The Delta

It was too early for the monsoon season, yet the storms came. They swept in from the northeast bringing thunder, lightning, blowing rain, and air cooler than any of the Delta pilots thought possible in the subtropical climate of Southern Vietnam. Strong winds rippled tin on the roofs; water swirled through cracks in windows and doors. During the night, air conditioners and fans were switched off; blankets were fetched out of duffles, and still the men were cold. Few slept well. At least two hardly slept at all.

These two were at opposite corners of the compound: one in the well-built quarters of a Navy officer, the other in a standard-issue Army BOQ, compliments of Pacific Architects and Engineers—a twenty thousand dollar building for which the Army undoubtedly paid in excess of a $100K. Each of the men tossed and turned with his own thoughts. The storms outside were a perfect match for the storms within. Each felt helpless against the coming day. Each told himself a thousand times, "I must sleep." Each continued to toss and turn. Each attempted to quiet the intruding thoughts. One quoted Bible verses; the other called upon his own intestinal fortitude, which had always been up to the challenge before.

It was not that danger was unknown to them, or that either had shown any particular fear of it before. It was not that they were afraid of battle. It was a new fear that troubled them, and for each it was a different fear. For the first time they had knowledge of a mission hours beforehand. For the first time they had an inner awareness that something would be different about this day. For the first time, each felt there was more at stake than ever before.

Their alarms, set to awaken them early, were unnecessary. Those alarms, when they did go off, simply marked the transition from "waiting" to "action." The men moved through their morning ritual—cold, shivering, anxious for the coffee awaiting them in the mess hall, and the heaters in their respective aircraft. It was pitch black outside—black and blowing, black and wet, black and loud. The dawn was still an hour away.

When Eric and Chris walked in, Steve was in the Navy mess, a tray of bacon and eggs in front of him, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. He looked up, surprised. "Eric! What are you doing here this time of morning?"

"When I got back to the room last night Chris informed me we were covering your mission. We’ll be staging out of Vi Thanh."

"Figures. With this much activity, it pays to have Dustoff around."

"We’ll be there. Just don’t need us." Chris said, half joking, half serious. He sat down and moved his bacon away from his eggs. Eric sat across the table from Chris and Steve. He put down his tray and took a swig of coffee.

"I’m not flying until around ten," Steve said. "In fact, I’m thinking about going back to bed if I can find a couple of extra blankets."

Eric shivered. "I know. What’s the deal with this weather?"

"It’s not supposed to get this cold until around late March, or early April," Kerr said.

"Anybody gotten a weather briefing?" Chris asked.

"Yeah," Kerr answered. "It’s supposed to clear off after first light. There’ll be patchy clouds around during the early morning. It’ll be windy all day."

"Just like a cold front back home," Stump commented.

"Yep. So much for this tropical ‘air mass’ weather system that doesn’t have any fronts," Stump observed.

"What time you guys supposed to be at Vi Thanh?" Steve asked Eric and Chris.

"Six thirty. Normally we don’t start our shift until seven. We’re getting an early start today."

"How many Dustoff birds will there be?"

"Only one," Chris answered. "We’ll have two more back here on standby if we need them."

"I hope you won’t," Steve said.

"Me, too," Chris agreed.

The Dustoff pilots ate hurriedly. Even so, before they finished, Kerr left to prepare for his flight. Stump was not far behind him. Steve finished his meal, and walked with Chris and Eric to their jeep.

"Be careful," Steve told Eric as they were about to drive off.

"You, too," Eric said. He still hadn’t shaken that feeling that Steve would be facing something unusual, perhaps extremely dangerous that day and Eric was helpless to prevent it.

The preflight was no fun in the cold darkness. For once Eric was glad it was Chris that was the AC instead of him until Chris sent him up top to inspect the rotor system. The "Jesus Nut" inspecting the "Jesus Nut" Eric thought. Was Chris indicating his trust, or was he simply wanting to avoid the cold up on the cabin roof where there was no protection from the wind.

Eric took his flashlight and inspected the rotor system and the transmission housing as if his life depended upon it. By the time he climbed back to the ground, his fingers were numb. Chris was finishing up the bottom, and the crew chief was buttoning up the access covers.

Light preceded the sun and cast silvery shadows off the numerous patchy low clouds. Overhead a high stratus layer was beginning to show signs of thinning. Visibility outside the clouds would be good, but there were a lot of low clouds in the area.

