Those who wore it, p.10
Those Who Wore It, page 10
Chat rapidly closed the distance between himself and the advancing man. Drawing nearer, Chat could see the Green Beret’s jungle fatigues were soaked with blood and he was near complete exhaustion. Coming up beside the wounded soldier, Chat reached out to steady him. The soldier never raised his head, but he nodded acknowledgment. Hesitating only a second, Chat stooped to grab the wounded soldier the Green Beret had been dragging along.
“Let me help you, soldier. I’ll bring your buddy with me. Just a few more yards and we’re home. Go, go!”
As the men stumbled toward the waiting helicopter, Chat heard rifle shots and saw the sand kicking up around him. Something jerked the left arm of his flight jacket, and Chat flinched slightly in response to a burning sensation beginning to rise in his arm. His adrenaline was now running on full throttle as he urged the still upright soldier forward. The man struggled to comply while still carrying the third soldier.
Dooley answered the rifle shots immediately with return fire in the direction of the burning tree line less than fifty yards beyond the struggling men. After firing a few short bursts from his BAR, he rushed forward to assist. Within seconds, they had closed the remaining distance to the idling helicopter. The men rolled into the cargo bay as bullets again began to kick up the sand around the aircraft. After confirming with the semiconscious Green Beret that no more team members were left alive to recover, Chat grabbed a headset and yelled orders up to his copilot through the intercom.
“Pull pitch now, Sam. And call the fighters. All friendlies are clear, so tell ’em to unload all of the ordnance they have left on the tree line. Repeat all friendlies are clear. Lift off now!”
Sam already had the helicopter back up to takeoff rpms, and he wasted no time getting airborne. No sooner had the helicopter cleared the landing zone than the fighters began to rake the area with .50 caliber fire from their wing guns. Chat and Dooley immediately began administering what aid they could to the gravely wounded men. The men’s tattered fatigues were a melted mix of blood, dirt, and charred black patches of flesh. Chat tried as best he could to loosen their combat gear and proceeded to cover the worst of the wounds with thick gauze pads from the onboard first aid kit.
Chat was absorbed in trying to treat one of the wounded soldiers when a vice-like grip seized his left arm from behind. Turning, Chat saw the Green Beret who had been struggling so valiantly to get his men to the helicopter was the one gripping his arm. The soldier raised his head slightly and locked eyes with the pilot. He opened his mouth slowly as if to speak through quivering lips, but the early stages of shock and severe loss of blood were beginning to take their toll. The eyes were still clear, and the visual message was perceptible. Chat nodded to acknowledge the thank you while leaning forward to gently lower the man’s head back to the deck. As he did so, he noticed the name tag over the soldier’s left breast pocket: Rivera.
“You can relax now, Sergeant Rivera. This ride’s on me. You just fought one hell of a fight. Hang in there, Green Beret.”
When the combat medics had unloaded the last of the wounded men from the helicopter, Chat dropped to the ground and leaned his back into the left main wheel of the helicopter, his eyes closed. The strain of the past hour and the adrenaline rush had left him exhausted. One of the medics returned to check the helicopter for any remaining wounded. After glancing into the empty cargo area, he turned toward Chat.
“Bad deal, man. I don’t know if that last guy will make it. He was shot up pretty bad. Guess it was one helluva fight, huh?”
Chat started to answer but stopped when the medic suddenly leaned toward him and put a hand on his left shoulder.
“Sir, are you okay? Your left arm, I mean.”
Looking down to where the medic’s hand now rested, Chat saw for the first time the patch of blood halfway up the left sleeve of the A-2 jacket. He reached over with his right hand and began to explore the area around the spot. There was a small, ragged tear in the leather, and his left arm had a slight stinging sensation when he applied pressure. He leaned forward slightly as the medic helped him remove the A-2.
Taking a closer look at the portion of his left arm that extended below his short-sleeved khaki shirt, Chat remarked, “You’re right. So maybe a bullet got a little close, but it’s nothing like those other guys.”
