A true story about a night medevac in Viet Nam, Fall 1966.
“…there is just something about the H-34 that just makes you feel an allegiance to it. Kind of like an old sweetheart you never got over.” Fred Williams, USMC, former H-34 crew chief.
To the troops in the field, helicopters were everything. They were the source of food, water, ammunition, new uniforms to replace those rotted off by the jungle, medicine, reinforcements, mail and cookies from home, and, eventually, an escape from the dangerous combat environment in the jungles of Viet Nam. Most importantly, the troops always knew that when they were wounded, the H-34 pilots would risk death to carry them out as soon as possible whenever they needed a medical evacuation. It is no wonder the troops loved to see us coming. From the pilot’s point of view, we were there for the troops.
Sometimes it got a bit hairy.
One night, late September 1966, I was co-pilot for a senior first lieutenant on a perilous medevac in the hills northwest of Dong Ha known as “Mutter Ridge.” As we hovered ninety feet above the trees in darkness, the only horizontal reference we had to relate to for hovering purposes was the geometric plane defined by tracers, red for the marines, green for the enemy, whizzing back and forth beneath us. But that plane of reference was about 30 degrees off from level. This made it most difficult for the lieutenant to hold the helo in a stable hover. If we drifted too far in a northerly direction, we might drift into trees on the upslope. The enemy held that high ground. Occasionally a tracer would rise vertically, passing uncomfortably close to the helo. Each tracer represented four or five bullets.
Losing the fight to keep the helo in a stable hover, the lieutenant realized the solution. He asked me: “Bill, do you know where the hover/flood light switch is?” My first thought was that there was simply no way he was going to ask me to turn on those lights. To do so was for us to die instantly. I answered him with a relaxed, “Yes, sir” wondering why he even asked. A millisecond later that I realized, omygod, he is going to have me throw that switch! When those lights flash on, we are going to be the biggest target in the province, hovering over who-knows-how-many hundreds or thousands of NVA. This is it. I am going to die in this war, right here, right now! I only hoped that I would get shot and die quickly and not be cremated alive as the thrashing, crashing, flopping, chopping, slicing, dicing, whirling ball of flaming, exploding, helicopter tumbled through the trees.
“Bill, when I tell you, you turn on those lights.” I knew I was done, but what could I do? Refuse an order? “Death before dishonor,” was our creed. I was a Marine Corps pilot, duty bound to do what my pilot in command told me to do, even if it meant my immediate fiery death.
I threw that switch.
The results were amazing! Every combatant on the ground, enemy and friendly alike must have thought he, himself, was the most exposed fellow on the planet. Each man must have thrown himself into the nearest foxhole or behind the nearest tree. The battle came to a complete stop for at least 30 seconds while we hovered there fully lighted up like Friday night high school football game! It seemed like forever.
Nothing happened. Nothing!
We hoisted the wounded marine aboard, turned off our lights and flew him to the hospital.
Captain Bill Collier not only survived the Vietnam War, but continued to fly helicopters commercially for another 29 years. His last flying gig was senior pilot for the Orange County Fire Department in Southern California. In 2008 he retired to Sandpoint, ID. He recently had opportunity to rescue on ancient H-34 from the scrapyard, and blogs about it at: http://dawgdriverforever.blogspot.com/
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