A Man Who Saw Hell

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because

he

works

lovely

and

burst

and

power.

Oh, it is so damn hot out there.

That ain't much better in here, man.

Oh.

Hey, Roy.

You just wake up?

Yeah, I had the night shift.

A radio watch.

Anything exciting?

Nah, the usual.

You're just coming off?

Yep.

What time is it?

Uh, about uh

13:30.

You okay?

Ah,

I'll be okay.

These cots ain't too friendly on my back.

Well,

I guess I'll go get me some chow.

Alright.

See you later.

If I don't sweat to death in here anyway.

See ya.

At around 1.30 p.m., at the Loch Nin Special Forces compound, Sergeant Roy Benavides had awoken, drenched in sweat, unable to continue sleeping through the heat.

The stiffening pain from his previous combat injuries wasn't helping either.

Roy had worked the late shift the night before, monitoring the radio communications for a recon team inserted near the Cambodian border the previous day.

Pulling on his uniform and sheathing his SOG recon knife on his belt, With nothing else to do, he stepped outside, his feet carrying him toward the mess hall.

Happening upon a Christian service being held outside, always a devout Catholic, Roy paused to remove his cover and listened to the rest of the sermon.

Having satisfied his hunger for God's word, he saluted the chaplain, then continued on to find nourishment for his body.

Having only walked a few steps, two pilots suddenly burst into view, sprinting past him towards the helicopter pads.

Curious, Roy redirected himself to the tactical operations center.

What's going on?

Heavy contact in Daniel Boone.

We're getting weakened down here.

We'll be chasing

that out later.

Be sure you still cack air.

Who is it?

Don't know.

They're catching hell out there.

All right, thanks.

All thoughts of his breakfast now forgotten, Roy rushed out of the tent, heading for the tarmac.

This is part three of the story of Roy Benavitez: Six Hours in Hell.

I'm Luke Lamana,

and this

is Wartime Stories.

Hey,

hey, you guys.

No, what's going on?

The team's taking a beating.

Two slicks got shot up trying to pull them out.

Lost a gunship, and they're trying to pull that crew out now.

The fact called it Daniel Boone Tacky on the Guard channel.

I never heard anybody call that before.

It's bad.

Any idea who it is?

Ah, no idea.

Sorry.

Having arrived back in Vietnam only two weeks ago, Roy had first been assigned to the Ho Nak Tau compound, where the B-52 Special Forces Detachment Command was centered.

The Mac V-Sog environment was vastly different from his experiences with the conventional army.

Reuniting with his old friends, this collective unit felt more like family than military.

Along with some of his friends, Roy had recently been reassigned to the Lochnan compound, closer to the Cambodian border, to take part in the top-secret cross-border operations.

As he stood wearing a concerned expression on the tarmac, Roy reflected on his own recent experience with being extracted from a mission while in heavy contact.

A week prior, he and a fellow operator had been been pinned down under enemy fire.

His friend was severely wounded, having been shot through the eye, the face, and the back.

Roy called for immediate extract to save his friend's life.

Unable to land, the arriving helicopters had lowered nylon ropes, a Maguire rig.

Roy secured his friend and himself onto the two lines.

Since the simple rig wasn't designed to pull the men up into the helicopter, they simply dangled underneath as they were lifted to safety.

Unfortunately, during the flight, the ropes became increasingly intertwined, the friction between them now starting to melt the nylon.

Realizing this danger, the helicopter's bellyman, Roy's longtime friend from his Green Beret training, Sergeant Leroy Wright, risked his own life by lowering himself down on his own rope in mid-flight, slowly working his way down the two tangled ropes until they were freed.

By his actions, Leroy may well have saved Roy's life.

Now, a week later, as he stood on the tarmac listening to to the radio, Roy wasn't sure if he personally knew anyone on the teams in trouble, but he wanted to find out the names of the men so he could add them to the prayers for their safety that he was repeating in his head.

Meanwhile, back at the jungle clearing, despite having the Mad Dog gunships on scene, things were looking grim for the surviving members of the recon teams.

Grenades lobbed into the team's position and exploded, with Wright's paralyzed body being thrown into the air, the men nearby being peppered with hot shrapnel.

With his clothing bloody and shredded, assuming he was dead, O'Connor was surprised to see Wright now pushing himself back up onto his elbows.

