Six Hours in Hell

Based on true events.

The helicopter bucks under my boots. I grip the doorframe, leaning out into the heat. Below, the jungle spits fire—short, vicious flashes punching up through the trees.

“Too hot! No LZ!” the pilot yells. “We’re returning to base.”

“Negative,” I command, though I have no authority. “Get us as close to the deck as you can.”

The pilot looks at me like he thinks I’m crazy. I probably am.

We lock eyes. He can see I mean it.

He shrugs.

“Okay, Sergeant, but it’s your ass if you get killed down there.”

“Just say ‘when,’” I shout.

He nods and turns to maneuver. A couple of rounds come through the cabin as we clear the area by enough distance to find us a place to jump. The chopper descends.

Thirty feet off the canopy.

Twenty.

I look at the other guys who are supposed to come with me. It’s clear they’re not coming.

Ten feet.

Five feet off the canopy.

I focus in on the set of branches I hope will break my fall. Otherwise it’s more than fifty feet to the ground.

“It’s now or never,” shouts the pilot.

I nod.

Twelve men down there. I know who’s with them. Gallegos, with the busted tooth and the scar above his eye. Leal, who sings off-key when he’s scared. McGee, who once pulled me out of a river with one hand and a cigar in his mouth. They may not be my blood, but we have spilled enough of it together; they are my brothers!

When the call came in, I stood still just long enough to watch the colonel go pale. Air support too far out. Options slim to none. I didn’t wait. Grabbed my aid bag and climbed aboard.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t explain.

I just said, “I’m going.”

Now the canopy’s a wall of green three feet below me. Other than the branches I have picked out, there are no other breaks. Nothing to break my fall. No view of land beneath. Could be sharp rocks. Could be a clump of well-placed ferns. Could be enemy troops with their rifles on the ready. I don’t know. I don’t think.

I act.