U.S. Army Captain Thomas Pienta: Firsthand Account of a Vietnam War Helicopter Pilot

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I stayed on the controls; the Huey fell about 15 feet to the ground and remained upright. I couldn’t see or breathe, but I knew I had to exit the aircraft. I unbuckled the shoulder harness and lap belt and stood up from the armored seat, knowing it would be impossible to exit through my door. As I stood up, the collapsing rotor system crashed into my helmet and knocked me sideways — at least I believe that’s what hit me. It smashed me to the left across the radio console into a sort of side-straddle position across the other pilot’s seat. That’s when I knew that Bob Trezona had made it out of the Huey.

Months later in the hospital, Trezona told me he stood up and fell straight forward out of the helicopter. It had pretty much disintegrated when the RPG hit. Lying across the aircraft commander’s armored seat, I truly thought I was going to die. I could no longer hold my breath and was sucking heat into my lungs; I had to try again to escape. This time I successfully stood up and went between the two pilot seats and out the cargo door just as we had been taught in flight school. As I broke free of the flames, all I could think of was that there was going to be another explosion. Survival instinct and training were controlling my body. The helicopter had done all the exploding it was ever going to do. It was just blazing out of control. I ran about 20 yards and rolled on the ground to extinguish the flames on my burning body.

I put my hands in a puddle of water to cool them off — the only severe pain I was feeling at the time was in my hands. My fingers were pencil thin after being cooked inside the leather gloves, but at least they were still there. The leather had burned itself onto my hands. My flak jacket was still burning, and I think I removed it. The foam padding on the chin strap and the neck strap of my flight helmet was burning my face and neck; I did feel that pain and I flipped off the helmet.

By now, my arms and legs didn’t want to do a whole lot of bending, and the pain was gone because third-degree burns kill the nerve endings — until they start cutting the dead skin off in the hospital; then the pain is tortuous. I ran farther from the burning wreckage and, unknowingly, was running closer to the NVA gun positions. Fortunately, the billowing black smoke from the Huey must have momentarily prevented the NVA from finishing us off with small-arms fire. They were still shooting, but they couldn’t pinpoint a target. Or maybe they wanted to wait and capture us.

Our gunships then laid down the last of their minigun ammunition and rockets. Years later, I talked to Warrant Officer Jim Rohde, who was flying the gunship that expended its ammunition seemingly at my feet. He told me they couldn’t see anything around our helicopter because of the smoke, but they had an idea where we might be. He could have been no more than 30 feet off the deck. I saw him bank abruptly to the left as he passed over me about 20 yards to my left. In my dreams I can still hear the deafening roar of his minigun as he expended the rest of his ammunition while I stumbled around on the ground.

I thank Rohde with all my heart for what he did next. He stayed on station, continuing his gun runs as if he had more ammunition, while the other gunships returned to the closest place to rearm. I firmly believe that by making those unarmed gun runs Rohde kept the enemy soldiers’ heads down and prevented the NVA from venturing out to capture us. Only because of the expertise and bravery of the ‘Rat Pack’ pilots was I not killed by friendly fire.

I now knew which way to run, back toward my helicopter. But now I realized that my arms and legs were burnt black. Everything now seemed to happen in slow motion, as if I could see each and every frame of a projected film. I guess I was now in the proverbial ‘bubble,’ where sound no longer seems to exist and the will to live requires your body to continue the struggle for survival. I came upon a group of wounded and dead infantry soldiers, some of whom may have been in my helicopter, and told them to remove my .38 from my holster and use it if necessary, because my hands were useless. I remember them just staring at me as though I was a monster who had emerged from the smoke.

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Tags: 20th - 21st Century, Airborne Operations, Historical Conflicts, Historical Figures, People, Vietnam War

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