“Joanna.”
Within minutes, all twelve helicopters were flying in a V formation. Nat looked behind him at the two rear gunners, who were staring intently out into the black cloudless night. He slipped on a pair of earphones and listened to the flight lieutenant.
“Blackbird One to group, we’ll be out of allied air space in four minutes, then I anticipate an ETA of twenty-one hundred hours.”
Nat found himself sitting bolt upright as he listened to the young pilot. He glanced out of a side window at stars that would never be seen on the American continent. He could feel the adrenalin pumping through his body as they flew nearer to the enemy lines. At last he felt he was part of this damn man’s war. His only surprise was that he sensed no fear. Perhaps that would come later.
“We’re moving into enemy territory,” said the flight lieutenant as if he were crossing a busy road. “Are you receiving me, ground leader?”
There was a crackling on the line before a voice said, “I hear you, Blackbird One, what’s your position?” Nat recognized the southern drawl of Captain Dick Tyler.
“We’re approximately fifty miles south of you.”
“Copy that, expect you to rendezvous in fifte
en minutes.”
“Roger. You won’t see us until the last moment, because we’re keeping all our external lights off.”
“Copy that,” came back the same drawl.
“Have you identified a possible landing spot?”
“There’s a small piece of sheltered land on a ridge just below me,” replied Tyler, “but it will only take one helicopter at a time, and because of the rain, not to mention the mud, landing could be a hell of a problem.”
“What’s your current position?”
“I’m still at my same grid reference just north of the Dyng River,” Tyler paused, “and I’m fairly sure that the VC have begun crossing the river.”
“How many men do you have with you?”
“Seventy-eight.” Nat knew that the full complement of two platoons was ninety-six. “And how many bodies?” asked the flight lieutenant, as if he were asking how many eggs the captain wanted for breakfast.
“Eighteen.”
“OK, be ready to put six men and two bodies into each chopper, and make sure you’re able to climb on board the moment you see me.”
“We’ll be ready,” said the captain. “What time do you have?”
“Twenty thirty-three,” said the flight lieutenant.
“Then at twenty forty-eight, I’ll put up one red flare.”
“Twenty forty-eight, one red flare,” repeated the flight lieutenant, “Roger and out.”
Nat was impressed by how calm the flight lieutenant appeared to be when he, his co-pilot and both rear gunners could be dead in twenty minutes. But as he had been reminded so often by Colonel Tremlett, more lives are saved by calm men than brave ones. No one spoke for the next fifteen minutes. It gave Nat time to think about the decision he’d made; would he also be dead in twenty minutes?
Nat then endured the longest fifteen minutes of his life, staring out across acres of dense jungle lit only by a half moon while radio silence was maintained. He looked back at the rear gunners as the chopper skimmed above the tree line. They were already clasping their guns, thumbs on the buttons, alert for any trouble. Nat was looking out of a side window when suddenly a red flare shot high into the sky. He couldn’t help thinking that he would have been having coffee in the mess around now.
“This is Blackbird One to flight,” said the pilot, breaking radio silence. “Don’t switch on your underbelly lights until you’re thirty seconds from rendezvous, and remember, I’m going in first.”
A green tracer of bullets shot in front of the cockpit, and the rear gunners immediately returned fire.
“The VC have identified us,” said the flight leader crisply. He dipped his helicopter to the right and Nat saw the enemy for the first time. The VC were advancing up the hill, only a few hundred yards away from where the chopper would try to land.
Fletcher read the article in the Washington Post. It was an heroic episode that had caught the imagination of the American public in a war no one wanted to know about. A group of seventy-eight infantrymen, cornered in the North Vietnamese jungle, easily outnumbered by the Vietcong, had been rescued by a fleet of helicopters that had flown over dangerous terrain, unable to land while encountering enemy fire. Fletcher studied the detailed diagram on the opposite page. Flight Lieutenant Chuck Philips had been the first to swoop down and rescue half a dozen trapped men. He had hovered only a few feet above the ground while the rescue took place. He hadn’t noticed that another officer, Lieutenant Cartwright, had leaped off the aircraft just as he dipped his nose and rose back up into the sky to allow the second helicopter to take his place.
Among the bodies on the third helicopter was that of the officer in command, Captain Dick Tyler. Lieutenant Cartwright had immediately assumed command, and taken over the counterattack while at the same time coordinating the rescue of the remaining men. He was the last person to leave the field of battle and climb on board the remaining rescue helicopter. All twelve helicopters headed back to Saigon, but only eleven landed at Eisenhower airfield.