As more grenades flew over their heads, O'Connor attempted to get the radio ready to coordinate air support.

To his dismay, the radio was again jammed with their commanding officers berating each other for not pulling the team out sooner.

I will have your ass for this major.

I hand direct doors and keep those men on the ground.

Guys, we are getting wasted down here.

If you assholes could work that out later, we can sure you some tack air.

Fumbling through his radio's programmed frequencies, O'Connor finally got through to tornout.

We have a gunship now.

Support is on the way.

As O'Connor received this update, he watched as his team leader's head abruptly jerked back, a bullet hole in his forehead.

Leroy Wright was dead.

Leroy!

Leroy!

No!

Here's support two minutes out.

I need your position and target identification.

We have two teams down here.

I'm in.

Stay with me.

I'm coming in to slow them down.

As Tornau coordinated between the circling helicopters and incoming fighter jets, he dropped his altitude and lined up to drop a white phosphorus rocket at the enemy-occupied tree line to mark the target for the incoming F-100s, carrying napalm and cluster bombs.

As Akana writhed in pain, losing consciousness, he saw Tuan, his arm now hanging at his side, barely attached to the shoulder by muscle and skin, pointing with his remaining arm at Mousseau, whose face was bloodied, his mangled eyeball dangling from its socket as he yelled.

As O'Connor gave himself a morphine injection and began stripping rucksacks from his dead teammates, he realized with dread they were nearly out of ammunition.

Back at Loch Nin, watching a damaged slick come in hard and fast, practically crashing down onto the helicopter pad.

Hoping to put his combat medic skills to work, Roy rushed forward as the pilot began shouting.

Laying on the blood-soaked floor of the aircraft was Michael Craig.

Seeing the horrific extent of Craig's chest wound, Roy knew there was nothing he could do for the 20-year-old man dying before him.

We got you, buddy.

You're gonna be fine.

You're going home.

Despite Roy's reassurances, Michael Craig seemed to know, but only the dying would, as he spoke his final words.

Back at the jungle clearing, Tornau's white phosphorus rocket had hit its mark, the blinding white smoke burning at thousands of degrees in the open air, scorching the eyes, throats, and lungs of the nearest NBA soldiers as they collapsed inside the tree line.

On target,

Roger, on target, good hit.

Stay alone.

Coming coming in, come on.

Roger.

O'Connor waited, wondering what would come first: the enemy overrunning their position or the incoming airstrike.

A clap of sudden thunder answered his question, followed by the sounds of the jets' afterburners as they roared overhead.

A blast of scorching heat engulfed the team, but the enemy suffered the worst of the cluster bomb and nate bomb impacts.

Beautiful.

Thanks.

With the PZ still being too hot with enemy fire to attempt an extraction, Tornow called in another tactical air request.

These new airstrikes hit the southern tree line, as well as the Ho Chi Minh Trail, a half mile away, hoping to clog the road and stop the seemingly limitless reinforcements.

Having briefly left to provide cover for the nearby extraction of the crashed Mad Dog 1 crew, Mad Dog 3 and 4 were soon back on the scene, drawing some of the enemy fire away from the teams as they poured their lead and rockets into the renewed waves of NBA soldiers.

Hit the trees on the southwest side of the clearing!

As the screams of the burning NBA soldiers and the smell of burning flesh and trees continuously filled the clearing, the split teams used the brief opportunity to inject morphine and patch up their untreated wounds.

Having suffered significant blood loss, they were now fighting a new enemy, Unconsciousness, praying that their extract would arrive soon.

Unfortunately, the enemy suddenly made yet another assault on their position.

They're coming in!

Problem one, we're dogged.

This is

taking a burst of enemy auto fire into his radio and abdomen, O'Connor collapsed.

Knowing he was close to death, clinging to consciousness, he attempted to expend the last of his ammunition into the grass in front of him before he died.

Heavenly Father, take this man into your open arms.

In Jesus' precious name,

Laying Craig's body gently onto a stretcher, Roy now watched as Greyhound 2 and 4 landed hard on the runway, nearly colliding with another incoming helicopter attempting to land, sparks flying as they skidded some distance across the black top before coming to a stop.

I never saw a ground fire like that before.

That's not at least a battalion of NBA down there.

Roy began walking between the helicopters, catching snippets of conversation and hoping to find out who was still out there, with the conversations giving him a foreboding sense that there was little to no chance for the team's survival.

