Born in a Barn

The 12-man squad spread out along the eastern edge of their pick-up point. They remained low in the foliage, in order to stay out of sight of enemy patrols operating in the area. The squad knew they were more than a day early for their rendezvous with the C-130 Hercules that was scheduled to take them out of the jungle.

Doc pulled his poncho out of his butt-pack and rolled it out so that he could lie down. He stacked the rest of his gear under his head and shoulders, folding his hands behind his neck and closing his eyes.

He knew it would be hot soon and along with the heat heavy humidity. That’s the nickname they had given the rain that fell frequently in the tropical forest. Doc wanted to be ready. Other members of the squad did like wise.

The team was led by a youthful looking first lieutenant, known as the Skipper. He was a graduate of Annapolis and had led three other long-range patrols before this one. His large shoulders belied the gracefulness in which he carried himself as he moved from position to position checking on each teams’ line of fire.

He posted pickets behind their line. These consisted of claymore mines and two fire-teams. Their job was to secure a line of defense in case the enemy happened to find the squads position.

The Claymores were strung out and wired to act as booby-traps if triggered or to be manually fire if needed. Either way the mines would be an early warning system if the teams were approached.

All teams would be rotated every two-hours in order keep the men fresh and alert. It’s the way that it had always been for the last 10 days, so everyone knew what they were doing.

Through the remainder of the day and throughout the night nothing happened. The rain came and went as normal. The Skipper made his routine radio contact and then checked on his men and their fields of fire.

He had two senior NCOs in the field with him as well. He gave them very little direction as they already knew their orders. He allowed them to move within the squad, which had been divided into two teams; each sergeant heading a team and the Skipper becoming their “fire control.”

Doc was the only Hospital Corpsman within the squad. He was positioned near the rear and had little to do as he wasn’t allowed to carry a weapon or pistol. His job was simply to keep wounded men alive so they could get to a field hospital.

The sun poked up over the eastern jungle ridge just after 6 a.m. The morning had passed without any enemy contact, but the squad refused to allow themselves to relax.

“Three hours,” came the word from the Skipper. It was passed along from man-to-man and position-to-position. Voices were kept low; nothing more than a whisper could be heard.

It felt like a long three hours as the sun started to build in the sky. It was getting hot again. Steam was rising from the leaves, the surrounding grasses and the clothing of the men as they lay in the jungle waiting for the aircraft to fly in and pick them up.

“Doc,” a Lance Corporal whispered, “why aren’t they picking us up in a couple of slicks?”

It was a question that had crossed the Corpsman’s mind as well and he didn’t have a real answer.

“Military wisdom,” Doc quipped.

The minutes dragged on and boredom filled the two teams. Someone had found a can of SPAM and they were tossing the yellow and blue can back and forth between the teams.

The game of catch had lasted only a minute or less when one of the sergeants whispered as powerfully as possible, “Knock it off, Ladies!”

The tin disappeared amid a few snickers.

Those snickers stopped at the droning sound from overhead. Men suddenly looked skyward, trying to catch a glimpse of the aircraft between the leaves of the upper canopy.

The sound grew louder as the Skipper continued to talk low into the radio handset. It wasn’t long before the giant Hercules was making its final approach.

Just as it touched down on the long dirt tract in the clearing, small arms fire could be heard from the east. It was apparent that the squad was not alone and that the enemy was shooting at the aircraft.

A pair of Marines moved their weapons’ sights to there right and trained them on the area in which the shots appeared to be coming. They held their fire until they had a visual on at least the muzzle flash of one of the enemies’ guns.

One quick burst from each rifleman had silenced two enemy shooters. However the shooters now fixed their gun sights on the two-man team. It suddenly became an all out fire-fight.

The C-130 made a hard left turn and rolled to a stop at the short end of the runway. The back ramp popped open and the Loadmaster waved, signaling that he wanted the squad to load immediately.

The Skipper sent the first two men across the open field. It was less than 200 yards, but dangerous to anyone being fired on. When they were half way across the clearing, he ordered a second pair to cross and so on.

Doc knew that he would be one of the last to leave the security of the jungles edge. If anyone were wounded, it would be up to him to retrieve them. He was ready when he was given the high-sign to dash for the aircraft.

A side door had opened up on the Hercules and an airman stood in its frame firing into the surrounding jungle. His weapon jammed after he inserted a second clip and he ducked back into the plane.

None of the squad was hit bad enough to slow them or stop them from completing the crossing. The Skipper, his radioman and Doc sprinted for the aft of the craft. All three made it as the Air Force Loadmaster started closing the ramp.

Doc moved to the door that was open on the side of the plane and leaned out to pull it closed. The C-130 had turned and its engines were revving up, preparing to take off, when Doc saw the curl of smoke.

He knew it was a rocket-propelled grenade. It zipped upward and high over the aircraft, which had started to move down the dirt runway.

Doc saw a second burst, followed by the tell-tale curl of smoke. He leaned out the door and looked at towards the tail section.

It was too late. He saw the near-blinding flash as it struck the tail of the craft, turning it into jagged metal and flaming debris.

The explosion hit with such force that it knocked the Hospital Corpsman out of the door. Instinctively, he rolled over on his back, flying through the air, and landed with a thud on the hard-packed earth.

The landing had knocked the wind out of Doc and he saw stars as he looked straight up into the perfectly blue sky. It felt like minutes, but it was only seconds before he regained his ability to breathe and to realize that there were bullets kicking up particles of dirt as the enemy targeted him.

Without hesitation, Doc rolled over and onto his feet, taking off at a hard run after the plane. He watched as the Loadmaster pulled his weapon from his shoulder holster and dropped it out of the wounded aircraft craft. It bounced several times before stopping.

Doc picked up the pistol, while still on the run. He turned hard to his left, finding a ditch along the field. He dived into it and gasped, trying to fill his burning lungs with air.

He watched as the aircraft pitched to its left and slammed into the ditch that he was standing in. Men tumbled out of the aircraft with their weapons blazing. But Doc wasn’t paying much attention to them as he was the aircraft fuel pour out of the ruptured wing.

Doc fired wildly into the jungle that had suddenly seemed to come alive with enemy soldiers. He raced towards the aircraft and told each man to get out of the ditch because of the gas. Men climbed out of the ditch and disappeared into the jungle.

A few seconds later the fuel had turned to flames and the aircraft was quickly being consumed by the fire. This gave the squad and the Air Force personnel enough cover to set up a firing zone well away from the downed Hercules.

Doc moved from Marine to Marine checking for the wounded. There were some minor bumps and bruises, but nothing more than a scrape or small cut. Most of the Marines waved off the Corpsman’s help, urging him to go find someone who was really hurt.

It was another two hours before the team and five-member flight crew could be extracted from the area. Prior to pick-up, the Skipper called in a danger-close air strike into the jungle less than 500 yards from the firing zone. It effectively wiped out what trace opposition had been waiting for the rescue helicopters to arrive.

For days after their extraction, team members talked among themselves about the fire-fight that cost the Air Force one of its C-130 and questioned why the powers that be didn’t use helicopters instead.

Meanwhile, Doc nursed a sore back and took some ribbing about being “born in a barn,” since he failed to shut the door to the aircraft. He thought about the door and concluded that had the door been closed, men might have died in the ensuing fire.

“Good things do happen during bad situations,” Doc mumbled to himself as he prepared to open sick-bay for the morning onslaught of sick G.I.’s and the civilian population.