We Can Handle It

(a true story of common valor)
by:  Richard “Berk” Bergquist

 

The following story is based upon personal recollections of events that took place while on a mission in the spring of 1969 serving as a nineteen year old door gunner for Bravo Company “Lancers”, 158th Aviation Battalion (Assault Helicopters) 101st Airborne Division, Vietnam. 

The mission required two Lancer aircraft (UH-1H helicopters), “hueys” or “slicks” as they were commonly referred to in Vietnam.  Each aircraft, was manned by a crew of four: the aircraft commander or “AC”, a co-pilot (right seat), more affectionately called the “peter-pilot” (usually a pilot with minimal combat flight time), a crew chief; responsible for assuring the flight worthiness of the aircraft, and a doorgunner; responsible for the two M-60 machine-guns (hand fired out the door on each side).  While lightly armed, these fast moving and highly maneuverable helicopters were the backbone of “Airmobile” operations in Vietnam.  Each could carry up to eight fully equipped infantry soldiers, and place them quickly into battle. They were oftern called upon to perform a variety of tasks in combat situations.

We were to report to the Marine Corps base at Quang Tri, a short flight North from our base at Camp Evans. We arrived the evening prior to the joint-forces operation into the mountainous area along the DMZ.  I had been on a few other operations with Marines, but this one would provide me my first opportunity to mix socially with these brave soldiers.

We gathered together for a few beers at the EM Club.  Memory cannot provide the details of our conversation, but I am certain it centered on the contempt we shared for the injustices of military life (always a favorite past time of the enlisted man).  How little our politicians really knew about this war and how it should be fought would also have been a topic.  The risks and dangers of tomorrow’s mission would never have been brought up, as if an unwritten code of behavior or some unspoken superstition.

Having spent a previous tour in the bush, chasing an elusive enemy (trying to be the hunter instead of the hunted), I was able to talk to these Marines at their level.  And, as a paratrooper, I also knew the proud feeling of belonging to an elite unit, as was obvious with the rough group of “Leathernecks” at my table, whose motto was: “Death Before Dishonor.”  Like assault helicopter crews, “Force-recon” Marines faced death on a daily basis.  Our combat experience reached across the difference of uniform, training, and tradition.

That night at the EM Club, a bond was formed between our crewmembers and the lives that we would be taking under wing in less than eight hours.  That bond was “personally” consummated by the exchange of  flight suits between this Army door-gunner and a Marine gunship gunner -- my two-piece outfit for his one-piece jumpsuit.   Originally, I was hoping to secure a Marine K-bar (survival knife), I was prepared to throw in my socks if need be, knowing full well, that no Marine worth his salt would part with that famous blade.  While the Marine’s flight suit turned out to be a tad short for my six-one height, I wore it proudly, thankful I still had my socks!

Dawn of the next day began with a quick breakfast, a head-call (latrine visit), not necessarily in that order, and the usual preparatory activities at our aircraft.  Due to the life and death nature of Airmobile combat assaults; these “activities” were carried out more like religious rituals than duties.  The machine-guns having been left at the aircraft overnight; left only mounting the guns, checking the ammo, and a little tidying-up to do on my part.  Griff, our crew chief, went about his routine, but very personal, preflight checks of the mechanical readiness of our helicopter.  Our familiarity with our duties enabled us to check, re-check, arm, and be ready for battle in a matter of minutes.

Returning from his briefing, our AC, Gerry, gave us the run down for the days operations.  We would be inserting a number of lightly armed six-man teams into selected LZ’s in proximity of NVA (North Vietnam Army) units infiltrating to the south.  The Marines would intentionally let their presence be known to draw the enemy into a target area for the fighter jets.  The “target area” being any location selected by the recon team that looked like a huey could get into for extracting them, leaving the enemy close behind as a target.  After all teams were inserted, we would return to a nearby staging area and await the call from the first team ready to be extracted.  Marine gun-ships would provide us escort, and cover for the insertions, and Navy Tac-Air would be on station with F-4 Phantoms to bomb each PZ (pickup zone) once a team was removed. 

We were advised that extraction’s in the DMZ were often “hot” (under enemy fire), and it was likely that the Marine team members would be running to a clearing for pick up, with the enemy hot on their tails.  It was our job to get in and out as safely and as fast as possible.  Upon departure from the PZ we were to “pop smoke” (toss out smoke grenades), marking the PZ as a target for the Phantoms.

Like clockwork, our two aircraft, escorted by the Marine gunships, shuttled the recon teams from the Marine base to the DMZ.  All teams were inserted into the various LZ’s while still early morning, without incident.  We returned to the staging area to await the first call.  Griff and I looked forward to grabbing a quick nap, catching up on the late night at the EM Club.  Our standby was just a couple of hours old when we got the first call.  The first team we were to pull out had a wounded Marine being carried on a field fabricated stretcher.  He had fallen down a hillside, sustaining a back injury.  We were advised that the enemy were gaining on the crippled team fast, it was imperative that we get in and out of there as quickly as possible.

