A Quiet Sunday Morning
submitted by: Alva Leon Matheson
It was a sultry Sunday morning in July of 1966 at Bien Hoa. Sunday was the one day in the week that many of us in Team 98 could usually catch up on lost sleep or perhaps nurse a hangover from Saturday night. The duty radio operator in the Comm Room usually kept the volume down on his equipment after midnight unless the radio traffic was pertinent to our unit. In the small hours of the morning everything was quiet, but that was soon to change.
At about 0645 the radio crackled to life, awakening several of us, myself included. I could hear loud, excited voices on the radio and the operator trying to sort out the details. I was still only half awake when the operator rushed into my room and asked me to get airborne ASAP. One of our remote outposts was under attack.
I threw on my flightsuit and boots, picked up my pistol belt and M-16, and headed for the door. Before I could get out, I was intercepted by Captain Jack Peoples, the OIC of another of Team 98’s outposts northwest of Bien Hoa. He said he had had a few helicopter flights, but had never flown with a FAC before, and he asked if he could go along.
I told him, “Sorry, but the policy is essential personnel only on ‘hot’ missions.” There was a pause accompanied by a dejected look and then a youthful “Puhleeze?”
Well, it was a quiet Sunday morning, so I said, “OK, but if you get airsick, you clean it up.” “Yeah, yeah, I know the rules,” he replied.
We hopped into my Jeep, and arrived at the flightline a couple of minutes later. The radio operator had called ahead for me, so my O-1 was ready to go.
“Bien Hoa Tower, Copperhead 03, taxi, take-off instructions please,” I called. We were cleared immediately, and taxied out for a west takeoff and a departure to the southwest.
Within minutes we were approaching a small hamlet imbedded in trees. I contacted the outpost nearby. It was manned by a force of CIDG and their US Army advisors. They reported that since 0645 they had been taking sporadic fire from a V-shaped tree-line that framed the hamlet on its north and east sides. They asked me to check the area for any signs of VC activity. I replied that I would do that, and headed toward the apex of the tree-line. The foliage was single-canopy but thick. Passing over the hamlet, I could make out six or seven hooches in the trees, but could see no evidence of people, vehicles, or livestock. I decided to make a couple more passes from different directions. I made a sharp right turn toward the north, planning to swing around to the left for a pass over the hamlet heading northeast. I was about halfway through the turn when all hell broke loose. There was a five second-long volley of small-arms fire directed at us. It was close enough that we could hear some of the rounds zipping by. I turned my head to look over my shoulder to the left. Maybe I could spot the muzzle flashes. Before I could focus on that problem, I got a glimpse in my peripheral vision of my observer. His arms and legs were violently flailing up and down. More quickly than I can tell it here, he slumped down like a rag doll that had been tossed in the air, his chin resting on his chest.
As quickly as it had started, the ground- fire ceased. I rolled out on a northeast heading and trimmed the aircraft for hands-off flight. I unstrapped my seat belt and shoulder harness and turned around as best I could in the seat. I was shouting his name, “Jack, Jack,” but there was no response. “Oh, my God,” I thought, “He’s dead!” But where was his wound? Then I noticed a pool of blood forming on the floor in front of him. Where was it coming from? I moved his right leg slightly and could see no blood under it. Then I touched his left leg to take a closer look. Instantly his head came up and he screamed in pain. I said, “Jack, where are you hit?” He pointed weakly to his left calf. I stretched over the back of my seat and looked. There was a river of blood gushing from the lower center of his left calf. There was no sign of an exit wound, so I knew he had retained the round. My first reaction was elation. He was not dead! Then I realized that if I didn’t do something fast to stop the gushing blood, he would probably die before I could get him back to Bien Hoa. My mind was racing. Almost immediately, I remembered a point that had been made in some long-ago first aid class. In order to stop heavy bleeding in an arm or leg, tie a tight tourniquet between the heart and the wound. If you left it on for no more than 20 minutes, you would not do serious damage to the tissue of the limb. But tie it with what? The O-1 did not carry a first aid kit!
I looked over my shoulder to see how the aircraft was doing. It was flying well enough with the trim and power I had set. Then I realized that I had better advise Copperhead Control, my “boss” back at the 10th ARVN Division HQ at Xuan Loc of the situation. I also called Tangerine Control at III DASC at Bien Hoa.
It was then I noticed the long red warning streamers attached to the safety pins that had been removed from my WP marking rockets just before takeoff. They were tucked into a niche near the left fuel tank gauge. They just might be the answer!
