Warrant Officer Stephen Peth was making his final turn at treetop level when he looked through the green Plexiglas above his head. In the landing zone below, South Vietnamese soldiers were standing upright — usually a good sign.
Suddenly, enemy rounds punched through the helicopter. Peth felt the impact in his right arm and pulled maximum power to climb away. With just 30 days left in his tour, the 23-year-old warrant officer looked down at his forearm and could see daylight through the hole.
“Danny, I’m hit,” he yelled to his copilot.
“I’m hit too, boss,” came the reply.
His bone fragments had embedded in his copilot’s shoulder. The aircraft had taken 39 hits, but the Huey kept flying.
By then, he had flown over 3,000 casualties to safety during 11 months evacuating wounded soldiers from Vietnam’s most dangerous battlefields. More than five decades later, the efforts of the Army DUSTOFF pilots in Vietnam are to be recognized with a Congressional Gold Medal.
From Piano Lessons to Army Pilot
Stephen Boyer Peth was born April 18, 1946, in Seneca Falls, New York. His father, a World War II Coast Guard veteran and jazz drummer, operated a music shop in nearby Montour Falls. Peth studied piano at Ithaca College, dreaming of becoming a concert pianist.
“My aspirations exceeded my talent,” he said.
By 1967, he was studying music education when student teaching made him reconsider his path. Switching to applied music — becoming a serious piano player rather than a teacher — would cost him two semesters and his student deferment.
He had high school classmates fighting in Vietnam. The guilt weighed on him.
“I had a bit of a guilt thing going on having a good time in college while these guys are going over to Vietnam,” Peth said.
He decided to audition for the West Point Military Academy Band. Through his father’s connections — several former students had achieved fame in the percussion world — Peth was accepted with a June 1967 report date. Band members never deployed to Vietnam.
But after the audition, Peth had second thoughts.
“I said, ‘I’m not coming down here in June,’” Peth recalled. “I think I want to fly.”
His family was shocked, but they understood his decision, especially his father. The Air Force required a four-year degree for pilot training. The Army didn’t. On March 27, 1967, he enlisted for warrant officer flight training.
Becoming a DUSTOFF Pilot
After basic training at Fort Polk, Louisiana, Peth shipped to Fort Wolters, Texas, for primary helicopter flight training. Students learned on the TH-55 and H-13— tiny, two-seat aircraft pulled from Korean War mothballs.
“It could barely hover in hot Texas weather,” Peth said.
Students who failed went to infantry training and straight to Vietnam as ground troops.
“There was a huge drive to complete flight school,” Peth said.
Advanced training moved to Fort Rucker, Alabama. That’s where Peth first encountered the UH-1 Huey — the aircraft that would define the Vietnam War.
“Wow, this is big time,” he remembered thinking. The Huey could cruise at 90 knots and hit 120 if needed. “It was a fantastic aircraft.”
Peth ranked ninth out of 85 students in Warrant Officer Class 68-503. On May 7, 1968, he received his Army aviator wings. The top 15 graduates were assigned to a month of training at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, for DUSTOFF missions — Army medical evacuation.
DUSTOFF referred to the rotor wash which covered landing zones as helicopters touched down — it became the call sign for Army medevac helicopters in Vietnam. Their mission was to fly into combat under any conditions, extract wounded soldiers and deliver them to field hospitals.
The medical training proved intense. Famous surgeons taught advanced trauma care. Students practiced giving each other shots and drawing blood, performed live surgery on goats, learned to clear airways and treat critical wounds.
“I could not believe they paired us up to give each other shots and draw blood,” Peth said. “I was almost frozen.”
In July 1968, he arrived in Vietnam.
Flying Into Vietnam Combat
Peth joined the 159th Medical Detachment — call sign DUSTOFF 160 — supporting the 25th Infantry Division. The unit operated six Hueys with 12 pilots and 28 crew members scattered across brigade locations at Cu Chi, Dau Tieng and Tay Ninh.
Maj. Douglas Moore commanded the unit. Aircraft on standby had to be airborne within five minutes. “If someone was wounded, we were on the way, period,” Peth said.
While the Tropic Lightning soldiers pushed out into the jungle, the DUSTOFF pilots were ready to extract the wounded as needed.
Missions came through the tactical operations center with basic information, casualties, coordinates, radio frequency. As helicopters approached, pilots contacted ground units to assess whether the landing zone was hot or cold, where the enemy was, what support was available.
The standard approach was fly high where small-arms fire couldn’t reach, then dive to treetop level. Then land with tails toward the enemy for quick departures. Peth didn’t learn until 2023 that crew members faced a one-in-three chance of being wounded or killed.
