With the 45th Medical Company Air Ambulance “Dustoff” —
One of the Vietnam War’s most dangerous jobs.
My Tribute to all Dustoff Crews
On Thursday, September 26, 2024, the President signed into law:
S. 2825, the "Dustoff Crews of the Vietnam War Congressional Gold Medal Act."
This law awards a Congressional Gold Medal to the Dustoff crews of the Vietnam War
in recognition of their extraordinary heroism and life-saving actions in The Republic of Vietnam.
Dustoff crews flew more than 496,000 life saving missions in Vietnam,
saving the lives of over 900,000 soldiers.
Thank you to Senators Cornyn and Warren, and Representatives Kilmer and McMorris Rodgers for their leadership.
► Bill Signed: S. 2825 ◄
The Weight They Carried
The emotional toll of flying Dustoff missions was beyond comprehension.
These weren’t just flights—they were desperate races against time, threading
through gunfire, jungle, and chaos—sometimes even mine fields—to reach the
wounded. Every mission etched itself into memory. And for many who flew,
those memories never faded. They relive them still—in dreams, in silence,
in the quiet moments between breaths.
They carried more than stretchers.
They carried the weight of lives saved… and those
they couldn’t.
Wings over Vietnam - Part II of VIII - Dustoff (MEDEVAC)
Through My Eyes, 1968–1969
Standby quarters for Dustoff at Nui Dat in support of the Australian Army in Vietnam
DUSTOFF Acronym Definition
The terms "medevac" and "casevac" were used synonymously for Army
"Aeromedical evacuation": Medevac, or "Dustoff".
Dustoff in Vietnam was a crew of four dedicated (and most people would likely
say, "certifiably insane") men that flew unarmed Bell UH-1H Iroquois
helicopters to the front line and beyond to rescue wounded soldiers.
Life as we know it could have been a lot
different for the casualties of the Vietnam War had it not been for the
outstanding bravery and dedication of Dustoff crews.
As a Dustoff medic, one of my favorite standbys was with the Australian Army
and the 1st Australian Task Force. Nui Dat was the Australian base in the
middle of Viet Cong territory in Phuoc Tuy province. The nearby villages of
Long Tan and Long Phuoc were both considered Viet Cong strongholds.
Without a doubt, the Dustoff Medic witnessed more of the brutality of war
than anyone.
To the wounded, the Dustoff Medic was the most important member of the crew.
He was the one who had to face the wounded soldier and provide medical care
and comfort.
The Dustoff Medic was the one who had to endure the horrors of war and all
its brutality. He was the one who had to look into the eyes of a soldier
who was dying — or had just died. He was the one who had to confront the
blood, guts, and gore of war. He was the one who had to bear witness to the
pain and suffering of the wounded. He was the one who had to endure the fear
and uncertainty etched into the faces of those he tried to save.
It took a man with incredible intestinal fortitude to face the type and
quantity of wounds and injuries he faced many times every day.
Anything and everything imaginable to mutilate the human body were the types
of challenges he faced each and every day.
As I stated above, Dustoff in Vietnam was a crew of four dedicated men.
Each Dustoff Crew consisted of two Pilots, a Flight Medic, and a Crew Chief.
The Pilots were responsible for flying our unarmed Bell UH-1H Iroquois
helicopter, the Medic cared for the wounded, and the Crew Chief maintained
the Bell UH-1H Iroquois helicopter.
We all depended on each other,
and we trusted each other with our lives.
Aircrew Body Armor Reference
“This armor plate saved my life.” For many Dustoff crews, the Aircrew
Body Armor wasn’t just standard issue—it was the difference between coming
home alive or being sent home in a box. It wasn’t built for comfort. It was
built for survival. And in the chaos of jungle extractions and hot LZs,
survival often came down to what you wore over your heart.
Vietnam-Era Aircrew Body Armor:
The “Chicken Plate”
Purpose & Evolution Early aircrews relied on flak vests like the
M-1952 and M-1955, which were designed to stop shrapnel—not bullets.
As airmobile combat intensified, especially in Vietnam, the need for armor
that could defeat .30 caliber armor-piercing rounds became urgent.