Waggy!

Hey!

Hey, Roy.

Do you have any idea who's out there on the team?

I don't know their names.

Sorry.

There was that big black sergeant.

You know him?

Roy's heart froze.

That was his friend.

The man that had saved his life.

Leroy Wright.

There was a hum of turbines.

Roy spun around to see Greyhound 1's rotors beginning to spin.

Without hesitation, he grabbed a medical bag off the ground and ran to the departing helicopter, jumping in beside the two crew members manning the door guns.

You going back, King?

We're gonna try.

At least drop him some ammo.

I

Giving Roy the thumbs up, Warren Officer Larry McKibben lifted the aircraft off the runway.

Now speeding west over the Mekong Delta, back toward the firefight, Roy spotted the pilot and co-pilot's M16s strapped to the cabin wall.

Roy suddenly realized, In his haste, he had broken the most basic cardinal rule of any special forces soldier, of any Buck private grunt for that matter.

He was heading into battle without his weapon.

He had no gear at all, no firearms, no ammunition, no smoke canisters, no grenades, no water.

All he had was the medical bag, a small bottle of Tabasco in his pocket, and the eight-inch recon knife he had received from Okinawa and always carried on his belt.

We got an opening.

Greyhound 2, I need you now.

Roger that.

I'm here, Greyhound 2.

I'll go in next.

Negative, Rayhound 1.

I'm already on my way in.

Nope, My turn.

Okay, Greyhound 1.

I'll go down with you to draw some fire.

As Roy moved to the edge of the cabin and prepared to disembark, McKibben switched frequencies to contact the team on the ground.

RT Bravo, this is Greyhound 1.

We are incoming.

Stand by for extract.

He received no response, only the sounds of gunfire.

It's going to be hot.

If they can't get to us and we can't get to them, we'll drop ammo.

Roy watched their approach through the cockpit.

Nothing but treetops and smoke.

Suddenly, the treetops disappeared.

They were over the clearing.

Dropping into the PZ 100 yards east of the team's position, the NBA immediately directed their fire onto Great Hump 1.

We're taking heavy fire.

I don't think we can get close enough.

Wait!

Just get me as close as you can.

I'll get to them!

Hovering 15 feet off the ground, Roy took a deep breath, pushed the medical bag out of the door, and jumped.

Witnessing from a distance from his mad dog gunship, crew chief Pete and Galis was horrified horrified at what he was seeing, believing Roy had been shot out of the slick.

Nobody was crazy enough to jump out into that battle.

As soon as he hit the grass, Roy was up and running hard.

Seeing Roy's approach, O'Connor fought back against the growing darkness and pulled himself up, taking aim with his rifle to provide Roy some covering fire.

As the departing slick passed over O'Connor's head, the crewman dropped a belt of ammo out of the door, which landed too far beyond O'Connor's position for him to reach it.

Only a few strides into his sprint, Roy Roy was knocked off his feet, an enemy round passing cleanly through his leg muscle.

He was back on his feet in seconds, heading for the nearest cover, the closest thicket, where Mousseau, Bao, and the other wounded Sijis were also providing him cover fire.

With bullets flying past, an RPG exploded in front of him, sending shrapnel into his face.

At the same time, he was hit with another enemy round.

Roy went down a second time.

Scanning the grass for him, Moussau suddenly heard Roy shouting,

Wiping blood from his eyes, Roy crawled the remaining distance to Musso's position and began bandaging his bleeding leg.

Where's the rest of the team?

Over by that other thicket!

Okay, let me have your radio.

We're getting out of here.

As FACTORNAU, along with the Greyhounds, Mad Dogs, and Fighter Jet pilots, circled the area, a new voice suddenly broke through their intercoms.

All stations, this is Tango Mike Mike.

I am with the team.

They're in bad shape down here.

Multiple wounded.

Request immediate medivac.

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Connor!

You okay?

Ammo!

Who's alive?

Connor raised only two fingers, the second being for Tuan, who now lay barely conscious from the blood loss of his severed arm.

Going out!

Try and get over here!

A few painful inches at a time, O'Connor pushed the delirious Sidgey interpreter ahead of him as he crawled on his side, keeping his stomach wound out of the dirt.

Enemy fire raked across his path to Roy, preventing him from moving any further away from the anthill.

Roy tossed a smoke grenade from McKibben to identify.

Identify smoke!

