Swing Low, Sweet Chariot
It was after midnight, I’m sure. That’s about all I was certain of concerning orientation to the time/space continuum of the moment. Fortunately, the pilots up front knew where we were and where we were going and what we might find there. They did not yet know how many wounded or killed Marines I would have. A fierce wind blew around me as I stared out the open window into the darkness, scanning through grey silver clouds for tracers on the ground or snaking through the air to find us.
I could make out the shadowed shapes of other men inside the Phrog just a few feet from me, lit by moonlight and the nearly undetectable red glow of the instruments in the cockpit. Radio chatter crackled in my helmet while turbines screamed their high-pitched wail and the aerodynamic roar of the blades that kept us aloft pulsed through my body. I didn’t hear it so much as felt it, and (as it turned out) eventually became it. I was a medevac doc, on my way through the dead of night in a CH-46 with five strangers to rescue wounded Marines whose critical injuries would not wait until the light of dawn.
I was scared, of course, especially on my first few missions. I was also determined to do my best; my greatest fear was to fail when I was needed most. At age 22, I was Doc to young Marines who were a long way from home and whose bravado was sometimes their downfall. I was Doc to the focused, no-nonsense officers who sat side-by-side up front, flying the helicopter and landing it briefly in dark, out of the way places. I was Doc even to tough-as-nails NCOs on their second or third combat tours, the crew chief and the two staff sergeants who manned our 50-caliber machine guns. In flight, I wasn’t in command of anything or anyone and had no input into the functional aspects of the mission on the way out. My only tasks were to be ready for patients as we dropped into the LZ, to return fire in the direction of the green lines of tracers searching for us in the dark, and to avoid harming friendlies in the midst of it all. (Until I had proven myself under fire, many Marines tended to think of me or any other armed sailor as a potential liability.)
It was black, pitch black. There were no lights inside or out on the bird, except for the dim red glow from the cockpit. Only a fool would fly into a hot LZ with lights telling the enemy where to aim. Seconds after touching down, grateful we hadn’t settled on a land mine, the troops brought on their critically wounded. On any medevac flight, there might also be body bags holding the Killed In Action (classified as “permanent routine”). They did not require emergency night medevacs, for obvious reasons. No one chose to risk the lives of six crew members and a multi-million-dollar helicopter for a Marine whose chances were over. So, with our wounded and too often the KIA on board, we roared back into the night sky, a brief flight of 20-30 minutes to military surgeons.
Only after we were clear of the LZ and, once again, grateful there were no RPGs, I put the safety on my M-16 and moved to assess and care for the wounded. The Doc in their unit had already tended to them, provided he had not been hit or killed himself. My work began where their Doc’s work had ended.
Most medevac flights were a melee of tourniquets and battle dressings, airways and morphine, treating for shock, stopping hemorrhage, and (as time allowed) holding their hands to bring hope. Hope didn’t always cut it, though; sometimes they just slipped away. Others tried to talk until their last breath silenced them. The ones who seemed like lost and very surprised little boys cried without a sound as their eyes looked far away, slowly, and then at nothing. Most, however, were alive when we got them and alive when we delivered them to excellent medical care on the U.S. Navy hospital ship or at an Army field hospital. We were an essential link in the chain of skill and courage that saved them.
On such a night, one of many night medevacs, we were headed somewhere out into what Marine aviators euphemistically called “Indian Country” (my apologies to America’s truest native people). The pilot, a senior officer with a comforting southern drawl, informed us that we were heading into proximity of active firefights and to keep a sharp eye. The crew got the seriousness of his message from his tone. As we approached the LZ, I was singing familiar hymns to myself; it helped me face what I imagined was ahead. Nearer My God to Thee and Be Still My Soul and I’ll Fly Away…..songs I had learned as a boy. I was unconcerned about anyone hearing me, given the fierce roar of the helicopter. However, I did not realize that the com link button clipped to the collar of my flight jacket was flipped over and pressed against my clavicle. Someone on our channel called out, “Who’s singing out there?!”, obviously displeased. Apparently, my musical prayers were being broadcast to air and ground in the vicinity of our hot LZ. Before I could react, a Marine on the ground responded, “Don’t stop him. We need all the help we can get.” None of the officers or senior NCOs confronted me about it later, but I never again failed to check my com link in flight. I still sang for comfort on night medevacs, but whispered only to myself, staring into the abyss of wind-blown darkness and the lethal unknown it held. I was a Fleet Marine Corps medevac Doc.
Doc “Twig”, USMC Marine Air Group 16
HM2 David Alan Basham, U.S. Navy Fleet Marine Corpsman
MAG-16 Flying Docs, Marble Mountain Helicopter Base
DaNang, South Vietnam, 1970-71
Things To Wonder About:
What was it like to leave your familiar environment (family, friends, neighborhood) and join the military, especially as a young person?
What did you like and not like about your own experience of military service?
Recall one of your own stories and what you learned from it.