Medal of Honor (Undaunted Valor 2)

“Shit, just get up here. The aircraft is on fire and marking itself really well. He’s in the trees on the edge of a clearing.”

“Roger, we should be there in four minutes.” Bob looked up and could see black smoke rising from the trees at his one o’clock position. He adjusted his heading. “Gunner Two-Three, I have smoke.”

“Chicken-man, he’s down on the edge of the clearing. The other little bird’s trying to get in but doesn’t think anyone made it.” Bob and Tim exchanged looks.

“Jonesy, Dorsey, guns up. This may get hot. I’m going to make a low pass over the little bird and see if we can spot any movement. Jonesy, it’ll be on your side, so be looking for movement,” Bob directed.

“Roger, sir.” There was no need to tell them to get the guns up; they were already up and ready. At treetop level, Bob pointed the aircraft just to the right of the smoke. To his left was a clearing about half the size of a football field, just beyond the downed aircraft. The field was hourglass-shaped and the aircraft was on the larger portion. At ninety knots airspeed, he quickly passed the downed bird. He could see the crew. They were in the cockpit, and they weren’t moving as the fire spread across the aircraft. The other little bird and both Cobras were engaging ground fire coming from the far side of the field.

“Gunner Two-Three, Chicken-man, I don’t see any movement. They didn’t make it. The fire has pretty much covered the aircraft,” Bob observed. The aircraft was an OH-58A Kiowa, which had replaced the OH-6A Cayuse helicopter as the observation aircraft in the early 1970s. It didn’t have the maneuverability nor the crashworthiness of the OH-6A.26

“Roger, Chick—shit, we’re hit. Going down!”

Bob’s head snapped to the left in time to see Gunner Two-Three crash in the middle of the field. As soon as the aircraft hit, it rolled onto its side, which was typical with the Cobra due to its narrow shape. As it rolled, turning rotor blades were ripped from the rotor head and spun off in two directions. The cockpit canopies popped open on impact. Both pilots were moving to un-ass the aircraft.

“Chicken-man, Gunner Two-Five here. Can you get them, and we will cover.”

“Roger.” Bob executed a hard deceleration and pedal turn in order to turn into the downed aircraft without overflying where all the fire was coming from. As his skids hit the ground, both pilots were getting to their feet about one hundred feet from the aircraft. Dorsey opened fire on the right side, engaging enemy fire from the area of the burning little bird.

“We’re taking fire!” he screamed. Jonesy joined the crescendo of machine-gun fire as well but said nothing at first. Unlike Dorsey, this was not Jonesy’s first rodeo when it came to being shot at.

“Crap, they’re all around us!” Jonesy yelled when he saw openings in the ground where some of the fire was coming from. Bob and Tim could do nothing but sit and wait for the two pilots to sprint to the aircraft. Suddenly one pilot stopped. Bob thought he was hit, but he turned and ran back to the downed Cobra.

“What the hell is he doing?” Tim asked apprehensively as a bullet hit his armor seat plate. The second pilot was almost to the aircraft, with puffs of dirt kicking up around his feet and an occasional green tracer passing around his body.

“Shit, I’m hit,” screamed Tim, grabbing his lower leg. “Oh sweet Jesus, that hurts.”

As Bob watched, the pilot that had returned to the aircraft was now running for all he was worth with something in his hand—a piece of paper, it appeared. Bob started bringing in power, knowing that as soon as this guy was on a skid, he was coming out. Tufts of grass were kicking up around him. The first pilot to reach Bob’s aircraft literally dove into the cabin behind Tim.

Everyone was hollering for him to hurry. Ever so slowly, a NVA soldier rose up from the ground about fifteen feet away from the aircraft on Tim’s side. Tim sat in terror as there was nothing he could do. He watched as the soldier raised his AK-47 assault rifle to his shoulder in slow motion and took careful aim in Tim’s direction, a wide grin creasing the soldier’s face. He didn’t shoot, though, as his head turned into a fine mist from Dorsey laying several 7.62 machine-gun rounds into him. Tim just sat dumbfounded and frozen.

“Dammit, I’m hit,” Jonesy announced, but his gun continued to fire.

“Jonesy, where are you hit?” Bob asked.

“In the hand.” Enemy soldiers were now popping up from holes in the ground all around the aircraft. They had landed in the middle of an enemy bunker complex.

The lone pilot was ten feet in front of Bob when the pilot’s legs went out from under him. The red stain that immediately appeared in the center of his back and across his legs told the story. Bob could now clearly see the piece of paper, a photograph of a woman and a baby. Everyone was screaming and shooting as Bob pulled in the rest of his power, pushed the cyclic forward and accelerated in a hail of bullets to get out of that field.

Once they were clear, no one said anything as they circled the field. More NVA were coming out of the ground in the middle of the field, converging on the fallen pilot, who wasn’t moving. Gunner Two-Five witnessed their actions and flew into a rage, expending all fourteen flechette rockets into their midst and strafing the area with minigun fire.

Bob was flying the aircraft as Dorsey came forward and pulled Tim out of his seat, grabbing a first aid kit. The lone Cobra pilot had his own first aid kit and was wrapping Jonesy’s hand.

“Quan Loi Tower, Chicken-man One-Eight, over,” Bob called on VHF radio.

“Chicken-man One-Eight, Quan Loi Tower, over.”

“Quan Loi Tower, Chicken-man One-Eight declaring an emergency. I need medics standing by for two wounded. Over.”

“Roger, Chicken-man One-Eight, you are cleared for a straight-in approach to runway four-five. What’s your ETA?”

“Tower, I am twenty-five mikes out, over.” Bob hoped he could get there faster than twenty-five minutes as he knew the aircraft had some damage, he wasn’t sure how much.

“How you guys doing back there?” Bob asked no one in particular.

“I’ll be okay, sir,” Jonesy answered. “Might just get me a trip to Japan for a week.”

“How about Mr. Triplett?” Bob asked, attempting to look over his right shoulder at Tim.