I see green smoke!

Greyhound 1 swooped down into the PZ, flattening and swirling the billowing green smoke, its door gunners laying down suppressive fire into the distant jungle.

Grabbing an AK-47 off the ground, Roy escorted Mousseau, Bao, and two Sijis as they limped and dragged themselves to the door of the helicopter, heaving themselves to the side.

Roy signaled to McKibben to pull the aircraft forward toward O'Connor's position at the next thicket, then jogging alongside as he and the door gunner fired into the tree line from the south.

20 feet from O'Connor, Roy darted over, diving down next to him behind the anthill, then seeing Tuan lying motionless, six feet away, with Leroy's body a few feet beyond that.

Can you walk?

Can crawl.

But Twan can.

What does Leroy have on him?

Yes or I?

And some maps.

Green.

Plastic pouch stuck in his shirt.

Here, take this.

Seeing that O'Connor only had his pistol, Roy handed him his AK-47.

Cover me.

Roy crawled to his his friend's body, reaching inside his shirt to retrieve the pouch of classified material, as well as Wright's camera.

Hearing movement nearby, Roy crawled back to Tuan, grabbing two grenades off his web gear and lobbing them into the tall grass.

He watched as two NVA jumped up to run, then crumpled to the ground as their grenades detonated.

Slapping Tuan's face to revive him, Roy directed his and O'Connor's attention to the helicopter.

They can't bring it any closer, because of the trees.

You're gonna have to crawl.

As the two wounded men began crawling away, Roy returned to Wright's body.

Tears now beginning to stream down his bloodied face.

He was determined to bring his friend's body back to his wife and two young boys, whose crayon drawings he had seen taped to Leroy's locker.

Roy shook himself out of his stupor.

This is no time to mourn, he thought.

O'Connor and Tuan had nearly reached the helicopter.

Working his arms underneath his friend's twinned-pound body, Roy began to drag him toward the helicopter, when he suddenly pitched forward, the wind being knocked out of him.

A bullet, the third he had taken so far, had slammed into his back, exiting beneath his left armpit.

Roy now felt a burning heat inside his body, as if he had been run through by a red-hot spear.

Suddenly, before he could start moving back toward the helicopter,

Matt, come on, man.

You've been down there too long.

Larry!

Get the hell out of there!

Yep, they're just getting them on board now.

Be done in a minute.

Circling in a wide bank overhead, Tornau lifted his binoculars to check on the hovering helicopter down below.

As if seeing it happen in slow motion, an NBA soldier suddenly ran from the tree line and unloaded his AK-47 into McKibben's cockpit, riddling his body with lead.

Helpless, horrified at what he was seeing, Tornau watched as Greyhound 1, now listed forward, the rotor blades violently slicing through the nearby trees and anthill, the tail of the aircraft breaking off, the men inside being thrown out.

The mangled helicopter finally came to a rest on the ground, nosed over on its right side.

As Greyhound 2 flew back over the clearing, Ewing saw the wreckage and understood.

His friend, Larry McKibben, was dead.

Not accepting strash in Greyhound 2.

Mac, you copying this?

Anyone on Greyhound 1, you copy.

Greyhound 1, do you leave me?

Roy!

As he regained consciousness, O'Connor saw Roy, his face and left side of his blouse covered in blood.

Roy was now pulling the crew and team members out of the crumpled aircraft.

Along with the pilot, one of the crew, Fournier, was now gone, crushed to death by the aircraft's transmission.

The surviving men were now scattered around the aircraft, some lying dazed in the grass, others crowding around the rear of the fuselage for cover.

Roy!

You okay, O'Cunner?

I think so.

With fuel leaking from the damaged helicopter, Roy began instructing the less wounded men away from it to form a perimeter around their position.

The chopper is gonna blow.

Move out!

I need ammo and a weapon.

Get the ammo weapons off the dead.

Splitting their group between what was left of the two thickets, now cut to shreds by thousands of rounds of NBA gunfire, the men crawled and linked away from the helicopter to what cover they could find.

O'Connor, you got a radio?

O'Connor nodded, pulling one emergency radio from his pack and another from Twan's.

Scavenging the dead NBA nearby, most of the men secured new weapons, but could scarcely find any ammunition.

Single shots, no auto fire.

Save your bullets.

O'Connor, hand me that radio.

I'll come back in a few minutes.

