At 3:47 p.m. on September 27th, 1969, Private David John Fiser crouched in waistdeep mud at the base of the Nui Mao Masif in Lanc Province, watching Vietkong soldiers move through the jungle 40 m to his north, east, and south. He could hear their voices cutting through the rain. His fiveman SAS patrol had been compromised after 7 days in enemy territory and now they were surrounded.

 The extraction helicopters were inbound ETA 8 minutes but Fiser could already hear the VC tightening the noose. In the next 30 minutes, two Royal Australian Air Force UH1H Irakcoy pilots would attempt one of the most dangerous extraction operations of the war. A hot rope extraction under direct enemy fire with nowhere to land.

What happened in those minutes would save four men, cost one his life, and become a legend whispered between helicopter crews and SAS troopers for the rest of the war. The official RAF afteraction report filed it as a routine extraction. The truth was far different. David Fiser grew up in Melbourne, Victoria, in a weatherboard house on Albert Street in Port Melbourne, three blocks from the bay, where container ships unloaded cargo from across the world.

 His father, Harold Fiser, worked as a senior mechanic at the General Motors Holden plant in Fisherman’s Bend, one of thousands of men who built Australia’s cars in the post-war boom years. Harold worked the day shift six days a week. Came home with oil under his fingernails and grease stains on his work clothes that never quite washed out.

 David’s mother, Margaret, worked mornings at the local primary school as a teacher’s aid and afternoons managing a household of five children in a three-bedroom house with one bathroom and a backyard barely large enough for a clothes line. David was the middle child born in 1949 between two older sisters and two younger brothers. Middle children learn to navigate, not the oldest with responsibilities, not the youngest with privileges.

Somewhere in between, finding their own way. David found his at his uncle Frank’s hardware store on Bay Street, where he started working Saturdays at age 14, sweeping floors and stocking shelves. By 16, he was helping customers, learning the inventory, understanding the tools and materials that built and fixed things.

 Frank taught him that most problems had solutions if you understood how things worked. A leaking tap needed a new washer. A broken latch needed proper alignment. A stripped screw needed patience. And a screw extractor. The hardware store became David’s education in practical problem solving, the kind that doesn’t come from textbooks, but from hands-on experience with broken things and limited resources.

 His father taught him the other half. Harold would bring home broken tools and equipment from the plant, things scheduled for disposal, and he’d spend Sunday afternoons in the backyard shed teaching David how to rebuild them, how to diagnose why an electric drill stopped working, how to disassemble a gearbox and clean each component, how to improvise a replacement part when the original wasn’t available.

 They’d work in companionable silence mostly, Harold demonstrating techniques while David watched and learned. When David turned 17 in 1966, he faced the question every Australian male of that generation confronted. University, trade, apprenticeship, or work. His grades were adequate but not exceptional. University seemed unlikely and expensive.

 His uncle offered him full-time work at the hardware store with potential to eventually buy into the business. It was a solid offer, a clear path to a stable future. The National Service Act changed everything. In 1966, Australia implemented conscription for the Vietnam War using a birthday ballot system.

 Every 20year-old male had their birthday placed in a lottery. If your birthday was drawn, you served two years in the army unless you could claim an exemption. When David turned 19 in January 1968, his birthday was drawn in the February ballot. He received his notice in March. Report to the Army Recruit Training Center at Capuka, New South Wales for basic training.

 Some young men fought it. Student deferments were available for those enrolled in university. Medical exemptions could be claimed for various conditions. Conscientious objector status was possible, though difficult to obtain. David considered none of these options. His father had served in New Guinea during World War II. His uncle Frank had been at Elamine.

Service was something fishermen did when called. He didn’t want to go to Vietnam particularly. The war seemed distant and confusing. Protesters in the streets arguing it was wrong while the government insisted it was necessary to stop communism spreading through Southeast Asia. But the ballot had drawn his name and Fiser didn’t believe in running from obligations.

He reported to Kapuka in February 1968, one of 180 young men in his intake, most of them conscripts like himself. Basic training was 10 weeks of controlled chaos designed to break down civilians and rebuild them as soldiers up at 5:30 a.m. for physical training. Breakfast at 6:30.

 drill practice, weapons training, field exercises, classroom instruction on military law and procedures, more physical training, equipment maintenance, inspections, lights out at 10 p.m. Every day, the same relentless schedule. Fisher adapted better than most. The physical demands were hard, but manageable. The discipline felt familiar after years of structured work at the hardware store and his father’s shed.

 The weapons training came naturally to someone who understood how mechanical systems functioned. During the third week of basic training, Corporal Davies, one of the instructors, pulled Fiser aside after a field navigation exercise. You move quietly, Davies said. Most of the other bloss crash through the bush like bulls. You don’t.

 You think about where you’re stepping. Fisher shrugged, just paying attention. Davies studied him for a moment. You ever thought about trying for SAS selection? Fiser knew about the Special Air Service Regiment the way most Australians did, which is to say not much. elite soldiers who did secret operations, parachuted into jungles, operated behind enemy lines.

 It sounded like something from a war movie, not something ordinary BS from Port Melbourne did. I’m a conscript, Fischer said. National service two years. SAS is for career soldiers, isn’t it? Davies shook his head. They take the best candidates regardless of how they came in. Conscripts, regulars, doesn’t matter.

 What matters is whether you can pass selection. Fischer said he’d think about it. That night in the barracks, he asked around about SAS selection. The responses varied. Some said it was impossible, designed to break even the toughest soldiers. Others said only crazy people volunteered for that kind of punishment. A few said it was the best opportunity in the army if you could survive it.

