Sandys away, the aircraft moved to a higher altitude so that they could also cover the area to his south more effectively. And thatâs when Dramesiâs luck ran out.
He was barely sticking up from the chest-high brushline along the top of the ridge, but that had been enough. A rifle bullet coming up from behind smashed into Dramesiâs right leg. He knew the enemy had to be close but wasnât sure of their exact location. All they could have aimed at was his head and shoulders, but the overhead roar of the prop-driven aircraft must have shaken someoneâs aim. The last message he was able to send up to the Sandy overhead was: âThey got me, they got me.â Lover Lead was down.
With millions of dollarsâ worth of aircraft and weapons at his command, and the training to use them, John Dramesi was captured by two North Vietnamese men armed with rifles, an officer of some kind, and a young boy in shorts armed with a machete. They came on him while he thrashed about in the brush, frantically trying to get to cover. The bullet had knocked him down but not out of the fight. If he could evade his captors, there was still a chance that the search-and-rescue birds could come in and get him. But the North Vietnamese were on him, stripping him of all of his equipmentâespecially his precious radio. The Sandys overhead could not do much now, as the man they had come to rescue was shoved along the trail by his captors. Their last option was to do a screaming run at low altitude, just over the heads of the men on the ground. The distraction might be enough for Dramesi to make a break for it.
The North Vietnamese jumped into the brush, but Dramesi couldnât run from the injuries to both his legs. His captors got up and rushed him along as the Sandy pulled away. Limping and trying to move as slowly as he could, Dramesi was prodded along by the gun barrels of the men around him. His hands were tied behind his back, the untreated wound in his leg streaming blood, and his left knee starting to stiffen up and ache as he was forced along.
Other pilots who had been shot down were stunned by their experience. Just surviving the act of ejection could be overwhelming to a man used to being in control while at the controls of a multimillion-dollar aircraft. For Dramesi, he had already been in combat on the ground. He knew what it took to move and survive in the jungle. He also wasnât the kind of person to give up, ever. Even as he was trying to slow his captors down, delay them as best he could, he was constantly staying aware of his surroundings, looking for that chance to escape. He was caught, but he was alive. And there would be search-and-rescue aircraft looking for him.
The North Vietnamese had been fighting wars for a long time. Even the local militias, such as the men who had caught Dramesi, knew not to stay in one place very long. That lesson had been driven home hard when the American they were moving had directed the rockets and cannon fire of the enemy down among them. If they had known that it was Dramesi personally who had been directing those air strikes, they may not have worked so hard to capture him alive.
Just because they wanted him alive didnât mean the North Vietnamese who were holding him would treat him with any consideration at all. Dramesi was tethered to one of the guards for the journey. As they moved downhill, the guards, boy, and their American captive crossed a stream and then followed it downhill before turning off in another direction. The boy was apparently a local, as he was directing the way the group went. A village was coming up in the distance, surrounded by rice paddies filled with water for the new growing season. Perhaps this was where the boy had come from, since it was the only real population center they had come up on. As the group got closer to the village, Dramesi slipped in the mud. Unable to hold his balance with his hands tied, he crashed facefirst into
He was barely sticking up from the chest-high brushline along the top of the ridge, but that had been enough. A rifle bullet coming up from behind smashed into Dramesiâs right leg. He knew the enemy had to be close but wasnât sure of their exact location. All they could have aimed at was his head and shoulders, but the overhead roar of the prop-driven aircraft must have shaken someoneâs aim. The last message he was able to send up to the Sandy overhead was: âThey got me, they got me.â Lover Lead was down.
With millions of dollarsâ worth of aircraft and weapons at his command, and the training to use them, John Dramesi was captured by two North Vietnamese men armed with rifles, an officer of some kind, and a young boy in shorts armed with a machete. They came on him while he thrashed about in the brush, frantically trying to get to cover. The bullet had knocked him down but not out of the fight. If he could evade his captors, there was still a chance that the search-and-rescue birds could come in and get him. But the North Vietnamese were on him, stripping him of all of his equipmentâespecially his precious radio. The Sandys overhead could not do much now, as the man they had come to rescue was shoved along the trail by his captors. Their last option was to do a screaming run at low altitude, just over the heads of the men on the ground. The distraction might be enough for Dramesi to make a break for it.
The North Vietnamese jumped into the brush, but Dramesi couldnât run from the injuries to both his legs. His captors got up and rushed him along as the Sandy pulled away. Limping and trying to move as slowly as he could, Dramesi was prodded along by the gun barrels of the men around him. His hands were tied behind his back, the untreated wound in his leg streaming blood, and his left knee starting to stiffen up and ache as he was forced along.
Other pilots who had been shot down were stunned by their experience. Just surviving the act of ejection could be overwhelming to a man used to being in control while at the controls of a multimillion-dollar aircraft. For Dramesi, he had already been in combat on the ground. He knew what it took to move and survive in the jungle. He also wasnât the kind of person to give up, ever. Even as he was trying to slow his captors down, delay them as best he could, he was constantly staying aware of his surroundings, looking for that chance to escape. He was caught, but he was alive. And there would be search-and-rescue aircraft looking for him.
The North Vietnamese had been fighting wars for a long time. Even the local militias, such as the men who had caught Dramesi, knew not to stay in one place very long. That lesson had been driven home hard when the American they were moving had directed the rockets and cannon fire of the enemy down among them. If they had known that it was Dramesi personally who had been directing those air strikes, they may not have worked so hard to capture him alive.
Just because they wanted him alive didnât mean the North Vietnamese who were holding him would treat him with any consideration at all. Dramesi was tethered to one of the guards for the journey. As they moved downhill, the guards, boy, and their American captive crossed a stream and then followed it downhill before turning off in another direction. The boy was apparently a local, as he was directing the way the group went. A village was coming up in the distance, surrounded by rice paddies filled with water for the new growing season. Perhaps this was where the boy had come from, since it was the only real population center they had come up on. As the group got closer to the village, Dramesi slipped in the mud. Unable to hold his balance with his hands tied, he crashed facefirst into
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