Medal of Honor (Undaunted Valor 2)

“Clear left,” Jonesy said.

“Clear right,” Dorsey answered with some hesitation.

“Clear back” came the response from Jonesy. Almost immediately, the aircraft was at a three-foot hover. Dorsey was grabbing at anything and everything to keep from falling out of the aircraft, which he wasn’t doing except in his mind. No seat belt and he was floating above the ground inside the revetments, which appeared to be very close. But aside from coming up, the aircraft wasn’t moving side to side but slowly backing up. How could the pilots see behind them and back up? Dorsey took a peek forward, looking for a rearview mirror. He didn’t see one. As the aircraft centered on the taxiway, a pedal turn was executed, turning the nose of the aircraft. Dorsey was not thrilled about floating a few feet above the ground. Once turned, the aircraft hovered towards the flight line and runway. Dorsey didn’t hear anyone talking, so it must be a good time to ask the question.

“Hey, Jonesy, where’s the seat belts? Jonesy…?” he called out.

Suddenly Jonesy was sitting right next to him, holding his finger to his lips. Reaching up, Jonesy flipped the number one toggle switch to the up position.

“Flight, this will be a long day, so let’s make it a safe day. Yellow One out.”

“Everyone get the mission brief?” Mr. Fairweather asked, knowing full well that Dorsey had not. Recognizing that Mr. Fairweather had just asked a rhetorical question for Dorsey’s benefit, no one responded.

“Dorsey, put all your switches in the up position. That way you’ll hear everything and know when to talk on the intercom. Oh, and your seat belts are connected to your ammo can—they hold the ammo can on the aircraft. Any questions?” Mr. Fairweather asked.

“Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir.” Dorsey was getting flustered. Mr. Fairweather and Alston looked at each other and smiled. Out the forward window, Dorsey could see six aircraft lined up in front of his aircraft. No one was behind him or on his side. Good, we’re going to be off by ourselves, I guess. Over his radio receiver, he heard, “Yellow One is on the go,” and the lead aircraft started down the runway, with each subsequent aircraft following. Dorsey held on to the seat and the post next to his seat, leaning back as far as he could, not wanting to look down at the shrinking ground. At least this thing isn’t bouncing up and down.

As the aircraft continued to climb, Mr. Fairweather appeared to be chasing the other aircraft and closing rapidly, according to Dorsey’s calibrated eyeballs. Then he heard over the radio, “Flight Yellow One, come up staggered left.”

The aircraft in front began to change positions. The number two aircraft moved to the left of and slightly behind the number one aircraft, as did the number four aircraft with the number three aircraft. Mr. Fairweather was moving their aircraft so it was no longer behind the fifth aircraft but slightly to the left and back, as well as slightly above and very close. Oh shit.

“Mr. Fairweather, sir.” Dorsey was on the intercom.

“What’s up, Dorsey?” Mr. Fairweather asked.

“Sir, why are we so close to that aircraft?” Dorsey’s voice cracked a bit.

“Calm down now. We fly one to one-half rotor blades apart. This is one rotor blade and normal for us. You want a tight formation so when we go into an LZ, all our guns are suppressing the enemy. Too much space and it leaves gaps in our coverage. We’ll be fine.”

As the flight continued, Dorsey sat back and wished he were anywhere but here. That aircraft looks awfully close, and it’s a long way to the ground. Why don’t we have parachutes? But everyone seemed pretty much at ease. Even the crew chief in the other aircraft appeared to be sleeping. Mr. Fairweather was smoking a cigarette, and Lieutenant Gore, who was flying the aircraft, was looking all over the place. Dorsey began to relax, just a bit.

After a half hour, Dorsey noticed a change in pressure in his eardrums. The aircraft was on a descent, but there was only jungle out there. Dorsey’s apprehension began to climb again.

