Rotor tips whirred back illumination from the flare. Ahead of the helicopter and down through the trees toward the flare appeared a tunnel-like opening whose leafy walls were in turbulent motion from rotor wash. Staring through the chin bubble at my feet, I fixed the flare as my goal. I had to concentrate totally on one thing—getting us down inside the trees, inside the tunnel, by another ten feet. It didn’t sound like much, but that was the height of a one-story building.
I eased cyclic forward and nudged the collective. As intended, the chopper responded slowly, inching through the explosive air and descending in a careful hover. Tree silhouettes rose on all sides, blocking out the horizon and stars except for those directly above. It was like floating on a dark sea while you gradually sank.
Mr. Stockton remained frozen. I wasn’t sure he was even breathing. He undoubtedly wished he were somewhere else. He sat, as instructed, with his hands clasping his thighs and his feet pulled back from the pedals. I couldn’t take the chance of four hands on the controls. One slip on the cyclic, a little too much rudder, an instinctive unintended grasping of the collective or throttle, and we faced the worst kind of fiery disaster. It was a one-man job where there was no room for error.
My legs felt iced in position on the rudder pedals, heels necessarily off the deck because my legs were so short. Even with the seat pushed all the way forward and the pedals extended, I was unable to brace my elbows on my knees for needed support. I was free-flying. I tried not to think of how a few inadvertent inches moving the helicopter one way or the other meant we were all goners. The four of us in the chopper and probably the five LRRPs directly below. Had I more strength in my hand and arm, I might have crushed the cyclic handle out of my intensity.
It was impossible to completely ignore enemy tracers bouncing all around inside the tunnel. Pilots who had been hit before said you heard this loud tick! when a bullet penetrated an aircraft’s skin. So far, I hadn’t heard it during my months of combat flying with the Headhunters. Tonight, I thought, would determine whether or not I really was charmed.
I sat in my own sweat and flew where a helicopter had never flown before. I let the bird slowly settle. The machine seemed alive and nervous at being trapped inside the wind tunnel. I eased forward until my blades were underneath the sprawling branches of a jungle giant directly in front. I settled bit by bit, inch by inch, and the noise of it all roared in my ears with the rush and pounding of my blood.
We were actually flying inside the forest.
O’Brien kept breathless watch out one cargo door, Renko out the other. I was almost disappointed that Shaky had left and missed this one.
Renko’s voice whispered hoarsely through the intercom, as though a louder tone might startle me into catastrophe. “Don’t bring your tail to the right,” he warned.
“Why not?” My own voice sounded equally hoarse.
“There’s a tree about six inches from the tail rotor.”
“Don’t go left,” O’Brien put in. “Your tail boom is about a foot from a tree on this side.”
Holy Jesus! I had brought the tail boom down between two trees. For an instant, for just that instant, I almost panicked. I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest and take off. It was nasty, nerve-wracking business. A single slip of judgment and the aircraft beat itself to death, spraying pieces of metal and human flesh for a hundred yards in all directions.
The instant passed. I found myself once again in that strangely detached auto mode in which I performed mechanically while seemingly out of my body and watching from a distance. I knew I had a good chance of pulling this thing off if I could stay in that state of mind.
My entire world of the moment composed itself around me inside that tunnel: engine sounds magnified in the close confines to deafening proportions; near total blackness softened only by my position lights and the flare burning dimly below; blades reflecting back the flare’s sputtering light; green streaking tracers; dim tunnel leading down into eternity . . .
My aircrew continued providing guidance through the intercom. “Easy, easy, you can go down a little more, but don’t wobble the tail boom. . . . We’re cutting limbs on the left with the rotor! . . . Mini-Man, you got a foot or so on this side. . . . We’ve got limbs sticking through the chopper door. . . .”
Tree limbs and leaves and bark filled the air, banging and swirling frenetically, as in a storm.
“I’m gonna return fire!” O’Brien barked.
“Have at it,” I said.
