By Bill Wagner
Crashing in a helicopter in a combat zone let alone being
shot down is not something one forgets — ever.
 |
| Tail rotor failure let to a crash in the Mekong Delta in 1969. Only the radio was salvaged. |
In my case, we are talking about a crash that took place in
a dry rice paddy in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta in March 1969.
I may not remember the exact date, methinks it was March 29,
but the memory is vivid, and I know we didn’t get shot down – though the end
result was much the same.
Back in those days I was lowly Spec. 5, doing my year in
Vietnam as a combat correspondent for the 9th Infantry Division. My
“beat” was five batteries of the division’s artillery.
Most days I hitched a ride to a forward fire base or remote
temporary location where artillery was in place to support infantry soldiers
airlifted out to search for the enemy.
The mode of transportation was a Hughes OH-6A Cayuse
helicopter — one of those egg-shaped choppers that held four people.
I’d been told that these observation helicopters had a
stellar track record when it came to crashes – they didn’t blow up like the
venerable Bell Hueys did.
That and my young 20s pilot turned a disaster into a “lucky”
day.
We were delivering mail and some supplies to the 2nd
of the 4th Artillery. I can’t recall if we were headed toward their firebase
in Tan An or to a more remote location that they had been airlifted to.
We hadn’t been out long before a grinding noise cut into the
monotonous drone of the engine as we flew along about 1,000 feet above the
dried rice paddies.
I was in the backseat on the left side behind the pilot. The
crew chiefs, who I replaced when I needed a ride, advised me to always sit
behind the pilot “because if he has to dump it, he’ll put his side up.” I was
wearing a helmet that I got from a pilot heading “back to the world” in trade
for some photos of him and his chopper. Per the rules, I had my sleeves down. My
M-16 was in its familiar flying spot — wedged upright between the two rear
seats.
Somewhere along the line I heard “Mayday! Mayday! Snowsnake
16…!” Then the pilot advise me to hang on — “We might crash.”
Crash? Big deal. I was an invincible 23-year-old. I was too
dumb to be scared — then.
Fright would come later.
Apparently the tail rotor failed — due to a mechanical
malfunction — not a unlike had we been hit by enemy fire. Makes no difference,
we were in trouble.
Unbeknownst to me, the young warrant officer’s plan was to
find an open spot for a power on skids landing ala an airplane.
The pilot thought the “book” said to keep the chopper’s
airspeed at 60 mph or above to keep the chopper airborne. Apparently that book
had been rewritten to make the speed 80 mph.
After he spotted a would-be airstrip in a dried paddy, he
banked to roll in for the landing. As soon as he went below 80 mph, we started
spinning.
Now I was scared. In my mind I said to myself “I’m going
die.” More than likely I yelled that.
It was my lucky day. The pilot later told me he powered
everything off as we augured in as I snapped around in the back seat.
In seconds it was over. We were down. I was dangling from a
shoulder harness. And yes, the pilot and I were on the upside. And no, the
Cayuse did not burst into flames.
My cameras snagged on the shoulder harness as I tried to
extricate myself.
“Get away, it might blow up.” I didn’t need any other
encouragement. Good-bye cameras.
In seconds, we were both out. The pilot just went out
through the front, since the plastic bubble was no more.
Within minutes? Seconds? A little prop job called a Beaver
(I believe) was above us, carrying an FAO (Forward Aerial Observer). My glasses
were somewhere yet to be found, but I could make out the observer’s M-16,
sticking out of the cockpit as the plane circled us just in case there were any
Viet Cong nearby.
Moments later a Huey landed.
By now I had my cameras and went to work, snapping shots (in
color with my personal Pentax) of the destruction. I handed my other camera,
the Army’s Nikkormat loaded with B&W film to a guy who had jumped out of
the Huey. Turned out he was major but protocol was ignored and he helped me
out.
The M-16’s stock was shattered diagonally. The helicopter
was a total loss except for the radio.
Then came the second chance for the ride of a lifetime. A
Huey med-evac arrived on scene. They loaded us up and off to the 9th
Infantry Division’s field hospital we went.
Crashing in a helicopter is like falling off a horse, you’ve
get to get right back at it. We did, nose down just above the nippa palm all
the way to base.
By then the adrenaline was wearing off. I couldn’t really
move my head much. Whiplash was my new friend. They managed to take some
X-rays, suggesting I spend the night in the hospital.
Not a good idea. My understanding was that next of kin were
notified if you spent the night. My parents couldn’t handle that. Besides, I wasn’t
hurt that bad, and there were others who would probably need the bed more than
me.
My unit’s Doc rubbed wintergreen on my neck for a week. It
didn’t do much, but the pain subsided and I went back to work — and flying,
taking photos and writing stories.
My souvenir turned out to be migraine headaches that persist
to this day. A cervical fusion in 1995 helped relive some of the pain.
There was no Purple Heart – although blood was drawn in a
combat zone when I bit my lip and tongue.
The story isn’t told often, but when folks say “Oh, you were
shot down,” I am quick to note it was a mechanical failure.
I’m a lot older than Brian Williams, but my mind isn’t foggy
He should be ashamed of himself.
