I was also back in An Khe for a debriefing at PIO with the Chief, Maj Witters. There, I received kudos for my reporting from the Ambush, including my interviews with Maj. Gen. Norton and Hagemeister. Yet, I remained a PFC for five more months — nine in all — a lot longer than my peers. Later, I was told that it was a “clerical oversight.”

My previously unreported minor shrapnel burns from the Ambush were noted and treated at the dispensary in An Khe.

My infected, ingrown toenails were treated and partially removed with a wedge excision. The toenails, and sometimes the lack thereof, were intensely painful, which dogged me throughout my wet, hot, and humid tour. (Military-issue jungle boots were known to be a bit uncomfortable, even when one found the proper size. I also had ingrown toenails in BCT, which were partially removed.)

After some respite in An Khe, I imagined my first field trip since the Ambush would be uneventful. My rendezvous was with a platoon from Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Cavalry (Mustangs). On a “search and destroy” mission somewhere north of Bong Son, they discovered a dispensary recently occupied by the VC or NVA.

It was still March barely, early afternoon of Friday the 31st* when I arrived at the former enemy aid station. I taped an interview with one of the troopers who had discovered it. I don’t remember much about it (except an empty vial of penicillin labeled: “North Korea”) or the nearest village, but I clearly remember the rest of the day.

One of their troopers was down with a high fever, headache, and vomiting, all symptomatic of malaria. The platoon leader called for any Medevac that was not engaged or on standby for expected battle casualties. It was a low-priority request, although a person with malaria is really ill. In addition to combat wounds, heat strokes, accidental injuries, jungle-related disease, and other disorders resulted in requests for Medevac.

Since I already had my story, the platoon leader suggested I accompany the sick soldier on a flight to An Khe. He reckoned that I would replace a medic that might be needed more urgently elsewhere.  I don’t think that was plausible. A Medevac was probably not allowed to fly a mission without a medic. Such an arrangement would happen, only in exceptional circumstances. That was the plan, nonetheless.

It’s possible he just wanted me out of his way. Reporters were not usually a welcome sight. We were extra baggage until the commanders heard of the positive stories we generated.

My rank was not displayed, but, of course, I wore my uniform and Cav patch. Some Army correspondents wore “U.S.” insignia on their collar instead of grade. They did this in case officers tried to intimidate reporters. To my knowledge, all reporters were enlisted. Sometimes, civilian reporters wore military-type uniforms. They could be confused with military correspondents. There was no media censorship during the Vietnam War by the US military.**

A medevac was called for the man with malaria, but the platoon leader- lieutenant had not bothered to see if there was a suitable Landing Zone (LZ). So, the platoon sergeant and about five others volunteered to find the best spot to make one. They choose a location several meters away, across a small stream. I was near the site where they were clearing, awaiting the Dustoff, with the man to be evacuated.

The troopers made good progress with their machetes, but it wasn’t enough. With a small fire already burning, they molded C-4 around the base of the saplings. It worked well as the explosives detonated, clearing a huge area, but caused a fire which spread quickly.

All around us, bamboo was popping in an eerie symphony as flames raced up their stalks. We were feeling the heat literally.

Besides the fire, the problem was the threat of explosions from the packs and pistol belts. These included flares, grenades, and ammo the crew ditched as they entered the small opening toward the clearing.  Now, it was not a safe escape route.

The Medevac, now on-scene, hovering above the makeshift LZ, realized his rotors were stirring the fire out of control. The pilot increased rpm, pulled up on the collective, and cleared the area safely.

The fire surrounded us on three sides; our only escape was 10 meters away. We had to get to — then through the triple jungle canopy behind us. 

I’d lost sight of my patient in the haze of the smoke and fire. Then, just as I turned to pursue, and sooner than I could process, an explosion thundered behind me. Flaming shrapnel struck me with a piercing sting — spiking the soft skin of my upper left shoulder. Immediately, another slashed into my left lower back, impaling me and slapping me to the ground! The pain was intense, like nothing before, from white-hot-burning fragments. The ordinance was cooking off with deafening explosions.

Flat and face-first on the jungle floor, I thought my skin was afire, burning from the inside. I couldn’t reach or see the wounds, and if I had, there was little I could do.

Calling for a medic was futile; my surroundings were going up in flames. And any medic was across the stream, fire and water keeping him at bay.

My ears were ringing, and I felt my heart throbbing on the sandy soil where I’d landed. My mouth dried, my fear intensified, and I smelled burning skin and hair.

Once again, I found myself in the throes of plausible death — doomed by fire? There was no time to revisit special memories like Momma’s fried chicken, pinned in my seat when cousin Jackie floored his Biscayne 409, the first time I heard Elvis sing Are You Lonesome Tonight, my inaugural shift at WAMY or my most recent letter from Marty. No time for any; they would vanish, evaporate, and be extinguished forever.