Fiser made his decision based on simple logic. He had two years to serve regardless. He could spend it in a regular infantry battalion doing standard operations, or he could try for something more challenging. The hardware store would still be there when he got back. His uncle Frank had promised that. Might as well see what he was capable of.

 He submitted his application for SAS selection during the eighth week of basic training. The response came back three weeks later. Report to Campbell Barracks, Swanborn, Western Australia in June for the selection course. The Special Air Service Regiment Selection Course was designed to find men who could operate independently in small teams under conditions of extreme physical and mental stress.

 The course ran three weeks. 70 men started Fischer’s selection class in June 1968. On day one, the directing staff explained the standards. Physical fitness well beyond normal army requirements. Navigation across difficult terrain with minimal equipment. Mental resilience under sleep deprivation and constant pressure.

 The ability to work as part of a small team while maintaining individual initiative. and most importantly the capacity to continue functioning when every instinct screamed to quit. The first week focused on physical conditioning and basic skills assessment. Runs with weighted packs covering distances that increase daily. Swims in full combat gear.

Obstacle courses timed to the second. Rope climbing. Log carries. firemen carries of other candidates over measured distances. Each event had a standard. Meet the standard or go home. By the end of week one, 20 men had been removed from the course, either voluntarily withdrawing or failing to meet the physical standards.

 50 remained. Fiser’s background in the hardware store and backyard shed proved surprisingly relevant. One test required candidates to navigate across 15 kilometers of rough terrain using only a map and compass, reaching checkpoints within specific time windows. Fishers experience reading technical diagrams translated into reading topographic maps.

 Another test involved field repairs of damaged equipment with limited tools. Fischer’s years of improvised fixes in his father’s shed gave him an advantage over candidates who’d never worked with their hands outside military training. The second week moved into patrol tactics and small team operations. Candidates were divided into fiveman patrols and sent into the bush for 4-day exercises with minimal food and water.

Navigation legs ran 20 to 30 kilometers through terrain that varied from sand dunes to thick scrub to rocky hills. Each patrol had to reach objectives without being detected by directing staff who patrolled the training area looking for them. Fiser found himself adapting to the rhythm of patrol operations, the slow, methodical movement through cover, the constant awareness of terrain and sight lines, the necessity of working with four other exhausted, hungry men while maintaining noise discipline and security. It felt

like an extension of the quiet focus he’d learned working with his father. that same concentration on the task at hand regardless of discomfort or difficulty. By the end of week two, 35 candidates remained. The third week was called the long walk, though that understated what it actually entailed.

 Each candidate received a map with a series of checkpoints marked. The checkpoints covered approximately 60 kilometers across some of the roughest terrain in Western Australia. Candidates had 24 hours to complete the route carrying a 30 kg pack. No food provided beyond emergency rations. Water resupply at designated points only.

 Directing staff monitored progress but offered no assistance or encouragement. The physical challenge was obvious. 60 kilometers with a heavy pack over rough terrain in 24 hours required sustained effort and pacing. But the mental challenge was harder. Alone in the dark, exhausted beyond anything previously experienced, feet blistered and bleeding, every muscle screaming, hunger gnawing.

 The temptation to quit became overwhelming. Fiser started the long walk at midnight on a moonless night in late June. Temperature in the low 40s Fahrenheit, wind gusting, he checked his compass bearing and started walking. The first checkpoint was 12 km north through sand dunes that shifted under every step. He reached it at 3:15 a.m.

 drank from his canteen, checked the next bearing. Another 15 km northeast through scrub country with wait a while vine that tore at clothing and exposed skin. Dawn broke cold and gray. He kept walking. The second checkpoint at 7:30 a.m. water resupply. He drank 2 lers, refilled his canteen, kept moving. The day warmed. His feet were on fire, blisters on blisters.

 His shoulders achd from the pack straps. His legs felt like lead. The third checkpoint was 18 kilometers east through rocky hills that required scrambling up slopes and descending carefully to avoid twisted ankles. He reached it at 20 p.m. 14 hours into the walk. Still had the final leg 15 km south back to base. He sat down to rest just for a minute, closed his eyes.

 When he opened them again, it was 2:45. He’d fallen asleep, sitting upright, nearly an hour lost. Panic seized him briefly. The time limit was midnight. He had 9 hours to cover 15 km. Doable, but with no margin for error. He forced himself upright, shouldered the pack, and started walking.

 The final leg broke him and rebuilt him simultaneously. Every step hurt. His body demanded rest. His mind provided a thousand rational reasons to stop, to withdraw, to accept that he’d given his best effort, and it wasn’t quite enough. But somewhere deeper than conscious thought, a stubborn refusal to quit, kept his feet moving.

 He thought about his father working 12-hour shifts at the plant, coming home exhausted, and still helping with homework and household repairs. He thought about his uncle Frank, who’d walked across North Africa in World War II and never complained about it. He thought about the hardware store customers who’d bring in broken items and trust him to fix them.

 Simple, ordinary people doing what needed to be done without fanfare or recognition. Fiser reached the final checkpoint at 10:45 p.m. 1 hour and 15 minutes before the deadline. He’d completed the long walk. 11 candidates finished within the time limit that night. 69 candidates had started the selection course 3 weeks earlier. 11 finished.

 Fiser was one of them. During basic training, an instructor noticed Fischer’s ability to move quietly, to observe without being observed. He suggested Fiser try for SIS selection. The Special Air Service Regiment was Australia’s elite reconnaissance and special operations unit modeled on the British SAS, who’d earned their reputation in the deserts of North Africa during World War II.

