Short Story Christmas Party

On December 4, I announced I wanted to promote any of my followers and those that had promoted me during the year. I requested that you send me a short story, either original or something written previously. Link to the previous post

I got a few responses and I will begin posting them next week. There is still time to submit something and I urge you to join the party.

To get the party kicked off, I am posting a short story I wrote a few years ago when I was taking an online writing course. It might sound familiar to anyone who has read One Month, Twenty Days, and a Wakeup. It was extracted from the manuscript prior to its publishing.

As always, I value your comments.

 

Christmas 1968

 

In December 1968, after completing 14 months of Special Forces training to be a member of the Air Forces’ Pararescue team, I joined a hundred plus men from all branches of the military for the dreaded flight to Vietnam. Dressed in our fatigues, we boarded the aircraft at Travis AFB with stops in Alaska, Japan, and on to Vietnam. The closer we got to Tan Son Nhut Air Base the more nervous we became. Some went silent while others like me changed to giddy and talkative.

Upon our arrival, the weather was cold and rainy. The scene was bedlam with aircraft of all sorts and sizes parked haphazardly while military vehicles of various types were running back and forth-carrying men, fuel, and cargo. What was forefront and haunting for me were those black bags containing the valiant departed waiting for their flight home.

Once off the aircraft, we proceeded to a large metal hanger, while we waited in line for our instructions to our final destination. When I checked in with the Army corporal, his contempt was obvious. He barked, “Who the hell are you they would send a Huey? Go over there with that doctor.”

After saluting the Major, I could tell my burgundy beret mystified him. I said, “You going to Pleiku?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Why are you wearing a beret?”

I quickly squared my shoulders and stood pompously. “I’m Pararescue.”

“Pararescue, what’s the hell is that?”

I laughed to myself at his ignorance, “Sorry sir, I’m Special Forces. I’m trained for search and rescue.”

After an hour wait, an Army Warrant Officer approached us. “Are you Major Greco and Sergeant Jackson?”

“Yes Sir,” I responded.

“OK, grab your gear and follow me.” We walked across the tarmac to a Huey similar to the Bell helicopter I had trained in the previous summer.

Once on board, I heard the pilot check with the tower and shout, “Hold on.” The engines roared, and he lifted straight up with the nose pointing down. I looked at the Major who was white around the mouth and his face beet red.

I yelled, “First time on a Huey, Doc?” He nodded, leaned over, and puked. The pilot increased his speed, altitude, banked left, and the doctor puked a second time.

With the doors open, when the wind would shift, we got wet from the rain. After more than an hour flight, there was more radio chatter, the pilot banked the Huey hard to the left brought the nose up and landed without a bump.

Major Greco looked at me, “Do you really fly in one of these?”

“Yes, Sir. That’s what they trained me for.”

“God, I hope I don’t have to ride in one of these things again.”

With his fatigues and boots covered in puke, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. He gave me an annoyed look and then he laughed.

* * *

When I arrived in December 1968, I was the third PJ (Para-jumper) assigned to the 38th ARRS, Detachment 9 at Pleiku. All three teams were to be flying HH-43’s or Pedro’s. When I arrived, Captain Atkins, my flight commander, was supporting Detachment 7 out of Da Nang. While I waited for his return to Pleiku, I was temporarily assigned to an Army flight crew flying Bell-UH1 or Huey. My flight commanders were Warrant Officer William Curtis, or Billy and Warrant Officer Lawrence Lipinski or Larry was our navigator and co-pilot.

For the first two weeks, we flew nothing but Medevac missions. My crew and usually six other birds, flew rotational flights into the combat area, picked up the wounded, and hightailed it back to Pleiku. Once the wounded were transported to the hospital and our bird refueled, we would repeat the task until all the wounded were retrieved. Once the wounded were rescued, we returned for the dead.

One day we had just completed a second Medevac mission and it appeared as if it was going to be another long day. As we landed, Billy got a radio transmission. We had a classified rescue mission. There was crew waiting to refuel and check out our bird; I asked Billy, “What’s going on?”

“Doc, you’re going on your first rescue mission. I hope you put on clean shorts this morning,” he teased.

We were in the air within minutes and our mission was looking for a downed Air Force F-100. Two A-1 Sandy’s were already in the air in route to the last known location. We were also given instructions we might have to fly under the radar because of SAM (surface to air missiles) detection.

Within 30 minutes, one of the Sandy’s had located the wreckage. He called out, “Rescue nine – five; this is Sandy three – seven. Copy?”