Pain be damned, I needed to get up, remain lucid, and escape this chaos. Get up hell; I needed to stay flat, make myself as small as possible, and hug the earth.

We had to get through the web that surrounded us if we were to escape the fire. Should I ditch my gear so that we could move faster? Are we going to die in a fire our fellow soldiers started? Not exactly the heroic battlefield death I had envisioned.

On our knees, with the flames licking dangerously close, we faced the triple canopy, and moved towards it rapidly; the pain of my wounds secondary.

We broke through with bare hands and bayonets, penetrating the Wait-a-minute vines, thickets, brambles of prickly pear cactus, and the anthills that damned us.

I struggled to maintain my M-16 as we moved into the maze and banyan tree roots. The flash suppressor tangled with every conceivable obstacle until I could control it no more. Separated from your weapon is about as bad as it gets, but we weren’t being shot at presently and had to keep moving quickly to survive the fire.

Helmets, canteens, grenades, ammo, aid kits, and C-rations disappeared as we moved quickly and haphazardly, losing our footing in the soft sandy soil, nearly choking ourselves as we tangled on the abundant obstacles. We stumbled, fell, snagged tree roots, and rolled 15 meters until we landed in water, precious water.

My patient and I were in the comfort of cool water, marvelous H₂O, our liquid gold — our salvation. I wallowed like a pig in mud, reveling in a foot of cool water, nursing my pain.

Considering what we had already survived and were now relatively safe in a foot of water; my tape recorder lying submerged in the stream’s bed didn’t bother me.  

We were going to be stuck here for a while. We were not getting back to level ground, and through the mess, we’d just fallen from, well, not quickly or in time for the medevac if they were coming back. Yelling probably wouldn’t work either, especially if the chopper was in the area.

One thing I didn’t lose on the way down was my tightly packaged pistol, which I had secured much earlier. If it wasn’t too wet, I could try to signal anyone still in the area.

I didn’t know of any SOS using a gun. I thought a three-shot volley might work. The British .455 probably doesn’t sound like any gun the enemy would be using.

It was, for sure, worth a try.

So I fired three shots at about two-second intervals. We were surprised and delighted when troopers found us in just minutes.

With their strong arms, they formed a chain with hands clasped to one another in a long line. We were pulled up and carried back to level ground and the LZ (including my misplaced M-16). People laughed at my little pistol early on, but I thought it might come in handy one day. 

Sooner than I could fathom, came the most beautiful sound. Finer than an Elvis ballad, sweeter than Marty’s voice, more soothing than Momma humming a gospel tune; the unmistakable thumping of a Huey — a Dustoff chopping through dense air over the jungle, rushing to collect me and my patient.

Aided onboard, I was distracted by the rubber tire smell of occupied body bags lying crossways between the open doors.

The medic’s retrieved my munitions, cut off our wet uniforms, and inspected my shrapnel wounds (I declined a morphine stick-syrette.) They documented the malarial symptoms, of the other soldier, validated our dog tags, covered us with blankets, and secured us for flight.

Now, as a frequent flyer, I knew what was happening in the cockpit. One of the pilots pulled the starter trigger, twisted the throttle to 6,600 rpm, pushed the cyclic stick slightly forward, and raised the collective pitch.

The Dustoff broke contact with the earth and, with her nose tipped slightly downward, bolted us south toward An Khe.

Under the care of those 1st Cav medics, we were in cool air at altitude. Rotors rushing the air in that beautiful bird at 110 knots on the way to medical aid for my (erstwhile) patient and me.***

18

Certain portions of the above chapter are Historical Fiction. But it is from a real event. The story’s details and actions can mix actual events and ones from the author’s imagination as they fill in the gaps. Characters can be pure fiction or based on real people (often both). Furthermore, the years have wreaked havoc with my memory

After a Lidocaine injection, shell fragments were removed from my upper back-shoulder, and my lower back wound was cleaned and disinfected. Both were stitched at the 17th Field Hospital in An Khe, and I was given antibiotics and a tetanus booster. I overheard the doctor tell a medic that some of the shrapnel (in my lower back wound) entered dangerously close to my lower spine, and they elected not to remove the fragments. 

The doctor requested a profile status of 72 hours light duty, “workload permitting,” gave me care instructions, and told me when to return for follow-up care. After three days of limited activity with the PIO in An Khe, I was ready and anxious for more field duty.

*Another thing burning that day was Jim Hendrix’s guitar; he set it afire in London.

***I never learned the name of the soldier with malaria that I assisted that day, and I do not take credit for saving his life — helping a bit, maybe?  I’m no Chuck Hagemeister. But we both arrived in An Khe for prompt treatment, and that’s all that really mattered