It’s March 10th, 1966.
Four warplanes roar through the A Shau valley,
deep in the jungle of Vietnam.
They’re A-1E Skyraiders from the 1st Air Commando,
racing to aid a base under attack.
Leading the charge is Major Bernard F. Fisher.
Visibility is terrible, cloud cover is heavy and low,
keeping the flight stuck in an 800 foot band between the treetops and total blindness.
Black smoke rises from the jungle ahead
and it marks their destination.
Lost in the sea of green lies the wrecked remnants of an airbase.
It’s littered with craters after two days of heavy shelling
and its soldiers have been pushed back all the way to a select few bunkers,
holding on by the skin of their teeth.
It’s a desperate last stand as they await rescue.
But such rescue isn’t imminent.
The 1st Air Commando is here to help them and hold.
The four planes fly over the base for the first time that day
and are instantly greeted by heavy small-arms fire.
One of the four planes is almost instantly struck square on the windshield, the pilot is unharmed,
but he can see nothing through the shattered canopy,
so he pulls away before firing a single shot.
They’re down a plane but that won’t stop them.
Fisher spots a concentration of Vietcong soldiers underneath
and together the three planes dive for their first run of the day.
Coming in at speed they unleash the A-1E’s 20mm cannons,
pounding the ground with a rain of High Explosives tearing through the enemy line.
Fisher is pulling out of the dive when suddenly a bright orange flash lights up the gray sky.
He looks back and to his horror he sees the plane of a fellow pilot Major Dafford Myers
completely engulfed in flames,
the trail of fire emerging from the aircraft’s engine and stretching all the way past its tail.
Myers gets on the radio calling emergency, to which Fisher shouts back at him to bail immediately.
But Myers doesn’t, aware that he is flying far too low for the parachute to open in time.
Thinking quickly, he ditches his bombs into the jungle and turns in for the base runway.
The fireball slams against the ground, slides across the tarmac
scraping and sparking as it comes to a grinding halt at the very tail end of the runway.
Fisher looks at the wreckage burning from above
and to his great relief he witnesses a figure emerging from the flames scurrying away.
He overflies the scene of the crash and spots his fallen comrade lying down on a drainage ditch.
Myers waves at him as he flies past, confirming he’s ok, but Fisher knows he’s far from safe.
The runway is firmly in the Vietcong’s hands, it’s surrounded on all sides by enemy forces.
Fisher radios their base, informing them of the crash landing and requesting an immediate rescue.
“Man down! Man down! We need a copter!”
But the reply is disheartening.
“We’ll have one for you in 20 minutes.”
With all his might Fisher desperately balances defending both Myers and the base soldiers.
He’s in constant communication with the second A-1E,
relaying enemy contacts and coordinating the desperate defense.
They strafe advancing enemy formations relentlessly and drop their heavy bombs on the most important positions.
The two planes keep it up for 10 frenetic minutes,
Fisher has run out of bombs and is quickly running out of the 20-milimiter ammo.
He radios the base requesting an update on the rescue, only to be told they don’t know,
and it’ll ‘probably’ be 20 more minutes.
Fisher curses, even with the help of two other planes from the other squadron he can’t hold for that long.
His mind races in desperation, the rescue won’t arrive, he must do something and do it quick.
He radios the base one more time and asks about the length of the runway below him,
the operator replies that it's 3500 feet long.
A little over a thousand meters.
Fisher knows the A-1 needs just 3000 feet for landing.
He could do it.
He’s preparing for the approach when the same operator once again radios him.
It’s a mistake; the actual runway length is only 2500 feet, way too short.
Fisher hesitates upon hearing the news,
but he’s already made up his mind.
Full of determination he broadcasts to both the base and his fellow A-1 that he’s going to land for Myers anyway.
A voice immediately replies telling him not to,
but Fisher doesn’t even know who the voice belongs to, for he doesn’t pay attention.
He cuts the engine’s throttle and extends the air brakes as he brings the aircraft around for approach.
Columns of smoke rise from nearby hangars obscuring his view of the runway, but he’s committed.
The plane slows all the way down to its stall speed,
barely staying in the air as he punches through the black smoke and lands hard on the runway.
Fisher immediately slams on the brakes as the aircraft speeds down the runway,
bouncing and shaking as it runs over small craters and debris littered across the strip.
He races past the runway’s midpoint and alarms begin to ring in his head.
He’s going too fast.
The end of the runway is coming in quick and there is nothing more he can do,
the brakes are red hot and they could burst any second.
He looks straight ahead with despair as he realizes he’s headed directly to a fuel dump
protected by nothing but a small dirt mound.
He closes his eyes, and prays.
The plane strikes the mount, jolting it upward just like it sped over a speedbump.
It comes clattering down on the other side and strikes a pile of 55-gallon barrels with its wing,
spilling their contents all over the floor.
Quickly, Fisher throttles up the engine and hurries to get out of there,
fortunately the propeller was untouched, the plane emerges from the dump, battered, but still working.
Myers peeks out of his ditch waving his hands for Fisher to see.
He quickly taxies the plane over and stops in front of him.
Myers runs into the open and in that exact moment Fisher hears bullets striking his fuselage,
Vietcong soldiers are pushing his position.
Fisher checks out of the window for Myers, but he’s disappeared.
He places his face against the glass, but sees nothing.
Then checks his cockpit mirrors, still nothing.
Fear starts to take hold of him, Myers must have been hit.
He opens the canopy and peeks out in the middle of the gunfire
and immediately sees Myers holding onto the leading edge of the wing being lambasted
by the wind of the prop, unable to get up.
He quickly grabs Myers, pulls him onto the wing and down head-first into the cabin.
Myers falls unceremoniously into the seat and Fisher hurriedly slams the throttle to full.
The plane starts accelerating down the runway as Fisher closes the cockpit and hastily sets the plane up for takeoff.
They pick up speed, the rough runway surface violently shakes the airframe
all the while he can still hear the bullet strikes against the aircraft’s airframe.
The end is approaching fast; the plane is not speeding quickly enough.
Fisher can feel their doom fast approaching, they’ve not going to make it.
He pulls hard on the stick and just hopes for the best.
The plane tries to lift but it’s still not quick enough.
Extremely slowly and lazily the machine begins to rotate
and on the very last feet of a runway the plane miraculously takes off into the sky.
The men are shaken, especially Myers.
He’s covered head to toe in mud from the ditch,
and they both know he must be badly burned underneath it.
But he’s alive.
Halfway back to their base they receive a transmission telling Fisher that a chopper is closing in
and ‘might be able to’ save the pilot, to which Fisher proudly replies he’s already got him out.
The two surviving planes successfully arrive back at base.
Medics greet Fisher right away to tend to Myers, but he refuses to leave the plane, still deeply shaken.
He was eventually helped out and was admitted to the hospital with multiple but surprisingly minor burns.
And would be discharged the next day and make a full recovery.
Major Bernard F. Fisher would be awarded the Medal of Honor for his incredible bravery on that day.
He went on to have a long career in the army and retired to be with his wife and children.
Passing away peacefully in his home in Boise, Idaho in 2014.
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