Larry responded, “This is Rescue nine-five; go ahead”

The Sandy gave us of the coordinates and notified us there were hostiles in the area and his radar was picking up potential SAMs.

Billy lowered our bird directly above the trees. I swear we were so low the belly of our bird scraped some of the treetops. It was scary yet at the same time exhilarating watching the skills of Billy handling our bird. When we were within 10 klicks, Sandy three – seven, notified us the area was clear.

Billy circled the area and we all looked for hostile activity but saw none. We did see the Sandy firing on targets a short distance from us. Billy briefly broke radio silence and said, “Doc, I’m going to set us down and you jump off. When you find the pilot, let me know and I will come back in for you. Got it?”

“10-4” My backpack had a small radio transmitter, plus a beacon if they lost visual contact. Billy hovered about six feet off the ground. I jumped and immediately headed for the aircraft. My helmet was now hooked to the radio in my backpack, and I heard Larry’s voice yelling, target at 9 o’clock. I turned to my left and I saw the pilot waving at me from some heavy bushes. I quickly ran to his location. We moved back under the canopy of the brush.

“You okay,” I asked?

It was an Air Force Captain and there was blood trickling down the side of his face and more blood staining the left upper arm of his flight suit. “Yeah, I think so. I bumped my head a little and I twisted my left ankle. Boy, I’m glad to see you guys, it was getting a little scary around here.”

“Okay Captain, let me take a quick look at you and then we’ll get the hell out of here.”

I cleaned up the cut on his forehead and it was going to need a couple of stitches. I checked the shoulder and it was just a minor cut. I cleaned and bandaged both. I next checked the ankle and it did not appear to be broken. I took off his boot, wrapped it, and put the boot back on. “Captain, let’s see if you can stand on the ankle.” He did, but it was too painful to put his full weight on it.

Before I could call in for our recovery, I heard Larry’s voice. “PJ nine – five; we are drawing some fire. Can you be ready in five?”

“Rescue nine – five; we’re ready now.”

“10-4. Stay undercover until you see us coming in.”

I turned to the Captain, “Our bird is on its way in. We’ll stay here until we see them make their approach. We are going to have to make a run for it. I want you to put your left arm over my shoulder and take as much weight off the ankle. It is going to hurt, but we have to move fast.” The Captain acknowledged me.

Within minutes, I had a visual. Billy made a quick circle checking the area before making his quick decent. As soon as I saw the decent, the Captain and I started for the landing area. Billy put the bird all the way down but never slowed the engines. A crew member helped me get the Captain on board and strapped him in a rear jump seat. Before I could get to my seat, Billy was lifting off and yelling at me to get strapped in.

We had no more lifted off when we began seeing the incoming fire at the location the captain and I had just vacated. Billy kicked our bird in the butt and quickly gained altitude.

Larry radioed, “Sandy three – seven; this is Rescue nine – five. We have a recovery. Copy?”

“Rescue Nine – five; roger that. We got your backside.”

“Sandy three – seven; Thanks for the help. We owe you.”

Larry then contacted Pleiku tower, notified them we had a successful recovery and gave them our estimated ETA. He also requested an ambulance for the Captain.

Once we were on the ground and the Captain was on his way to the hospital, I spoke up, “Okay, that was fun.” I was doing my typical nervous giggle.

Larry replied, “Doc, understand one thing. They don’t always go this smooth.”

I would experience the good and the bad rescues. Billy pulled me aside out of hearing range from the rest of the crew. “Just so, you know, we were actually in Cambodia. If asked, we never left South Vietnam. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What’s this “Yes Sir” bull shit? Didn’t we have a talk?” I just laughed at him and gave him a cocky salute. I returned to our bird to store my equipment and resupplied my backpack.

Since we were not going out again, I caught a ride to the hospital and found the captain being treated in the ER.

“Hey, Captain. I’m glad to see there weren’t any serious injuries. Hopefully, we don’t have to meet this way again.”

He smiled, “Thank you, Sergeant. I agree. When I get out of here, I would like to buy you a beer. What do you say?”

“Thanks, Captain, but it’s not necessary. I just did what the Air Force trained me to do.”

As I turned to leave, he said, “Oh, before I forget. Merry Christmas.”

I gave him a puzzled look and then it hit me. It was Christmas Eve. “Merry Christmas to you Captain.”

December 25, 1968, I was with my crew and we were flying Medivac missions. There are no holidays in a war zone.

 

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