March 2001
A Vietnam War hero posthumously receives the
Medal of Honor
by Tech. Sgt. John B. Dendy IV, photos by Tech. Sgt. Gary Coppage
It was the final mass for the airman first class from Ohio. The next day the highly decorated young man wore his “Easter Monday” best of unstarched and well-worn olive fatigues.
That Air Force utility uniform was everyday issue for airmen on 100-foot descents from choppers into Vietnam’s unforgivingly bloody battle zones. Pits was an airman who had been there and done that frequently. He was likely bound for medical college in 1967, following his combat hitch as a pararescueman.
Pits’ work helped others live. The duty put him at odds with the enemy. So when the 3 p.m. call for assistance to a South Vietnamese hot spot came that Monday, Pits listened up. He learned how his team would support the last honorable hours of a U.S. search-and-destroy mission.
Pits died under heroic circumstances with 106 of 134 Americans on that mission. He was awarded the Air Force Cross, but 34 years later, Congress upgraded that to the Medal of Honor, presented posthumously in a massive ceremony Dec. 8, 2000, at Ohio’s Wright-Pattterson Air Force Base. The Air Force also posthumously promoted him to staff sergeant.
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Why did it take so long? Although they had reasons not to, the people who advocated decades for Pits took the high road. They thought if their nation could revisit its decision on Pits’ moment of valor — through eyewitness accounts — it would grant him the nation’s highest honor.
Today, his admirers guess that Pits might have said too much was being made over him “just doing his job,” but it was a profound call for the nation to make.
The military action Pits died in that Monday night showed that freedom wasn’t free in 1966.
The aerial entrance into the jungle was a narrow one that allowed five feet of clearance from the chopper blades to the trees. Viet Cong bullets sang by Pits while he descended from chopper to jungle floor. Pits was a prospective prize for the Viet Cong sharpshooters. They knew he was coming down with a .38, an M-16, ammo and a medical kit. But with a cause to defend, he would not be denied.
Before he arrived, roughly 134 American foot soldiers had been on a multiweek hunt for an enemy three times its size. Their Easter lunch in 1966 was C-rations, in the shadows of dense jungle. By 5:35 p.m., the Viet Cong hit the soldiers with small arms and mortar fire.
The soldiers formed a circle while firing back and inflicting many enemy deaths.
Still, these men — mostly aged 18 to 22 — were snipered to pieces. Many sharpshooting Viet Cong populated the 150-foot-high trees. There was no cover for men below, but somebody cared.
Pits helped return fire into the enemy’s lair. When he wasn’t doing that, he was gathering ammo and weapons. He redistributed these to able soldiers. The American forces fought on.
His medical supplies were wrapped around, or injected into, his infantrymen. He’d made litters out of ponchos and rain forest saplings to give the injured and dead their dignity under fire.
When his helicopter was damaged by enemy fire, Pits elected to stay 200 feet below, in the landing zone. The Americans drew in tighter and called for close artillery strikes, to survive the night. Air Force flares and American rounds defined a no-man’s-land 25 yards around the company’s perimeter from sundown to 7 a.m. the next day. The surrounded GIs did not budge.
But, the Viet Cong weren’t exactly frozen in their 15-story high positions the night Pits was killed in action. They used female peasants to take their dead out after dark. Those peasants slit the throats of any downed GIs they found.
At 7 a.m., about 12 hours after Pits had been killed, the U.S. Army lowered medics and engineers to clear the zone. Their infantry had reinforcements in the area by 5 p.m. The war went on.
Today, thousands of miles removed from Vietnam, a World War II sailor remembers Billy Pitsenbarger well. That man is William Pitsenbarger, and Billy was his only child.
Pits was only home on leave twice. He went from Ohio to Vietnam and died on his 275th day of service there. His dad says time’s passage is why his family seldom mentions Pits.
“They don’t
know Bill — they know about Bill — and now they feel proud of things he
did.”
Battle survivor saw Pits
Retired Army Sgt. Maj. Fred Navarro is one of the battle survivors. The
squad leader was hit, and his blood was oozing out when Pits hid him
under two fallen fellow Americans.
The Viet Cong hit Pits a fourth and final time, 20 yards from Navarro’s nightmarish position. Navarro’s thought of it many times over the past 30-plus years, longer than Pits walked the Earth.
