June 17, 2008
The Incredible Hulk of Green Footprints
This from the Tennessee Center for Policy Research:
Energy Guzzled by Al Gore’s Home in Past Year Could Power 232 U.S. Homes for a Month
Gore’s personal electricity consumption up 10%, despite “energy-efficient” home renovations
NASHVILLE - In the year since Al Gore took steps to make his home more energy-efficient, the former Vice President’s home energy use surged more than 10%, according to the Tennessee Center for Policy Research.
*snip*
In the past year, Gore’s home burned through 213,210 kilowatt-hours (kWh) of electricity, enough to power 232 average American households for a month.
*snip*
After the Tennessee Center for Policy Research exposed Gore’s massive home energy use, the former Vice President scurried to make his home more energy-efficient. Despite adding solar panels, installing a geothermal system, replacing existing light bulbs with more efficient models, and overhauling the home’s windows and ductwork, Gore now consumes more electricity than before the “green” overhaul.
Since taking steps to make his home more environmentally-friendly last June, Gore devours an average of 17,768 kWh per month –1,638 kWh more energy per month than before the renovations – at a cost of $16,533. By comparison, the average American household consumes 11,040 kWh in an entire year, according to the Energy Information Administration.
*snip*
The Tennessee Center for Policy Research, a Nashville-based free market think tank and watchdog organization, obtained information about Gore’s home energy use through a public records request to the Nashville Electric Service.
Only a lefty can get away with this breathtaking hypocrisy. -Instapilot
H/T: The Blogfaddah
P.S. In Japan today (by way of Australia, the Philippines, Singapore and Hong Kong). First impressions--heated toilet seats are good. That said, there is something to be said about overdoing the morning constitutional experience.
There are four WARNINGS and two CAUTIONS listed inside the lid of my room's john. There are seven controls, including "Spray," "Stop," "Shower," "Bidet," Seat Temp-LOW," Seat Temp-HIGH," and "Deodorizer." There is also a flush handle. Found it after a momentary panic--"Damn, mebbe 'Shower' is a Japanese euphemism for 'flush'...ah, *whew* there it is."
The modern commode: like transistor radios, VCRs, DVD players and color TVs, the West invents it, the East perfects it.
So help me, I will never make fun of a Japanese tourist--I took pictures of my hotel crapper. -Instapilot
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
ummmm.... 'Ichi Ban' means 'number one'. Dunno how to say 'number two', Dusty- you figger it out.
;)
by Neffi on June 17, 2008 8:02 PM
"Itchy bum"?
by
Instapilot, Attila, Whatever on June 17, 2008 8:40 PM
So, where's the photo of the techno-loo? Don't be a tease. Did it have LED status lights? Water gauges? Bacteria alarm klaxon?
by
bad cat robot on June 17, 2008 10:39 PM
IMO, it’s not a hightech-loo unless it has a Klingon remover and a “dangerously full bowl” warning light.
by
Ledger on June 18, 2008 5:44 AM
Dusty-
Be glad you didn't get the same bidet version Taco got the last time he had a stay-over in Tokyo....
I'd quote some of it here, but it would ruin all the fun. You have GOT to read this post.
by AFSister on June 18, 2008 8:06 AM
OH!
I almost forgot... Afghani bidets, also compliments of Taco.
What is it with pilots and the urge to write about foreign toilets? LMAO!!
by AFSister on June 18, 2008 8:21 AM
Good thing Taco didn't press the automatic tampon remover, isn't it?
by
BillT on June 18, 2008 12:49 PM
OOHHHH!
They have one of those????
Wonder what else it can do...
by AFSister on June 18, 2008 9:09 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
May 5, 2008
Castle Argghhh! American Gothic
[Kat]
So, there I was...some where in the hinterlands where people were bitterly clinging to their bibles and guns. Out past Ft. Leavenworth and the Leavenworth penitentiary where the signs helpfully advise "Do Not Pick Up Hitch Hikers!" It is unknown whether they meant potential escapees from the penitentiary or the base. It could even be referring to the locals.