 In Vietnam, Australian SAS operated in four to sixman patrols deep in enemy controlled territory, gathering intelligence, calling in air strikes, ambushing supply lines. They were known to the Vietkong as Maang, the phantoms of the jungle, because of their ability to appear and disappear without trace. The 11 candidates who passed his election in June 1968 began the SAS reinforcement cycle, an intensive training program that would last 4 months and transform them from regular soldiers into special operations capable

troopers. The training covered skills far beyond standard army capabilities. Advanced navigation and fieldcraft, long range patrol techniques, jungle survival, weapons proficiency with Australian, American and Soviet weapon systems, demolitions and sabotage, emergency medical procedures, signals and communications, close quarter battle, prisoner handling, helicopter insertion and extraction procedures, including rope work, and the mental discipline required to operate in isolation behind enemy lines for extended periods. Fiser excelled at some

areas and struggled with others. His navigation and fieldcraft skills were exceptional, built on natural aptitude and the methodical problem-solving approach he’d learned in civilian life. Weapons training came easily. The mechanical understanding transferring directly to understanding how different firearms functioned and how to maintain them.

 He struggled more with the leadership aspects, the requirement to make tactical decisions under pressure and communicate them effectively to a team. He wasn’t naturally assertive or vocal. But the instructors noted that Fiser’s quiet competence inspired confidence in others. Men trusted him because he was reliable, consistent, unflapable under stress.

 The medical training proved particularly challenging. SAS patrols operated far from immediate support. The patrol medic needed to handle everything from minor cuts to gunshot wounds to potential evacuations under fire. Fiser spent three weeks learning to insert IVs, treat sucking chest wounds, immobilize fractures, recognize and treat shock, administer morphine, perform emergency airway procedures.

 The training used realistic casualties, role players covered in makeup and fake blood, screaming and thrashing while Fiser tried to remember the procedures. It was visceral and overwhelming. But by the end of the medical component, Fiser could work through trauma scenarios with the same methodical focus he brought to fixing broken equipment.

 Keep pressure on the wound. Establish airway. Control bleeding. Treat for shock. Step by step, systematic, no wasted motion. Helicopter operations training took two weeks at a raw fbase Fairbar. Working directly with Irakcoy crews from nine squadron. Fiser learned the procedures for combat insertion, approach, landing, tactical disembarkation, immediate security.

 He learned extraction procedures, securing landing zones, marking positions with smoke or panels, loading wounded, priority evacuation sequences. He learned rope work, how to attach Swiss seats and carabiners, how to manage external loads on helicopters, how to hook up to extraction ropes, and trust that the equipment and crew would get you out.

 The training emphasized the partnership between helicopter crews and SAS patrols. The pilots depended on accurate ground intelligence and professional security when landing in hostile areas. The patrols depended on precise flying and the crews willingness to come in under fire when needed. That mutual dependence created bonds that transcended normal military relationships.

You trusted helicopter crews because your life literally hung from their aircraft. They trusted you because they were landing in territory you’d secured. And you’d better be right about it being safe. Fiser completed the reinforcement cycle in October 1968 and was badged into the regiment, earning the distinctive sandy beret with the flaming sword insignia and the motto, “Who dares wins.

” He was assigned to three squadron SAS, which was preparing for its next rotation to Vietnam. The squadron would deploy in March 1969. That gave Fiser five months for continuation training, live fire exercises, and integration into his assigned patrol. He was placed with Sergeant Jack Morrison’s patrol as the junior member and medic.

 Morrison was 26, a regular Army soldier on his second tour in Vietnam. He joined one squadron SAS in 1965, deployed to Borneo for operations against Indonesian forces, then gone to Vietnam with two squadron in 1967. He’d survived more contacts with the enemy than most soldiers experienced in entire careers.

 Morrison ran his patrol with quiet professionalism. He didn’t yell or posture. He explained what needed to happen and expected his men to do it. If you made mistakes, he corrected them without drama. If you performed well, he acknowledged it briefly and moved on. Fischer learned more from Morrison in 5 months than from the entire reinforcement cycle.

 How to read jungle terrain at night. How to distinguish between normal sounds and threats. How to move through dense vegetation without leaving obvious sign. How to make quick tactical decisions when contact was imminent. How to balance security with mission requirements. How to keep a patrol functioning when exhausted, hungry, and operating on 2 hours sleep in 3 days.

Morrison’s other patrol members became Fiser’s first real military family. Corporal Bill Henderson, second in command, had grown up on a sheep station in western Queensland, where the nearest neighbor was 30 kilometers away. He could navigate by stars, read weather from cloud formations, and move through the bush with almost supernatural stealth.

 Private Tommy Chen, the signaler, was Chinese Australian from Sydney, son of restaurant owners who’d immigrated from Hong Kong in the 1950s. Chen could strip and reassemble the PRC25 radio blindfolded and knew every frequency and call sign used by Australian and American forces in the Third Core. Private Kevin Harris was from a wheat farm outside Geraldton in Western Australia.

 He’d enlisted at 17, done two years in regular infantry, then passed SAS selection on his first attempt. Harris handled the M60 machine gun, a weapon that weighed 23 lbs empty and became exponentially heavier, carrying 800 rounds of ammunition. He could fire controlled bursts that put rounds on target at 200 m while other soldiers were still trying to find their sight picture.

 The patrol trained together constantly during those five months. Navigation exercises across the Blue Mountains, live fire drills at the ranges, helicopter insertion and extraction practice, patrolling through the forests around Canra in all weather conditions. They learned each other’s rhythms, habits, capabilities. Morrison could tell when Fiser was getting tired by a slight change in his breathing pattern.

 Fiser could read Henderson’s hand signals in complete darkness. They functioned as a single organism, each member anticipating the others actions. In early March 1969, three squadron deployed to Vietnam. The flight took them from Sydney to Daang on a RAF C130 Hercules, a 9-hour journey with refueling stops.

