The One Mission That Never Left Me

While serving my country as a Dustoff Medic during the summer of 1969. I don’t remember the exact date, but the location was South Vietnam, somewhere near Phan Thiết. On the third day of our standby there, we took a night hoist mission that haunts my dreams to this day. There were three ambulatory casualties with minor injuries, and one Stokes litter casualty with the right side of his skull missing. We had been flying for what seemed like forever without sleep, food, or drink—other than the peanut butter sandwiches and Cokes a corpsman handed through the pilot’s window while we were offloading casualties earlier in the day. I had laid my sandwich on the floor behind me to help the crew chief wrestle the Stokes litter into the aircraft. Once we had finished getting the Stokes litter securely on board, we both stepped out onto the skids so we could see the tail rotor and keep it clear so we could get back up through the triple canopy. I was then able to turn to my patient and start an IV of lactate ringers and got him stabilized as best I could. I had to hold his brain in what was left of his skull with my right hand. Not thinking about anything except my patient, I reached over and picked up my sandwich with my left hand—still covered in blood—and finished eating it and drinking my Coke. Once I had finished my sandwich, I turned back to my patient to check on him. I leaned over, and he reached up, grabbing the front of my shirt—pulling me closer so I could hear him—and he said: "Please, doc, don’t let me die." We delivered the patients to the 93rd Evacuation Hospital just as the sun came up. The ambulatory patients, I’m sure, made full recoveries. I don’t know if the patient with half of his skull missing survived his wounds, but to this day, I have recurring nightmares of him grabbing me, as I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming.

"Si" Simmons summed it all up from a Pilots point of view with what I think is the most beautiful and heartfelt acknowledgment to the selflessness and courage of the Dustoff Medic and Crew Chief ever written. With special permission from "Si" here is that tribute:

The "MEDIC" & "CREW CHIEF" Dustoff Personified

It's been said that when Dustoff pilots are flying, they talk about women—and when they're with women, they talk about flying—
But when they tell war stories of the "You Had To Be There" calibre, the subject usually locks in on the feats of their grungy MEDIC and CREW CHIEF.
As Dustoff pilots in Vietnam, our task was to insure that timely medical care was delivered to the wounded; a job that was probably helped along by having a bent for foxy flying and being a button short—

The "medical care" we "delivered" was a different story—

Our "Medic and Crew Chief team" aboard was the precious cargo for whom the wounded watched and prayed—

Through the plexiglass we've watched them—and we've watched the wounded watch them—with litter and weapon in hand, trudge through waist-deep rice paddies, through tangled jungle growth, up rocky mountainsides, hang from skids with outstretched hand, jump to watery depths, tear into burning cockpits, hug a jungle penetrator as it takes them through triple canopy—all too often under withering enemy fire.

We've watched both as they've emptied clips into tree lines, bunkers and jungled hideouts—buying altitude—before turning to continue tending the wounded, halt hemorrhage, close a sucking chest, start fluids, calm hysteria, breath life, cuddle babies maimed.

As their wounded were off-loaded to definitive care—we've watched the "thumbs up" as their tired eyes and muddy faces grin at a life given—and too often we've watched a sudden stiffness—a desperation—as they carefully—almost reverently—slide a lifeless litter from the hold—then resignation—then— "clear on the right"!—and back to the job —

Leaving the flight line at mission's end, we've turned and watched both - in searing heat or monsoon storms and dead of night—tie the blade, check the damage, hose the blood from their rotten smelling station—refit gear and ammo, and begin the tedious and demanding post flight or the too-often twenty five hour inspection.—And we get the "high sign" as we yell, "We'll save chow!"

Then as we trot back to the flight line as quickly as we'd left, we watched their fatigue unveil as we yelled, "Wind'er up! - got C's on board?" - and we watched them suck-it-up - again - and scurry to lift off - again -

to save a poor soul -

again - again - and again -

DUSTOFF THE CALL SIGN – As told by Si Simmons

Dustoff wasn’t just a call sign—it was a promise. Si Simmons’s account shines a light on the heroism, urgency, and sacrifice carried by every crew who responded to that name.

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