Down a gravel road where city dwellers rarely go, past the outlying demesnes of lesser nobles and up on the hill to Castle Argghhh! LLC where the gun control folks and revenuers fear to tread. Signs in German point the way while one in English just past the Castle proclaims: 50 meters to the border. For Ry and me, the signs should have read:
Arbeit macht frei!
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
Or, better yet, Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!
I found SWWBO and Ry's brilliant better half out in the barn putting together chicken roosts with 2X4s using the scariest, bitter, bible and gun clinging weapons known to Chicago liberals: power tools. We're talking industrial size, nail a democrat to the barn wall nail gun and turn them into chum table saw. I half expected Hillary to show up and start slammin' Ritas, demanding to know how to use that long metal club with the pretty, LSD inspired neon yellow bubbles in it.
After some perfunctory introductions and explanation of what all the two legged braces were for, the Armorer and Ry showed up. Wherein the Armorer proceeded to immediately give me a rash of ... well, a rash anyway, regarding the "Army Gone Stupid" post and succeeding commentary. I was late, as usual (and for good reason...I had to drive my mom a few places before I could run off to slave...er...visit). He said he thought I was trying to avoid him. Of course, everyone knows that denizens and denizennes have long since lost most of their sense of self-preservation. Particularly when there's a possibility to cling to guns and drink Ritas (not together; there are some safety rules at the Castle.)
Anyhoo...what part of the "women in combat MOS; then we should have MOS specific tests everyone has to pass" did not I not get out of that post's commentary? I was half tempted to reply, "Yo no se. No hablo Engles." But, one look around showed there was a lot of woods in which to dispose of bodies and, while I have lost most senses of self preservation, I hadn't lost them all. So, I just said, "I agree! I agree!"
I then sent the young padawan I had brought with me off with the guys to do "guy things". Which apparently consisted of a lot of running back and forth to the water spout shouting to the guy on the other end "is there any water yet?" about ten times. I thought they were supposed to be digging fence post holes; I'm still confused about the need for water since we had about 90 inches of rain last Thursday and the good Missouri clay seemed smushy enough to dig with a spoon, but I'm not a geography major like some folks so what do I know?
After such entertainment, it was back to building chicken roosts. Ry's brilliant better half put her higher math skills to use measuring 2x4s for braces. I took over the nail gun since it was the closest I was going to get to clinging to anything with a trigger last weekend. I told SWWBO that the extra nails in the braces were to make them more sturdy and able to withstand typical Oz tornadoes. It also made a satisfying "BANG" in the old tin barn. Except Willy the horse didn't dig it too much.
While I finished up the roosts, SWWBO and RBBH used quantum mathematics to figure out how to mix poultry pesticide. It was like trying to figure out how to make one 32 oz Rita out of ingredient directions for 12 1/2 gallon Castle Rita machine. While Ry continued to try to earn his way out of the outhouse with manual labor, the Armorer and the padawan did more guy things. The padawan received rudimentary instructions on how to use military gadgetry to spot and destroy the enemy up to five miles out with an artillery barrage, Then they took a drive on the demesne's 4x4. Which I am convinced was a good excuse for the Armorer to drive over five miles an hour over "hostile terrain". The padawan thanks the Armorer for the "roller coaster ride". Ahem.
Roosts completed and pesticide mixed to non-lethal amounts, it was time for the real fun to begin. I only wish that I had had my video camera out so that the rest of the denizens could enjoy the Lord and Lady of the manner wrangling chickens out of the dairy tank/tack room/temporary chicken coop. Don't worry, I had enough enjoyment for all of you. Still, all the fun was not reserved for the Castle nobles. They were generous enough to share the experience with us serfs. We received a quick lesson in how to hold chickens without being pecked or clawed as we transported said wrangled chickens to the larger coop for checking and spraying.
The guys went back to managing Ry's work and measuring the proper length between post holes using another must have guy tool: a wheeled clicker. Critter inspection completed, it was time for the next "dirtiest jobs" episode. It was my turn to wrangle chickens to move to the smaller pen. It was like watching Obama wrangle a position on Rev. Wright. Of course, I would have given my eye teeth to see Hillary showing her bitter mid-westerness catching a few of these fine feathered fiends.
