How to Fall Out of a Plane and Live
Monday, Memorial Day 1970 in DaNang, South Vietnam was a day like any other in DaNang. Now and then, there would be an enemy infiltration attempt. More often, it was a time of frequent rocket and mortar attacks. The Viet Cong (VC) were never very good at aiming rockets, but they got lucky now and then. I was stationed here for the next 30 to 60 days, assigned to assist in the installation of some new communications equipment and to accomplish some programmed maintenance training. When completed, if all went well, I would return to Tan Son Nhut AB in Saigon. The night before, the VC had destroyed a barracks next to the transient quarters (TQ) in which I was billeted. The destroyed barracks was already under re-construction due to a previous attack. There were only six of us staying in the TQ at the time. We had spent the majority of our night wearing our helmets and flak jackets and sitting behind our bunks on the ground floor. The barracks was surrounded with large, sand-filled revetments, so it would take a direct hit to really put a person in serious danger. One guy had been to DaNang before and professed to have experienced several rocket and mortar attacks in his time. He promptly had us build a “cot igloo”. This was a large open space inside a cubical of cots and insulated by mattresses. Inside, we would all sit around, smoke if we liked… or drink...even play some cards. It was much more comforting to be afraid together than alone under your cot. Yes, it was scary; but all I had to do was think about the Marines I saw slogging through the rice paddies and facing very personal danger every minute of every hour. That’s scary. Anyway, when it was over, when the sirens sounded the “all clear”, most went to bed; but some couldn’t sleep after all that excitement. Me.
Staff Sergeant Silas Johnson couldn’t sleep either. He had just re-enlisted and volunteered for this assignment. He was TDY from Yokota, Japan. He’d recently received quite a large “signing bonus” of over $10,000 and a fourth stripe for re- enlisting in his highly critical career field. Silas was a cryptographic equipment repair person with a “Presidential” Top Secret clearance. Silas was going to be a dedicated “lifer.” He was single and spoke with excitement of all the travel involved in frequent re-assignment or temporary duty. During the attack and sharing his Couvoisier VSOP with all of us huddled in the “cot igloo”, he told us that he was the first black man in his family NOT to spend his life as a sharecropper in rural Mississippi. He read a lot and sent money home every month to help his family. He was trying hard not to get caught up in the racial issues of the day; but said bluntly that many of the violence issues were very real. He had seen a black man hanged by the KKK one night in an all-black cemetery when he was only eight years old. He and his brother were hiding in bushes. That would make racism real for anyone.
Sorry. I digress. Now, the attack is over. We’ve righted our bunks and made our beds. Since neither Silas nor I could sleep, I grabbed my bottle of Courvoisier XO that I had purchased for a special occasion. Silas was impressed. Brandy was kind of a social statement among blacks at the time. His bottle hadn’t gone too far with six people sitting in the “cot igloo” and “sipping” on it during a rocket/mortar attack. Never a true connoisseur of brandy, I had just paid for the highest priced available at the Class VI store at the time. There was a small refrigerator in the transient barracks, so I got some paper cups and ice. Ice is kind of a “no no” with brandy, but who cared? We grabbed a couple of folding chairs and climbed the outside stairs to the second floor landing at the end of the barracks. We positioned the chairs to look out over the runway. A fleet of F-4 Phantom fighters lined the runway immediately across the street. All were painted with camouflage… all but one. I’d seen it before. That particular F-4 was flat black…all over. On the nose, in olive drab and using someone’s eerie version of Chiller font, it said, “Ten Tons of Death”. Beside the words, an olive drab profile of the Grim Reaper pointing toward the nose. On the tail, it simply said, “Phantom’s Phantom.” It was rumored that Captain Phantom lived, ate, slept and drank - did everything - with his ground crew, that they were an inseparable team. It was not uncommon to see Capt. Phantom take off on “solo sorties”, fully armed and headed to “light up” Monkey Mountain, a nearby Vietcong/NVA stronghold. His ground crew, who verified the rumors of their constant companionship, also verified that he never brought back so much as a bullet. They were a proud crew.
