1969, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, Vietnam

By Robert D. Powell

The Klaxon horn shattered the morning stillness just as the day crew reported in to the emergency room. I grabbed the field ambulance keys and Dean picked up the radio and we both raced out the door. Ten more minutes and the day shift would have had to respond to Saigon Tower’s notification of an in-flight emergency instead of us.

Speeding down the streets of Tan Son Nhut Air Base toward the flight line, we anxiously listened for additional details. It was not unusual to respond to airfield emergencies, as this joint U.S.–Vietnamese air base on the outskirts of Saigon was the third busiest airport in the world.

The radio suddenly crackled: “Medic One, this is Saigon Tower. We have an aircraft crash on the grassy area just west of the active runway. Proceed to holding point at high speed taxiway and await further clearance.”

“Roger, Medic One copies,” Dean responded.

“Man, I sure hope this isn’t a ‘freedom bird,’” I said to Dean. “There’s only two of us and maybe 200 souls on board.”

Dean nodded and keyed the radio. “Saigon Tower, Medic One here. Can you tell us the type of aircraft involved and how many souls on board?”

“Medic One, it’s a Forward Air Control (FAC) Cessna 150 with two souls on board. You are cleared to cross the active runway and proceed directly to the crash site. The fire department is on its way.”

As we approached the scene we could see that the aircraft, the military version of the venerable Cessna 150, rested slightly nose-down on the grassy strip next to the runway. I jumped out of the ambulance and ran over to the cockpit to assess the situation. The two Army pilots were both unconscious, still strapped in their seats.

As I opened the co-pilot’s door, a blast of extreme heat almost took my breath away. Bypassing the standard spinal cord protocol, I had to get them out of there before the cockpit exploded into flames. While I struggled to free him from the restraint harness, Dean set up medical supplies and two stretchers outside.

The co-pilot’s lower right leg was at an obscene 90-degree angle to his knee. I handed him out to Dean and some bystanders. Then just as I unbuckled the pilot’s harness, a tremendous blast hit the broken windshield and covered me in foam. The base fire department was on scene and sprayed fire-retardant foam on the entire plane. I was very glad, though, that the firemen arrived so quickly even though the foam mildly burned and made my skin itch.

I continued working on the pilot, who had a large laceration across his entire forehead, his skull clearly visible. Trying to maneuver in the cockpit was difficult, especially when turning the pilot around and passing him out of the opposite side. Both of them were dead weight and unable to help me.

After starting IVs and getting their vital signs we loaded the two casualties into the ambulance, assisted by the onlookers.

“Medic One to Hospital Main,” Dean called our emergency room.

“Go ahead, Medic One. Update your status.”

“Please notify Third Field Hospital we have two casualties, both unconscious and with major trauma. IV lines have been started, but their vital signs are borderline, over.

“Roger that, will contact them immediately.”

Third Field Hospital was the prime U.S. Army medical center in Saigon, not too far from our base. They had a crack trauma team and constantly triaged incoming casualties for evaluation and treatment. Major surgery was performed there, and after stabilization the patients were flown back to the States on Air Force Aeromedical Evacuation flights.

With the siren screaming and the horn blasting, I cursed the time of day and the traffic. “It just had to be rush hour,” I shouted. The morning rush saw thousands of motor scooters, jeeps, trucks, bicycles, virtually every form of transportation imaginable and they were blocking all the traffic lanes. I had discovered through previous experience that the Vietnamese didn’t defer to emergency vehicles. They seemed to actually defy them.

“Run them off the road if they won’t get the hell out of the way!” Dean yelled from the back. He was busy monitoring both of the pilots’ vital signs but knew what I was up against.

I held the horn continually and screamed at the driver of a 3-wheeled cycle. He refused to get out of the way, so I nudged him with my bumper. He still remained in front of me, so I then rammed him and sent him flying to the side of the road. I not only didn’t feel badly for him, I almost took vicarious delight in doing so. The two casualties in the ambulance provided the motivation for me and I wasn’t going to let them die due to idiot drivers!

The military policeman swung open the large, ornate iron gates at the entrance to the hospital and we proceeded to the courtyard. A triage team was waiting for us and opened the back doors of the ambulance to off-load the stretchers. They immediately went to work in the outside area, assessed the injuries and prepared them for surgery. After we gave the triage team the background details we returned to our emergency room.

After we debriefed our medical commander on the response, he thanked us for a “job well done” and we were dismissed. I then realized that I was covered in blood and the sticky, foam residue. It was a long 17-hour shift, but both Dean and I had a sense of satisfaction for what we accomplished.

After returning to the barracks, I took a shower and collapsed in my bunk, but couldn’t go to sleep. Adrenaline still pumping, I wondered what the next emergency would be.

Robert D. Powell is retired from the US Air Force, married to the ideal wife, a proud parent of two children, a proud grandparent of five children, and currently completing the Long Ridge Writer’s Group “Get Published” course.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, April 4th, 2007 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 4th, 2007 at 12:02 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.