For reasons you will have to imagine, the chicken coop has been re-christened "son of b*tch" with a few other knick names in case that one fails to stick. Yes, SWWBO and I expressed deep and abiding bitterness with the coop before the job was done. The worst was yet to come.
In medieval days, the lowest pay grade denizen was assigned to clean the garde robe or jakes. In modern times, no denizen has yet to experience the wrath of the Big Boot until they have been assigned the duty of cleaning politician excrement out of the chicken pen. It was almost like working in DC and slightly better than the barracks at Ft. Bragg. Ye of weak stomach's do not enter here. Three 144 cu ft wheelbarrows full, some chicken deodorizer and fresh pine chips later, the chicken coop was about par with on base enlisted housing and ready for new residents. I now believe that the Tyson employees should receive higher pay.
There was still joy to be had in Mudville. Ry and the padawan had the last fun of wrangling "Satchmo" the rooster. I do have video of that and Ry now owes me undying devotion to keep it off of YouTube and the Castle domain. One rooster and a bag of frozen pees for Ry's wrenched knee later, it was time grill up some rib-eyes and mike some potatoes. We dined by the light of the giant boob-tube while watching Master Blasters blow up Dorothy's house and destroy the Wicked Witch of the West. Hillary was unavailable for comment.
Fear not, dear denizens, it is not all work and no play at the Castle. The Lord and Lady of the demesne graciously shared their hot tub with the serfs while naming the various constellations and trying to catch falling stars.
It was better than being boiled in oil and kept previously unknown muscles from suffering Obama-esque like spasms.
All in all, it was a fun day at Castle Argghh!

Gollum and RBBH
[Some names and photos were changed to protect the innocent. This story is factual except where the Big Boot disagrees. Any part or whole of this story that resembles actual events is purely accidental. Due to OSHA regulations, no bayonets were allowed on the set. No animals, politicians, left leaning moonbats nor castle denizens were harmed during this production.]
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Heh,
Having been "apprenticed" to the nexr-door sairy at the age of 10, and having to deal with some 500 chickens each day, I take distinct pleasure in eating them. I sincerely believe chickens are seconded only to turkeys as the most vile critters on this earth. They do, however, taste pretty good, especially with mashed potatoes, cole slaw and cold beer :)
Sounds like a good time was had by all!
Respects,
by AW1 Tim on May 5, 2008 6:34 AM
Well, I distinctly remember John saying something about "work". LOL
by fdcol63 on May 5, 2008 6:44 AM
Are the chickens part of the early warning security system for the Castle? Or are they part of the early Memorial Day festivities?
If they're part of security, I would suggest using geese. They make a lot more noise and are heartier...also not bad in an orange glaze over the grill.
With the cost of corn, those eggs must be a real premium.
Be carefull of those chicken hawks and mostly the neighbors cats.
by Fishmugger on May 5, 2008 7:48 AM
FM - the guineas (compared to whom chickens look like rocket scientists) are the CEW (Close-in Early Warning) at the Castle.
Tim - admittedly, the chickens can be... well, their effluvia can be... odiferous at times.
by
John of Argghhh! on May 5, 2008 9:25 AM
Italian Guards!!! Now you're talking. But only out of uniform in ya know...silk suit, purple shirt, white tie.
I could say that, so be careful here...ya know.
Copo il tuti capi (boss of all bosses)
by Fishmugger on May 5, 2008 9:36 AM
Haha, AW1...I was a vegetarian for about 25 years. But I maintained throughout that if any creature deserved to die, it is the chicken. Vile, indeed, and obnoxious, too.
by April on May 5, 2008 11:26 AM
All the major post holes were dug and filled with unmixed concrete by the time you showed, Kat. ;) The Padawan seemed to enjoy tromping up and down the hill to relay the hose before filling the hole with water. Satchmo, 1) I don't have a good first step anymore but I had that rooster 2x but passed for Padawan to get him. 2) Related to 1), Satchmo has a really good change of direction 3) I am smarter than the rooster, I'm the one who guided the Padawan and positioned myself to push Satch into the coop.
Signs. No, I think "work makes you tired" is more accurate than 'work makes you free'.
by ry on May 5, 2008 2:25 PM
I'm the one who guided the Padwan and positioned myself to push Satch into the coop.
