A long, long time ago
in an exotic foreign land, one of the pilots in the sortie took one smack in the forehead on first light strike. The Cobra's front seater came on the net, "My pilot's hit!"
"How bad?"
"I can't see him. He won't answer!"
"Head XXX and I'll get somebody medical to meet you."
When I landed, the medics were pulling the pilot out of the Snake's back seat, limp, covered in blood, and dead guy skin color.
My crew chief dashed over, back, and returned to the Snake while I shut down the Slick. As I climbed out, he returned shaking his head and laughing. "He's alive?" I asked.
"He's knocked goofy. An AK round went over the front-seat's head, hit the rocket sight, and busted up. The lead was deflected upward, but the jacket was stuck in his skull, dead above the nose between his eyebrows. Doc pulled it out with my pliers."
A week later, we were on R&R in Hong Kong. Probably not surprising, but the pilot got a lot of drinks outta that story. Army pilots have hard heads.