“My mindset was I had a job to do and I didn’t want to let anybody down,” he said.
DUSTOFF crews evacuated everyone who needed help — American soldiers, Allied forces, South Vietnamese troops, even enemy wounded who’d been captured.
Flying as copilot with aircraft commander Tony Peters near Cu Chi, a single enemy soldier with an AK-47 emptied his magazine as the helicopter passed directly overhead. Five bullets stitched through the aircraft — through the console, between crew members, into the transmission and engine. The Huey kept flying.
“My God, if this thing could take hits like that and keep flying, what a hell of an aircraft,” Peth said.
On another mission with Peters, they landed in a hot landing zone when an AK-47 round hit the bulkhead behind Peters’ seat. A glass bottle of saline solution stored there exploded behind Peters’ head, tilting his helmet down over his eyes. Peth instinctively grabbed the controls.
“The whole crew was laughing at how funny Tony looked with his helmet pushed down over his eyes,” Peth said. “Danger and a sense of humor can coexist.”
After about four months, Moore selected Peth to be an aircraft commander. “I don’t remember my first mission as commander, but I do remember how nervous I was to have all of that responsibility,” Peth said.
The Bomb Crater Mission and Distinguished Flying Cross
One mission near Tay Ninh tested every skill Peth possessed. Multiple helicopters and jets flew combat missions in total darkness over the field as an enemy anti-aircraft gun fired at anything showing lights. A friendly patrol outside a firebase had been attacked with heavy casualties.
The patrol had moved to a bomb crater surrounded by trees and filled with stumps. They requested a DUSTOFF hover in the crater while they lifted casualties up.
Peth descended with the lights off until treetop level, then turned on the searchlight. The radio erupted — other aircraft screaming at him to turn it off.
“Of course, we could not turn it off,” he said.
The helicopter couldn’t land, only hover. The crew chief and medic stood on the skids calling directions — tail left, move right, forward. As soldiers raised the wounded on litters, the shifting weight forced Peth to constantly adjust to avoid crashing.
“They were calm, cool and professional,” Peth said. “I don’t know why the enemy did not engage us. It is good to be lucky. That was the toughest mission I have ever flown.”
That four-day period, they evacuated 251 casualties in 51 missions, earning him his first Distinguished Flying Cross.
They later entered the same area repeatedly because a unit was in heavy contact, Peth’s helicopter landed and picked up several wounded. On the way out, enemy fire hit every fuel cell. The aircraft was grounded for extensive repairs.
Then more missions started coming in, they were needed again. During preflight on another helicopter, Peth noticed his hands were shaking. The crew chief for the aircraft wasn’t there, but his crew chief from the damaged helicopter was getting it ready.
Peth told him he didn’t have to fly. The crew chief’s response: “Mr. Peth, if you are going back to that LZ then I’m going, too.”
“As soon as the engine started and the blades were spinning, my hands stopped shaking,” Peth said. “I will never forget the bravery and dedication to the mission of that crew chief.”
On another occasion, Peth repeatedly flew into a mortar-targeted landing zone to extract casualties, timing his approaches between incoming rounds. He earned a second Distinguished Flying Cross.
Shot Through the Arm and Silver Star
With approximately 30 days left in country, Peth flew to evacuate South Vietnamese casualties near “Dodge City” — an area known for heavy enemy activity. Ground forces reported they were no longer taking fire.
As he descended, the field lit up with small arms fire. He climbed to safety and realized he’d been hit. His copilot, Denny Derber, was also hit but took the controls.
“About one-and-a-half inches from my elbow, I could see daylight through my arm,” Peth said.
The aircraft had taken 39 hits but flew them to the hospital. When Peth walked in, he noticed he was limping — another bullet through his boot.
Army surgeons inserted a pin in his arm. While Peth was still drugged after surgery, Maj. Moore arrived with a fresh uniform and told him to get dressed.
“Next thing I know, I’m on the flight line in front of a formation,” Peth said.
Gen. Creighton Abrams pinned medals on both men. Moore received the Distinguished Service Cross. Peth received the Silver Star for a previous mission.
Abrams looked at the cast and asked if Peth earned the medal on the mission where he was wounded.
“I said ‘no sir, this was months ago,’” Peth recalled. “Abrams said, ‘Where do we find men like this?’”
His Vietnam decorations include the Silver Star, two Distinguished Flying Crosses, two Air Medals, Bronze Star, Purple Heart and numerous other decorations.