“Okay, guys, we’re picking up the grunts in a bit. We have three turns for eighteen sorties to get in this morning. Prep will be four minutes and two minutes of suppressive fire going in and coming out. Dorsey, this is your first combat assault. You open fire when I tell you to, but be sure and clear the bottom of the aircraft from stumps, logs underneath and trees and saplings by the tail rotor. Jonesy, you back him up. Don’t shoot any of the grunts when they get off the aircraft. Shoot just the tree line, and if you see green tracers, shoot at where they’re coming from. See anyone in khaki uniforms, you can shoot them too. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” Dorsey responded.

“One question, Mr. Fairweather. If Dorsey screws up, can I shoot him?” Jonesy asked.

“Right after I do,” Mr. Fairweather indicated. As the aircraft approached the PZ, Dorsey could see six groups of soldiers standing in a pattern similar to the formation of the aircraft. As the aircraft set down, a group of grunts approached the aircraft from two sides and began climbing aboard. Two moved to the interior of the cargo area and sat on the floor as there were no seats. Two sat on the floor of the aircraft cargo area on each side with their feet dangling out of the aircraft. They didn’t ask for seat belts. Their rucksacks were on their backs but didn’t appear to be totally full. One guy pulled out a pack of cigarettes with a lighter and offered them to his buddies. God, these guys stink, Dorsey thought. From their outward appearance, they hadn’t bathed in days if not weeks. Their faces were covered in stubble along with black and green streaks from camouflage grease that had been partially rubbed off. Most had bags and black circles under their eyes. Immature mustaches adorned a few faces. There was no joking or jocularity with these guys.

“Coming up,” Lieutenant Gore said over the intercom.

“Clear right.”

“Clear left.”

And they were off the ground and moving forward and upward. The grunts continued to sit in the door, talking little but pointing at different landmarks. Sure don’t want to screw up in front of these guys. Wonder how Avanti’s doing about now? Wonder if he’s in this unit? Hell, he’s so new I doubt they have his ass in the field yet. As the flight continued, Mr. Fairweather broke Dorsey’s train of aimless thought.

“We are H minus six. There goes the artillery.” He pointed to the front right of the aircraft. In the distance, brown smoke mixed with white could be seen along with small trees flying into the air. Mixed in with the smoke and flying dirt was an occasional orange explosion. The flight slowly turned towards the chaos to their front while losing altitude. Dorsey’s mind raced as he watched the jungle being torn apart to his front. We’re flying into that?

“Guns up,” Mr. Fairweather said over the intercom. “Keep your eyes peeled for green tracers. If you see some, drop a red smoke. You got that, Dorsey?”

“Yes, sir.” Dorsey’s stomach churned. He really wished he hadn’t had any beer the night before or taken a bacon sandwich for breakfast. He also wished he had taken time to unload his bowels before coming to the flight line. Please, dear God, do not let me shit in my pants, he prayed. They were getting much lower to the ground. Why are the Cobras staying up so high? Why aren’t they down here protecting us?

“Willie Pete, guns, open fire,”12 Mr. Fairweather ordered, and Jonesy opened fire, as did the crew chief in the aircraft next to Dorsey. Dorsey just sat there, frozen. Everything was in slow motion. The Cobras nosed over from on high and were punching off rockets into the tree line that bordered the landing zone. A stream of liquid fire spewed from the nose of the Cobra, impacting where the rockets were going. The grunts in the door were hosing the tree line as well with their M16s. The guy next to Dorsey was hollering something, but Dorsey couldn’t make out his words over all the noise.

“Dorsey, open fire on that damn gun,” Mr. Fairweather finally yelled, and he was pissed. Dorsey snapped back to reality and depressed the butterfly triggers. The M60 began spewing out a stream of red tracers along the tree line and behind the aircraft off to the right side. Dorsey wasn’t sure what he was shooting at; he was just shooting. As the aircraft came in to land, he heard Jonesy say they were clear. He had forgotten to even look, he was so carried away firing the gun. As the grunts disembarked, the nearest grunt put his hand over Dorsey’s face to get him to stop shooting. Grunts got upset when a door gunner would shoot them in the back. Dorsey stopped and looked around.