One of the FNGs was a West Point grad, a ring knocker captain named Williams who was in Vietnam to get his combat ticket punched for swift advancement to general. He was an arrogant asshole who went to headquarters platoon as Apache Troop’s executive officer under Major Calhoun. Rumor said, and it was always passed along with a groan, that Captain Williams was up for promotion and would replace Major Calhoun as Troop commander.
All officers and warrants in the Headhunters were also aviators. After only two weeks in-country, Captain Williams already felt bullish and ready to take over the herd. He liked to go out with the lift ships. I suspected it was because he thought a few air medals would look good in his personnel file. Although it was a rule that nobody, regardless of rank, was AC before he had three months’ combat experience, the good captain had the attitude that Hey, I’m a West Point grad, by God. I’m a captain, and therefore I’m an AC.
Mosby and one of my new warrants named Meeker were shot down near the Cambodian border. Because of so much activity in that corner of the AO, we scrambled two Cobras and four of my lifts carrying a platoon of infantry split among us. Captain Williams took one of the ships with Farmer Farmer. Palma the Cuban flew with them as crew chief/gunner. When we lifted infantry, we didn’t always carry a second crew member because of load restrictions.
Rouse flew right seat with me. Shaky, of course, was my crew.
The AO, indeed all of Vietnam, was divided into sectors and quadrants. All a pilot in trouble had to do was radio in his sector number and everybody knew where to start looking. Rouse broke a map out of his SOI saddle bags and found the sector and grid coordinates. We didn’t know at the time if the bird went down in the middle of an enemy nest or what. Tower on the UHF hook advised the 2/20th Infantry to stand by, we might need additional support.
The airmada swarmed off the base and over the river like mosquitoes. From high in the air when we arrived above the site, the crashed Huey resembled a child’s toy cast aside after a play session. It sat skid-crunched into an opening not much larger than its fuselage, blade wrapped into the branches of a small tree. It had probably been downed by a .51-caliber radar-controlled machine gun; the round had blown a large hole through the belly of the aircraft before knocking out the hydraulics system.
The clearing was too small for a rescue out of it. The four-man crew was okay, on the radio, out of the ship and hiding nearby. They appeared next to the crippled bird and waved frantically when they heard us. We circled above them like a flock of vultures.
“There’s a clearing about two hundred meters to your front,” I radioed Mosby on the ground. “Maybe we can put down there. Are you receiving fire, Three-Four?”
“Negative, Mini-Man, but stay away from the north. There’s a fifty-one pit somewhere around.”
“Stand by, Three-Four.”
I dropped down to contours and flew over the larger clearing so fast it was a blur. It looked acceptable. I advised Mosby that all four lifts were landing in the clearing to disgorge troops and secure the area. I would be Chalk One, first ship in, followed by Captain Williams and Farmer in Chalk Two, then the other two birds. We formed up and came in low and fast. I floated over a felled tree and rotor-whipped elephant grass into a frenzy. I hovered to the edge of the field and sat down while the other three ships assembled on the grass behind me.
Troops scrambled out of Huey bellies and hurried to form a security perimeter. I didn’t like the idea of sitting there waiting, like ducks on a pond, but we had little choice. At any rate, it didn’t take Mosby and his unfortunate crew more than a few minutes to cover the two hundred meters from their crash to us. They burst out of the woodline and tumbled into the nearest Huey, which happened to be Chalk Two piloted by Williams and Farmer.
Everything still seemed quiet—for about five more seconds. All of a sudden, I heard a distinct Pop! It sounded like a pressure stall, except it couldn’t be. My skids were still on the ground.
“He’s hit!” Shaky yelled through the intercom.
“Who’s hit?” I yelled back.
“One of the grunts—he’s hit!”
I was starting to make the ship light for takeoff. I glanced back into the cargo bay. One of the boonirats who had come back to the helicopter for something had taken a round. The impact knocked him completely out of the chopper.
“Throw him back on!” I shouted.
Shaky and another grunt tossed him inside. He was squirming and sobbing from pain and fear. I pulled collective and pushed in cyclic, lifting and shooting the Huey forward, gaining momentum and transitional lift. I expected airframe Plexiglas to start smashing and instrument panels to erupt in sparks and smoke. Instead, there was only the single sniper’s shot.
I soared out above the treeline, leading the Hueys to altitude and out of the danger zone. I radioed Captain Williams to take the flight to nearby FSB Barber, drop off Mosby’s bunch, and wait there for me. We had to retrieve the infantry platoon once maintenance came out with a Chinook to recover the wreckage. I would deliver the wounded trooper to the hospital at Tay Ninh and return.
Halfway back to post, Shaky chuckled through the intercom.
“Sir, you ain’t gonna believe this.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This guy ain’t hurt bad. All he’s got is a bruised ass. One of his ammo pouches stopped the round.”
Rouse looked at me with something like awe. “Everybody’s right,” he said. “Even when Mini-Man takes a hit, nobody gets hurt.”
I concentrated on flying. How much longer could my luck possibly hold out?