 From Daang, they flew south to Nuidat on Caribou Transports, arriving at the Australian base on March 15th. Nuidot sat in Fuokui Province, roughly 100 km southeast of Saigon. The base occupied a former rubber plantation, red dirt, and orderly rows of trees interrupted by military structures, bunkers, and wire perimeters.

 First Australian task force headquarters coordinated all Australian military operations in the province from Newat. Artillery batteries, infantry battalions, armored cavalry, engineering units, logistics support, all based there. And in an isolated corner of the compound, separated by additional security barriers, sat SAS Hill. No other units were permitted entry.

 Even Australian soldiers from other elements of the task force couldn’t access the SAS area. The security protocols existed because SAS operations were classified. Regular army units weren’t told where SAS patrols operated or what their missions entailed. Information was compartmentalized, need to know only.

 This created both security and resentment. Other soldiers saw the SAS as secretive and elitist. The SAS saw security as necessary for survival. Fischer’s first impression of Vietnam was the heat. March in Fuaktui province meant temperatures in the 90s with humidity approaching 100%. Stepping off the aircraft felt like walking into a wall of hot wet air.

 His uniform was soaked with sweat within minutes. The second impression was the smell. Diesel fuel, burning garbage, red dust, cooking fires, latrines, rubber trees, all mixed into a distinctive odor that marked every military base in Vietnam. The third impression was the sound.

 Distant artillery fire, constant and rhythmic like industrial machinery, helicopter rotors, the distinctive  of Irakcoy blades cutting through humid air. Generator engines, radio static, Vietnamese voices from the local workers who maintained parts of the base. And underneath it all, attention that never quite disappeared. the awareness that beyond the wire perimeter was enemy territory.

 Morrison’s patrol spent the first week acclimatizing and receiving incountry briefings. Intelligence officers explained the tactical situation in Fuok Tui province. The Vietkong controlled large parts of the province, using it as a base for operations against Saigon and surrounding areas. Australian forces were responsible for securing the province and interdicting enemy supply lines.

 SAS patrols provided the eyes and ears for these operations, identifying enemy positions, tracking movements, calling in artillery or air strikes, and occasionally conducting direct action against high-v valueue targets. The briefings covered enemy tactics, how the VC moved through the jungle, their ambush techniques, booby trap patterns, signs of recent activity.

 They covered friendly force locations and coordination procedures. They covered extraction protocols and what to do if compromised. They covered the rules of engagement, though those were simpler for SAS than for conventional forces. If you’re on patrol and you see the enemy, you have tactical discretion to engage or avoid depending on your assessment of the situation.

Mission success is the priority, not body count. Fischer’s first patrol launched on March 28th, 1969. Five men, Morrison, Henderson, Chen, Harris, and Fiser. Mission reconnaissance of suspected enemy base area near the Long Green Hills. approximately 15 kilometers north of Newat. Duration 5 days. Insertion by helicopter at dawn.

Morrison briefed the patrol the night before. Standard operating procedures. Insertion will be cold. No enemy contact expected at the landing zone. We’ll move north immediately after landing. Put distance between us and the LZ. Navigation by Henderson. He has point. Fiser, you’re second in the patrol order. Chen third with the radio.

 Harris fourth with the M60. I’ll take rear security. We stop every 20 minutes. Listen for 10 minutes. No talking except emergency comms. Hand signals only. If we make contact, Henderson and Fiser provide initial fire while the rest of us maneuver. Questions? Fiser had none. His stomach was tight with anticipation, but Morrison’s calm professionalism helped.

 This was just another exercise except the enemy was real and the bullets were real and mistakes meant people died. At 6:00 a.m. on March 28th, they loaded onto an Irakcoy from 9 squadron raaf. The helicopter crew was professional and efficient. Pilot checked them in. Door gunner helped them secure their equipment.

 The aircraft lifted off from Newuid and flew north, staying low over the rubber trees. 10 minutes later, they flared into a small clearing. Touchdown. The patrol was off the helicopter and into the treeine in seconds. The Irakcoy lifted away immediately, rotor wash thrashing the grass. Silence descended as the helicopter noise faded.

 Morrison hand signaled. Move. They moved into the jungle, Henderson leading, setting a deliberate pace through the vegetation. Within 200 meters, they were completely invisible, absorbed into the green mass of Vietnam’s jungle. The next 5 days taught Fiser what combat operations actually meant.

 The constant vigilance, never relaxing, always scanning the terrain ahead and to the sides. The physical discomfort that became background noise, heat, humidity, insects, leeches, the weight of equipment, blisters from boots that never quite dried, the absence of normal human activity, no talking, no casual movement, everything deliberate and controlled, the heightened awareness of every sound, a bird call, a snapping branch, distant voices.

 On the third day, they found a Vietkong supply cache hidden under camouflage netting, rice bags, ammunition, crates, medical supplies. Morrison photographed it, recorded the grid coordinates, radioed the information back to base. They moved away, and continued the patrol. Artillery struck the cache site two hours later.

 massive explosions that they heard from a kilometer away. On the fifth day, they were extracted by helicopter from a clearing three kilometers west of their insertion point. The patrol was classified as a success. Intelligence gathered. Enemy logistics disrupted. No friendly casualties. Routine. Fiser had completed his first combat operation.

 He’d seen enemy supplies, heard enemy voices in the distance, operated in hostile territory for 5 days. It felt both anticlimactic and significant. This was the job. Most patrols were like this. Reconnaissance, observation, intelligence gathering. Morrison said it at the debrief. Boring is good. Boring means we did our job properly and nobody got hurt.

