A Bird Dog is a Marine’s Best Friend
submitted by: Alva Leon Matheson
‘Doc,’ John Newman, our USN corpsman had come out of the doorway of the communications bunker to see what was happening. We saw the pilot eject and his parachute open. ‘Doc’ John rushed back into the bunker and emerged with his medical bag. As ‘Doc’ ran across the compound a few more Marines and two of the Vietnamese popular forces militiamen joined him. That increased the size of our reactionary force to eleven or twelve men, a large force for a Combined Action Platoon patrol.
We headed west in the direction of the drifting parachute. We saw the plane crash in a ball of flame and smoke. We started at a dead run down the road that led from our compound to Highway 1, which was about two miles west of us. I was on point and trying to keep a sight line on the parachute as it descended. I was paying very little attention to the area surrounding the road. Another P.F. who was in the local market joined us as we ran past. We crossed Highway 1, but by then we had lost sight of the parachute, so we proceeded straight west down the road. We were in the western most area of our TAOR (Tactical Area of Responsibility) and an area with which we weren’t all that familiar.
I had been in continuous radio contact with our company commander, Lieutenant Sylvia, at our CAP Company Headquarters in Dien Ban, north of our position. I was also carrying the radio, as I often did on our short-handed daylight patrols. Lt. Sylvia’s transmissions were getting weak as we got further away and he said to switch over to the aircraft or air support frequency. By now I had come upon a large opening with sand dunes running all the way to a wide river. The sky was filled with helicopters and fixed wing aircraft.
I could see the pilot’s chute hanging in a tree line west-southwest of us as I stopped and kneeled down to take off my radio and switch frequencies. It was only then that I noticed I had outrun everyone else and I was alone. This was one time being a fast runner had nearly been my undoing. I changed frequencies and immediately heard Lieutenant Sylvia’s voice, “Mother 4 Bravo...Mother 4 Bravo, this is Motherhood 6 Actual, do you copy?”
I replied as I strapped my radio back on. “Motherhood...this is Mother 4 Bravo, go.”
Lieutenant Sylvia said, “Mother 4 Bravo, your air contact is...”
Suddenly another calm voice said, “Bird Dog, Mother 4 Bravo...this is Bird Dog.”
“Bird Dog...this is Mother 4 Bravo, go!” I was getting excited as the other members of our patrol came up and we moved out into the open sand dunes, an area I really did not know.
Then came that calm voice again, “Mother 4 Bravo, what is your location?” He must have seen me reaching for my map and checking for our coordinates. “Mother 4 Bravo, have you got something down there with you to mark your position?”
I fired back, “Bird Dog, I can pop a green smoke!”
The voice was there again, “Pop it.” By now we were spread out and well into the sand dunes as I tossed the smoke grenade beside me and proceeded on. I could now see the FAC flying slowly and low just overhead. Before I could tell him the smoke was popped, his voice was back. “Mother 4 Bravo...got ya, son.”
Suddenly from the tree line across the river we started receiving small arms fire and light mortars. I immediately keyed my handset, “Bird Dog, Bird Dog, be advised we are drawing small arms fire and 60 mike mikes...or mike 79’s!” Ev- eryone immediately took cover behind their individual sand dunes, and the mortars were having little effect in the loose sand. Nevertheless, the situation was disconcerting.
The voice came again, “Mother 4 Bravo, have you got something with you to mark those critters’ position?”
I immediately replied, “Bird Dog, I’ve got a red pencil flare!”
That older voice, with a southern accent, came back, “Well son, you just shoot that thing right at them critters.” I grabbed the pencil flare hanging from my neck, screwed in a red flare, pulled the trigger mechanism back and fired it in the direc- tion of the enemy across the river. The FAC plane came around and flew right over the treetops across the river; he even tipped his wings for a better view.
“Mother 4 Bravo, I’ve got your critters spotted...gonna bring in a ‘big boy’ now.” His plane seemed to go almost straight up and banked off to the northwest. Suddenly he was back on the air, “Mother 4 Bravo, now you boys keep your heads down.”
Seconds later an F-4 jet came streaking down on its bomb run. I hadn’t seen a Phantom air strike up close and personal before. I peeked over the sand dune just as the jet made its bomb run, a napalm bomb run. I saw the tree line go up in flames through my singed eyelashes. It smelled like my grandmother’s house when she dressed out chickens. I should say I smelled like those chickens. The tree line was smoldering as the FAC flew over it low and slow again. Then that ever- calming voice said, ‘Mother 4 Bravo. Be informed your critters...are now Crispy Critters.” I had to chuckle as I responded, Crispy Critters sounded like a breakfast cereal to me.
“Bird Dog...copy your last, will proceed toward the chute in the tree line and try to find the pilot!”
“Mother 4 Bravo...no need, helicopters extracted the pilot...he’ll be fine. Now you boys better head on back toward home. Thanks for your help.”
I thought, what help. Unless, maybe we had drawn fire away from the pilot. It seemed to take longer to get back to the Delta 4 compound than it had taken us to get there.
I thought about the cool, calm courage of that ‘Bird Dog’ FAC pilot all the way back, and many times since.
(Editorial note: The O-1 Bird Dog, may or may not have been using the call sign ‘Bird Dog’ at the time this story took place. But, the airplane was often called Bird Dog by ground forces. Often I’ve heard people on the ground call for “Any FAC” or “Any Bird Dog.” So, to avoid confusion in a tense situation, I have often responded to whatever seemed most comfortable to the person on the ground. CP)