As Eric was putting on his chicken plate and survival vest, Chris said to him, "You fly left seat today." Eric looked up, surprised. The left seat was the domain of the aircraft commanders, though it was not the command position in a Huey by design. The bulk of the instruments were on the right-hand side of the cockpit. But the left seat had fewer obstructions and therefore afforded excellent visibility. At some time in the past the Dustoff ACs had started preferring it. Now it was an almost universal custom. Was Chris preparing him for command, or was there a simpler reason? Perhaps the fact there was weather around and a chance of encountering IMC—instrument meteorological conditions—made Chris want the right seat with its array of navigation instruments. Eric didn’t argue. He picked up the rest of his gear and walked around to the left side. Soon they had the engine running and the heater on. Finally, they were warm. It was the first time Eric had even thought about a heater since arriving in Vietnam a few months earlier. Today it seemed like a different world.

During the flight to Vi Thanh a beautiful sunrise appeared off to their left. The sun peaked above and below gray clouds, coloring their edges with a red hue. A few rain showers were still about. The winds blew strong and steady. The nose of the aircraft was canted almost twenty degrees left of their course over the ground to compensate for the wind blowing off the South China Sea. They checked in with the C & C just before landing near the south end of the dirt and grass airstrip at Vi Thanh and settling in to wait. A nearby tent housed a command center.

The radios in the tent were alive with action. Insertions were being made; gun cover was blasting away at enemy positions; ARVNs were advancing; the FAC was calling in targets. Yet there were no American casualties. The Dustoff crew longed for action, while at the same time hoping it wouldn’t happen. For them to get any action, someone else would have to get hurt. So they waited. The sun warmed the morning, the battle noises were distant, and sleep beckoned the crew. They found places to stretch out, on litters, in the hell hole, on the cabin floor, and they slept the sleep of soldiers who catch naps that last seconds, but bring the rest of hours as the time of waiting slips by.

Suddenly, there was a mission. The cry came out of the tent "Dustoff!" An American aircraft had gone down. The crew scrambled. The rotor tiedown was released and the main rotor rotated ninety degrees. Switches were flipped, the throttle twisted and set. Chris yelled "fire in the hole." The crew yelled "Clear!" There was the popping of igniters, the "whoosh" of JP4 pouring into the turbine chamber and igniting, the whine of the transmission, the blowing dust as the chopper lifted, and the Dustoff crew was off to fulfill its mission.

"Hammer Six, this Dustoff Seven-Nine, off Vi Thanh."

"Dustoff Seven-Nine, mission at whiskey-romeo-three-seven-two-five-five-six, a downed OV-10."

Eric’s heart missed a beat. Indian country, and an OV-10 down. He looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven. Not Steve!

"Dustoff Seven-Nine, roger." Eric was at the controls, Chris on the radio.

"Give me a heading!" Eric cried. He realized his voice sounded excited. Wasn’t that what the ACs were warning him about?

Chris gave him a sideways glance. "One-ninety-five," he said. Chris rechecked his map, measuring the distance with his finger. "Twenty-two klicks (kilometers)." Eric nosed the Huey over. It was doing a hundred and ten and shaking.

"Hammer Six, Dustoff Seven-Nine, what have you got?"

"Not many details, yet, Dustoff. We’re heading that way. Let’s go up channel three and talk to the FAC."

"Roger, switching."

"Black Pony Two-Three, this is Hammer Six. I’ve got Dustoff Seven-Nine on the frequency, also. Who’s down?"

"It’s Pony One-Two," Sid Kerr responded. "Aircraft’s on the ground, no chute. I’m overhead now."

No! Eric’s heart cried. Not Black Pony 12! He willed the Huey to go faster. Twenty klicks—ten minutes, anyway you cut it.

"He hit the trees slowly," Kerr was saying. "He may be all right. Then, a change in his voice. "Standby. They’re swarming the aircraft. I’m going in." He was off the air doing God knows what. Not knowing was killing Eric. Come on! Come on! he willed the Huey.

Sid Kerr made a low firing pass at the Viet Cong who had appeared out of nowhere and were now climbing on Steve’s aircraft. He couldn’t fire directly at them for fear of hitting Steve or igniting the downed Bronco, but he laced the perimeter with minigun fire. As he swept over Steve’s aircraft, he whipped his own Bronco into a tight left turn to come back around. He lowered the nose into firing position. The VC had the canopy open and were pulling Steve’s limp body out of the seat, dragging him over the wing. What could he do? He passed overhead without firing.

"They’ve got him!" Kerr cried. "The VC just pulled Pony One-Two out of the aircraft."

Eric cut in, "Is he alive?"

"I don’t know," Kerr responded. "I’m coming back around." He swept back over the site low and slow. He could see nothing. "I can’t find him! I can’t find him!" he yelled. He was furious that he couldn’t do anything to help. If there’d been a place to land, Kerr would have been on the ground, fighting off the VC with his hands. "Where are you guys?" he cried.

"Hammer Six is about two north," came the response. The Huey C & C ship was coming in just above the trees. Much too low for safety, but they wanted to know what was going on. Ahead the Huey pilot could see the FAC OV-10 circling the area.

"They’re gone," Kerr lamented.