 The exciting patrols are the ones where everything goes wrong. On September 20th, 1969, Fiser’s patrol was inserted into the jungle southwest of the Nui May Tao Masif, a rugged mountain complex in Lanc Province that sat astride major Vietkong infiltration routes from Cambodia. Intelligence indicated increased enemy activity in the area.

 Battalion wanted eyes on the ground. The patrol consisted of five men. Sergeant Jack Morrison, patrol leader, a veteran of two tours who’d survived more contacts than most men saw in their entire service. Corporal Bill Henderson, second in command, a former sheep station hand from Queensland who could read jungle like other men read newspapers.

Private Fisher, scout and medic, still on his first tour, but trusted by Morrison for his steady nerves and sharp eyes. Private Tommy Chen, signaler, Chinese Australian from Sydney, whose family ran a restaurant in Chinatown and who could carry the PRC25 radio through terrain that broke other men. Private Kevin Harris, a Western Australian farm boy who handled the M60 machine gun like it weighed nothing and could put rounds through a playing card at 100 meters.

They carried enough ammunition and supplies for 10 days. M16 rifles with 600 rounds each. The M60 with 800 rounds belt fed. grenades, claymore mines, plastic explosives, medical kit, water purification tablets, rations, and Chen’s radio that weighed 23 lb with the battery. Total combat load per man ranged from 70 to 90 lb.

 Insertion was by helicopter at dawn on the 20th, dropped into a small clearing 4 km southwest of NewiO. Standard procedure called the insertion a cold drop, meaning no enemy contact expected. The moment the helicopter lifted away, leaving them in the sudden silence of the jungle, they moved. Always move after insertion.

 The VC listened for helicopters. If you stayed near the landing zone, they’d find you. The patrol moved north through dense jungle, averaging less than a kilometer per day. That’s how SAS operated. Slow, methodical, invisible. They’d move for 20 minutes, stop, listen for 10 minutes, move again, stop, listen, always listening.

 The jungle had its own language. Birds that went silent meant something was wrong. Monkeys that screamed warnings meant something had disturbed them. The absence of insect noise meant humans nearby. You learn to read it or you died. For 6 days they saw nothing unusual. Some old trails, cold campfire sights, nothing recent. The rain started on the 25th.

 Not the usual afternoon shower, but a steady downpour that turned the jungle floor into a swamp and made every movement twice as hard. Visibility dropped to 15 m. The rain was both danger and cover. It masked sound, but it also masked your ability to hear threats. On the afternoon of September 26th, Morrison spotted movement, fresh tracks on a trail junction, at least 20 men moving north toward the Massie.

 Recent, maybe an hour old. He radioed the intelligence back to base. battalion wanted them to follow, observe, report strength and armament. They shadowed the trail north, staying a 100 meters off the main path, moving parallel through the thick vegetation. By nightfall, they’d confirmed at least 30 Vietkong moving supplies north. Morrison called it in.

Battalion authorized them to set up an observation position for 24 hours. They found a spot on a small rise overlooking the trail junction, thick undergrowth providing concealment. Chen set up the radio antenna. Harris positioned the M60 to cover their withdrawal route. Fiser and Henderson took first watch.

 The rain continued through the night. At dawn on September 27th, the situation changed. Fiser saw them first. Three VC soldiers moving through the jungle, not on the trail, but through the bush, searching, methodically, checking terrain. They were looking for something. Looking for the patrol.

 Morrison made the call immediately. They’d been compromised. Could have been the helicopter insertion 6 days ago, finally being investigated. Could have been. They’d left sign somewhere. Didn’t matter. When the enemy starts actively searching for you, you leave. He whispered the order. Pack everything. Prepare to move.

 Chen broke down the radio antenna. Harris saved the M60. They moved south, away from the trail, away from the VC searchers. Standard escape and evasion procedures called for moving to a predetermined extraction point 3 kilometers away. They made it 800 meters. At 11:30 a.m., Henderson spotted more VC ahead of them. Six soldiers spread in a search line moving directly toward them.

 Morrison redirected them east. They moved for another 400 meters through terrain that got progressively worse. Thick wait, a wild vine that tore clothing and skin, slopes slick with mud, the rain making everything treacherous. At 1:15 p.m. they heard voices behind them. The VC were tracking them now. At 2:30 p.m., Chen reported movement to their south.

They were being boxed in. Morrison called for immediate extraction. The radio crackled with static. Then the voice of Captain Rick Doherty, operations officer back at New De. Albatross flight inbound. Two birds. ETA 40 minutes. Hold your position and mark LZ. Morrison looked at the terrain surrounding them. No clearings.

 Nothing big enough for a helicopter to land. Dense jungle canopy 40 m overhead. The only option was a rope extraction where the helicopter hovers above the canopy and lowers ropes. The patrol clips on and gets lifted out while still dangling beneath the aircraft. It was dangerous in peace time.

 Under fire, it was nearly suicide. At 3:15 p.m., the first shots rang out. AK-47 fire from the north. Hasty, but getting closer. Harris returned fire with the M60. Short controlled bursts to conserve ammunition and mask their exact position. They moved another 200 m south and found a spot where the canopy thinned slightly, maybe enough for a helicopter to hover.

Morrison popped a smoke grenade. Yellow smoke drifted up through the rain and trees. Chen gave the grid coordinates to Albatross flight, acknowledged 7 minutes out. At 3:40 p.m., the VC hit them from three sides. Not a full assault, but probing fire, trying to pin them down, trying to locate them precisely.

