Smitty Steps Up (continued)
Radio Traffic on the Whiskey Net
​
I was a nearly a click [kilometer] down the trail when Smitty called me on the Whiskey frequency and, breathing heavily, told me what had happened.
​
Smitty: "Six Actual, this is Six, Over."
I could picture him crouched there, hunched in the depression at the lip of the LZ where I had last seen him, handset tight up under his helmet so he could talk.
​
Me: "This is Six Actual, go."
​
Smitty: "Be advised the first bird's away. Six men medevac'ed, including SSgt XXX, over."
​
I knew the bird was up. I had heard it without being able to see it through the canopy. But I had heard no more incoming fire since we left. Maybe the staff sergeant had injured himself. But bad enough to medevac? This wasn't good.
​
Me: "How'd he get hit? Who else got hit? Over."
​
Smitty: "No one got hit. He jumped on the bird, over."
​
So that was it.
I could hear the tension in his voice as he spoke. I knew he half-expected another incoming round to find them at any moment.
And I instantly got it. His superior non-commissioned officer had just taken off, literally.
And Smitty was processing in real-time the very challenging situation he found himself in.
​
Me: "Jesus, what's your SitRep Smitty?"
​
Smitty: "Be advised, I have two more birds on station, one ready to come in. I have six more WIA and two KIA to medevac. And lots of gear on the zone."
​
A moment's silence passed. I had halted my little group and was ready to turn back to the landing zone. My situation had just gotten more challenging too and I was processing my options.
​
I could hear the other two choppers working a pattern, waiting to swoop in and save some more lives. Or possibly lose theirs if the dice rolled wrong.
​
But Smitty hadn't said, "Over" even though he had released the mike button. Clearly he had more to say. I waited another couple of heartbeats.
​
Then:
​
Smitty: "I can do this."
​
His voice wasn't shaking any more. His transmission on the Whiskey net wasn't a question. It was a statement.
​
And all the forward observers, Gunny Fab and the mortar fire direction center huddled around a radio down the trail consumed by suspense, everyone who was listening to every word that passed between us, everyone heard him when he said it.
​
And this time he added, "Over."
​
Me: "I know you can Smitty. Screw the gear. Get your medevacs out and get out of there, over."
​
Smitty: "Roger, Six. Out."
​
Moments later I could hear one of the birds cut its engines so it could auto-rotate into the zone.
​
It was Smitty’s finest hour.
