It was the middle of night, the middle of South Vietnam, the middle of a journey to Saigon. After losing every Firebird gunship to combat damage in early June 1969 (my contribution was crashing 588 into a rice paddy south of Chu Lai), several of us were dispatched to Tan Son Nhut airbase at Saigon to pick up replacement aircraft.
We were hopping aboard the Air Force’s Southeast Asia Airlines riding in C-130 transports from Chu Lai to whatever airbases we could get to for onward movement to Saigon. Strictly economy combat class – sitting on the aircraft floor, no seat belts, no beverage service, no bag of stale peanuts. Noise, heat, humidity, and the smell of burning jet fuel.
Somewhere during the night, we landed somewhere – Quy Nhon, Tuy Hoa, Nha Trang, Phan Thiet – Nguyen Knows Where? Hitch-hiking short legs from airbase to airbase, catching flights to wherever to get us to Saigon. 400 miles straight line flying from Chu Lai to Saigon, but that night the distance was probably doubled. After one landing, we reported to the airbase dispatch desk to inquire about further transport. On the ramp outside, a C-130 was turning & burning ready for departure.
The flight dispatcher told us no one would be allowed aboard that flight – it was transporting a critically injured soldier to Saigon. The attending doctor did not want others aboard disturbing his patient. With the 130s’ rear ramp door open, we could see the doctor and a nurse lying on the aircraft floor beside the wounded soldier who had received a traumatic eye and brain wound. In the red night lights of the cargo bay, both the doc and the nurse were cradling his head between them to restrict any unnecessary movement – a wise decision by the young doctor.
The three lone passengers then departed on their night flight hoping to save the soldier’s life.
We eventually arrived at Tan Son Nhut by early morning – tired, dirty, hungry. We found our way to the MACV headquarters cafeteria for breakfast. In we walk, the disheveled state of soldiers searching for food other than cold C-rations. The place was Stateside – shined linoleum floors, acoustic tile ceilings, fluorescent lighting, and steam tables of freshly prepared foods.
The Saigon straphangers dressed in their freshly starched and sharply creased khaki tan uniforms were aghast – who are these greasy, grungy gangsters wearing cowboy pistol belts with bullets and guns – invading our epicurean emporium. The typewriter twerps were looking at warmongers only seen and read about in daily Stars & Stripes reports. We ate and left to pick up our aircraft.
Sometimes I think of that night, never knowing the fate of the wounded soldier or the heroics of the two medics. No Combat Medic Badge or Medal of Honor would be awarded to this dedicated doctor and his attending angel nurse – only the combat warriors are so rewarded.
For attempting to save a soldier’s life that night, maybe the imaginary Medic of Honor for their actions above and beyond the call of duty that night would be more appropriate. The wounds of war remain.
(c) Copyright – 2023 Vic Bandini