More detail on this person: Subject: A Marine
Hero - Rescue at Hill 845
written by greg johnson......Greg is a retired
CH-46 Driver, lives in Pennsylvania. He made many
of these Med-evac runs. He currently is a college
professor.
The Noble Warrior: Rescue at Hill 845
Glancing around at the clutter in my attic
recently, I decided it was time to sort through
some of the unpacked boxes associated with my
military retirement and move to Pennsylvania. A
fond smile crossed my face as I gingerly pulled
out aging flight logbooks. As I randomly scanned
the yellowing pages, I was surprised by the vivid
and detailed recall the numerous sorties inscribed
on those pages evoked. Aviation seems to have that
effect on the mind.
Locked in a trance with my memories, it was the
flutter of a small newspaper clipping,
surrendering to gravity, as it fell from between
the pages, that snapped the spell of the moment
and brought me back to reality. The clipping was
a one-line notice from the Navy Times announcing
the death of my friend, David Cummings, during
1988. When I first cut out the obituary notice and
tucked it away in my logbook, I mentally promised
myself that one day I would tell the story of his
heroics--in another place and time...
(Vietnam 1969)
It was December. Reconnaissance elements from a
battalion-size Viet Cong force probed the hasty
defensive perimeter set up by a remote Marine
observation team atop Hill 845. From afar, an
OV-10 "Bronco" aircraft, responding to an urgent
call from the outpost for close air support, swept
in low from the south. The confines of adjacent
mountain ridges, coupled with a rapidly
deteriorating cloud base, made the pending
interdiction strike especially hazardous. Monsoon
season was well underway and, like the distant
thunder, the drone of the Bronco's propellers
reverberated off the trees and mountain sides,
striking fear in the guerrillas (as wounded VC
prisoners would later relate) while providing some
semblance of comfort to the beleaguered Marines.
The Bronco pilot, Captain Dennis Herbert, and his
rear seat aerial observer seemed oblivious to the
danger. Directed to the attack by a ground-based
forward air controller (FAC), the Bronco pilot
focused his attack on a shallow ravine leading
into the outpost encampment. Squeezing off two
Zuni rockets, he visually tracked the missiles
(with a little body language) to the ravine where
they exploded in a fury of smoke and fire.
Herbert immediately banked his aircraft sharp to
the left to avoid flying debris. Quickly leveling
his wings, he simultaneously pulled back hard on
the control stick. His Bronco was now pointed
straight up. Bleeding off airspeed for rapid
altitude gain in an exchange of energy, the Bronco
masked itself in the clouds to escape retaliatory
ground fire and also to avoid collision with the
mountains. In a matter of seconds, the aircraft
punched through the cloud overcast. Captain
Herbert leveled off the aircraft, adjusted the
throttle, and waited for a radio call to announce
the results of his attack. The FAC reported that
the attack was successful. Further probing by the
enemy had ceased. For the time being a second
suppression attack would not be required.
During the siege on the outpost, however, the FAC
reported a young Marine had tripped off an enemy
booby trap and was seriously injured. Bleeding
profusely, he was going into shock. The Bronco
pilot was asked to relay a call for an immediate
medical evacuation.
Meanwhile, at Landing Zone Baldy, Cobra pilot
First Lieutenant David Cummings and his aircraft
commander, Captain Roger Henry, were standing
by on routine medevac escort alert in their AH-1G
helicopter gunship. The rear cockpit seat of the
Cobra, normally flown by the pilot in command,
would today be flown by the copilot, Lieutenant
Cummings, as part of his aircraft commander check
ride. When the call came to escort medevac
helicopters, the pilots launched with another
Cobra to marry up with two CH-46 Sea Knight
transport helicopters as part of a constituted
medevac (medical evacuation) package. After a
smooth join up, the flight headed 40 miles
southwest of Da Nang into the Que Son Mountains
in Quang Nam Province where they rendezvoused
with the Bronco for a mission brief.
Weather at Hill 845 had deteriorated badly. Rain
and lowering cloud bases made it virtually
impossible for the large Sea Knights to get into
the area for the pickup. Despite persistent
maneuvering, the rescue flight finally retired to
the edge of the weather mass where they loitered
to wait for another opportunity to come in and
pick up the wounded Marine.