Dude, feeling the need to "crow" about it?
by kat-missouri on May 5, 2008 2:32 PM
***shakes head ruefully***
Capo dei tutti i capi, FM - Capo dei tutti i capi.
by Boquisucio on May 5, 2008 9:38 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
October 31, 2007
For What It's Worth...
...you've seen me give hat-tip credit for the atrocious puns and oddball jokes with which V29 and Doc E bombard me (thereby reinforcing my rep as a real stand-up, albeit strait-laced, individual) and you've "met" V29 via his semifrequent comments and the TINS Times Two we tag-teamed on a while back.
So, I figger it's time to introduce Doc E.

He's the guy on the left who forgot his sunblock. And, yes, he really *is* a doctor (even though he's never played one on TV), or, more precisely, he's now a *retired* doctor. But he prefers playing with his 'puter to playing with golf sticks -- he's a hi-tech hobbyist who's translated some of his pix from the Ol' Days into some YouTube vids, and I think you'll find his most recent effort a bit thought-provoking.
I'll link it after this caveat: although the pix and music are work-safe, there's a picture at the 6:35 mark you might want to view alone, or forego viewing altogether.
It's a shot of one of our cockpits after a typical day suddenly became a really bad one. The pilot was from my platoon.
It's a reminder that there's a price tag on freedom.
And so long as we would have freedom, there will be a price upon it, and so long as there is a price, there must be those willing to give what is asked, or we will no longer have freedom. Now transfer the image of that Huey cockpit to the interior of a Hummer or a sandbag checkpoint...
We're a fortunate people to have among us those who have given what was asked. We have the freedom for which they have paid -- and continue to pay.
It's only fair that we return them something in the way of repayment, isn't it?
Valour-IT: for what it's worth...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
G'Day John,
I visit your blog probably not as often as I should, but reasonably often.
Sadly, there have been a couple of quite recent Aussie casualties in Afghanistan.
Yes, there is a price tag on freedom.
Lest We Forget.
by
Phil on October 31, 2007 5:02 AM
I didn't look away, Bill. It's the least I can do to honor the men who died.
Thanks to Doc E for putting that together. It's a perfect reminder of the importance of Project Valour-IT.
by
Barb on October 31, 2007 10:40 AM
The caveat was for the kids who wander in, Barb. Castlekin have tougher psyches.
by
BillT on October 31, 2007 5:01 PM
Thanks! You say the sweetest things :-)
by
Barb on October 31, 2007 7:05 PM
Well, the Doc is striking a noble Napoleonic pose there. What I wanna know, is the name of the guy in the silly conical hat, showing his tummy.
Bill?
P.s. I can't see Youtube vids on this ancient system. Are the images of which you write available as stills someplace?
by
Justthisguy on October 31, 2007 10:07 PM
...the name of the guy in the silly conical hat
JTG -- That'd be WO1 Leroy Dike, is my guess (the pic was taken after I left). The 55-gallon drum structure is our above-ground bunker (the water table was nine inches below the surface), which would withstand direct hits from 81mm mortars, but not from 122mm rockets. The background hootch looks like one of the wooden barracks they built after yours truly had departed for the Land of the Big PX.
by
BillT on November 1, 2007 7:30 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Oct 31, 2007
October 11, 2007
Carrying Coals to Newcastle. Or to the New Castle. Or...
...tossing lighter fluid on the coals.
Cassie got some mileage from her observations on the inequities -- and possible iniquities -- you can bump into when dealing with The System. Or, more properly, when dealing with the human beings who comprise The System. However, here's a li'l quirky option she didn't consider:
I was at semi-loose ends the first time I got out of the Army (October 1972 -- Stop that! You *know* I'm that old!), so I figured I'd use my GI Bill bennies to add a fixed-wing rating to my helicopter one. I trotted down to the county seat, popped into the courthouse and approached the kiosk with the big red-white-and-blue VA above it.
Me (producing copy of DD-214): "I just got out of the Army and I'd like to apply for my GI Bill benefits."
Kiosk Occupant: "Okay, you must be planning on starting high school in January, because the school year has already started."
Me: "*??* High school? Noooo, I've already got a BA -- I want to go to a flight school and get my fixed wing rating."
