Time: October, 1970
Place: U Minh Forest, South Viet Nam

     It looked like a Kansas wheat field just before harvest. An endless sea of tall yellow growth slowly swaying on a warm midmorning breeze. An undulating mass to mesmerize and soothe the watcher. But this isn’t Kansas, it’s the Mekong Delta. It isn’t a field of golden wheat but a field morass of coarse swamp grass. In this place there are men waiting and wanting to kill me.

     We’ve left the safety of altitude and are diving towards the decaying moor, jinking and twisting to throw off the enemy’s aim. We scouts are part of a hunter-killer team made up of two Cobra helicopter gunships and two light observation helicopters called Loaches. The gunships stay high, a constant threat to the bad guys. We go low and ferret out enemy activity and supplies. In short, we’re bait! The enemy, the Viet Cong, actually has a special medal for those who shoot down helicopters. Because of the gunships, the award is usually posthumous.

     Today, because the area is so large, we’ve abandoned our normal routine of slow movement and hovering at ground level. Later troops can be inserted to do the close up work if we find anything now. Lead scout is flying a fast crisscross pattern and I am close up behind him, a little off to his right in the “5 o’clock” position. The downward wash from his rotor blades cleaves the tall grass like a giant, invisible scythe. Even at our higher speed, I’m getting a good view of what’s in the swamp. Lead pops up over a small mound as I pass on the side. Suddenly I see a little guy with a big gun and it’s pointed right Lead’s tail pipe. “Break, Break, Break!!!” I shout into my helmet mike. This designated command alerts the whole team of danger and allows me to take over as Lead. I stab the stick hard left and the sky and earth change position violently. My gunner, who sits next to me, grabs hold of his seat as I roll the ship over 100, 110,120 degrees of bank. The bad guy is now shifting his weapon towards me. I bottom the pitch and kick it out of trim to slow us down. I’m trying to draw a bead on this guy with my mini-gun. At 4000 bullets a minute, I can vaporize him. His gun steadily moves towards me, I’m almost in position. I pull the trigger anyway, he’s getting too close. I feel pressure on my finger, the trigger moves, the silence is deafening. A circuit breaker pops; the damned gun has jammed. I kick the pedal hard right to let my gunner get this guy. His gun is and ready. If we fly much closer, he won’t have to shoot him with the gun; he’ll be able to beat him with it. Flame erupts from the barrel of the M60 machine gun and I watch a tracer dance the bad guy’s feet. But, just as quickly as it started, the firing stops. The usual five or six second burst as only lasted two; the M60 has jammed. The weapon is aimed directly at me and I’m staring down a black, endless opening, waiting for the flash that will end my life.

     Time has seemed to stop. My hands and feet move as in slow motion. The rotor blades pass haltingly overhead, the air turns into syrup. Heartbeats pound in my ears, one slow beat at a time. In my mind, I see the windshield shatter, my head snaps back, my body slumps forward and the ship slides into the mound and explodes. This time it’s over.

     But then, heartbeat by heartbeat, I notice the muzzle easing away from me! The enemy’s feet leave the ground, his gun drifts from his hand as his twisting body topples from the mound and slides into the swamp. Yes; it’s over; but for him!

     Eleven empty cartridges are found in the ship; eleven rounds fired before the gun jammed. Eleven rounds that made me the victor, not victim.

     The pounding in my ears fades away and the rotor blades resume their furious pace. The battle had lasted but a minute. A deadly minute that cost a life but, for me, will be lived for a life time.

(The author is a former US Army helicopter pilot with over 200 combat missions in Vietnam and Cambodia)