The medic stooped for a closer look. Chat felt a slight stinging as the medic gently probed around the injury, checking for any bone breaks.
“You’re a lucky man today, Sir. At any rate, let’s get you over to the field hospital and clean that wound up a little.”
Too exhausted to protest, Chat nodded and was grateful for the medic’s help as he pushed himself up to his feet.
“All right. You lead the way. It’ll give me a chance to see how those Green Berets are doing.” Man, that was a little too close to the mark. And the old A-2 took its first combat hit.
The three soldiers from the American Special Forces A-team had survived a close call with the grim reaper, owing in no small part to their comrades in arms, including a helicopter crew who refused to give up. Staff Sergeant Miguel Rivera would spend four months in Walter Reed Hospital recovering from the Laos encounter. Most men would have considered what he had been through a lifetime’s worth of adventure, but Rivera had olive-drab-colored blood in his veins. The military was his life, and he would stay with it as long as he could. After six months of intense physical therapy, he returned to active duty. The US Army awarded him the Silver Star for his heroic acts in Laos. His personnel file, however, was classified as top secret since that action in Laos was a clandestine operation that officially never occurred. The little metal star hanging at the end of a piece of red, white, and blue striped ribbon was all the acknowledgment his nation could give.
After an eighteen-month hitch with Air America, Chat needed a break from combat flying. That decision triggered a week of nonstop farewell parties with his Air America buddies before leaving the base camp in Laos. Then he pointed his personal compass east and headed for Texas, looking forward to home time and Stateside peace and quiet. He hoped no one would be shooting at him there.
Logbook Entry: 10
Captured
Coban Region, Guatemala
September 20, 1968, 1042 Hours
The UH-1D model helicopter with seven souls on board was cruising approximately 1,500 feet above the trees along the western slopes of the mountainous terrain. The air blowing through the open passenger area felt cool. From the left seat of the helicopter, Chat consulted his navigational map and satisfied himself that Rivera’s position report was close to his own estimate, something he already knew when it came to the Green Beret’s map skills. Chat slipped the map beside his seat and then keyed the intercom button. “Rock, I agree you’re right on the money with that last position fix, old friend.”
“What did you expect, my man? Somebody reliable has to keep tabs on you, right?”
“Yeah, Rock. I know you’re an old hound dog when it comes to following a trail. So, what’s this big powwow we’re heading to all about?”
Only two headsets were available for the rear seating area. Dooley had his aircrew helmet for radio and intercom communications, and he assigned the other headsets to Rivera and Quinn. The Guatemalan Army major protested and demanded a headset, but that only made Dooley dig in his heels, which meant Chat, as the pilot in command, had the final say, and, of course, he confirmed Dooley’s decision. With only Rivera and Quinn having headsets, this meant they were the only others able to monitor in-flight intercom communications. Chat had directed his question to Rivera knowing the Guatemalan passengers would not be privy to the conversation.
Before Rivera had a chance to answer, Quinn broke in, “That’s not on your need-to-know list, Birdman. You’re just supplying taxi service today. Please and thank you.”
The man’s condescending rebuff irked Chat, but he had half expected something like that since this was not his first outing with the CIA agent. Chat chose not to respond, suspecting Quinn was baiting him into an argument to boost his already inflated ego.
Dooley, never one to keep silent and always eager to poke the bear, offered his own opinion. “You know, Quinn, word on the street is you’re a real asshole. And I’m guessin’ your dear mother probably felt the same way right before she dumped you by the side of the road.”
Quinn fumed. “You better watch your mouth, Mr. Smartass, or you might find yourself unemployed and on the next plane out of here.”
Sensing it was time to head off any further escalation, Chat interjected. “All right, you guys, pipe down before I have to tell Sergeant Rock to put some knots on both of your heads.”
Dooley glanced at Rivera, who shot him a quick wink and a smile while holding up a large fist. The intercom went quiet as everyone redirected their attention back outside the helicopter to the lush mountain growth below. Some of the finest-grade coffee beans in the world were grown in this region.
