Eagle Station Part 7

"We're ten minutes from 36," Kelly said. "VP has a pretty good field hospital there. How's the airplane, chief? Leaking anything?"

"Not that I can see," the flight mech responded.

"Okay, we'll be at 36 toot sweet." Kelly looked at Shilleto.

"See any smoke from the survivors?"

"Smoke, h.e.l.l!" Paul Shilleto said. "There was no smoke from them. The only smoke I saw was from the ground fire. I told you it was a G.o.dd.a.m.n flak trap."

Kelly switched his intercom jack box to Guard Channel.

-wolf, Wolf," he said, "this is Jolly Green 21, you copy?"

There was no answer. He repeated the call twice more as they topped another karst ridge eight miles north of the cave where Wolf and Tewa were hidden. There was no answer. He switched his main VHF receiver to the Air America operator at Site 36 and told them he would be there in ten minutes and that he had two wounded on board.

Joe Kelly set the HH-53B helicopter on the helipad at Lima Site 36 as the last ray of sunlight faded and the lavender sky turned black. They had taxied to park next to the other Jolly Green alert helicopter.

Nearly a dozen people were gathered to meet the ship. They appeared little more than shadows in the soft glow from two small kerosene lanterns set on the ground at each side of the pad. Several men approached even before the big blades swished to a halt. The two PJs jumped out and chocked the wheels. Then each stepped to a side of the fuselage and pulled from their brackets the I x 2-foot boards with the USAF stars and bars painted on them, reversed the boards to their blank sides, and reinserted them in the slots once again, proving no American combat forces were on the ground in little old neutral Laos.

Four soldiers from Vang Pao's army bore two stretchers UP to the door while three men in safari suits stood on the edge of the pad and watched. The entire crew of the second-alert Jolly Green crowded around the door and watched the Lao stretcher bearers off-load the wounded and head for the infirmary.

Joe Kelly and Paul Shilleto finished the c.o.c.kpit postflight and unstrapped. They took their flashlights and walked into the aft cabin and stepped out the door. They were greeted with cold beers from the other crew, each of whom carried a flashlight.

Then the two crews walked about the helicopter, shining their flashlights, trying to count the holes. The PJs were doing most of the talking about what had happened. They counted eight nickel-sized holes from the 12.7mm (.51 cal) gun that had fired on them. The night air was cool and damp.

"Probably find more in the morning, sir," the flight mech said to the two officers.

"Hopefully no leaks," Lieutenant Colonel Shilleto said. "We'll have to call back to Udorn for a replacement bird for tomorrow.

No way we can fly a mission with this airplane."

"I already called Udorn on the HF," the pilot of the second helicopter said. "Nothing available. They want you to call them as soon as you land. They said they'll tell you to use your own discretion, but get on station tomorrow if you can. If you don't go, I can't go it alone, so..

"We'll see in the morning when we have some light," Shilleto said with some sharpness. "But don't count on us getting airborne."

All of the men pitched in to hook up the hand pumps and hoses from fifty-five-gallon gas drums to refuel Jolly Green 22.

Flight mechs were known to brag about their strong right arms from rotating the pump handle.

When they were finished, the two crews walked to the large main tent that covered their messing facility (a long wooden table made of old ammo crates with cases of C-rations underneath), their combined Officer-NCO recreational club facility (a long wooden table with cases of beer underneath), their operations facilities (a narrow wooden table with a battery-operated PRC-47 high-frequency Single Sideband radio on top), and their NCO and officer quarters (rows of metal GI cots along both sides of one end of the big tent). A 5kw generator supplied electricity for the lights. The Jolly Green crewmen would b.u.m ice from the Air America operations hut to cool the beer if they weren't flying too early the next morning.

Bathing facilities were primitive; there weren't any. Bathroom facilities were practical; four halves of fifty-five-gallon gas drums planted in the ground. To use one, a crewman would take a board with a hole cut in it from the crew tent and a small jar of JP-4 jet fuel. He would walk out to the waste place (s.h.i.t city, as some called it) being on the lookout for cobras and leeches (hard to do at night), and was careful not to overshoot because the outer perimeter had a variety of mines placed by the j.a.panese in World War II, the French in their Indochina war, and, currently, the defending Hmoung tribesmen. At the waste place, he would place the board across the rough edges of the hacksawn-in-two barrels, perform his business, arise, pull up his pants, sprinkle the JP-4 into the barrel, and throw in some flaming paper.

Whoosh-whump, "toilet"

"flushed." Crewmen usually preferred a recently vacated barrel, still warm from the previous flush, because said flames were sure to have incinerated the saucer-sized black spiders that found the barrels to be marvelous pieces of real estate in which to inhabit, cohabit, and replicate thousands more of themselves. Unless it was a diarrhetic emergency, no one wanted to be first to use s.h.i.t city.