“Maybe I looked so bad to him that he didn’t want me to get hit any more,” he said.
“Pitsenbarger heard the Army was in trouble, and he volunteered to come out. He grabbed his helmet, got on the helicopter and came. Without his help, the ‘ones’ that did make it would not have. He’s a hero, not only in the Air Force, but in this nation.”
Pits counts in his Ohio community of Piqua, “Where Vision Becomes Reality,” as the town’s motto goes. This is the hometown of World War II ace Don Gentile and the Mills Brothers, a 1950s vocal group. Traditions abound — including the Piqua-Troy high school football rivalry that dates to 1898. The 67-acre Pitsenbarger Sports Complex is a hotbed of athletics for Piqua’s kids.
Even so, when Bill’s dad passed a three-inch-thick binder of Pits’ medal recommendations to Piqua Chamber of Commerce president David Vollette, the civic leader was unsure of what Piqua could do for the man whose gravesite is in his city.
“Prior to that, no one knew who he was. In all fairness to our citizens, not a whole lot was publicized. We woke up, decided to act and things jelled.”
The city was one of many sources advocating the Medal of Honor for Pits, placing him on a plateau with warriors like Audie Murphy, Alvin York and Jimmie Doolittle. From the Pentagon’s halls, Secretary of the Air Force Whit Peters and Joe Lineberger, director of the Air Force Records Review Board Agency, did their part in supporting the medal for Pits.
“Bill epitomized the pararescue specialists,” Vollette said. “The medal is an honor for the family, the town and the Air Force. This goes way beyond Bill; it goes to the heart of America.”
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Pits brings father, son closer |
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He was on private time, after a long day as an airman first class in the fuels flight. Jason read a new e-mail from his dad, Ron. The message filled the 8-by-11-inch window on the computer screen. “It was the story on Airman Pitsenbarger, but it was his interpretation, from the heart.” Ron lives in California and is a surviving soldier from the 1966 battle that Pits died in, although he never saw Pits that day. Ron’s memory of Vietnam is not all good, and he wasn’t expecting to attend Pits’ Medal of Honor ceremony on Dec. 8, 2000, at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. His focus has been the world of Harleys and the open road. His father-to-son letter was circulated to the highest levels of the Air Force family. Three weeks later, Secretary of the Air Force Whit Peters spoke of it from the podium during Pits’ Medal of Honor ceremony. Ron, who suffers from post traumatic stress syndrome, was invited to the ceremony. But he didn’t know Jason would be there. That was a secret. Ron’s not interested in publishing the letter. He says the thoughts should stay between him and his son. “They’re emotional. I wanted him to know how I feel about things like that,” he said. “I think it’s best people don’t know what I remember about the battle. It would cause them to wake up screaming in the middle of the night.” However, Ron’s eyewitness recollection was part of the 1966 Associated Press report filed on the tragedy from Binh Ga, Vietnam: “‘It was horrible,’ said Pfc. Ronald Haley, as he stood in the tiny clearing blasted from the jungle so that the dead and wounded could be evacuated. ‘I’ve never heard such screaming in my life. Many of the wounded were yelling for their mothers. Some of the kids were calling for God,’ said Haley, one of the few survivors.” The report went further: “Haley, of Ukiah, Calif., was dirty and unkempt after his unit had been in the jungles 30 miles east of Saigon for two weeks searching for the Viet Cong. The U.S. 1st Division infantrymen found them Monday afternoon and in the bitter fight perhaps a third or more of their company were killed or wounded.” Within the past 34 years, Pits became a legend in several American households, including Ron’s. This was not only for what was stated in the medal citation, but for details Ron learned from fellow survivors. They backed up Pits’ reputation for 34 years and sought redemption for him. “I set everything else down and wanted to be here [at the ceremony]. It’s something that’s been gnawing at me since I was 19 on the day of the battle. I’m 54 now. It was an itch I couldn’t scratch. This ceremony helped scratch it. The man needed recognition. “Anybody can take a gun and tear things up. I was always good at that. But to do good, help people, bring life back ... it’s the highest calling you can get.” — Tech. Sgt. John B. Dendy IV |