A few minutes later, Chat signaled to his copilot, Bob Carpenter, and they proceeded to run through normal in-flight cockpit checks. Chat was about to confirm his latest estimate on fuel burn when the routine was interrupted as the helicopter gave a slight shudder and the nose yawed ever so minutely to the right and back again. As quickly as it had appeared, the slight vibration and side movement were gone, and all appeared normal. Little attention grabbers such as this can take a pilot’s heart rate from a lazy sixty beats per minute to well over the red line in a fraction of a second. Chat reached for the controls as his eyes swept the instruments panel for anomalies.
“Whoa, Bob, did you feel that? What the hell was it?”
Bob was just as mystified. He continued to scan all of the gauge readings. “Don’t know, Skipper. Maybe just a little mountain turbulence, huh?”
Several more moments elapsed while both pilots scanned and rescanned each of the engine and system gauges for the slightest indication of a problem.
Dooley chimed in from the back. “I damn sure felt something here in the back. Bob, are you nodding off at the controls?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Dooley. I got bored sittin’ up here and thought I’d shake things up.”
Carpenter followed with, “So, Mr. Ace Mechanic, what’s your take on that little shudder we just had?”
“Can’t say for sure, but it got my attention too. Probably a result of you kickin’ the trim pedals too much up there.”
The flight crew exuded an outward calm as they traded some light kidding, but their mental focus had suddenly come up on full alert. It was the nature of helicopter pilots and mechanics alike. Most of that breed believed in the credo that “if something bad hasn’t happened in the past few minutes, then the odds are it is about to.” Their time on route was now a little over fifty minutes since departing La Aurora. The Huey was flying over sparsely populated and fairly rugged mountain terrain. Flight following communications at lower altitudes throughout most of the country was virtually impossible due to lack of radio and radar coverage. On top of that, most Aero Sur missions were classified with only a select few with a need to know informed of where flights were actually headed when they departed Guatemala City.
Another five uneventful minutes passed with the crew exchanging idle chatter. Without warning, a dull, grinding vibration began reverberating through the aircraft. This was followed by a loud bang and a sudden jerking of the nose of the helicopter to the right. Chat instinctively reached for the controls and for a few seconds both pilots struggled to regain control. The helicopter had entered into a severe left sideslip, and they fought desperately to keep the nose from rotating further to the right, which might lead to an out-of-control spin. Chat was pushing the left tail rotor pedal all the way to the stop, but the wounded bird was not responding. He had an inkling of where the problem was.
“What the hell! I’ve got the controls, Bob. Get out a mayday with our position!”
Chat continued to wrestle with the flight controls. He pushed forward on the cyclic control in an effort to increase airspeed and help streamline the helicopter.
Chat’s mind was racing. “Damn! Airspeed, airspeed, come on, baby, come back, come back around!”
Bob put out a radio call in the blind for any ground stations or other aircraft within range. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, Aero Sur 367 going down approximately thirty miles southwest of Coban.”
The helicopter’s tail rotor gearbox had come apart, resulting in the loss of the ability to counteract the torque generated by the main rotor rotation and keep the nose of the helicopter aligned with the direction of flight. Chat had suspected this was the cause of the emergency by the way the helicopter was flailing through the air and the fact that the tail rotor control pedals at his feet were not causing any reaction on the helicopter’s attitude when he moved them. He was forced to reduce power and increase airspeed in order to keep the helicopter from rotating out of control. By doing so, he was giving up precious altitude, altitude they could ill afford to give away since they were already flying at less than 1,000 feet above the ground. Chat was having only slight success in directing the helicopter as the heavily forested mountainside began to loom larger in the windscreen.
In a matter of seconds, the available altitude was used up, and it became apparent to the pilots that impact with the ground was imminent. As the helicopter approached the trees, Chat tried to arrest the rapid descent slightly by flaring the nose back. When he applied power in an attempt to cushion the impact, the helicopter again swung hard right while at the same time rolling to the left. He yelled a last warning to the crew and passengers. “Brace yourselves! This ain’t gonna be good.”
