Loon - Jack McLean [77]
We kept up our covering fire, at once relieved and wistful to see them getting evacuated, and filled with hope that perhaps we would be next. At least we knew that we had someone’s attention in the rear.
Our eyes were fixated on the chopper as it lifted and banked, but it didn’t seem able to gain altitude. We began to cheer for it.
“Come on. Get up, get up, get up.”
But it was not able to elevate.
It had been shot.
It was going down.
It had reached the edge of the far side of the hill, but we watched in horror as the mortally wounded helicopter hit the treetops, began to roll, and then disappeared from sight. Seconds later the explosion came. There was smoke, and then there was silence. Incredibly and unbelievably, we were informed by a spotter plane a short time later that they had seen at least two survivors.
One of the survivors was Corporal Sal Santangelo from Brooklyn.
It had already been a horrifying two days for Santangelo. The day before, while we were under ground attack, he’d felt something hit the front of his helmet. Afraid of what he’d find, he moved his right hand up to feel the spot. There was a small hole the size of the end of his index finger.
“Sal,” cried his hole mate, inches away. “Sal, you’ve been shot.”
Santangelo feared that he must be dying and waited for the life to drain out of him. Seconds later, gathering his nerve, he ran his hand around the back of the helmet to find a much larger exit hole.
Now he was certain that he was dead.
Slowly bending down and taking off his helmet, he looked at the two aligned holes—front to back. Then he took his hand and slowly rubbed is scalp. It was still there. The bullet had gone right through without touching him.
He was alive.
Now Santangelo had a bigger problem.
Having been thrown from the chopper on impact with one other marine that he could see, he was down in the jungle with a smashed right leg, well outside of our lines, and in all likelihood living the last moments of his life. When later asked what he did, he said, “I held my breath for as long as I could, trying to kill myself. That didn’t work out too well, so I crawled over to this other guy who was in pretty bad shape to see if we could figure something out.”
Two marines together can always figure something out.
Those of us from Charlie and Delta companies that remained on the hill could now hear the sound of the approaching jet fighters.
“On the way!” came the now familiar cry. Those who were exposed ran back into their holes. The first pass brought two Phantoms. What a sight. They passed, one after the other, no more than fifty yards in front of my position. It was the most awesome display of raw power I had ever seen. Behind the deafening roar, I could hear the cracks of AK-47 rifle fire from the ravine directly beneath the planes. The dumb-ass gooks, facing certain death, were firing up at the jets.
You couldn’t blame them for trying. That day alone, the NVA had shot down two CH-46 helicopters, the one fully loaded with marines being evacuated, and the other with desperately needed ammo and water.
Negron, watching the awesome spectacle, quietly wondered again about the identity of Trailblazer Six. Whoever he was, it was clear that we finally had the attention of someone in authority.
The two jets, back at full altitude, took a long turn from the south, banked east, headed north, and banked west to south to commence another run. Minutes later, down they came again at the same target, with me yards away watching in awed appreciation. Shortly before reaching its low point on this pass, the lead jet released two oblong silver canisters one after the other. The canisters tumbled forward and down.
Hoooleee shit. Napalm.
I watched with horror and disbelief. My face was frozen to the target as the canisters hit the treetops, opened, and exploded,