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And a lot a lot of death that day.

A lot of death.

And life goes on.

On January 8th, 1968, a 20-year-old door gunner named Gary Wetszel was riding in a Huey helicopter descending into a landing zone near a hamlet called Appdong Anne in the Meong Delta.

The mission was supposed to be a standard troop insertion, reinforcing American infantry already engaged in the area, but the landing zone turned out to be a trap.

The enemy had positioned heavy machine guns and RPGs in the tree lines and they held their fire until the helicopters were on final approach.

Completely committed and unable [music] to turn back.

Wetzel’s Huey took an RPG to the front that blew the aircraft apart and sent it slamming into the ground.

The pilots were hit.

Crew chief was peppered with shrapnel and Wetszel moved to help them.

That’s when a second rocket exploded just inches away from him.

The blast nearly severed his left arm, leaving it attached by only a flap of skin.

He was also hit in his right arm, [music] his chest, and his left leg.

The explosion threw him out of the helicopter and into a flooded rice patty where by all logic he should have bled out and died within minutes.

[music] But Gary Wetzel made a decision.

He could lie there and let it end or he could fight.

So he took what was left of his destroyed arm, tucked it inside his pants so it wouldn’t flop around, and when he saw an enemy soldier moving in to throw a grenade at the downed helicopter, he shot him dead with one working arm.

Then Wetzel ran back to the Huey, took another bullet to the leg on the way, and somehow climbed back into his door gunner position to man his M60 machine gun.

For the next several minutes, his gun was the only weapon putting effective fire on the enemy.

And he single-handedly silenced a machine gun bunker that had been tearing apart the American troops [music] in the landing zone.

But Wetzel was just one of thousands of young men who found themselves doing one of the most dangerous jobs of the entire Vietnam War.

To understand what he did that day and why it mattered, you first have to understand what the job of a helicopter door gunner actually was and why these men had to do it no matter what.

When American helicopters first arrived in Vietnam in significant numbers, they came as unarmed transports.

The idea was simple.

Use helicopters as flying trucks to move troops and supplies quickly across terrain that would take days to cross on foot.

They were crewed by a pilot, co-pilot, and a crew chief who handled maintenance and helped with loading.

There were no weapons mounted, no armor plating, and no expectation that the helicopters would be doing any fighting.

The assumption was that speed and air mobility would be protection enough.

If you could fly over the jungle instead of walking through it, the enemy couldn’t ambush you on the ground.

Well, that assumption turned [music] out to be dangerously wrong.

The Vietkong and North Vietnamese army quickly figured out American helicopter tactics.

They learned to predict flight paths and landing zones.

And they started setting ambushes specifically for the thin skinned Hueies coming in low and slow to drop off troops.

They had plenty of Soviet supplied weapons perfect for the job, like 51 caliber heavy machine guns and 23mm anti-aircraft autoc cannons that could rip a helicopter apart from half a mile away.

Even just [music] AK fire at close range could sever a fuel line or kill a pilot.

And RPGs could destroy a Huey with a single hit.

The helicopters were going down at an alarming rate [music] and nearly half of all the helicopters deployed to Vietnam over the course of the war would eventually crash with enemy fire being one of the main reasons.

So while the brass was trying to figure out what to do about this problem, the crews on the ground took matters into their own hands.

The crew chief started strapping M60 machine guns to their helicopters, either with bungee cords hanging from the ceiling or improvised pintal mounts in the doorway.

They would fire during approaches and takeoffs, [music] either returning fire when under attack or suppressing anything on the ground that looked suspicious.

This was obviously much better than flying in completely unarmed.

So, the concept spread quickly.

But there was still a problem because the crew chief could only cover one side of the helicopter.

So, a fourth crew member was added to cover the opposite side, and that became the dedicated door gunner, also called the shotgun rider.

What started as desperate field improvisation soon became official doctrine and the door gunner became one of the most important roles on a helicopter crew.

He was also about to become one of the most targeted men in the war.

Now the door gunner wasn’t just some guy strapped to a machine gun and told to shoot at anything that moved.