Design & Composition
The “chicken plate” was a nickname for the Aircrew Body Armor, Small
Arms-Fragmentation Protective vest. It featured:
Monolithic ceramic plates molded to fit the torso
A ballistic nylon spall shield to catch fragments
Reinforced plastic backing behind the ceramic
Variants with front-only or front-and-back plates depending on crew role
Ceramic Types & Weight
Ceramic Type
Weight
Used By
Aluminum Oxide
Heavy
U.S. Army
Silicon Carbide
Medium
Navy, Air Force
Boron Carbide
Light
Marines, Air Force
Fit & Functionality The vest was worn over the shirt,
with shoulder straps and overlapping waistbands. It could be quickly
released in emergencies using snap fasteners and elastic loops. The design
allowed crew members to move freely inside the aircraft, unlike earlier
seat-mounted armor.
For Dustoff crews, this armor wasn’t just gear—it was a lifeline. It
meant the difference between coming home or becoming another casualty of war.
One Day as I Remember It
One routine 90 degree day on a routine mission in May to pick up one
ambulatory and one litter patient. We had already landed in the spot where
the guys on the ground told us to land, then we heard the ground RTO
screaming on the radio, DUSTOFF, DUSTOFF YOU'RE IN A MINE FIELD!
The pilot calmly keyed his microphone and said, WE'RE DOWN NOW.
Then he turns to me and says, Chuck, go get them. So, being that the
mission depended on me getting the casualties, that is exactly what I did.
I walked the ambulatory casualty back to the helicopter while two of the
ground troops carried the litter, being very careful to follow my exact
path. As soon as the casualties were loaded, we took off, leaving a sigh
of relief to everyone involved.
A Mission of Unyielding Courage: The Dustoff Crew.
Unyielding Courage
Imagine the dense jungles of Vietnam in the dead of night. Rain pounds
against the blades of an unarmed Bell UH-1H Iroquois helicopter as it slices
through the murky sky. The pilot grips the controls with steady resolve,
navigating through gunfire while bullets tear into the fuselage. Beside him sits
another pilot—a co-pilot—eyes scanning the horizon. Behind them, on the left side
of the chopper, a Dustoff medic crouches, his heart racing but his hands are
steady as he prepares to save lives.
The medic’s station is small but mighty—a seat on the floor beside a door that
opens to the unimaginable chaos below. He leans out, eyes locked on the wounded
soldier waiting for rescue as the jungle penetrator is slowly winched up through
the canopy. Time slows down as his thoughts race. This mission isn’t just about
survival; it’s about courage, selflessness, and the unwavering commitment to
bring home those who are wounded. The medic secures the soldier, checking vitals
and administering life-saving aid while bullets hiss past the blades. The Crew
Chief steps out onto the skid, keeping an eye on the tail rotor amidst the
hostile terrain. Together, they’re not just saving a life—they’re carrying hope
through the darkness. As the Huey lifts back into the sky, the red cross
emblazoned on its sides shines like a beacon, a symbol of humanity in the midst
of war. Another life saved, another testament to the indomitable spirit of
Dustoff crews.
The One Mission That Never Left Me
Play audio narration
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 pilot's 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 ensure 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,
breathe 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.
As a Dustoff pilot, it has been my greatest honor to serve with this
awe-inspiring team and be a part of it. Si Simmons
"DUSTOFF"
THE CALL SIGN As told by Si Simmons
DUSTOFF THE CALL SIGN – As told by Si
Simmons (Historical Context)
The DUSTOFF call sign was acquired by the 57th Medical Detachment
(Helicopter Ambulance) in January, 1964, ironically and quite appropriately/
proudly, by way of medical necessity. The occasion was a bloody two-day
operation, West of Saigon, near the Cambodian border in early Jan 1964 that
churned out many casualties throughout a day and night of battle.
I was a newly arrived peter pilot flying with a seasoned pilot, (NAME - wish I
knew), as he handled the call sign problem with all concerned in the emergency
with great skill as I sat in the co-pilot seat attempting to determine who in
the hell was who on the ground, in the air and back at DUSTOFF Operations.
At the time, all combat units utilized randomly selected call signs controlled
by the Navy Support Activity, Vietnam and were changed periodically in
accordance with Signal Operating Instructions (SOI) in the interest of security.
