do not pick up One-two!” Sangean ordered.
“Go around. Break. One-two, stand by. We are going around. Break, go ahead, Six.”
“They want us to secure the chopper until the recovery chopper can get there. Now I know what you’re going to say. Don’t. It won’t do any good. Just pass the mission to One-two to secure the downed chopper. I have been promised that a hook is on the way to pluck it out.”
“Roger. Understand. Give me a couple of minutes to get the gears shifted again here.”
Sangean clicked twice.
Hollister dropped his head into his hand and let it all sink in for a minute. He was reaching for the mike button again when one of Jackson’s men called him.
“Houston Three, this is Houston One-two alpha. I’m the alpha tango lima. The tango lima is buckled over with someone barfing his brains out. I’m taking over command of the team. We’re secure for now, but I have two really sick troops down here.”
“Jeezus!” Hollister said. “What else can go wrong?”
“You gotta ask,” Keith said over the intercom.
“One-two alpha. You hold a sec. Let me work out a few things.” Hollister remembered the young assistant patrol leader from their briefback. “Your new mission is to stay there, put out security, and don’t let anyone screw with that chopper.”
“Wilco. I’m kinda worried about my two pukers though.”
“Stand by.”
“Let’s go over this,” Hollister said over the intercom. “I’ve got a downed chopper, a team that’s two-thirds effective and not able to run if it makes serious contact, and …”
“And you’ve got six minutes’ more fuel before I have to go for more,” Keith said.
“Sure. Why not?” Hollister said sarcastically. “Okay, here’s the deal. I can’t get a team in, can’t pull these guys out, and can’t leave them alone.”
“Why not?” Keith asked.
“Because that assistant team leader is a PFC with less than a month in Juliet Company.”
“So?” Keith asked.
“So drop me off.”
“With them?” Keith asked.
“Yep. They need help, and they need someone who is more concerned with them than a fucking downed chopper. No offense.”
“I buy that. You want it. You got it,” Keith said, rolling over into a descending right turn, making a wide approach to the downed chopper.
In the seconds he had, Hollister unhooked his M16 from the belt on the
empty seat next to him. He folded his map and stuffed it into his pocket, took a deep breath, and squeezed the mike button.
“Six, I’ve got two on the ground with something that sounds like food poisoning. But I’m no doctor. I think the best way to keep this from going bad quick is for me to get into it. So I’m going in and take up the sick tango lima’s slack. The C and C is headed back for fuel and for you.”
He heard Sangean key the handset back to Operations, but not speak. He must have been letting the information sink in. He let up and then pressed the button again.
“Okay. If that’s your call, we’ll support it. Give me your situation as soon as you are through eyeballing the team leader.”
“Wilco.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Promise.”
Keith took the chopper to a point on the ground between the downed chopper and the trees that hid Team 1-2.
As they got closer to the ground, Hollister could feel his heartbeat picking up speed and his breathing getting shallower. He tried to take a deep breath to keep himself from getting nervous about the lone dash to the tree line. He knew that he needed all the wind he could get, and tension in his chest and a tight gut would be no help at all.
Hollister didn’t wait for the forward motion to stop or the skids to touch down before he leaped out into the calf-deep paddy water. As soon as he hit bottom, he was less confident in the rubbery feeling in his legs.
As he ran, the water swirling from the chopper downwash and the water he was kicking splashed into his eyes. He tried to wipe the muddy wash from his face with his shirtsleeve, but was only partially successful.
As quickly as he got out from under the rotor disk, he looked up and saw one of the team members just inside the trees pop a signal panel. The momentary flash of international orange was all Hollister needed to set his course for the right spot in the tree line.
It never changed—crossing the open area from a chopper to any clump of trees was always difficult. A soldier making the dash had to believe that every VC in Giap’s army was watching and was an expert marksman. The ground was never even or predictable. The equipment never rode right. The distance to the trees was always too far. And wind—you always ran out of wind.