Any anachroid tickling of a seated helicopter crewman's b.a.l.l.s at night by searching little hairy feet not only sent him seven feet straight up while piercing the night air with a heart-rending shriek, it also ruined his s.e.x life for weeks, or whatever time it took to coax his shriveled t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es back down from someplace north of his lungs.

Joe Kelly sat in the chair in front of the HF radio and made contact with ARRS rescue control center, call sign Compress, at Nakhon Phanom.

He made his report of their battle damage and noted that they wouldn't know until sometime after dawn if they would be able to fly the scheduled mission orbit, but that probably they would not.

"Roger Jolly Green 22, Compress copies your transmission.

We have no standby aircraft. Use pilot's discretion."

"Yeah, right," Kelly said, then depressed the transmit key on the base of the microphone stand. "What have you got on that survivor? Does he check out?" he asked.

"We confirm an Air America Charley 46, tail number 715, is many Hours overdue and there was a pa.s.senger with the nickname and numbers you gave us. But from your report it sounds like he's been scarfed up and his crash location turned into one big flak trap. Copy?"

Kelly looked up and saw Shilleto and the rest of the crew standing behind him watching and listening with consummate attention.

"Understand," he said and signed off.

Although Joe Kelly was on orders as the rescue crew commander for the entire flight, as a captain, he did defer to some of the housekeeping orders Shilleto, the lieutenant colonel, was issuing. Kelly liked and respected Shilleto, who had flown rescue helicopters in Korea when the dynamics of the machines were barely understood. There had been a big phase-down after the war, until the early sixties, when the rescue mission had again been given serious attention. During the slack period, Shilleto had been flying Old Shaky, the giant C-124 prop-driven, double-decked cargo plane. Last year Shilleto had been recertified in helicopters and, because of his rank, made a detachment commander at Udorn. But, as Kelly and some of the others had said, great guy but his day is past. He paved the way but we have the controls now.

"All right," ShilIeto said, "let's go check the weather." He indicated Kelly and the two pilots from the second HH-53B.

"The rest of you men settle down. I don't think we are going anyplace in the morning. Turn in if you want."

The four pilots walked out of the big tent and down the dark path to the Air America operations shack.

"Ready for the weather?" the civilian inside greeted them.

It was a nightly occurrence for the USAF rescue crewmen to stop by for a briefing from the Air America operations people, who in fact had a composite of the weather forecasts from all the USAF bases. They used their extensive HF radio net and teletypes to gather and collate the information. The man scanned his reports and wall chart.

"Although this is the dry season in Laos," he said, "it's toward the end of the northeast monsoon season and we're starting to get some a.s.sociated weather here. I think we're going to get some low clouds and rain from the north because C, of a low-pressure area sitting over Hanoi. Should clear up by noon. If it doesn't rain, there may be haze due to rice paddy burning." Lao peasants fertilized their rice paddies by burning the stubble after a harvest. He went on about surface temperature, gradients, and winds aloft. When he concluded, the Air Force men thanked him and trooped back to their tent.

"Well, that cinches it," Shilleto said to the flight mechs and PJs who were lying back on their cots, talking. "We won't be flying tomorrow, what with the battle damage and the bad weather."

"Sir, does that mean we can drink some more beer?" a flight mech asked.

"Well!," Shilleto said, caught off guard, "I, unh, suppose so.

"Look, guys," one of the PJs from the second ship said. "You never know what can happen in the morning. Let's lay off." The Pj was a staff sergeant and not the ranking NCO. But he was already a legend in his own time as a man who, when he went down the hoist, would not come up without a survivor, alive or dead. The men usually followed his lead; they mumbled a.s.sent.

"Furthermore," the PJ said to the number-one PJ on Kelly and Shilleto's helicopter, Jolly Green 22, "I'd like to swap with you, Stu, for whatever flight we might have tomorrow."

"Sure thing, El C," the second PJ said.

The first PJ turned to Lieutenant Colonel Shilleto. "That is, if it's okay with you, Colonel."

Grateful that the PJ had taken him off the hook by putting down the beer-drinking idea, Paul Shilleto gave his approval.

The PJ winked at Kelly. "Okay with you, sir?"

"Absolutely," Captain Joe Kelly said to Staff Sergeant Manuel "Little Cat" Dominguez.

0445 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 11 OCTOBER 1968 COORDINATES UH 512480.

ROYALTY OF LAOS.

