The Man Who Fell From The Sky

By David Beakey

He was heavy in a cumbersome way. The two marines carried him quietly, emitting only soft grunts as they worked their way down the mountain. They also carried full packs, their weapons and extra ammo. They wore flak jackets and helmets. Sweat trickled down their faces as they tried to keep up with the rest of their unit. The fighting was over, at least for the time being.

Earlier in the day, they had climbed this mountain, to rendezvous with the choppers and be carried away, back to their base camp on Hill 881. But things went terribly wrong. The enemy let them approach the summit, even allowed them to set up a perimeter in the high grass. The trees formed a dense canopy and it was difficult to find a good landing zone for the choppers, which were to swoop in and pick up the men quickly, barely setting down. This area was considered “hot”. The men on the ground were part of a force that was securing the hills, one by one. It was slow going and casualties were high, because the enemy was well established and not afraid to engage the marines in short but fierce battles. Some hills had to be retaken, as fresh signs of NVA presence were spotted shortly after the hills were supposedly secured. This particular hill was highly dangerous, as it was covered with trees and dense foliage, not bare like many of the others. Baxter didn’t like this hill and was eager to jump on the chopper and be whisked away. As they waited for the unmistakable sound of their ride home, it seemed eerily quiet. Suddenly one, then all of the men heard the choppers. Eventually they appeared, first one then others, circling the top of the hill. Someone tossed a smoke grenade and quickly, the lead chopper moved in to pick up the first squad. Baxter peered up, through the trees and saw the second chopper and a third, hovering just above the treetops. He could tell that the pilots were impatient and wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible. He ran toward the first chopper, his eyes fixed on it as it descended. He could see the door gunner, poised to fire, if necessary. Suddenly the chopper disappeared in a flash of light. Baxter shook his head and looked again. There was nothing there. Then, another explosion, high in the trees. He turned and watched as the second chopper dipped crazily and plummeted to earth. Another explosion rocked the ground beneath him, and he finally realized that it was a helicopter ambush. The men scrambled for cover. Smoke filled the air. The marines formed a defensive position and some fired into the trees surrounding them. It gradually became quieter until the only noise was the sound of the surviving choppers gunning their engines as they quickly regained altitude and flew away. The sound grew fainter and fainter. Soon, the men were alone again.

After settling down, the marines surveyed the scene. Only two men on the ground were wounded. The choppers and their crews had not been so lucky. Three choppers were destroyed, blown apart. All three crews had perished. The bodies were scattered like rag dolls among machinery and pieces of metal. Baxter walked among the wreckage. It seemed surreal. He had seen choppers take serious hits and keep flying, had even been on one that was shot down, but the pilot had brought it to earth gently, like a wounded bird. This was unreal. Soon, the Captain decided that they would walk back down the hill and hump six kilometers, to a small base camp. If they left immediately, they would make it by sunset. There was no discussion regarding the bodies. The men would carry them out.

Baxter tried not to look at his face. But he couldn’t help seeing the hair. The pilot had bright red hair. And he was tall, well over six feet. His flight suit seemed out of place. Baxter was used to the jungle fatigues that he and all the grunts wore. The flight suit reminded him of a space suit. All the grunts respected the men who came from the sky, to pull out the wounded or drop supplies, or get them out of tight spots. Now he carried the man carefully and made a silent promise not to drop him, to be respectful. But he never looked at his face. And when they got to the base camp and his job was done, Baxter lay on his back, under a poncho and gazed at the stars, unable to sleep, unable to admit that the man from the sky was just like him.