I'll call attack air closer.

Taking a moment to observe their situation, having accepted his own death only mere minutes before, O'Connor felt his fighting spirit renewed, realizing that Roy had now organized the battered remnants of their team and slick crew into a force to be reckoned with, positioning them in a way that would increase their chances of survival, inflict maximum casualties on the enemy, and secure the PZ against almost impossible odds.

Nonetheless, the NBA were likewise emboldened by the helicopter crash, now closing in on the wounded group of men to finish them off.

Seeing one NBA approaching his position, O'Connor feigned death, having only his.22 caliber pistol to fight with.

Falling for his trick, the soldier was practically on top of O'Connor before he realized his mistake.

O'Connor quickly raised his pistol, pumping several rounds into the man's chest, grabbing his AK-47, ammo, and canteen, then pulling the dead man's body onto its side, using him as a sandbag for cover.

Realizing they had evacuated the downed helicopter, enemy mortar fire, RPGs, and gunfire was now redirected on their new positions.

The American gunships and jets repaid the gesture by continuing to lay siege to the enemy-filled tree lines.

From the air, looking down onto the blackened and flattened jungle, the crew chief of Mad Dog 3, Paula Chance, realized with shock that the enemies were not firing only from above-ground level.

They were in established bunkers.

This was a practical nest of NBA soldiers, possibly thousands, with the addition of the men being trucked in on the nearby road.

Near the helicopter, one of the unconscious slick crew members, Dan Christensen, suddenly awoke to the hellscape around him, wondering groggily if he was caught inside of a tornado.

A man whose entire torso was soaked in dark coagulated blood was crawling towards him.

As this human ketchup bottle motioned for him to stay down, he realized it was Roy.

Giving him the thumbs up, Roy moved away towards O'Connor's group, jerking suddenly as he was hit by yet more incoming gunfire, pausing only momentarily before continuing on until he reached O'Connor.

Roy, O'Connor, and one of the surviving Siji began piling the dead NBA at Siji bodies nearby as sandbags to fortify their position before being hit by another barrage of gunfire and RPGs.

wounding Siji in the stomach and Roy in his leg.

O'Connor, give me the radio.

O'Connor tried to do so but was suddenly hit by a metal fragment which settled above his left kidney.

He couldn't move or talk anymore from the excruciating pain.

Roy grabbed the damaged radio which had ended up between his legs and attempted to make contact.

Finally, getting a gunship, he began directing its fire on a section of tree line.

With the enemy momentarily suppressed, Roy pulled morphine sirets from his his pocket and medbag.

He stuck one in O'Connor's shoulder, one in the wounded Sidgey, and another in himself, before checking the tourniquet on Tuan's severed arm as well.

We're getting out of here.

We're all sweating.

We're getting out.

Stay out.

I'll be right back.

Although damaged, Greyhound 3 had acquired a secondary crew and was lifting off the locked-in tarmac.

Nine men on the ground would be a heavy load, but they had no choice.

All the other helicopters were out of commission.

We got TAC Air Inbound.

Rayhound

A new wave of air support decimated the clearing's tree lines as the bomber jets passed over, the intense heat of their afterburners and following explosions, scorching the recon team on the ground, the men covering their faces, feeling as if their hair might catch fire.

The Mad Dog gunships followed after, pumping lead into anything that moved, as several dozen NBA attempted to hinder their gunfire by rushing closer to the recon team's position, using their downed helicopter as cover from the American gunships and Cessna 837 attack jets.

With enemy bodies now littering the ground, from above, it was difficult to ascertain the living from the dead.

As two new sets of jets, F-4 Phantoms, passed over and dropped their ordnance, filling the clearing with black smoke.

It was now or never.

Greyhound 3 swooped down onto the team's position, its medic, Salmons, jumping out and sprinting to help Roy, who directed him instead to a wounded Siji.

Between the whine of the Slick's engine, the fast movers and gunships flying overhead, and the enemy ground fire, the noise of the battle was deafening.

O'Connor and Mousseau, too weary from blood loss and fatigue, were unable to move themselves.

Roy put Mousseau over his shoulder.

O'Connor watched, seeing a Siji stand up from the grass behind Roy, wondering who the Siji was, before realizing his mistake.

The NBA soldier, either out of ammunition or hoping to capture a live American, swung his AK-47 like a bat at Roy's head, knocking him to his knees, forcing him to drop him so.

