An Assault Helicopter Unit in Vietnam (Undaunted Valor 1)

“Chalk Five, how many casualties?” Yellow One couldn’t really see what happened from his position.

“Yellow One, it appears to be just one person made it, and it’s Lightning.15 No one else got out. Some grunts are on the ground and being treated. Most of them were thrown out as the aircraft rolled.”

“Roger, how’s he look?”

“Yellow One, not good. From what I can see, I will bet he’s going home.” A grunt medic was kneeling over Lightning, administering what first aid he could, which at this point was only morphine and an IV. Lightning was placed in Chalk Four along with the medic and flown to Song Be, where a medivac aircraft was waiting to take him to an evacuation hospital.

No one was in good spirits that evening. Everyone, in the both the Officers’ Club and the EM Club, was in a sober mood. It hurt even more when we were informed that the division commander’s aircraft was missing and presumed crashed. My good friend, Bill Michel, was the pilot. The division commander was Major General Casey, a very much liked division commander.

Chapter 46

Homeward Bound

Early August in the Pacific Northwest was refreshingly cool compared to the heat of Vietnam. Unusual for the Pacific Northwest was the clear skies, and no rain. I stood at attention and slowly raised my right arm to salute the folded flag that the second lieutenant had received from the pallbearers’ burial detail after it was raised from the casket and smartly folded. As we stood facing each other, my mind raced back. It was the day after my last mission, when the CG’s aircraft had been found on the side of a mountain. He had been on his way to visit wounded soldiers when they had flown into bad weather and crashed into the side of a mountain. The hurt I felt for Bill’s family ate at me those days as we awaited some word. There were no survivors. Bill’s little brother was in the middle of his “dooly” summer at the US Air Force Academy. Bill had been so proud of that fact.

It was a down day for me. I would be rotating home in a month, as I was advised not to extend again but get on to Fort Benning and the Infantry Officer Basic Course. Dad had left two weeks ago to return to the States to take command of the Naval Facility at North Bend, Oregon. The orderly room clerk walked into my room.

“Lieutenant Cory, sir, I got your orders. You’re going home. You’re to report to Division Rear, no later than tomorrow. We have a bird waiting for you at fourteen hundred today to take you to Bien Hoa.”

“What! What are you talking about?”

“Sir, you are to report to Division Rear casualty assistance office. You best get packing fast.” It suddenly dawned on me. Bill’s parents had requested that I bring Bill’s remains home.

The next seventy-two hours were a blur. Grabbing what little I wanted to take back to the States, I tossed it into a half-full duffle bag. Shoulder holster and Ka-Bar knife, I gave to Mike George, who was out flying, so I tossed them on his bed. Refrigerator and fan, I left for Grandpa. A chopper ride to Bien Hoa; a night at Division Rear; a commercial flight back to the States seated with two other pilots from the company, Roy and Gill. Now the unit was down four experienced pilots and a newbie for the month. A total of five pilots leaving in one month was a blow to the unit.

Reaching Oakland Army Terminal in Oakland, California, I was briefed quickly on the duties of a casualty assistance/escort officer and taken to the airport for the flight to Seattle. Landing in Seattle, the stewardess asked me to accompany her and asked the other passengers to keep their seats. Two police officers were at the door and escorted me off the plane and down to the tarmac. This was not their first rodeo. As Bill’s casket was the first item to come down the conveyor belt from the baggage hole, I came to attention, standing next to the conveyor belt. Raising my right arm slowly, I held my salute until the baggage handlers removed it from the conveyor belt. Then I draped the flag over the casket before it was loaded into the waiting hearse. People on the plane just stared out the window. Was his death worth it?

Arriving at the funeral home, I made sure Bill was settled in for the night, and then I was taken to Bill’s parents’ house in Monroe, Washington. Mom and Pop wanted me to stay with them, as they considered me family. Two other couples were there with Mom and Pop when I arrived. After putting my bags away in the upstairs bedroom, I came into the dining room, where they were all seated.

“Dan, what are you drinking?” Pop asked. I wasn’t much of a drinker, except beer, but took a scotch on the rocks.

When I sat down, Mom placed her hand on mine and asked, “What happened? He was a VIP pilot.” She was a tough woman, but I could see from the puffy eyes that she had been crying.

I tried to explain as calmly and in as much detail as I could what had happened—bad weather, bad maps—but didn’t have the heart to say that the general was probably flying the aircraft. Generals could fly, but not in weather, and on top of that, Bill wasn’t instrument-rated either but could handle the aircraft in weather conditions. Then the hard part came.

“Bill’s in the casket, but I advise that it be a closed-casket ceremony,” I said before taking a sip of scotch.

“Why is that?” asked Pop.

“Well, there was an explosion and fire. His body is in a plastic bag under a glass case. On the glass case is his uniform with all his decorations. The glass case is held down by three hundred screws. Opening the lid is easy, but not that glass case.”

The rest of the evening was spent telling good stories of Bill from flight school and our one mission in Vietnam together. Between drinks and teary eyes, we got through the night.

The next day, I escorted Mom and Pop to the funeral home as it was the duty of the casualty assistance officer to do. The casualty assistance officer represented the government in these cases. Some guys didn’t have it this easy, as the families were sometimes very bitter and took their rage out on casualty officer. I was fortunate.

Later that day, Mom asked me if I would drive down to SeaTac and pick up their younger son, Norm. The Air Force Academy had given him emergency leave to come home for the funeral. Norm was a tough kid but was hurting just the same. He and Bill were close, as was their older sister, Judy.

The day of the funeral came and Judy arrived early with her husband and children to cook breakfast. The ride to the church was quiet, and we all sat together in the front of the church. It was packed, as Monroe was a small town and everyone knew the Michels. The preacher stood and gave the eulogy, praising the work Bill had done in the community and for the nation. He said that Bill was not afraid of death but loved life. Few helicopter crews in Vietnam were afraid of death—it was part of the job—but they all loved life. They were some of this nation’s finest. When the preacher finished, six Army pallbearers came forward, hoisted Bill’s casket and solemnly moved outside to the hearse.

At the grave site, I lowered my salute and accepted the flag from the commander of the burial detail. Executing a smart about-face, I walked over to Mom, thinking that this was one strong woman, as I saw no tears. Standing in front of her, I knelt and said, “On behalf of a grateful nation, I present this flag.” That was what I had been instructed to say, but in my heart, I had my doubts about this being a grateful nation.

Standing slowly, I came to attention and again raised a slow salute. In the distance, the commands for the firing squad could be heard, and three volleys of seven rounds each caused many to jump as the twenty-one-gun salute was fired. On the last volley of three, the distant sound of “Taps” was heard. No one held back tears at this point. I slowly lowered my salute, turned and walked to the side, my official duties concluded. As many started to leave, I came back, put my arms around Mom, and wept just like every other human there. And I weep to this day.

Appendix 1

Some Gave All

The following are members of the 227th AHB who were lost during the period from 1969 through 1970. Each may be found on the National Vietnam Memorial Wall as indicated.