 Fiser could see muzzle flashes through the trees, maybe 40 m away. Close enough to hear the enemy soldiers talking to each other, coordinating their movements. Too close. The sound of helicopter rotors reached them at 3:46 p.m. The distinctive wop-wy blades cutting through the rain. two UH1H helicopters from nine squadron RAAF call signs Albatross 02 and Albatross 03.

 Albatross 02 was piloted by flight Lieutenant James Mai, a 24year-old from Brisbane on his second tour in Vietnam. His co-pilot was flying officer David Chen, no relation to the signaler on the ground, a 22-year-old who’d graduated flight school six months ago. Their crew chief and door gunner was Sergeant Ron Williams, a veteran who’d flown more hot extractions than he cared to count.

Albatross Ero3 was the Gunbird, a Bush Ranger configured gunship with rocket pods and miniguns piloted by squadron leader Peter Grant with orders to suppress enemy fire while Albatross 2 performed the extraction. Grant had done this dance dozens of times. You came in fast. You laid down covering fire. You got your people out. You left.

 Simple on paper, never simple in execution. Mai brought Albatross Soro2 in from the south, following the yellow smoke that drifted weakly through the rain and canopy. He could hear gunfire over the radio. Morrison’s voice calm but urgent. Contact on three sides. Heavy vegetation unable to clear. LZ will require rope extraction. McKay acknowledged.

 He’d done rope extractions before, but never under fire this heavy. He positioned the helicopter into a hover 60 ft above the canopy. The aircraft shuttering in the wind and rain. Rotor wash thrashing the trees below. Williams deployed the extraction ropes. four thick nylon lines with loops at the end, dropping them through the small gap in the canopy.

 On the ground, Morrison counted his men, five present. Harris was still firing the M60, controlled bursts at the muzzle flashes in the trees. The VC fire was getting heavier, closer. Rounds snapped through the foliage overhead. They had maybe two minutes before the enemy closed the distance. Henderson grabbed the first rope, clipped his carabiner to the D-ring, yelled over the gunfire, “Go, go, go.

” Chen was next, still carrying his radio. Fiser third, Harris fourth, the M60 slung across his chest. Morrison last as patrol leader always last to leave. Williams, from his position in the helicopter doorway, could see them through gaps in the canopy. Five figures in the jungle below, exposed under fire. He keyed his intercom, all attached, clear to lift.

Mai pulled collective, increasing power. The UH1H strained, lifting not just itself, but five men hanging 60 ft below on ropes. The aircraft climbed slowly, painfully. rotors screaming. The weight was at the absolute edge of the helicopter’s performance envelope. Below the jungle erupted in gunfire. The VC had seen the helicopter, seen the extraction happening, and they opened up with everything they had.

 AK-47s on full automatic, the sharp crack of SKS rifles, the heavier thump of RPD machine guns, tracers arked up through the rain. green line seeking the helicopter. Albatross 03 rolled in. Grant’s voice cold and professional over the radio, engaging targets. The Bush Rangers minigun screamed, 4,000 rounds per minute, tearing through the jungle canopy, suppressing the enemy fire just enough to give Albatross ERO2 a chance.

Rockets whooshed from the pods, 2.75 in high explosive rounds that detonated in the trees with orange flashes and black smoke. Mai held the hover, fighting the controls as the aircraft struggled with the external load. Wind gusts threatened to swing the dangling men into trees. He couldn’t see them directly.

 Had to trust Williams directions. Left, forward, hold. Below the five SAS men hung on the ropes, spinning slowly, watching the jungle fall away beneath them. Bullets cracked past. A round hit Henderson’s rucks sack, the impact spinning him on the rope. Chen’s radio took a hit. Sparks and smoke. Harris, lowest on his rope, could see muzzle flashes through the canopy below, could see VC soldiers pointing up at them.

 It was then that Fischer’s carabiner failed. The snaplink, stressed beyond its design limits, corroded by a week in the rain and mud, simply opened. Fisher fell 30 m through the air, through the jungle canopy, through the branches and vines, back into the hell they’d just escaped. Morrison, hanging on his rope 10 ft away, saw it happen.

 saw a Fisher there one second, gone the next, heard the crash as he hit the canopy and disappeared into the jungle below. Morrison screamed into his radio, “Man down! Man down!” Fiser fell through the trees. Mai heard it through his headset, the words every pilot dreaded. He made the odd decision in two seconds. Keep climbing or go back.

 Four men still on the ropes, enemy fire increasing, fuel burning fast. He kept climbing. Got to get these four clear first. Williams watched the jungle below, searching for any sign of Fisher. Nothing visible through the thick canopy. The extraction took another 90 seconds that felt like hours.

 Mai cleared the immediate danger area, flying east with the four men still dangling beneath the helicopter. At a clearing 2 kilometers away, he descended and let them touch down. They unclipped from the ropes, climbed into the aircraft. Morrison grabbed Mai’s shoulder, yelling over the rotor noise, “We have to go back. He’s still alive.” McKay nodded.

 He was already turning the helicopter around. Albatross EO3. This is O2. Going back for the fifth man. Grant’s voice crackled back. Negative. Blue area is too hot. Multiple enemy concentrations. Mai didn’t respond. He was already inbound. Williams redeployed the rope. Morrison clipped back on, determined to go down if they could get close enough.

 Henderson and Chen grabbed their weapons, ready to provide covering fire from the helicopter doors. On the ground, David Fiser regained consciousness in a nightmare. He’d fallen through three layers of canopy, branches breaking his fall before hitting the ground. His left leg was broken, compound fracture, bone visible through torn skin.