Returning Home and Second Tour in Vietnam
After recovering, Peth became a flight instructor at Fort Rucker. He was given a choice to stay in the Army and was even offered an official commission as a field artillery officer.
“My wife and I talked it over, I decided to stay in the Army, knowing I may be back in Vietnam,” he said.
He returned in 1972 for a second tour, this time with the 57th Assault Helicopter Company. The unit had one platoon of Cobra gunships and two platoons of Huey gunships. Peth served as platoon leader with 12 aircraft, supporting mainly South Vietnamese forces.
By 1972, virtually no American tactical units remained on the ground. The war had changed.
“I remember thinking on my first tour, there were U.S. troops everywhere, someone would get me if I got shot down,” Peth said. “By 1972, if I got shot down, I was on my own.”
His platoon rotated supporting Special Forces and their Montagnard fighters on cross-border operations, flying “Hook and Ladder” missions where troops rappelled from helicopters into the jungle and were extracted via rope ladders.
Throughout his time in Vietnam, Peth accumulated 3,579 hours of flight time — 1,639 in combat across both tours.
He remained in the Army for two more decades, serving at Fort Bragg, Fort Wainwright and other posts before being sent to the Pentagon. From 1990 to 1992, he worked for the Strategic Defense Initiative Organization, developing the “Family of Radars” concept for the U.S. Ballistic Missile Defense System. He retired as a lieutenant colonel in 1992.
He worked at Raytheon until 2004, earning the Missile Defense Agency’s Technology Pioneer Award in 2006 for his radar work.
That same year, images of wounded soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan drew him to Walter Reed. Living in Nokesville, Virginia, with his wife Mary, Peth couldn’t stop thinking about the amputees.
“Maybe I have something I can offer these people,” he said.
He volunteered with the Red Cross, starting on a hospital ward before transferring to the Military Advanced Training Center — the amputee facility — in 2008. When Walter Reed consolidated with the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, in 2011, Peth continued his work and was asked to lead volunteer recruitment.
Under his leadership, the program grew from a handful to almost 80 volunteers. He screens prospective volunteers, manages schedules and supervises those working in occupational therapy, physical therapy, assistive technology, prosthetics and adaptive sports programs.
“When you’re an old guy and you’re no longer getting a paycheck and yet you can still do something that people value, that really makes me happy,” Peth said.
For his volunteer work, Peth earned a President’s Lifetime Achievement Award.
Congressional Gold Medal for DUSTOFF Crews
In April 2024, the DUSTOFF Association asked Peth to help lobby Congress for the Congressional Gold Medal for Vietnam-era DUSTOFF crews. The effort had failed for eight years.
Peth joined other veterans walking the halls of Congress in June 2024. “We went from 100 sponsors to 320,” he said.
President Joe Biden signed it into law Sept. 24, 2024. A single gold medal will be placed in the Army Medical Department Museum in San Antonio, recognizing all DUSTOFF pilots, copilots, crew chiefs and medics who served in Vietnam.
When Peth returned from Vietnam in 1969 wearing his decorations and a cast on his arm at a family reunion, not one relative asked about his service or what happened to his arm. He assumed no one cared. Forty years passed before someone thanked him.
When asked who he’ll think when the medal is presented, his thoughts turn first to those who didn’t come home — Lt. Douglas MacNeil, his roommate at flight school whose name is on the memorial wall in San Antonio.
He’ll also think of Moore, his commander who is still alive. Moore mentored him and nominated him for the DUSTOFF Hall of Fame. During one mission, Moore took a bullet through his helmet. Peth grabbed the controls and saved them.
“He wrote in his book that I saved his life,” Peth said. “I’ll be thinking about him and what all he did for me.”
The DUSTOFF Legacy
DUSTOFF pilots evacuated more than 300,000 American casualties during the Vietnam War. Historians estimate that nearly 700,000 Allied and civilian casualties were also saved by the pilots.
“You didn’t just save one life,” Peth said. “He goes home and has a family. That’s significant.”
He wants people to understand what DUSTOFF crews did. “There are people from regular society who joined the military and put their lives on the line to rescue others,” he said. “Every single time you got in the cockpit, that could be the one.”
Upon reflecting on his time with the 159th, he said: “I’ve had a good career, but that 11 months in Vietnam was the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done.”
At 78, he continues volunteering at Walter Reed, helping wounded veterans from a new generation. His time in Vietnam, extensive military career, defense work, and his efforts helping other veterans exemplify the courage and dedication to duty that DUSTOFF pilots repeatedly showed in Vietnam. Their efforts during the war are to finally be recognized by the nation with a Congressional Gold Medal that is long overdue.
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