Third Time's the Charm!
The Blackhawks

Brothers In Arms - Every helicopter pilot I knew flying in Vietnam in 1967 had the greatest respect for the men engaged in mortal combat on the ground. From our perspective in the air, we could see the day to day struggle it was to survive. We had more than respect for the men we picked up and delivered.
      Our men on the ground lived the horror in the mud and gore, and we called them affectionately Grunts. We flew them to battle and we flew them home. We took their food and mail out to them in the jungle. And we took our Grunts to the hospital when they were wounded. We loved these men and would do anything for them. We risked our lives and the lives of the crew, every time we supported our Grunts in the field.
      One of the faces I will never be able to forget belonged to a 17-year-old Grunt with bright red hair. I usually flew the lead helicopter on combat assaults. My red headed friend was the radio operator for Manchu 6, and he always flew on the lead helicopter, so he would be first on the ground to direct the battle.
      Before combat assaults, while we were parked in the staging area, my red headed Grunt friend would always come up and talk to me about going to flight school. He wanted to be a pilot but he was too young to attend Warrant Officer Candidate School. He would be old enough after his tour in Vietnam was over, and that was his dream. We talked about helicopters, and we talked about the upcoming combat assault. It was nice to kill some time with someone who treated me like a sky god.
      Things started to heat up in an area we called the Parrots Beak. The Manchu troops had been hit hard by charley and I was sent on a single ship mission to pick up the wounded Grunts and get them to a hospital.
      In the middle of the hot landing zone, with bullets flying everywhere, were the medics taking care of the wounded. Oblivious to the danger one of the medics stood tall and guided my helicopter in for the pickup. I looked out the window and there was my little red headed grunt smiling up at me. He had been hit in the leg but could still walk, so he jumped in the chopper and I gave him a helmet to put on so we could talk.
      I ask him "how are you doing Red" he replied "I have had worse injures shaving, I will be fine." Tough talk for a man who is bleeding all over my helicopter and was almost killed a few minutes before. I did not have time to talk, with wounded men on the aircraft I pushed that old UH-1 D as hard as it would go. Sometimes the difference between the men living and dying in the back of my helicopter was measured in minutes. I would try and shave as many minutes off the flight time to the 12th Evacuation Hospital as I could, and that took total concentration.
      Only a few weeks later, sitting in a staging field, up walks my red headed radio operator friend. He told about his recovery in Japan and how he had been sent back to his unit. Red figured the Purple Heart ribbon he had been given would help him in his quest to become a pilot. I admired his courage, and I admired his focus. We inserted the Manchu troops into another hot Landing Zone. We were taking fire going in and coming out, I felt sorry for the little red headed radio operator, just back from the hospital in Japan.
      Manchu was fighting an uphill battle with the Viet Cong in the Michelin rubber plantation. Just as it was starting to get dark Manchu was pinned down and needed gun ship support and a Medivac helicopter. I went out with the cover of a light fire team to pick up the wounded.
      With the guns blazing on both of my escort ships I dropped into the landing zone they had carved out of the trees. While the grunts took the ammo I had brought in with me, off the helicopter, the medics gently lifted the wounded men into the cargo hold. There with his head almost between the two pilot's seats was my red headed friend. He had been hit in the neck, and it was a mess, blood every where, the medics were trying to stop the bleeding with bandages, but Red wanted to talk to me. As soon as we were out of the killing zone I let my copilot fly and I spent some time talking to Red. He was scared, the same explosion that had wounded him had killed his friend right beside him. He was not thinking of Flight School, only surviving Vietnam. I certainly thought that his wounds would be his ticket back to the world. I would miss his bright red hair and big smile when we were hauling the Manchu troops.
      Several weeks later a scared and haggard Red shuffled over to my helicopter while I was waiting to insert backup troops to a pinned down company close to the Cambodian border. Red looked like walking death. His skin was pale and the scar on his neck stood out red and ugly. I was shocked to see him, he looked like an old man. I ask him why they did not send him home? He just shrugged his shoulders, he did not know why. He did what he was told. Red had been sent back to Japan, his wounds were not considered to be bad enough to be sent home, so when he was "healed" they sent him back to the meat grinder.
      I saw Red one more time. He was gut shot bad. He was using his shirt to hold in his intestines. His belly had been ripped open by a bullet. I pushed the helmet down over his head and turned on the mike on hot so I could hear him talk. He smiled weakly at me and said "third time is the charm, maybe I get to go home this time."
      I did not know the name of the Red Headed Grunt, but I left strict orders with my medic friends to take special care of my future pilot buddy. I flew the rest of the day thinking of Red, so, when I landed I went directly to the hospital to find my shot up friend.
      I looked in all the post-surgical wards, then I checked all the surgeries, no Red, then I found the corpsman I had entrusted my young friend to upon landing. He could not look me in the eye. Manchu 6 had lost his red headed radio operator.
      I never knew his name, but yet 30 years later I still remember his face and his voice.

The third time was his last.