Accident at Lai Khe 1/16/1969

Company A

227th Assault Helicopter Battalion

1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile)

Helicopter Crash A/227th Jan. 16, 1969
by Paul Antokolsky

On January 16, 1969, I was a Specialist-5 medic with the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Infantry (Mechanized), part of the 1st Infantry Division. I'd been in-country for ten months.
I was working in our battalion aid station when I heard two loud, sharp noises - whack whack. I knew whatever caused those sounds wasn't normal, so I ran outside. I saw a papa-san who worked for us, who had a look of deep concern on his face. He pointed toward another unit's hooches in a stand of rubber trees, and I ran in that direction.
I soon saw the crashed Huey. It looked like it had fallen straight down. It's skids were crushed under it, and its main rotor and rear assembly were missing. It was sitting in a big pool of its own aviation fuel. The sounds I'd heard were likely the main rotor blades hitting the trees as it lost altitude. I didn't hear the impact.
When I got to the copter, several people were already standing around it, but too shocked to do anything. One of the casualties was lying next to the helicopter, so I checked him first. There was no pulse or respiration, and he had suffered extensive internal injuries and fractures from the crash. There was no external bleeding. Then I went inside the wreck, thinking to myself, "I hope no one lights a cigarette."
Inside, I found five more casualties, all laying on the floor or on pieces of smashed equipment. Their injuries were very much the same as the first man's. I thought I detected a faint pulse from a couple of them, but nothing else. None of them were to any degree conscious; none of them had suffered. Everything and everyone inside the Huey was covered with dust, so I couldn't distinguish anything about them. Not their rank, nor their age, nor their race. Just American soldiers who had died together.
A couple of vehicles now pulled up from the base hospital, and the casualties were carried into the ambulances. But this was only six men.
One of the bystanders now got my attention, and pointed towards some trees that were about 100 feet away. When I looked up, I saw the seventh occupant of the helicopter, at least 25 feet above the ground, lying face down in the crook of a rubber tree. He may have fallen out or jumped. I watched him intently for any signs of movement, but saw none. I have no idea how they got his body down from there.
When I walked back to my own unit's area, I felt sad and discouraged, and angry that I had been so powerless to help those men. Later that day, we got confirmation from the hospital that everyone on the helicopter had died. Someone told us that the chopper was carrying lumber to help build an orphanage. That was close enough to the truth that I realized these men had died trying to do some good in the midst of a terrible war.
In my life, January 16th is always the day of the helicopter crash.
Years afterwards, with the help of the internet, I was able to find out their names, and a little bit about them. I also discovered that no other company sized unit in Vietnam had suffered so many fatalities on that day as did the A/227th. I made a small memorial for the seven, and put it under their names at the Wall. It was very poignant seeing those names clustered together in stone. Although they were buried far from each other, they'll always be together on the Wall.