Wolf Lochert made a thrashing movement in his sleep, then made a powerful kick with his leg at an enemy in his feverish dream. The sudden motion woke him and he lay in bewildered silence while he tried to reckon where he was. His head throbbed and he had trouble concentrating. He finally figured out that his left hand was lying on his chest and his right hand was ... resting at his side on something ... something hard, with a cool and gritty surface. He arched his back slightly and felt his hips contact something rock hard. Rock ... yes. Then he knew. He blinked the fuzziness from his eyes and turned his head to the right, toward the rectangle of gray that marked the cave entrance in the false dawn. Full awareness returned.

"Tewa," he called out in a scratchy whisper.

"Oh, sor, Tewa is here." He started as he heard the Lao whisper in his left ear.

:'Where bad f.u.c.kers? You hear bad f.u.c.kers?"

"No hear bad f.u.c.kers. See smoke bad f.u.c.kers. Sor no sick?"

"Sor not sure, must move first." Wolf Lochert raised himself on both elbows. He ran his tongue around his dry lips and felt suddenly parched. "Water," he whispered.

"Sor f.u.c.ked," Tewa said. "Water gone-gone." He muttered something in Lao as he searched for the words. "Bag f.u.c.ked.

Sor sleep bag. Water gone-gone." He handed Wolf a limp condom. In the dark, Wolf stretched it and felt the tear with his fingers, then the damp cave floor underneath. He had somehow rolled over and broken the thin bladder during the night.

"Scheiss," he muttered (Wolf, an ex-seminarian, was not one to use the Lord's name in vain). He continued his selfexamination. Outside of a throbbing head, a growling stomach, a dry mouth that smelled bad, an odd feeling in his right leg, and the beginning of a terrible thirst, he counted himself fit for duty. He crawled toward the cave entrance, then slowly inched forward until he could see the horizon over the jungle in the dim light, but not so far that he could see the trees belowor be seen from below.

There was an overcast of low clouds that hung gloomy and oppressive over the jungle. Wolf blinked and rubbed his eyes and saw a thin column of smoke enter his view from below the mouth of the cave. Odd, he said to himself. They usually build smokeless fires. Then he realized they were being chased by Pathet Lao, not North Vietnamese Army (NVA) regulars, who were better disciplined and well-trained in jungle warfare. Then he remembered the sound of the antiaircraft fire he had heard the evening before as the helicopter swept over.

The helicopter. He pushed himself back into the cave and felt around until he found the small radio, and crawled forward to the cave entrance. He turned the radio on and listened to the soft hiss that revealed no voices. He clicked the mike b.u.t.ton twice but got no response. He made sure the antenna was exposed to the upper air but not to the jungle below and tried a call in a quiet voice.

"This is Wolf on Guard, anybody read give me a call." He tried twice more with no response. He felt dizzy as he pushed back into the cave.

The light from outside was increasing and he made out the dim form of Tewa and crawled next to him.

"Go there." Wolf pointed to the cave mouth. "Stay low.

Listen for airplane. Listen airplane. You hear airplane, call me. You hear bad f.u.c.kers, you call me. Chow cow chi baw?

Do you understand?"

"Sor, Tewa understand," Tewa replied in what sounded like a hurt voice.

He crawled to the mouth and lay flat, eyes alert to whatever lay outside. Wolf lowered himself down on his side, then rolled over on his back. He felt confusion again, and dizziness. When he rolled over he noticed again that his right leg did not function as it should. In seconds he was in a whirling doze that threatened to overcome him with dizziness.

0500 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 11 OCTOBER 1968 NA KHANG, Lima Sn7E 36 ROYALTY OF LAOS.

The soft ding-ding from his Seiko alarm watch awoke Little Cat Dominguez from a light sleep. It was dark inside the heavy terit, and humid from the night air. The sleep sounds and old-clothes smell of ten sleeping men a.s.sailed his nostrils. He sat up on his cot, swung his legs over the side, and stretched, then reached down, picked up his boots and jacket, and carefully walked to the cot of Hiram Bakke, the other PJ on Jolly Green 22, and gently shook him awake.

"Time to go," he whispered. While Bakke got up, Dominguez awoke Tech Sergeant Dan Bernick, the flight mech for 22. Minutes later the three men stood by their seventeen-ton helicopter and started an exacting inspection with their flashlights while the overcast above them slowly brightened. They had agreed the night before that, regardless of Shilleto's p.r.o.nouncements, they wanted 22 to be airworthy and ready for today's mission to support the air strikes in North Vietnam. Takeoff time was less than two Hours away.

After thirty minutes of close inspection, the three men found eleven holes, three more than spotted the night before. Bernick pulled a ball of twine from his tool kit and they did what crewmen on a shot-up airplane do: they ran string from hole to hole, marking trajectories, seeing who and what-but mostly who-had come closest to being hit. Most holes were in the boom and aft portion of the helicopter cabin, meaning the enemy gunners had been relatively inexperienced and had not led the moving craft enough when they pulled the trigger.