 His right arm was dislocated at the shoulder. His rifle was gone, lost in the fall. He could hear the Vietkong soldiers crashing through the jungle, searching for him, calling to each other. He tried to move, pain exploding through his body. The jungle floor was a tangle of undergrowth and fallen logs. He crawled behind a massive strangler fig tree, using his one good arm to drag himself.

 blood trail behind him. No way to hide it. He found his survival knife still strapped to his belt, pulled it free with shaking hands. The first VC soldier appeared through the undergrowth 40 m away, moving cautiously, weapon up, then another, then two more. Fiser gripped the knife. He wouldn’t be taken alive. He’d seen what happened to captured Australian soldiers above.

 Mai brought Albatross O2 back to the extraction site. The area was chaos now. Enemy fire intensifying. Grant’s bush ranger was making gun runs trying to suppress the ground fire, but there were too many VC soldiers, too many firing positions. Williams scanned the jungle below through the door gunner’s position. Movement everywhere.

Muzzle flashes. Then impossibly he saw it. A hand waving from the base of a massive tree. Fiser signaling his position. Even though he knew it might be his last act. Morrison saw it too. Lower. Get me lower. Mai pushed the helicopter into a hover directly over the position 50 ft up. Rotor wash thrashing the canopy.

 Tracer fire converged on the aircraft from multiple directions. Rounds punched through the fuselage with sharp metallic cracks. The windscreen starred with a bullet impact 6 in from Mai’s head. Williams lowered the rope. Morrison clipped on gave the signal, “Let me down.” Mai descended, fighting the controls as wind and gunfire buffeted the aircraft.

 Morrison disappeared into the canopy, swinging on the rope, crashing through branches. He hit the jungle floor hard, unclipped, and ran toward the tree where he’d seen the signal. Fiser lay propped against the trunk, knife in hand, leg destroyed, face white with blood loss and shock. Three VC soldiers were converging on his position from different directions.

Morrison shot the first one at 15 m. a three- round burst from his M16 that dropped the man instantly. The second soldier returned fire, rounds impacting the tree trunk. Morrison put him down with a longer burst. The third soldier was smarter, took cover, started maneuvering. Morrison grabbed Fiser, threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

 Fiser screamed as his broken leg shifted. Morrison keyed his radio. coming up. Have the rope ready. He ran toward the small clearing directly below the helicopter, carrying Fischer’s 180 lb plus his own gear, legs pumping through mud and undergrowth. Bullets cut the air around them. Behind them, more VC soldiers appeared. At least six now, maybe more.

 Morrison reached the rope. Williams was already lowering it, the loop swinging wildly in the rotor wash. Morrison grabbed it, clipped Fischer’s carabiner to the D-ring, then clipped his own. Two men on one rope, well over the recommended weight limit, cleared to lift. Mai didn’t hesitate. Full power, maximum collective.

 The UH1H engine screamed in protest, but the aircraft climbed. Morrison held Fiser against his chest with both arms. Fisher’s broken leg dangling, blood dripping down into the jungle. The rope spun them in circles as they rose. Bullets snapped past. Around hit Morrison’s rucks sack. Another grazed his boot. The helicopter gained altitude.

 20 ft 40 ft, clearing the first layer of canopy. Grant’s bush ranger made another gun run. Miniguns shredding the jungle below, giving them the seconds they needed. 60 f feet clear of the canopy. Mai turned east and accelerated, still climbing. Morrison and Fiser swung wildly beneath the helicopter, spinning and colliding with each other.

 Fischer’s consciousness faded in and out. The pain was beyond anything he’d experienced. He could see the jungle rushing past below, could feel Morrison’s arms locked around him, holding on. 3 kilometers east, Mai found a clearing large enough to set down. He descended slowly, Morrison and Fiser still dangling 60 ft below.

 When they were 5 ft from the ground, Morrison released his grip on Fiser, letting him drop the last few feet into the mud. Morrison hit the ground a second later, rolled, came up ready. Chen and Henderson jumped from the helicopter and ran to Fiser. He was in bad shape. Broken leg, dislocated shoulder, possible internal injuries from the fall, significant blood loss.

 Chen applied a field dressing to the compound fracture while Henderson reset the shoulder with a hard pull that made Fiser scream. They loaded him into the helicopter. Morrison climbed aboard last. Mai lifted off and headed for Vong Tao where the Australian Field Hospital had surgeons standing by. The entire extraction from first hover to final departure had taken 27 minutes.

 The helicopter flight back to Vonga took 18 minutes. Fiser remained conscious most of the way. Morrison holding pressure on his leg wound, talking to him constantly, keeping him engaged. You’re going home, mate. You’re done. Tour’s over. Hospital recovery, then Melbourne. See your family. The hospital at Vonga had been alerted.

 Medical team waiting on the helipad. When Albatross Ero2 touched down, they had Fiser on a stretcher and moving toward surgery within 30 seconds. Mai shut down the aircraft and sat in the pilot’s seat for a long moment, hands shaking now that the adrenaline was fading. The aircraft had taken 11 bullet hits. One round had passed through the cabin 2 in below Williams’s position.

 Another had grazed the fuel line. They’d been seconds from catastrophe multiple times. Flight Lieutenant Mai and Squadron leader Grant both filed afteraction reports that evening. Routine extraction under moderate enemy fire. Patrol successfully recovered. One member injured during extraction. Non-combat related equipment failure.

 The reports were filed and forgotten. The official record showed nothing unusual. But among the helicopter crews of nine squadron RAAF and the SAS troopers at Newuidat, the story spread. Morrison told Henderson, who told another patrol leader who told his team. Williams told the other door gunners over beers at the Peter Badco Club.

 Grant told his co-pilots during briefings, “The story of the hot extraction at Nui Mtowo, where a pilot went back under impossible fire to recover a fallen soldier, became one of those legends that defined what the relationship between SAS and helicopter crews meant in Vietnam. David Fiser survived. His leg required three surgeries to repair.