After obtaining approval from the medevac mission
commander, the agile Cobra flown by Captain Henry
and Lieutenant Cummings, proceeded in to scout
the landing zone in order to facilitate a more
expeditious evacuation. The
worsening weather, however, prompted Captain
Henry, positioned in the higher visibility front
gunner's seat, to assume control of the aircraft's
more difficult-to-use side console forward cockpit
flight controls. Visibility was now practically
zero.
In those days, there was a variation of a popular
song theme that "only mad dogs and Englishmen
ventured into noonday monsoons!" Undaunted,
Captain Henry and Lieutenant Cummings pressed
on despite harrowing weather conditions. The two
Marines worked their Cobra up the mountain-side
amidst severe turbulence generated up and down
gnarled mountain slopes. Scraping tree tops at
airspeeds that often dipped below 30 knots, or
required holding in perilous zero-visibility
hovers, the flyers anxiously waited for a call
from the outpost giving them either a visual or
sound cue that they were above the elusive,
ill-defined landing zone. After three hours and
five different attempts (with refueling runs
interjected in-between), the aviators finally
found their mark.
-
Sporadic radio reports confirmed to Captain Henry
and Lieutenant Cummings their worst fear that the
injured Marine was succumbing to his wounds.
Guiding the Cobra down through tall trees, Captain
Henry landed the aircraft on the edge of a bomb
crater in a skillful display of airmanship. The
helicopter settled to the ground amid swirling
debris. The tightness of the landing zone was
such that only the front half of the aircraft's
skids rested on the rocky outer lip of the bomb
crater. While the Cobra loitered in this
precarious teeter-totter position, Lieutenant
Cummings climbed out
of the aircraft to investigate the situation.
Torn and bloody, the wounded Marine was drifting
in and out of shock. Having served a previous
tour in Vietnam as an infantry officer, Lieutenant
Cummings was intimately familiar with the
situation now confronting him. He had seen the
haunting lurk of death in young men's eyes enough
times before to know that it was time to get this
Marine out immediately. Death, Lieutenant
Cummings promised himself, would not visit this
Marine today if he had anything to say in the
matter.
With the situation assessed, Lieutenant Cummings
ordered the casualty lifted into the Cobra.
Strapping the semiconscious Marine into his rear
cockpit seat, Lieutenant Cummings fastened the
canopy shut. As "mud Marines" looked on
curiously, Lieutenant Cummings climbed atop the
starboard stubwing rocket pod. Straddling the
pod and facing aft, Cummings banged his fist on
the wing to get Captain Henry's attention before
giving him a thumbs up. With a grim smile, Captain
Henry nodded and took off. The cloud base, by now,
was less than 100 feet above the outpost.
As the Cobra lifted away, the radio airways
snapped to life as radio operators in the vicinity
broadcast descriptions of the incredible scene
they were witnessing. Atop the rocket pod,
Lieutenant Cummings flashed a "V" for victory to
those remaining in the zone as the Cobra vanished
dramatically into the blanket overcast. It was the
ultimate stage exit. Marines on the ground stood
and cheered. Morale soared.
Leveling off in a cloud mass at 4,000 feet,
Captain Henry accelerated the Cobra to 100 knots
in order to improve maneuverability. Once
stabilized, he glanced over his shoulder to check
on the outrider. Lieutenant Cummings flashed him
back a sheepish grin. Biting rain, extreme cold at
altitude, and the deafening shrill and
shuffle-vibration of engines and rotors all mixed
to fill his senses. He could hold on only by
squeezing his thighs tightly against the rocket
pod wing mount. To exacerbate matters, the wind
grabbed at the back of Cummings' helmet flexing it
forward thereby causing
the chin strap to choke him. And all the while,
howling winds taunted him. But at their loudest,
Cummings merely glanced at the wounded Marine,
and howled back.
Captain Herbert, still orbiting on patrol in his
Bronco, began his return to home base as fuel
began to run low. En route, he happened to catch a
chance glimpse of the Cobra darting in and out of
the clouds in its tenuous race against time.