The dinks knew where we were anyhow from all the noise, the flare, and my position lights. I couldn’t believe the bastards hadn’t already shot us down.
O’Brien raked the jungle in the direction from which most of the green basketballs originated. The machine gun banged clapping against my ear drums. I heard O’Brien yelp with sudden insight.
His spray of bullets worked almost like a machete in clearing out foliage around us. He gave up on the enemy and concentrated instead on cutting jungle with the M60, enlarging the tunnel.
“Smart boy,” I complimented him.
“Mr. Morris is gonna owe me a beer,” he said over the rapid-clapping of his machine gun turned machete.
The worst part of this entire maneuver was that we had to do it twice. Even if I succeeded in reaching the LRRPs, there was no chance of pulling all five men up through the trees in one trip. Not from a vertical climbing hover. Far too much weight. Besides, I only carried three McGuire rigs. For the grunts, it was a lottery situation. Two of them had to remain behind. Their lives depended on Mighty Morris and Rouse duplicating my effort. O’Brien’s discovery that he could enlarge the tunnel contributed significantly to Three-Two’s chances of a repeat success. The odds against two choppers descending into the jungle like this in one night decreased from impossible to only improbable.
I came to a stationary hover. Any lower into the second, thicker canopy meant certain suicide. Were we low enough? I gave the order to drop the McGuires.
The radio almost exploded with shouts of exultation. “We got ’em! We got the ropes!”
They suddenly realized there were only three lines.
“Mini-Man, there’s five of us!”
I calmly explained that a second chopper was right behind me ready to pick up the remaining two men. Captain Beatty had once encountered a similar situation involving panicked Vietnamese ARVN. They all wanted out on the same ship. They damned near pulled down the helicopter with everyone trying to crawl up the same ropes. The crew chief cut the lines to avoid crashing.
Americans were different. It always astonished and humbled me how self-sacrificing American GIs could be. Guys really did throw themselves onto grenades to save their buddies.
“Okay, Mini-Man . . . We’re rigging up . . . Go! Get us out of here!”
The extraction had to be accomplished swiftly. Enemy soldiers attempting to move in on the remaining two LRRPs banged away, filling the forest with their deadly insane fireflies and basketballs. The withdrawal with recon men dangling on the ropes, swaying the chopper, proved almost as stressful as the approach. Renko guided me out while O’Brien resumed clearing timber with his machine gun.
I talked myself through it. “I’m backing up . . . Watch me . . . Watch the trees . . . Okay, hang on. I’m clear . . .”
We were above the forest suddenly, out of the tunnel. Stars appeared astonishingly bright compared to from where we had just surfaced. I continued up and forward, dragging the poor LRRPs through the canopy. They swung wildly on their tethers, bouncing off tree branches until they were suddenly jerked into open air, bursting out of the leaves and branches. It was a rough ride but a welcome discomfort compared to what the enemy had in store for them.
“Mini-Man, I’m coming in on your tail!” Mighty Morris radioed.
Although O’Brien had blown down a bunch of branches, making the tunnel larger again by half, it was still no LZ in there. Apache Three-Two showed no hesitation in taking over the nest as soon as I vacated it. I was so damned proud of Mr. Morris. Here he was, a short-timer, but still doing his job. There were still two guys in there—and the Headhunters left no one behind.
I swerved off to the west away from the firing and clawed for the safety of altitude while three grateful although battered GIs dangled below. I don’t think I breathed for the next two or three minutes while I waited on word from Mighty Morris.
Then it came. “Mini-Man, head for home plate. We have a home run.”
I was so damned proud not only of Mighty Morris but also simply to be a part of such men. We let the LRRPs down at nearby FSB Barber; we had all earned our wooden nickels tonight.
My muscles were so tight I could hardly move my arms and legs now that everything was over. Stockton flew the chopper back to Tay Ninh while I slouched in my seat, spent. O’Brien checked for bullet holes as soon as we landed.
“None!” he declared.
Three-Two had several holes. Mighty Morris shook his head. I was still outrunning the law of averages. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth lest his teeth fall out.