Letters From War—Two Days in August

By Don Harward

Day One

Something was going on that first day; something bad. I picked up a sense of it during the morning briefing. The face of the young man who normally gave us the “threat” portion of the briefing was drawn with deep lines that reflected great concern—and very little sleep; he looked much older than his twenty-four years. As he pointed out known enemy positions and the various corridors we should use to stay away from “hot spots”—and I do not refer to weather—I could tell he was distracted by something else.

After our briefing was over, I downed the last of my coffee as I waited until the briefer was free, and then approached him. I sensed that we were—or were about to be—in the middle of something big.

“The TIC (troops in contact) up north is bad, isn’t it?” I asked him. He could see the genuine concern on my face. “Yes, sir. It’s bad. Real bad. We thought we had an MIA (missing in action), but it looks like the pile of body parts over there could be one of the soldiers.” He continued as if it somehow made sense to him; after all, he was an analyst. “I guess that during the confusion, after the second IED went off, while they were looking for the first guy, we had another guy captured.”

The seriousness of the situation really hit home. “We just found him,” the analyst continued, “but they’d killed him soon after they captured him. I guess they don’t want any prisoners.” He stopped talking; his mind wasn’t really there, anyway. He was trying to suppress all the same emotions of the sadness and anger that I was feeling at that moment. I thought about the pictures of my sons—one with a carefree smile and the other with an expression which said, “But, Dad, I didn’t do it.” That world was so very far away right at that moment.

As we drove out to the flight line, there was more evidence something was going on. Through the dust hanging over the road, I saw a medevac Blackhawk helicopter racing straight across the airfield heading directly for the hospital. It wasn’t slowing down as they normally did, but was racing straight for the red and white pad. My mind wandered back to some of the times when I, too, had been that pilot, desperately trying to squeeze another one or two knots of speed out of the helicopter to give the poor guy in the back a better chance. That’s when I remembered the “medical pad condition” slide from the briefing. It had been showing amber in colour, which meant the hospital was nearing capacity. Either this TIC must have been going on for some time or our guys had got themselves into a real hornet’s nest.

Morning briefings normally told us things like that to give us some idea of what to expect in case we suddenly needed to become medevac birds ourselves, and, if we did, whether the hospital could actually take new casualties. As far as I was concerned, though, if there were a guy in the back hanging onto life, I was always going to head for the nearest and best facility available, regardless.

As we ran through our routine preflight and crew briefing, I watched a Mirage fighter jet taking off with a deafening roar from its turbojet engine. As I looking over to watch the number two aircraft take off, I noticed a heavy payload of bombs slung under its wings. After takeoff, the two jets turned north—directly towards the area of the TIC. Everything I saw suggested a sense of urgency. I was beginning to wonder if the day’s activities would turn out much different from what I was anticipating. The Mirages’ takeoff was almost a routine thing for that time of the morning, but what wasn’t routine was a second pair of aircraft—Air Force A-10 Thunderbolts—that departed shortly afterwards; the fearsome Thunderbolt, with its GAU-30 belly-mounted 30 mm cannon is used in the close air support role. Like the preceding Mirages, the two Thunderbolts also banked sharply northward after takeoff. Also like the Mirages, their engines were not throttled back.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the situation only a few miles north of us was much worse than I had imagined. As I stood watching those aircraft depart, we had already lost several brave young men and many more had been wounded. Although it was not my mission to go there, I kept the part of the briefing about “safe corridors” in mind just in case we got an unexpected mission change and were directed to go there and assist.

Shortly after pulling pitch on our first takeoff, we heard that now all-too-familiar radio call: “Tower ______ (call sign deleted). Flight of two Blackhawks inbound. Urgent medevac.” The voice was female. It was strained and holding back a ton of emotion. I knew what was going on in the back of her bird—and in her mind. Other pilots will always clear the area when they hear that call to give medevac pilots a clear run to where they need to go.

Our initial turn was to the north-northeast. Immediately after clearing the traffic pattern, we flew past a flight of Kiowa armed reconnaissance helicopters. They were also heading north. Their wing stores were full and they were heading into a fight. We only travelled a couple more miles before we had to turn to avoid a flight of Apache gunships going back to the FARP (forward arming and refuelling point; the place where—in a tactical setting—helicopters go to refuel and rearm).

As we cleared the airport traffic area and began climbing to what I had picked as the safest mission altitude, we switched our radio to our assigned tactical frequencies. As we did, the radio was suddenly awash with traffic. “Backlash”—the call sign for the guy running the show—was flooded by a constant exchange between low-level helicopters, and mid- and high-level fighters, tankers and even bombers. Everyone was involved in this show.

