IisJustMe
25th December 2007, 10:28 AM
Please feel free to share your own story. This is mine. There's no need to stop posting these just because the day passes by.
It was late in the Vietnam war, and I was a very young and inexperienced helicopter pilot. We were sent across the DMZ (shhh, don't say that too loudly, because "we didn't do that sort of thing") to try to rescue an A-6 pilot who had been downed by a SAM missile site that was testing "instant on" radar, a device that didn't need to remain on standby (and therefore detectable by the Air Force and Navy threat receivers) but could just pop "on" and launch. I was wary, having been told that, but being a pilot I thought I was invincible.
We found the A-6 pilot, and the SAM site found us. Fortunately, the Russian SAMs had a "hard deck" of 1000 meters (3300 feet) meaning they couldn't descend below that altitude without exploding. That's what this one did -- and we were right under it. Shrapnel hit our oil cooler, the most vital and the most exposed part of our bird. We had about a minute and a half to set down before the rotor seized up. We found a spot, and ran for our lives.
Eight days later, we were still in the jungle, on the shore of the South China Sea, not knowing if we were close to being captured, jumping at every unusual sound in the jungle, and going out in the middle of the night to seine for seafood out of the surf. Raw seafood, because we didn't dare light a fire to cook it. To this day, I can't stand seafood.
Our nightmare seemed like it would never end. The jet pilot had an air-sea rescue radio, but every plane that went overhead seemed to miss the signal. I was tired and desperate. I wasn't a Christian then -- in fact, it would be another 21 years before I was -- but on my watch just before sun-up one day, I heard myself saying, "God, if you're there, do something! We're tired, lonely, hungry, and afraid. Send someone to get us out of here."
It wasn't 10 minutes before I heard a jet screaming over the jungle returning from a bombing run up north. I grabbed the rescue radio (everyone on night watch carried it with them) and flipped it on, figuring, "This guy ain't gonna hear us either." But this jet jockey made a wide turn out over the sea and went back north, turning back down the same path he'd just flown. I transmitted again, and this time I got the "waggle wing" signal. Two hours later, two Marine helicopters came inbound from the sea looking for us. An hour later, we were in Da Nang, back in the south.
We were a scruffy looking bunch! The base CO ordered us to medical, and then let us make phone calls home, figuring correctly that all our families had gotten telegrams that we were MIA. Then I thought to ask someone, "What day is it?"
"Man," he said, "haven't you heard? You're our Christmas packages! Its Christmas Eve!"
It was every one of those previously mentioned 21 years before I counted that "prayer" as among those God answered for me.
It was late in the Vietnam war, and I was a very young and inexperienced helicopter pilot. We were sent across the DMZ (shhh, don't say that too loudly, because "we didn't do that sort of thing") to try to rescue an A-6 pilot who had been downed by a SAM missile site that was testing "instant on" radar, a device that didn't need to remain on standby (and therefore detectable by the Air Force and Navy threat receivers) but could just pop "on" and launch. I was wary, having been told that, but being a pilot I thought I was invincible.
We found the A-6 pilot, and the SAM site found us. Fortunately, the Russian SAMs had a "hard deck" of 1000 meters (3300 feet) meaning they couldn't descend below that altitude without exploding. That's what this one did -- and we were right under it. Shrapnel hit our oil cooler, the most vital and the most exposed part of our bird. We had about a minute and a half to set down before the rotor seized up. We found a spot, and ran for our lives.
Eight days later, we were still in the jungle, on the shore of the South China Sea, not knowing if we were close to being captured, jumping at every unusual sound in the jungle, and going out in the middle of the night to seine for seafood out of the surf. Raw seafood, because we didn't dare light a fire to cook it. To this day, I can't stand seafood.
Our nightmare seemed like it would never end. The jet pilot had an air-sea rescue radio, but every plane that went overhead seemed to miss the signal. I was tired and desperate. I wasn't a Christian then -- in fact, it would be another 21 years before I was -- but on my watch just before sun-up one day, I heard myself saying, "God, if you're there, do something! We're tired, lonely, hungry, and afraid. Send someone to get us out of here."
It wasn't 10 minutes before I heard a jet screaming over the jungle returning from a bombing run up north. I grabbed the rescue radio (everyone on night watch carried it with them) and flipped it on, figuring, "This guy ain't gonna hear us either." But this jet jockey made a wide turn out over the sea and went back north, turning back down the same path he'd just flown. I transmitted again, and this time I got the "waggle wing" signal. Two hours later, two Marine helicopters came inbound from the sea looking for us. An hour later, we were in Da Nang, back in the south.
We were a scruffy looking bunch! The base CO ordered us to medical, and then let us make phone calls home, figuring correctly that all our families had gotten telegrams that we were MIA. Then I thought to ask someone, "What day is it?"
"Man," he said, "haven't you heard? You're our Christmas packages! Its Christmas Eve!"
It was every one of those previously mentioned 21 years before I counted that "prayer" as among those God answered for me.