Confirming a visual on the team’s smoke, Gerry flew us in hard and fast, pulling the nose of our bird upward as he put on the brakes, as if slowing a racing steed by pulling back hard on the reins. An action, that effectively stalled the aircraft by dropping the power, which resulted in exactly that, dropping to earth.  The whole maneuver was actually a controlled crash.  We were on flat, dry ground, in a small valley at the base of a ridgeline.  The team emerged through the dispersing purple smoke, taking on the appearance of a rock band coming on stage, their weapons momentarily mimicking guitars.  They loaded their wounded member carefully and scrambled on board.  Thanks to some very able “Rock & Roll” Marines, and Gerry’s “hot dog” flying skills, we got in and out before the enemy could get over the ridge.  No enemy fire was taken. “Pop Smoke!”

It was a short flight back to the staging area to off-load the team, then back into the air to return to the operation, now going full swing.  During the anxious flight back to the action, we monitored a transmission from our other Lancer bird. It had taken fire while extracting a team.  One RPG (rocket propelled grenade) hit a tree on its way to the aircraft, and machine-gun fire was received as it lifted the team out of the PZ.  The rocket-fire demanded a swift exit, as the next one would likely find it’s target.  As a result, one Marine, not yet fully on board, had fallen back into the PZ.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, his rifle was onboard the escaping huey.

To fly into a location known to be hot, with the very real possibility of losing your aircraft and it’s crew, was not an easy decision for any AC.  Discussion as to the willingness of the crew to take the risks was a luxury that time did not give us.  We had to make our decision quickly, then go for it. Gerry turned his head back toward his crew to look for the customary thumbs-up.  I glanced over to Griff and he was already giving it.  I looked back to our pilot, while not as enthusiastically as Griff, gave the same signal, adding a forced, but hopefully reassuring smile.  Knowing he had the support of his crew, Gerry was now free of conscience to make the call.  He keyed his mike and informed Command that we were only a few minutes away and would make the attempt at extracting the Marine. 

Seconds later, communication came from the FAC (Forward Air Control)  alerting us to Naval Air traffic to our west. Two Phantoms were rolling in on a target.  I looked out the opposite side of our aircraft and saw the explosions.  All hell was breaking loose right where we had made the extraction of the wounded Marine.  I couldn’t help but consider the fate of those caught in the midst of the bombs. 

Unexpectedly,  a wave of emotion rose up from my tightened guts as it increased my heartbeat and teared my eyes.  I recognized it as sympathy; an emotion that had become a stranger to me..  That moment of compassion, while quite uncomfortable, was welcomed like an old friend.  It assured me that I was still capable of human feelings, although involved in so much death.  Such is the way of war, I told myself,  knowing that sympathy and I would have to part company once again if I were to continue to do my job as a soldier.  Instinctively, my thoughts returned to the task at hand; a lone, unarmed Marine.

The PZ was a clearing amidst tall pines, created by a five hundred pound bomb, left by a B-52 strike in the recent past. The trademark crater was deep, wide, and partially filled with water from tropical rains.  For the benefit of those that were denied the experience of combat aviation in Vietnam, especially in a helicopter, this type of PZ deserves some description.  It was without a doubt one of the most treacherous landings to do, even without enemy fire. 

The pilots are quite blind in regards to the helicopters rotor blades.  Their sight is limited to their front and to each side with limits; as each pilot can only see out the side he is sitting on.  It is the job of the crew chief and the door gunner to be the extra eyes for the pilot.  We literally talk him through the trees; “clear right”--”clear left”--“tail clear”--“take tail left”--“tail clear left”  was the constant chatter between Griff and I as we played our version of “pin the tail on the donkey”.  

While the main rotor blades could take some damage by small branches, not so the tail rotor; a good size twig could cause it to disintegrate.  Once that happens, the helicopter begins to spin in the same direction of the main rotor blades.  At this point a crash is unavoidable, and survivability is determined by how high off the ground you are, how soon the fuel catches fire, and if you are able to get out. 

Some comfort was taken in knowing that the other slick had successfully gotten in an out of this PZ.  As we dropped slowly down through the trees, Griff and I kept our adrenaline pumped fingers on the triggers of the M-60’s, keepings our eyes peeled for tree branches, enemy fire, and one lone Marine.  I remember saying a quick silent prayer going in (my usual practice when it looked like we might need some extra help). 

Much to my surprise, we got down into the PZ without getting blown to smithereens, we remained at a hover for what seemed like an eternity.  The Marine was nowhere in sight.  Griff and I kept checking back and forth over the intercom:  “see anything on your side?”-- “where the hell is this guy?” We all knew that there was always the possibility that he had been captured, or  lying somewhere out of sight, wounded, and unable to move, or worse yet, KIA.  We had already reached the point where the longer we stayed the less likely we would be leaving.  I, for one, was ready to “get out of Dodge”.  We took one hell of a risk, made an honest attempt, and there was no sense in pushing our luck.  A Marine Recon team could always be inserted later to locate him or recover his body. 