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get a word in edgeways, so I was very brief as I squeezed the transmit trigger. “Backlash, this is Slapper.” This guy was busy but sharp. “Slapper, Backlash, standby. Break; break. Reaper flight. Clear to elevate one niner five. Contact Lockjaw on blue two niner.” And then immediately, “Slapper, Backlash, go ahead.”

“Backlash, Slapper. Transition 26 Foxtrot to 89 Quebec, five thousand; over.

“Slapper, Backlash. Cleared as requested. Avoid ROZ (restricted operating zone) Nathaniel by ten miles.”

Looking down at my map, I could see “ROZ Nathaniel” just to our north. “Roger Backlash.” Whatever in hell’s name was going on up there, it was starting to sound like the beginning of World War Three!

We did turns for seven hours that day, hauling out all sorts of cargo and troops to various locations all around our central base. All day, the radio traffic never ended, the fighters never stopped sortieing—and the medevacs never stopped coming and going.

At one point, when I was refuelling my aircraft, I got out to stretch my legs. I walked a short distance away from the aircraft and as I pulled off my helmet, I heard the boom, boom, boom sound of outgoing artillery. Then I heard the crump, crump, crump as those rounds found their mark around twenty seconds later. The crump sound came from the north.

Day Two

The following morning, we again found ourselves in the TOC (Tactical Operations Centre) where the same tired Army specialist and captain gave us their portion of the daily briefing. Much like the day before, there was significant activity just to our north. These guys looked like crap. Their faces were masks of fatigue—expressionless and drained. Later, I learned that the young captain had not had any sleep in forty hours. Last night must have been hell for him. He was running on sheer will power; there was nothing left.

Again, I cornered the intel guy. “How’d our guys do? Did we get hurt?” Again, he studied my face and answered rather matter-of-factly, “Yes, sir, we got hurt.” He did not turn away but just stood there staring at me. It was as if he had fallen asleep—while standing up with his eyes open. I left that briefing room saddened and concerned. Today, we would be flying to the FOB (forward operating base) where the fighting had just taken place.

The day had already been long and very hot by the time we arrived; it had been over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit since just a little after sunrise. We had been in our cockpits since soon after finishing all of the typical early morning briefings, making numerous runs to various FOBs. Ours and other aircraft were carrying a lot of stuff up to that forward base, and taking a lot of tired looking troops and others back to our main base. So far, we had already logged more than six hours and still had work to do.

The hastily built ramp at the FOB was surfaced with purpose-designed metal plates laid over levelled gravel-covered desert. We had to taxi between two running aircraft—a Chinook and a Mil-8—but in such places, this is “business as usual”.

Sitting there on the aluminium panels beside the gravel, I slowed the engines to idle to minimise the noise and rotor blast as I busied myself filling out the trip log with flight times for each leg, fuel used, loads carried and other information. The ramp was a beehive of activity with all sorts of people hustling about, loading and unloading helicopters, and sagging under the load of huge rucksacks.

Everyone was moving except for three soldiers who were standing next to some largish plastic or metal boxes. The way they stood there was different enough to make me look a second time. That’s when I noticed they weren’t wearing helmets, vests or protection of any kind. They were expressionless, just like the battle captain and specialist had been when they briefed us. They were in a transformed state—no longer completely a part of reality. They had seen or experienced something terrible.

As the men stood motionless, staring at me, I recognised something else—something familiar. Their faces were covered with dirt, as were their uniforms. As I took another look at the scene—the three men, their expressionless faces…and those boxes— I realised what it was that I was looking at. Releasing the cyclic, I lifted the shaded visor covering my face so that I could raise my right arm slowly and render a heartfelt salute. Slowly and deliberately, one of the men straightened and returned my salute.

A moment later, it was time to go. Before taxiing away, I turned one last time towards the soldiers and nodded. It was a nod of respect. Standing there with all that was left in the world of their friends, they nodded back as I taxied away but otherwise, they didn’t move.

For some reason, when a man dies, his possessions become hallowed. A “worthless” item can become a focal point for people’s emotions. A simple touch of the “dog tags” can bring grown men or women to their knees; I have seen it happen. We humans do not like to let go of loved ones; suddenly, we are interested in a person’s every little possession—as if they were doorways providing some mystical insight into the soul.

The brotherhood that forms between soldiers amid the terror and misery of war can be amongst the strongest of human bonds. The friends I have made in such times become more than trusted and the bonds we have formed almost transcend those of family.

The friends I have buried are my personal saints. Those soldiers on that hot dusty pickup zone, standing watch over their friends’ possessions, were just starting that emotional journey. God bless them.