Still obscuring O'Connor's line of fire to the enemy soldier, Roy spun to face his attacker before being hit again by the enemy's rifle, this time in the face.

As O'Connor tried firing but missed, the NBA charged at Roy with his bayonet, slicing a deep gash through his left forearm.

As Roy attempted to trap the barrel of the rifle, pinning it under his arm, the soldier yanked the rifle back, the bayonet now slicing the side of Roy's stomach.

Moving before the enemy could attack him again, having only his recon knife to hand, Roy wrestled him to the ground, plunging his knife into the man's side, withdrawing it, and then driving it hard into the man's chest.

The soldier's body went limp.

Roy staggered to his feet.

I'm okay.

I'll cut her.

Interpreter is still alive.

Make sure they get him back.

Okay.

Okay.

Unable to remove his knife from the dead soldier's chest, Roy heaved Musso back onto his shoulder, using his free arm to help a wounded Siji to his feet.

Taking the Siji's AK-47, the three lumbered to the waiting helicopter, while O'Connor continued laying suppressive fire.

Reaching the helicopter, his intestines now spilling out of the gaping bayonet wound to his side, Roy suddenly snapped his AK-47 towards the tail of the aircraft, killing the two NBAs sprinting towards them.

After helping Musso into the cabin, instead of climbing inside, to the astonishment of the door gunner, Warrant Officer Darling, Roy turned around and staggered back towards the remaining men.

Meanwhile, the medic Salmons had finally reached O'Connor.

Hey, can you walk?

I don't think so.

All right, take my hand.

Salmons helped O'Connor and Asidji to their feet, draping their arms around his neck, half carrying and half dragging the two men toward the helicopter.

Unable to fire fire at the enemy behind them, the door gunner signaled for them to get down.

Salmon shouted, You need to crawl the rest of the way.

Go!

Unable to crawl, O'Connor began using his rifle as a crutch, walking on his knees, meeting Roy as he approached the helicopter.

O'Connor!

Here!

I got you!

You'll make it!

My interpreter's still back there.

Okay.

Okay.

Roy ran past him in the direction of the interpreter.

Having taken a round to the shoulder, Darling pulled himself back onto his M60 and continued firing as he watched the last man, Roy, carrying Twan in his arms, running as hard as he could back towards the helicopter.

Passing Twan off into the cabin, O'Connor watched as Roy turned himself around to face outboard, the men helping to pull him into the cabin as he continued firing his AK at the oncoming enemy.

Roy gave a thumbs up to the pilot, and the chopper lifted off.

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It had been six hours since the recon team had first taken contact with the NBA.

Blood poured from the sides of the cabin as Greyhound 3 cleared the jungle treetops and banked east back towards Loch Nin.

Greyhound 2 would later land back in the clearing.

Crew Chief Paul Taiaferi jumping out under enemy fire to look for survivors, either inside Greyhound 1 or in the surrounding area.

With no air support to allow them time to recover any of their friends' bodies, they quickly departed, fighting back tears as they returned to base.

Still under heavy fire from the enemy, a five-helicopter squadron from the 162nd Assault Helicopter Company, the Vultures, would later retrieve the bodies of all three Americans, as well as those of the remaining Siji.

Despite damage to their aircraft, they suffered no casualties during this recovery.

When Greyhound 3 arrived back at Loch Nin, Roy Benavides lay motionless between the pilots' seats, his body propped up against the console, his eyes crusted shut with blood, his arms crossed tightly over his gaping abdominal wound.

In his haste to leave no one behind, Roy had accidentally loaded three dead NVA soldiers onto the helicopter, having mistaken them for the fallen Sijis in disguise.

Having suffered more than 30 wounds, after being lifted out of the aircraft, Roy's limp and nearly unrecognizable body was laid on the ground alongside those of the dead NVA.

The men who did so, likewise assuming that these dead men were Sijis.

Zipping each corpse into a body bag, one by one, the attending men did the same to Roy, assuming he too was dead.

He certainly looked like it.

As he was roughly stuffed inside the heavy plastic bag, frozen in shock, Roy could still hear what was going on, but was unable to move, to open his eyes, or to speak.

Suddenly, Roy heard a commotion off to the side.

What the hell?

Why don't I damn Charlie in these bags?

Charlie?

He's another one.

And another.

Damn it!

Dump these bastards out!

