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—