 The compound fracture had shattered his tibia in four places. His shoulder healed with permanent reduced range of motion. He was medically evacuated to Australia in October 1969 and discharged from the army in January 1970. He never returned to Vietnam. He settled back in Melbourne, married a nurse he met during his rehabilitation named Sarah, and worked as a warehouse supervisor at a logistics company, three children, Quiet Life.

 He rarely spoke about Vietnam. When pressed, he’d say he did his job and came home, same as thousands of others. Once a year on September 27th, he’d receive a phone call. Sometimes from Morrison, sometimes from Henderson or Chen or Harris. They’d talk for 10 minutes, maybe 15. Remember the rain? Remember being surrounded? Remember the rope? Remember the fall? In 1987, flight lieutenant James Mai retired from the ARAAF and working as a commercial pilot for Quantis read a newspaper article about Australian MIAs from Vietnam. The article mentioned

Private David Fiser, who’d gone missing during a helicopter extraction in 1969. Mai picked up the phone, called information, got Fischer’s number in Melbourne. They talked for two hours. That phone call turned into an annual tradition. Every September 27th, Fiser would receive calls from Morrison, from his old patrol mates, and from Mai.

Eventually, Williams joined the calls, then Grant. They’d remember the extraction, remember the jungle, remember how close it had been. In 1995, a military historian researching Australian special operations in Vietnam interviewed Fiser as part of an oral history project. Fiser described the patrol, the contact, the extraction.

 He explained how his carabiner had failed, how he’d fallen, how Morrison had come back for him. The historian asked if he’d recommend Morrison for a medal. Fiser said no. Morrison would hate that. We took care of each other. That was the job. The interview was archived at the Australian War Memorial, but not published.

 The historian noted that Fiser was reluctant to claim any heroism for himself or attribute any to others, seeing the entire incident as simply what soldiers did for each other under fire. The extraction techniques used that day became case studies at nine squadron ray AF. The rope extraction under fire.

 The decision to return for a downed man despite overwhelming enemy presence. The coordination between gunbird and extraction bird. The weight limits exceeded and protocols violated in service of one principle. You never leave a man behind. Modern Australian military forces still teach variations of the technique.

 Hot extractions remain one of the most dangerous operations helicopter crews perform. The principles haven’t changed. Speed, surprise, overwhelming covering fire and pilots willing to fly into situations where every instinct screams to turn around and sometimes soldiers willing to go back into hell for their mates. David Fiser died in 2008 at age 59.

 Heart attack in his workshop behind his house in suburban Melbourne. He was working on restoring a 1967 Holden Monaro, a project he’d started two years earlier. His obituary in the age mentioned his Vietnam service, but provided no details. Sarah knew he’d done something significant during the war. Knew it involved a helicopter and an injury, but Fiser had never explained the full story. She found out at his funeral.

Morrison flew down from Brisbane. Henderson came from Kairens. Chen drove from Sydney. Mai, still flying for Kis rearranged his schedule to attend. Williams had passed away in 2003, but his son came to represent his father. At the wake, they told Sarah what had happened on September 27th, 1969. The patrol, the contact, the extraction, the fall, the return.

 Morrison spoke last. He told Sarah that Fiser had saved the patrol twice that day. First, by spotting the enemy searchers at dawn, giving them time to move before being completely surrounded. Second, by signaling his position after the fall, even though it exposed him, because it gave Morrison a target to aim for in the chaos.

 Without Fiser, Morrison said, we might not have gotten out at all. The method itself lived longer than the men. Post-war analysis by and Australian Army aviation units validated the extraction techniques used that day. Rope extractions under fire were integrated into official doctrine in 1973 as an approved method for recovering patrols from hostile territory when landing zones weren’t available.

Training manuals credited operational experience from Vietnam. Modern Australian special operations forces still practice hot extractions. The procedure has been refined, equipment improved, safety protocols enhanced, but the core principle remains unchanged. When your people are surrounded and under fire, you go in and get them regardless of risk.

 The partnership between nine squadron ARF and the CESOSR in Vietnam established a template that continues today. Helicopter crews and special forces operators train together, deploy together, trust each other completely. The relationship built in places like Nui Mauo, Under Fire, and in the rain created bonds that transcend service branch or individual mission.

 That’s how innovation happens in war. Not through committee meetings or planning sessions. Through pilots who see soldiers in danger and make the decision to fly into fire. Through signalers who stay on the radio under enemy assault, calling in their own extraction. Through patrol leaders who won’t leave until every man is accounted for.

 through door gunners who lean out into tracer fire to guide ropes down to desperate men. Through young soldiers who fall 30 meters through jungle canopy and still have the presence of mind to signal their position so others can find them. The rope is still used. The technique is still taught. The principle is still honored.

 But the men who pioneered it, who refined it under fire, who proved it worked when everything else failed, they’re mostly gone now. Fisher, Makai, Williams, Morrison, Grant, the jungle in time claimed them all eventually. What remains is the story passed down from one generation of helicopter crews to the next. From one SAS patrol to another. The extraction at Nui Mao.

 When the pilot went back. When the patrol leader carried his wounded soldier through enemy fire. When four men dangled beneath a helicopter while bullets tore the air around them. When one man fell and another refused to leave him behind. Sometimes the simplest stories are the most powerful. You don’t abandon your mates. You bring them home.

Even if it kills you trying. That was the code in Vietnam. That remains the code today. If you found this story compelling, please like this video. Subscribe to stay connected with these untold histories. Leave a comment telling us where you’re watching from.