Dawn was beginning to light the morning sky after the previous night’s rocket and mortar attack. It was going to be another muggy day. We saw a C-123 Provider coming in for a landing. Fairchild made those rugged little cargo planes to land and take off in less space and on rougher terrain than a normal cargo plane. Like the less agile, but larger and more powerful C-130, the back end opened up to facilitate unloading, whether while in flight by parachute or on the ground. They also had a side doorway for passenger entry. Regardless which door is in use, crew members were always to wear their safety lines, lines that keep them from falling to the ground should they accidently fall out of the aircraft during an in-flight off-load procedure. Well…..they are supposed to; but this fine morning, one Sgt. Isaac Stillwell had become lax, had forgotten to hook up. They had already off-loaded their cargo and were coming home. What could go wrong? He was experienced. As we watched the C-123 make a lazy, curving approach to the runway, we noticed that someone was standing in the side doorway of the aircraft. We were just loose enough on the cognac to think that he might see us wave at him….so we waved. What! No way! He did see us wave and was waving back.
Just as Sgt. Isaac Stillwell waved, an emergency had developed. The C-123 was in line for the runway; but Capt. Phantom was coming in "hot." His aircraft had taken enemy fire and was smoking badly. We could actually see some flames from a gash in the metal on the starboard side. Apparently, he had contacted the tower and needed to take the same runway….NOW. We could already hear the sirens at the other end of the runway. Emergency equipment was being made ready. Suddenly, the agile C-123 very abruptly made a full power 60* bank to starboard to get out of the flaming F-4’s path. When he did, Sgt. Isaac Stillwell fell out the doorway in which he stood so casually just a second earlier. By just one hand, he was hanging on to a canvas strap that was on the inner wall of the aircraft. The C-123 was engaged in a full power turn and, as he hung out in space, he was being blown by the air from the propeller of the 1000 horsepower reciprocating engine. Later, he recounted he couldn't feel the hand that was holding on so dearly; and that his earplugs were all that kept him from being permanently deafened. While the plane made its large circle, coming back to the landing pattern, the crew was trying desperately to think of some way to retrieve him without his safety line.
Phantom’s Phantom was being sprayed with some chemical and the good Captain was unscathed. We later learned his plane had suffered extensive damage, but was salvageable. Just twenty days later, she was again bearing down on Monkey Mountain in the wee hours of the morning. In the meantime, the C-123 was back in the pattern, leveled off. Silas turned to me and said, “I’ve got a jeep. Let’s go to the flight line cafeteria. I want to meet this guy.” The cafeteria was immediately adjacent to the “reception area” where the flight crews came in from the tarmac. They had very good burgers.
Silas had just parked the jeep when we saw them bringing Isaac from the aircraft. A crew member was on each arm and it was apparent that Isaac had peed in his pants. He was still visibly shaking and his left hand was a bit bloody. Since that left hand was all that was between Isaac and falling to his death, they had to pry his fingers from the canvas strap, even after he had swung back into the doorway of the plane and was standing safely on the floor of the aircraft. The other crew members said his legs were very wobbly and he was muttering something about basic training before he realized he was going to live.
Staff Sergeant Silas asked, “What are you gonna do with that guy?” The crew chief responded with a smile, “We’re gonna take him to the dispensary and get him a sedative.” I chimed in, “Give him to us. We’ll clean him up and sedate the son of a bitch.” The rest of the crew laughed out loud when the crew chief said, “He’s yours. Take good care of him.” The crew chief looked at Isaac and asked, “Can you make it to their jeep?” Isaac offered a smile that looked more like a painful wince and nodded, “I can make it.” He turned to Silas and me and whispered, “I pooped in my pants.” He was still a little wobbly, but he made it…smiling. We cleaned him up, got him some clean underwear and fatigues, dressed his hand as well as any medic might have, and got him incredibly drunk. He told some good stories about places they had off loaded or picked up cargo. His life had been on the line many times, but not like today. Eventually, we put Isaac to bed.
Staff Sergeant Silas and I talked later about the incident. We both agreed. It almost seemed that we could actually hear his screams, even over the F-4’s jet engine and the roar of the C-123’s two reciprocal engines at full power. We knew better, of course; but it made for a good laugh. I doubt that either of us ever saw Sgt. Isaac Stillwell again. I have wondered many times about Isaac’s dreams that night or any night since. Not something one would ever forget. What a story to tell your children or your grandchildren.
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