I unraveled them and attempted to work them into a tourniquet just below Jack’s left knee. When I touched his leg, he jumped a bit, but when I attempted to cross the long safety pins and tie the streamers into a knot, his back arched, his head jerked back, and he yelled loudly from the pain.
For a few seconds I felt completely helpless. I noticed that the patch of blood on the floor was growing large by the minute. I yelled, “Take a deep breath Jack, this is going to hurt.” I crossed the pins and pulled the knot as tight as I could. Jack’s whole body went limp as he lost consciousness once again. I noticed that the flow of blood had slowed considerably.
At that moment, Tangerine Control called. The emergency surgical unit at Long Binh wanted to know where the bullet was and the approximate caliber. I told them where it was and that I thought it had probably come from a .30 caliber BAR. I also advised them that I had placed a crude tourniquet above the wound and that the bleeding had slowed.
I was feeling a little better about the situation, and as I turned back around in my seat to attend to the business of flying I saw a large shape in my peripheral vision. In tight formation on my left wing and slightly below was a US Army Huey. The pilot smiled and gave me a “thumbs-up.” I returned the gesture. He then began repeatedly pointing at me. It took me a few seconds to figure out what he was trying to tell me. Then I looked to my right. Another Huey was sitting just as tight on my right wing. The next thing that got my attention was a flight of four A-1 Skyraiders joining our growing entourage. They slid into formation about 500 feet above and S-turned to stay with us at our much lower speed. To top it off, three Northrup F-5As joined us about 1,000 feet above, also S-turning to stay in formation. Talk about a “warm fuzzy feeling.”
I called Tangerine Control to advise that I had all my escorts in sight and to ask if I should make a frequency change. “Not necessary,” Tangerine replied, They are all in contact with us, they all understand the situation, and they are ready to provide fire support if you have to go down.”
Almost immediately thereafter, I contacted Bien Hoa Tower for landing instructions. Bien Hoa replied, “We have visual contact with you. All traffic has been directed to hold clear of the pattern until you land. You may land in any direc- tion. There is an AF H-43 (a rescue and firefighting helicopter) and other emergency equipment waiting for you at the south end of the GCA taxi-way. Keep us advised of your intentions.” “OK, I’ll land to the west,” I replied. Then I realized I was in too close, too high, and too fast. I had not had the time or taken the time to properly plan my arrival. “Holy cow, what am I going to do? This is no time to screw up!” I thought.
Carburetor Heat out, Power to idle. “Pop, Pop, Pop,” coughed my little engine. Put down some flaps. Whoa, too fast for flaps! What am I doing? Calm down and start thinking. Get the nose up and slow down. Not too much, you’re climbing. Milk the flaps down to full, got to touch down prior to the GCA taxiway. Leave the throttle at idle. Oh shit, the ground is coming up too fast. Rotate! Rotate! Throttle up. Too late. Scrunch. Scrunch, Pow, Bam! Brakes screeching, I barely got the O-1 slow enough to turn off on the GCA taxiway.
I taxied so fast toward the waiting chopper that my tail was off the ground. I was nearly air-borne! As I approached the emergency vehicles, I killed the engine, stomped on the left brake, and did a sliding 180 degree stop. I jumped out and in my excitement tried to lift Jack out of the back seat myself. Not smart. He woke up screaming again. At that point I felt a firm tap on my left shoulder. It was one of the combat medics from the chopper. “Please let us do that sir,” he said. “Where is he hit?” I pointed and backed away, leaving Jack to the experts. They had him on a stretcher and into the H-34 in a matter of seconds. Almost before the doors were closed, it was air-borne for the short hop to Long Binh and the Army Hospital there.
As I stood on the ramp watching the chopper fade in the distance, I shook my head. “Quiet Sunday morning. Yeah. Right.”
A crowd had gathered around my little Cessna and the emergency vehicles – two fire trucks, an ambulance, a truck with a crane, two staff cars, and a multitude of Jeeps. Cameras had been clicking. The crowd got quiet as I walked back to my plane. I was thinking that just perhaps, by the grace of God no one had noticed my “screaming dive” approach and semi-controlled short-field landing.
Then I heard a piece of a conversation. “See that fluid leaking from the belly? I know hydraulic fluid is red, but that’s too bright. I think it’s blood.” I looked and sure enough, there was a thin stream of Jack’s blood leaking through the bullet hole.
Later that evening, I visited Jack at the hospital in Long Binh. He was recovering from a fairly lengthy surgery. I was so happy that he was alive and that they were able to save his leg. He barely opened his eyes, and unfortunately, I don’t think he recognized me.