Zooming down for a closer look he was unprepared
for the spectacle of Lieutenant Cummings, hanging
outside the aircraft, and the bleeding,
semiconscious Marine within. In mild disbelief,
the Bronco pilot pulled up wide abeam the Cobra,
gave a thumbs up and departed. "What a crazy
war!" Herbert quipped to his observer while still
shaking his head in disbelief. But in his heart,
he knew this was the way of the warriors!
After the twenty-five minute flight through
turbulent weather, the gunship descended through
the clouds and broke into relatively clear sky at
1,200 feet over a land navigation point called
Spider Lake. The Cobra now headed towards a
medical facility. Thoroughly exhausted from the
strain of the mission, Captain Henry was having
trouble discerning the exact location of the
medical site when he sensed a series of thumps
coming from the starboard wing. Glancing to his
right he saw Lieutenant Cummings, much like a
prize-winning bird dog, with locked pointed finger
directing his attention to their destination
below.
After landing, the wounded Marine was whisked into
a medical triage for stabilization while Navy
Corpsmen, who thought they had seen everything,
helped Cummings "defrost" himself off the rocket
pod. A short time later, a CH-46 Sea Knight
arrived to fly the wounded Marine to Marble
Mountain for emergency surgery. Sprinting along
through the sky as combat escort with the Sea
Knight, to the more sophisticated "in-country"
medical facility, were Cummings and Henry. The
two were weary from fatigue but nonetheless vested
in their interest to culminate the safe arrival of
their wounded Marine. (The young Marine survived,
married, and was last known to be living in
Texas.)
Despite the long day and fatiguing limits they had
endured, Captain Henry continued the training
portion of Lieutenant Cummings' check ride on the
way back to home base. Oddly enough, among
senior aviators "in-country," there was talk of
censure and a court-martial for the outrider
affair. The act, in their opinion, had overtones
of grandstanding, regardless of the fact that the
young Marine would have died had he not received
medical attention as soon as he did. However, when
Henry and Cummings were both personally invited
by the Commanding General of the First Marine
Division to dine as special guests in his
quarters, the issue of court-martial was moot and
dead on arrival. For their actions, Captain Henry
and First Lieutenant Cummings were each awarded
the Distinguished Flying Cross. Years later when
asked about the dinning experience with the
Commanding General, both pilots readily admit they
thought they had a great time. Libations, it
appears, were liberally dispensed. And it was
reported to the two aviators that they were both
transported horizontally into their hooches and
gently tucked in their racks by the grunts!
(Prologue)
When Dave Cummings died unexpectedly in 1988,
there were the normal expressions of loss,
especially for one so young. But none who first
attended his lifeless body, and only a few who
were present at his hometown funeral, fully
realized the magnitude of his life or the legacy
he had left with the Corps.
A native of Woburn, Massachusetts, Cummings
enlisted in the Marine Corps during September of
1966. Upon completion of recruit training, he
attended Officer Candidate School and The Basic
School at Quantico, Virginia. Cummings served
several months as an infantry platoon leader with
the Second Battalion, First Marine Division in
Vietnam. After being seriously wounded in a fire
fight with Viet Cong forces, he was evacuated to
the States. Cummings had always wanted to fly
so it was a thrill, following recuperation, when
he was selected for flight training. Earning his
"Wings of Gold," Dave Cummings returned to
Vietnam during September 1969 to start his combat
flying career.
Nineteen years later, Lieutenant Colonel Dave
Cummings, en route to attend a special military
course in Albany, Georgia, stopped in Atlanta for
the night. After a routine workout, he returned to
his hotel room where he suffered an apparent heart
attack and died. He was 42.
Although Dave Cummings' life spanned a relatively
short period of time, he managed to walk a worthy
journey. Among his personal military awards were
four Distinguished Flying Crosses, four single
mission Air Medals, the Bronze Star with combat
"V", and a Purple Heart.
In this day and age when the term hero is used so
loosely, it is comforting that I can say I
actually have known some true heros in my
lifetime. Dave Cummings was a man who set the
example. He was a guy who displayed courage that
all of us who knew him hoped we could muster if
the call came. Dave Cummings was a special piece
of the Corps' past, a large measure of its
tradition, and maybe, more importantly, a sizeable
chunk of its soul. He will not be easily
forgotten.
Burial information: Woodbrook Cemetery, Woburn, MA
This information was last updated 03/17/2018
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Date posted on this site: 04/13/2025
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