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: 08/31/2024
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