He was trained to function as part of the crew, working together with the pilots and crew chief as a single unit.

Besides providing heavy fire during the most dangerous moments of a mission, the door gunner helped with maintenance on the helicopter, assisted with loading and unloading cargo or wounded soldiers, and guided the pilot during approaches to tight landing zones by talking him through obstacles over the intercom.

He watched the rotor blades and skids to make sure they were clear.

And he was an extra set of eyes, scanning for threats the pilots couldn’t see from their seats.

But his primary job was laying down suppressive fire.

And that was far more difficult than it looks in movies or old footage.

The door gunner was firing from a platform, moving at a 100 mph, vibrating constantly, often banking and maneuvering to avoid ground fire.

His targets were usually hidden in the jungle below, and they were often moving as well.

You couldn’t just aim directly at what you wanted to hit because the bullets you fired carried the forward momentum of the helicopter.

So gunners had to lead their targets, aiming behind or below where they actually wanted the rounds to land.

The only real way to guarantee hits was volume of fire and traces to see where your rounds were going, then adjusting from there.

Gunners would connect several ammo belts into one long belt of 2 or 3,000 rounds and pack them in a box between their legs so they could keep firing sustained bursts without stopping to reload.

The most common weapon was the M60 machine gun, sometimes modified for this role with different trigger mechanisms or mounted on swivels for a wider arc of fire.

Some helicopters carried M134 miniguns that could put out 6,000 rounds per minute, turning suppressive fire into something closer to a solid wall of lead.

But even with all this firepower, the door gunner also had to be careful about what he was shooting at.

From a fast-moving helicopter at altitude, it was nearly impossible to tell with certainty who was down there in the jungle or the rice patties.

The Vietkong dressed in civilian clothing and blended with the local population.

And some of their fighters were children as young as 12 years old.

The gunner had seconds to make a decision about whether to open fire.

And tragic mistakes happened on all sides.

That psychological weight was just one more thing these young men had to carry on top of everything else.

So, why was being a door gunner considered one of the deadliest jobs in the entire war? Well, there are a few reasons, and they all come down to one basic fact.

You were completely exposed.

[music] The pilots at least had plexiglass windshields and some steel armor plating under their seats.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The door gunner had nothing between him and the enemy, but open air.

He sat or stood in the open doorway with the wind blasting past, scanning the ground while holding onto a machine gun.

And if someone down there decided to shoot at him, there was nowhere to hide.

The enemy figured this out very quickly.

They knew the door gunners were the ones actually [music] hurting them.

So logically, they started targeting the gunners first.

Snipers would set up around landing zones specifically to take out door gunners as the helicopters came in.

The result was that door gunners had the highest casualty [music] rate among helicopter crews.

The protective gear they had was mostly useless for this situation.

Back jackets were designed to stop shrapnel, not rifle rounds.

And they were so hot and bulky in the tropical climate that many gunners didn’t even wear them.

There were ceramic chest plates called chicken plates that could stop small arms fire.

But they were heavy and uncomfortable, and the nickname itself tells you how they were viewed.

Flight helmets offered some protection, but were mainly designed for communication with the crew, not stopping bullets.

In practice, the only real protection for a door gunner was his own firepower and the speed of the helicopter.

Get in, do the job, get out, and hope nobody gets a clean shot at you in the meantime.

Then there was the [music] constant danger of falling out.

The helicopters made sharp evasive maneuvers to avoid ground fire.

And if you weren’t secured properly, the centrifugal force could throw you right out the door.

Most gunners wore what was called a monkey harness, a safety strap anchored to the floor or cabin wall that let you move around and lean out for better firing angles.

But the harness didn’t prevent you from falling out.

It just kept you from dying when you did, leaving you dangling outside the helicopter until your crew could pull you back in.

Veterans told stories of gunners falling out during sharp turns and hanging there in the wind while the rest of the crew grabbed them and hauled them back inside.

It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

And then there were the hot landing zones, the [music] moments when everything became most dangerous.

You’re descending into a clearing surrounded by jungle and the enemy is waiting for you with everything they have.

