"The Medic & Crewchief – DUSTOFF Personified"

by Si Simmons

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" caliber, the subject usually locks in on the feats of their grungy MEDIC and CREWCHIEF.

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 Crewchief 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 treelines, bunkers and jungle 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 back – 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 flightline at mission’s end, we’ve turned and watch both – in searing heat or monsoon storms and dead of night – tie the blade, check the damage, hose the red from their rotten smelling station – refit gear and ammo, and begin the tedious and demanding postflight or the too-often twenty-five hour inspection – and we get the "high sigh" as we yell, "We’ll save chow!"

Then as we trot back to the flight line as quickly as we’d left, we watch their fatigue unveil as we yelled, "Wind’er up! – got any C’s on board?" – and we watched them suck-it-up – again – and scurry to lift off – again- to save a poor soul – again – and again – and again - .