Stop!

That's no damn Charlie.

That's Benavidez.

What?

Doc!

Get over here!

Benavidez!

But he wasn't on the mission!

Oh my god.

No.

Is he dead?

Oh, shit.

Look at him.

With the medic kneeling over him, his hand on Roy's chest, Roy felt the zipper being pulled back up over his body.

Even the medic believed he was dead.

And once that suffocating bodyback was closed, he would be.

Mustering the last of his strength, his mouth filled with blood.

Roy did the only thing he could.

He spit in the doc's face.

Stop!

He's not dead!

What the hell?

Oh my god, get him out of there!

Stretcher!

As the wounded men were medevaced to the nearest field hospitals, laying side by side in a helicopter on stretchers, Roy Benavidez and Lloyd Mousseau held firmly onto each other's hand.

Moussau had sent his three-year-old daughter a birthday card only a few days before the mission.

It would be the last correspondence his family would receive.

Shortly before landing, Roy suddenly felt Moussau's hand go limp.

He was 26 years old.

Following his surgery, O'Connor awoke in the hospital's intensive care unit to see Twan and Roy laying nearby, covered in IV drips and bandages.

Roy awoke on a later day to find O'Connor's bed empty.

Finding it too painful to ask one of the nurses, he just assumed O'Connor had died during the night.

O'Connor would likewise draw the same assumption about Roy.

It wasn't until July of 1980, some 12 years later, that O'Connor, now living in Fiji, would read a newspaper article which had been circulating for some time through the American sections of international papers.

The article, written by an El Campo, Texas publisher, Fred Barbie, discussed the heroic actions of May 2, 1968, and went on to address the fact that the Army Decorations Board had refused to award Roy the Congressional Medal of Honor, stating there was insufficient evidence for it.

O'Connor was thoroughly shocked and no less pleased to discover that Roy was still alive.

Reading through the article, he then became appalled to learn that Benavidez had never received the Medal of Honor.

Despite having spent the last 12 years trying to forget that awful day, Brian O'Connor knew he owed it to Roy to recount the details of the battle, to challenge the Decoration Board's decision.

Against all odds, Roy had saved his life.

On numerous occasions during his year-long recovery, Roy had been advised to retire from the Army for medical reasons.

As was his custom, he politely refused.

As returning veterans often received less than a warm welcome by their fellow Americans, regardless of any amount of ongoing public hatred during the remainder of the war, Roy continued to proudly wear his uniform wherever he went.

Roy would serve another eight years in the Army until 1976, serving a total of 25 years of military service when he was finally obliged to accept a medical retirement due to the extent of his injuries.

In July of 1980, Roy's young son handed him the phone, saying it was someone named Brian O'Connor.

Roy couldn't believe it.

O'Connor was alive.

Now hearing the voice of his friend, tears ran down his face, Roy finding himself unable to speak without getting choked up.

After catching up, Brian told Roy that he was submitting a statement to the Army Decorations Board about his heroic actions.

Due to the long delay, even with Brian's added testimony, in 1980, President Carter had to sign a congressional bill which granted an extension to the time limit on awarding medals for heroism.

With added delays due to the hostage crisis in Iran, on February 24th, 1981, the newly elected President Ronald Reagan conducted a ceremony at the Pentagon during which Roy was presented with his long-overdue Medal of Honor.

Wartime Stories is created and hosted by me, Luke Lamana.

Executive produced by Mr.

Bollin, Nick Witters, and Zach Levitt.

Written by Jake Howard and myself.

Audio editing and sound design by me, Cole Acascio, and Whitlacascio.

Additional editing by Davin Intag and Jordan Stiddam.

Research by me, Jake Howard, Evan Beamer, and Camille Callahan.

Mixed and mastered by Brendan Kane.

Production supervision by Jeremy Bone.

Production coordination by Avery Siegel.

Additional production support by Brooklyn Gooden.

Artwork by Jessica Cloxen Kiner, Robin Vane, and Picada.

If you'd like to get in touch or share your own story, you can email me at info at wartimestories.com.

Thank you so much for listening to Wartime Stories.

And we're back live during a flex alert.

Oh, we're pre-cooling before 4 p.m., folks.

And that's the end of the third.

Time to set it back to 78 from 4 to 9 p.m.

What a performance by Team California.

The power is ours.

Hey, it's Luke, the host of Wartime Stories.

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