The helicopter has to slow down and hover low to drop off or pick up troops.

And during those seconds, [music] it’s a nearly stationary target in the open.

The door gunner’s job is to keep firing continuously into anything that might be a threat because his suppressive fire is the only thing keeping the enemy’s heads down while the infantry scrambles on or off the bird.

Many gunners kept firing even after being hit because they knew that if they stopped, everyone on that helicopter might die.

Some of them were found dead, [music] still holding their machine guns, having fought literally until their last breath.

And one of the most extreme examples of this kind of courage happened on January 8th, 1968 in a rice patty near Abdong an Gary Wetszel grew up in South Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

One of nine children in a working-class family, he idolized movie heroes like John Wayne, enjoyed boy scouts and sports, and didn’t have much interest in school.

Shortly after turning 18 in February 1966, he enlisted in the army.

After basic training, he served for a while as a heavy equipment instructor at Fort Leonardwood in Missouri.

But Wetszel knew the war in Vietnam was escalating and he wanted to be part of it.

He volunteered to deploy, got turned down the first time, then got approved on his second request.

By October 1966, he was in Vietnam.

His first assignment was with an ordinance unit, but Wetzel wanted something more active.

He reinlisted while still in country specifically so he could choose a new assignment and that’s how he ended up with the 173rd Assault Helicopter Company nicknamed the Robin Hoods.

By early 1967 he was flying as a Huey door gunner and by January 1968 he was one of the most experienced gunners in his unit.

He had already been shot down four times in various incidents and survived each one with relatively minor injuries.

The mission on January 8th would [music] be his fifth helicopter crash and it would nearly be his last.

The 173rd was scrambled that day to insert reinforcements near a hamlet called Abdong Anne in the Meong Delta.

American infantry from the 9inth Division [music] was engaged in the area and needed support.

Wetszel’s helicopter tail number 866 carried the two pilots, warrant officer Timothy Artman and First Lieutenant Barry Dismukes, crew chief specialist Bart Jarvis, Dog Gunner Wetszel, and seven infantry soldiers being inserted as reinforcements.

The landing zone was supposed to be manageable, but when the [music] formation of Hueies descended into the clearing, they flew directly into a prepared ambush.

The enemy opened up with 51 caliber machine guns and RPGs at close range.

And within seconds, Wetszel’s helicopter took a rocket to the front that destroyed the cockpit and sent the birds slamming into the ground.

The aircraft commander, Warrant Officer Artman, was critically wounded by the blast and gunfire, hit in the legs and going into shock.

The co-pilot took a bullet that shattered his thumb.

Crew Chief Jarvis was hit with shrapnel across his body.

Wetszel moved toward the front of the aircraft to try to help the pilots and that’s when two more rockets exploded right next to him.

The blast tore his left arm apart, leaving it hanging by skin and wounded him in his right arm, chest, and left leg.

He was thrown out of the helicopter and into the flooded rice patty beside [music] the wreck.

Wetszel lay there in the mud, bleeding from everywhere, and he made a choice.

He later said he could either lie still and die or find the will to keep going.

He chose to keep going.

He grabbed what was left of his destroyed left arm and stuffed it into his pants so it wouldn’t get in the way.

And then he saw an enemy soldier approaching the downed helicopter with a grenade.

Wetzel shot him dead with his personal weapon, a Thompson submachine gun he carried as a sidearm.

Then he got up and ran for the helicopter.

What he later called his John Wayne run back to the chopper.

He was hit again on the way.

a bullet to his left [music] leg that knocked him down to one knee, but he got back up and kept moving.

Somehow, and Wetzel himself says he doesn’t remember exactly how, he climbed back into his door gunner position and got his M60 back into action.

At that moment, his machine gun was the only weapon on the American side, putting out effective fire.

Most of the other soldiers were wounded, disorganized, or pinned down by the intense enemy fire raking the landing zone.

Wetszel spotted a camouflaged machine gun bunker that was doing most of the damage, tearing apart the American troops, trying to find cover in the open clearing.

He concentrated his fire on that position and kept shooting until he silenced it.