Bernick removed the left engine cowling when he discovered a hole in it.

He found pieces of the spent slug inside, but no engine damage.

"Okay," Bernick said, "let's crank it up." Bakke, wearing a helmet with boom mike and a long cord to the intercom system, positioned himself outside with an extinguisher as fire guard, while Dominguez was to a.s.sist in the c.o.c.kpit, then roam the interior with a portable extinguisher. In seconds Bernick had the engines rumbling and whining into life. Dominguez scrambled into the cabin and checked for fire and hydraulic fuel leaks.

"Holy s.h.i.t, Bernick," Bakke yelled over the intercom, "shut down number two, she's smoking like a b.i.t.c.h."

"And we've got hydraulic fluid spraying all over the place in here,"

Dominguez said from the cabin. Bernick shut down both engines, checked there was no fire, and climbed from the front seat. In the cabin he looked at the hole in the hydraulic line Dominguez pointed out. "I can tape that easy," he said, then went outside to climb up and check the number two engine. "Come on up, give me a hand," he yelled. The cloud layer filtered dawn light. A light mist had begun to envelop them with feathers of wispy dampness. The three men were on the right side wrestling with the cowling when Captain Joe Kelly walked up.

"m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.ts," he said. "Didn't your mothers give you enough sense to come in out of the rain? Gather 'round, I have some news. Just talked to Compress, the Hanoi air strike is scrubbed for weather. The alternate targets are in the south and the boys from Da Nang will cover them." He looked up at the helicopter looming large and menacing in the gray dawn. "It ain't beautiful but it sh.o.r.e does the job. Let's fix it for the flight back to Udorn.

We've got to hustle, because later on we'll get some of that same bad weather in here."

It took another twenty minutes, but with Kelly at the controls and the three men topside, Bernick found and fixed the oil leak feeding into the hot section of the engine which had caused the white smoke.

"Now we fix bullet holes," Bernick said. "You guys get me a half-dozen beer cans and make sure they're not Black Label. They rust so much I swear they're tin, not aluminum." He fished around in his big tool kit as the two PJs brought the beer cans from the tent. "Cut 'em and smooth 'em out," he said. "Give me eleven two-inch-square pieces." The mist turned to a light rain, so the men moved onto the rear ramp under the shelter of the tail boom. They cut with the shears Bernick provided and tap-tapped the cans flat, then cut out the small pieces he wanted.

While they were doing that, the flight mech took from his kit a medium-sized can and pried open the, top and began to stir a gooey, silvery substance within. "Good old Scotch-weld," he said. "Good for what ails a shot-up helio."

An hour later, using a makeshift ladder and much boosting up and holding each other in place and sweating, they had all the holes patched with pieces of Budweiser beer cans held in place by Scotch-weld.

"Now it won't sound like a whistling s.h.i.t house," Bernick proclaimed as he wiped the goop from his hands. He took some wire and (duct) tape to the punctured hydraulic line and soon p.r.o.nounced it secure.

Kelly cut in the air under pressure from the acc.u.mulator to start the auxiliary power plant. Once the APP was wound up and screaming (it, was a small turbine engine), he tapped its electrical power and hydraulic pressure to start the engines.

HH-53Bs did not make battery-powered starts for the simple reason that they had no batteries. And if the acc.u.mulator air pressure was too low to start the APP, some crewman had to man the air pump to bring the acc.u.mulator back up to its proper pressure of 3,000 psi.

Kelly ran the engines up, pulled pitch to get light on the wheels, cut the lift, and said he thought Jolly Green 22 to be flightworthy.

"Two burning and turning," said Bernick. "She's ready-" Dan Bernick had just agreed to the readiness of Jolly Green 22 by declaring both jet engines healthy (two burning), the tail rotor blades (four) turning properly, and the main rotors (six) rotating in balance and turning).

Kelly shut down the engines and secured the switches, then sat in the c.o.c.kpit with Staff Sergeant Manuel Dominguez while the other two men went to grab a bit of crackers and jam from the breakfast C-rats.

"Together again," Kelly said. "Red-Tagged b.a.s.t.a.r.ds Hang Together, right?"

Dominguez was silent.

"Right, Dom?" Kelly asked. "Red-Tagged b.a.s.t.a.r.ds Hang Together."

"Hey, Joe, I told you. Never call me Dom."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Old habits die hard."

Ever since Academy days, when Miss Barbara Westin's favorite nickname for Manuel had been Dom, Dominguez could no longer tolerate the sound of it.

"Just can't work up to 'Little Cat,' though," Joe Kelly said.

"Too much of a mouthful. What's the matter with 'Manuel,' anyway?"