Just as I was expecting to hear Gerry give the familiar “we’re outta here”, a figure emerged from the trees.  He was running toward my side of the chopper, jumping tree branches; strewn around like spilt toothpicks, waving his arms frantically above his head.  I was totally unprepared for the look of absolute terror, and desperation that contorted his face.  It was a look that I would not soon forget or presently ignore. “I got him! I got him!” I shouted into the intercom, with the excitement of having just won some valuable door prize.

The large, muddy, bomb crater we were hovering over was a forbidding obstacle.   Splintered tree stumps kept us about eight feet off the ground.  As he got closer to the chopper, it became obvious to me why he had trouble getting aboard with his team. This Marine was one of the shorter varieties.  Now that’s just wonderful! I absurdly thought to myself; “it was obvious that nobody thought about minimum height requirements for this mission.”

The noise of our helicopter prevented any communication between us, but the expression on this guy’s face was screaming “get me outta here!”.  Understanding my gestures for him to jump up to the skids, he stopped at the edge of the crater, got a good footing, squatted a bit, swung his arms upward a few times to muster all the lift he could, then gave it all he had. He got a hold of the skid, but soon lost his grip, and once again fell back into the crater.  I hated the idea of us being sitting ducks, and then there was that nagging thought of another rocket, one that would make it through the trees. 

Not wanting to join this guy in his predicament by getting shot down; I decided to leave my gun position.  My side of the aircraft was now defenseless, not “cool” in a “hot” PZ, but, what the hey, nobody was shootin yet, and besides, I was determined to claim my prize!  Stepping out onto the skid, I sat down, straddling it like a horse, holding tightly to the forward brace.  The extension of my legs allowed us to get hooked up.  We bound ourselves together in some unorthodox fashion for our very lives.  This was it, either we were going to make it, or not.

Making an attempt to key my mike to let Gerry know I had the Marine, I discovered that my com-line had disconnected.  Terrific! all I could do now was glance up into the aircraft, this time giving a very definite thumbs-up.  As we began our slow, cautious lift up, I began to believe we were actually going to make it.  Then, my worst fear became a reality.  I felt the syncopated vibration of machine-gun fire.  Oh my God, we were taking hits!   To my surprise, we continued to lift upward, then with great relief, we cleared the tree tops.  The machine-gun fire had stopped.  My senses told me we were still flying, not falling, so I sighed with relief, “Thanks God!” If our helicopter was not too badly shot-up,  or those Angels don’t poop-out, we just might make it.   The roar of a Navy fighter-jet took my glance skyward.  My eyes met up with two big bombs sailing right past our rotor blades.  They grew in size untill they passed in front of me, carrying their death and destruction to the muddy pit below.  The roar of afterburners signaled his departure. I watched in awe as it disappeared from sight, wishing we could move that fast. 

As we flew along at “low-level” (tree top level or lower), at a pretty smart clip, I got an additional grip with my right hand on the Marine’s web gear.  Even though we were flying along in this very precarious position, a new look had taken over this guy’s face, he was now wearing a smile, from ear to ear (he’d better not look down).  We arrived at the staging area to the cheers of a shocked crowd of Marines.  They had heard that we got their buddy out, but had no idea we would be delivering him in such an unusual manner. It must have been quite a sight; the two of us hanging out there like a couple of desperate refugees.   We hovered in slowly, his team gathered around, grabbed hold of him, and received our VIP (very important passenger).

The reunion of this very lucky Marine with the rest of his team was a great thing to be a part of.   My efforts were well rewarded by a giant hug from “shorty”, and a  barrage of handshakes and pats on the back from his team members.  It felt great! Absolutely the best feeling in the world.  We were true heroes to these guys.  I was really proud of our crew.  This was truly a team effort!  Everybody was happy! Every face had a smile!  Only the unlikely news that all of us would be going home tomorrow could have made us happier.

All the remaining teams were extracted successfully.  Every team had been able to locate and draw enemy units out of their cover, into the sights of the deadly Phantoms.  Enemy casualties were expected to be significant.  No Marine KIA’s, only one WIA, and one MIA, recovered!  All aircraft and crews returned to their bases safely.

To the best of my knowledge, nobody received medals for their actions that day.  It was actually pretty much the normal valor displayed on a daily basis by: U.S. Marines, Navy fighter pilots, and the crews of Army assault helicopters.  Once again, Bravo Company “Lancers” had lived up to their “We Can Handle It” motto. 

By the way, the machine-gun fire I heard and felt while outside the chopper, turned out to be my crew chief firing at two NVA soldiers he spotted. They appeared to be just standing there, watching the show, but dove for cover quickly.  Griff may have missed them, but I’m sure they got some heat from the ordinance the Navy delivered in their laps.

All of us were amazed that we had not taken enemy fire during the rescue, I can only guess that the bad guys cut us some slack that day. It’s been said that all soldiers respect selfless dedication to aid a fellow soldier and I have to believe that the Man upstairs liked our work quite a bit also and he may have given us some help as well.

 

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