It was the hot months of summer and the Vietnamese farmer was burning the
stubble from his recently harvested rice crop. This he was doing in the year of 1970, and
had been done by his father, his fathers father and all that proceeded him.
The mission this day had been a "milk run". We had flown fresh troops out from their
garrison to relieve other troops who had been holding what was now a secure position.
The days flying had been long, hot and made more difficult due to the ever present
smoke. We were all happy to hear we would be released to return to base after we
dropped off a last bunch of troops at their encampment.
The flight of five UH-1D helicopters was smartly lined up behind one another in a
trail formation turning onto base leg to the little landing strip at the Green Beret camp
near Kien Long, when a small group of black clad figures jumped out onto a rice paddy
dike and systematically racked us with automatic weapons fire. I was flying the last of
the five ships and started yelling to my gunner just as he opened fire with his M-60
machine gun. Hans was normally a very alert gunner, but that afternoon he really
earned his pay. His first burst knocked down one or two of the bad guys and scattered
the rest long enough for us to get clear. The gunships would get what was left, but for
now my ship was safe. The rapid radio traffic from the rest of the flight spoke a very
different story .
The lead ship had to pull out of formation because he was practically flying blind.
Blood from some of the wounded troops sitting on the edge of the cargo area spewed into
the rushing air and was whipped forward into the cockpit, splashing and coating the
interior of the windscreen, making it impossible to see out. Number two ship tried to
take the lead but was loosing his hydraulics and ability to maneuver. Number three was
starting to trail a thin wisp of smoke from his engine, signaling leaking turbine oil and
the threat of fire. Number four had wounded on board as well as failing systems. My
aircraft commander, CW-2 Cunningham, waited till all the cripples staggered onto the
little strip then landed to see how we could help.
None of the crews had been hit, yet all were splattered with the blood of the wounded
which had sprayed into the tumbling winds of flight. Most of the wounded were found to
be treatable at the Green Beret camp, but two troopers were hurt badly enough to need
evacuation to a full scale hospital. They were carried back to us, screaming from the
pain of their wounds. We were told that their survival depended on our speed and ability
to get them to Vi Thanh, about 20 flying minutes away.
Flying at only 100 feet, the ground was still hard to see. The fog like smoke blinded
your eyes and enshrouded you in a white haze that played with your senses. The good
part was the enemy couldn't see us. The bad part was we couldn't see any on coming
aircraft and this was a commonly traveled route. At 120 knots only 100 feet above the
ground and flying in smoke, successfully dodging another aircraft became real "iffy".
Just as I was filing that thought away, a helicopter shot by us to our right, missing us by
about 100 feet. With wide eyes we looked at each other and slowly pulled the stick back
to climb. One of the wounded screamed, thrashed about, then appeared to die. We looked
at each other again, pushed the nose of the ship down and pressed on. We finally got to
the airfield and it's waiting ambulances. The rest was up to the medics.
There was blood all over the aircraft floor by time we got back to base. It was thick
and crusted by time I washed it off. As it dripped off the aircraft it formed small crimson rivulets that lazily flowed away. I told myself my tears were only from the smoke.

Ed Gallagher
(The author is a former US Army helicopter pilot with
over 200 combat missions in Viet N am and Cambodia)