The call sign of 57th Med Det (HA) on that day and at that time, per
the SOI, happened to be "DUSTOFF".
Fighting was heavy, casualties were mounting, evacs were continuous and
communication between the evac helicopters and ground commanders was
ever-running. At the time that the code changeover was ordered to occur in
accordance the SOI, the major ground commander as well as the medevac aircrews
became concerned that due to the battlefield chaos that included some loss of
communications between units, switching to a new call sign may jeopardize
evacuation. At the request of the ground commander, the 57th Med Det
commander, Major Lloyd Spencer, agreed immediately to delay the call sign
changeover while also requesting a temporary exception to the SOI from the
approving headquarters. The exception was approved for a specified period
(probably for 24 hours or possibly until the time of the next call sign change,
per the SOI).
After the operation, Major Lloyd Spencer and Major Charles Kelly discussed the
call sign dilemma and determined that a permanent aeromedical evacuation call
sign would help avoid possible future mission impairment and more closely
conform to the spirit of the Geneva Convention. At the time, Major Spencer was
outgoing commander - Major Kelly, incoming commander, assuming command on 11
Jan 64
Within a few days, in concert with ground unit commanders, Major Spencer
requested and received official approval for the permanent call sign change to
'DUSTOFF'.
The permanent, dedicated DUSTOFF call sign was placed into the SOI on a
permanent basis and published within a few weeks. Soon afterward, DUSTOFFers
discontinued carrying personal SOI's on board.
The above is based on my recollection of the circumstances which necessitated
the first use of 'DUSTOFF' as a call sign in nonconformance with an SOI -- which
precipitated its adoption on a permanent basis. At the time, I was the
detachment 2nd Lieutenant who was 'detailed' to manage the aircrew 'SOIs'.
More than 496,000 soldiers survived their injuries and owe their lives to the
outstanding bravery and dedication of Dustoff crews.
The average time from when the soldier was wounded to surgery was under an
hour. 97% Of all soldiers who reached the hospital alive
SURVIVED.
All of the Brave Medics, Crew Chiefs, and Pilots that flew 'Dustoff' in the
Vietnam War were volunteers and many served more than one tour.
Most people that served in Vietnam will tell you that 'Dustoff' was one of the
most dangerous jobs of the war. It has been said that the life expectancy of a
Dustoff crew in a hot LZ was 30 seconds, BUT if you hear a mortar round explode
that time drops to about eight seconds. I can't begin to tell you how any of us
ever lived to talk about it. We went rain or shine in the light of day and the
dead of night. We never turned down a mission and quite often we didn't have
gunship support.
I served with the 45th Medical Company Air Ambulance from October
1968 - October 1969.
Major General Patrick Henry Brady served two tours in Vietnam and is only one
of two living Army Veterans of the Vietnam War to hold both a Medal of Honor
and the Distinguished Service Cross.
Other Dustoff units included the 54th Medical Detachment, the 57
th Medical Detachment, the 159th Medical Detachment, the 236th
Medical Company, the 247th Medical Detachment, the 498th
Medical Company, and the 571st Medical Detachment.
In the ten-year war, those who actively flew Dustoff missions on a 24/7 basis
numbered less than 3,400. Our casualty rate was 33%.
All Dustoff crews flew with the same spirit and dedication as the legendary
MEDEVAC pilot Major Charles 'Combat' Kelly, who died while flying a Dustoff
mission in Vietnam in 1964. Major Charles Kelly coined what is now the motto for
all MEDEVAC crews:
'No compromise. No rationalization. No hesitation.
Fly the mission. Now!'
Unsung Hero
Main Entry: unsung hero
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: a person who makes a substantive yet unrecognized contribution; a
person whose bravery is unknown or unacknowledged.
On a daily basis these dedicated Dustoff crews performed their mission with
conspicuous gallantry and with great risk to their lives as a part of the call
of duty while engaging in selfless actions supporting the United States of
America.
I'd like to offer up the following poignant poem to the dedicated 33%
who gave their all in support of this great nation.
A Soldier Died Today
The infantry grunts saw Dustoff crews as the most selfless men of the war and
considered them as Angels and Heroes.
Full Audio Narration
Copyright Notice
All pictures and data on this site are the personal property of
Chuck Emerson and may not be used in any form without express written permission.