The aircraft hit the mountainside with the left-front portion of the forward cabin taking the brunt of the crash. Sounds of metal deforming combined with the shrill scream of a turbine engine running wide open punctuated the morning silence of the surrounding valley. The main rotor blades ripped themselves from their hub as the helicopter flailed against a rock outcropping on the mountainside. The slope where the aircraft hit was steep enough that the helicopter rotated back on the tail boom after impact and began a backward slide of some fifty to sixty feet into the trees before stopping in the heavier underbrush further down the mountain side.
The frightening scenes unfolding after the helicopter impacted the mountain became a blur to Chat as his body flailed against the seat belt restraints. The force of the initial impact had thrown him forward against his retaining harness, but not before his flight helmet hit the right door post, jarring his head sharply back. His body then reversed directions, slamming back hard against the seat. All of the air had suddenly rushed from his lungs, and a stabbing back pain was rapidly infiltrating his remaining consciousness.
The helicopter’s engine gave up, starved for fuel as the supply lines ripped loose on impact with the mountain. An eerie quiet now blanketed what had been chaos only seconds before. Chat was barely conscious as he struggled to speak, but there was no air in his lungs to form words. It hurt too much all over to even think about moving. His mind told his mouth to yell “Get out!” but he could muster only a whisper.
A few short minutes passed before the cockpit door swung open beside him. Dooley appeared. “Chatman! Holy shit! Chatman, talk to me, guy. Where are you hurt? Do not die on my watch, buddy. It ain’t over ‘til I say it’s over. You got that? Now, tell me you’re okay.”
Dooley was clearly worried about his friend. He dared not try to move Chat until he could assess the extent of the pilot’s injuries. He was careful as he unbuckled Chat’s seatbelt and shoulder harness.
Chat reached up cautiously with his left arm in an attempt at a quick self-inventory. The breath was slowly returning to his starved lungs as he struggled to speak. “Dooley, you doing okay? How … how’s Bob?” He could barely talk above a whisper.
Dooley was slow to respond, preoccupied with checking his friend over for injuries. “Chat, I’m really sorry, man, but he … ah … Bob didn’t make it.”
The two men were silent for a moment before Dooley spoke again. “I think he took the full force of that rock outcropping where we impacted. I suspect it was quick.”
“Bob … Bob is dead. No! I can’t believe it. Just like that! I hate this!”
“I’m afraid there’s more, Chatman. We also lost Sergeant Scarface, the self-appointed Guatemalan Army executioner—Mister Tough-Guy who never wears a seat belt. He was thrown out when we yawed hard over right after the tail rotor let go. S’pose he’s somewhere on the mountain, but I suspect he ain’t among the livin’ at this point, probably even picked up a few more scars.” Dooley’s callous recounting of the sergeant’s unfortunate exit from the aircraft revealed his somewhat less-than-high opinion of the missing passenger.
“Jeez, Dooley! That’s two people we lost so far. What about the others? Rivera?”
“Yeah. Rock, Quinn, and the major are probably a little bruised but seem to be okay.”
Chat nodded, relieved, then turned to his left, his eyes fixed on the limp body of Bob Carpenter slumped over the shoulder harness restraint.
“Bob, I’m so sorry. Damn! Damn! Damn!”
As his consciousness began to return, Chat was becoming acutely aware of a host of issues, including a stabbing pain in his back along with rising feelings of remorse, a sense of guilt that he might have been able to better handle the emergency landing. “Guess I screwed this one up royally and it cost Bob his life. Why wasn’t I the one that paid the price? Why Bob? The guy has a wife waiting back home. Damn it all to hell!”
Dooley was quick to respond. “No, Chatman. Don’t go there. You did everything you could. It was a mechanical failure. Maybe the tailrotor driveshaft but I’m not sure yet. You got us on the ground as well as any pilot could have and five of us are still breathing. Count that as a win for us.”
“Yeah, maybe. Help me down, will ya, Dooley? Slowly, though. I need to make sure nothin’ is broken. My back is killing me.”