With that bunker knocked out, the surviving Americans were finally able to start moving and organizing a defense.

Wetszel’s one-armed stand at his M60 had turned the tide of the fight at the most critical moment.

But he still wasn’t done.

Instead of finally tending to his own catastrophic wounds, Wetszel left his position again to try to rescue the wounded aircraft commander, Warrant Officer Artman, who was lying in the open and unable [music] to move.

Wetszel staggered toward him, but collapsed from blood loss before he could drag him to cover.

He lost consciousness, [music] then woke up again and crawled back toward the front of the wrecked helicopter.

He found crew chief Jarvis already trying to pull Artman toward a small earthn dyke for protection and Wetszel joined him despite barely being able to stay conscious.

Together they dragged their dying pilot toward cover with Wetszel passing out again from the effort.

The survivors were pinned down in that [music] rice patty for 10 to 12 hours before rescue finally arrived.

Warrant Officer Artman died about 6 hours after the crash before a medevac [music] could safely land.

When Wetzel was finally evacuated, he needed 18 units of blood just to keep him alive, and doctors immediately amputated what remained of his left arm [music] to prevent infection.

On November 19th, 1968, in a ceremony at the White House, President Lyndon Johnson placed the Medal of Honor around Gary Wetzel’s neck.

[music] He was 21 years old.

The citation noted that his machine gun had been the only weapon placing [music] effective fire on the enemy at the critical moment and that he had eliminated the automatic weapons imp placement that was inflicting heavy casualties on the American troops in the area.

Stories like Gary Wetszels were extreme, [music] but they proved something important about what helicopters could do in combat.

The door gunners and the improvised gunship Hueies showed that rotary aircraft weren’t just transports.

They could fight.

They could suppress enemy positions, protect landing zones, and provide close air support to troops on the ground.

The problem was that the Huey was never designed for this role.

It was a transport helicopter being pushed far beyond what it was built to do.

So, after the door gunners proved the concept could work, crews started experimenting with what else they could add.

More machine guns appeared, then grenade launchers, then forward firing weapons controlled by the pilots, then rocket pods.

Some Hueies dropped their transport role entirely and became dedicated gunships carrying nothing but weapons and ammunition [music] to escort the transport birds and provide heavy fire support.

The concept was effective, but the fundamental problem couldn’t be solved no matter how many guns they strapped on.

The Huey was still too heavy with all that weaponry.

It [music] burned too much fuel.

It couldn’t keep up with the slicks once they dropped their troops, and it simply wasn’t built to take hits.

Making a gunship from a Huey was like trying to make a tank from a cargo truck.

What they needed was something purposebuilt for the attack role, and that’s exactly what they got with the AH1 Cobra.

It arrived in Vietnam in mid 1967 and immediately proved how effective a dedicated attack helicopter could be.

The Cobra was everything the Huey gunship wanted to be.

It was narrow and fast, about 100 mph faster than the Huey, which made it a much harder target to hit.

It had armored seats for the [music] crew and self-sealing fuel tanks offering real protection instead of just hoping speed [music] would save you.

Instead of door gunners dangling from open doors, the Cobra had a chin-mounted turret with a minigun and grenade launcher controlled by the gunner sitting in tandem with the pilot inside an enclosed cockpit.

It carried rocket pods and later even anti-tank missiles.

The cobra could escort the slicks, prepare landing zones before the transports arrived, protect them during insertions, and then stay to support the infantry on the ground because it had the range [music] and the firepower to actually do the job.

The Cobra was the solution that the door gunners had been waiting for.

But it came only after more than 2700 door gunners and crew chiefs had already died, proving that the concept could work.

Gary Wetzel is now in his late 70s.

He lives in Wisconsin, still attends veterans events, and rides in the annual Rolling Thunder motorcycle procession to Washington despite his injuries.

When he talks about what happened on January 8th, 1968, he doesn’t call himself a hero.

He says he was just a soldier doing his job, trying to help his friends.

But every time he puts on the Medal of Honor, he thinks about the men who didn’t make it back.

If you want the full story of the Cobra and what it did in Vietnam, we have a video on that you can watch.