KO: "Well, if you've already got a college degree, you're going to have to wait -- we've got guys who haven't even been through high school. We're not committing funds for advanced degrees until we get everybody a high school diploma."
Me: "But I'm not looking for an advanced degree -- I want to go to a civilian flight school."
KO: "Same difference. We're not turning *any* money loose unless it's going for somebody's high school education."
Me: "Okay, so where does that put me on this educational waiting list?"
KO: "At the bottom."
Six months later (same kiosk occupant):
Me: "Hi, I'd like to check on GI Bill funding availability for a civilian flight school."
KO: "Nothing's available. We're not turning *any* money loose unless it's going for somebody's high school education."
One year later (still the same kiosk occupant):
Me: "Hi, I'd like to use my GI Bill to go to a civilian flight school."
KO: "You're out of luck, then. We're not turning *any* money loose unless it's going for somebody's high school education."
So, because I now had a job which had me working 60 hours a week (and on-call on weekends), I put off checking for a few years. Then I fell into a full-time job with the Guard and had even *less* spare time. When I finally got a breather and figured I now had the time to go after a fixed wing rating, I realized that I'd waited too long and had lost my eligibility.
The quirky li'l option I mentioned? Well, it seems the VA kiosk occupant wasn't even a fed from the Veterans' Administration. He was a New Jersey state employee from the Veterans' *Affairs* office and used to hang out in the -- unmanned -- Veterans' *Administration* kiosk. 'Nother words, he was somebody outside the system (or only involved at the periphery) who had a personal agenda.
Why? I'll never know -- he'd been fired a couple of years previously for cause...
...'way before I could get down there with a riot baton to beat the answer out of him.
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
K.O. Should be very easy to find. Just look into the nearest S.C.H.I.P. help desk; he's sure to be his same chipper self.
by Boquisucio on October 11, 2007 8:06 AM
...he's sure to be his same chipper self.
Oooooh. Mentioning "KO" and "chipper" in the same sentence has given me an even *better* idea.
Hey, John -- interested in some nice, 100% organic mulch?
by
BillT on October 11, 2007 10:51 AM
Um, well, er, ah, um, mebbe.
by
John of Argghhh! on October 11, 2007 3:10 PM
Okay, got a 50-gallon trash bag for ya. Just keep the EG away from it 'til it dries out real well -- there's a bunch of polyester fibers mixed in there somewhere (I got the big scraps out) and they'll raise hob with a pooch's digestive tract even worse than scarfing the tootsie rolls outta the litterbox will...
by
BillT on October 11, 2007 6:27 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Oct 11, 2007
October 4, 2007
TINS! Numbah Ten!
I smacked Real Life on the snoot and it hasn't come to -- yet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Số mười, GI. And this one was definitely a Number 10 for the ground participants:
As you recall, the mission was a combat assault.

And if you don't recall, well, it was *still* a combat assault.
The Plan called for a five-ship insertion into the southeastern green quadrangle after the morning monsoon ended and, after the troops began moving westward into this neck of the U Minh, a second five-ship insertion would make an insertion into the quadrangle just west of the WR0 line. Those troops would move into the U Minh and take up blocking positions along the trail bordering the Rach Xen Bau canal -- when they were in position, the troops from the first insertion would re-orient and sweep towards them through the jungle, driving any VC they'd flushed toward the blockers. A heavy fire team of Copperheads would be patrolling between the shoreline and the trees on left flank security detail. After the action was over, everybody was supposed to procede to the western quadrangle for extraction. Sounds like a plan, right? But did I mention the jungle was the U Minh Forest?
Nasty place.
The morning monsoon ceased right on time (you could set your watch by the rainshowers if you didn't mind being maybe ten minutes off every couple of days) and there were still some broken clouds layered at about 2,500 and 7,000 feet. I was flying C&C, enroute at two grand to scope out the LZs; the Copperheads would do the close-in recon, and they were trailing me at about a mile, staying on the treetops. If there was anybody home to hear the noise, they'd associate it with me until the guns appeared. We'd left the flight at Ca Mau, about ten minutes away; they'd crank in another five minutes and bring in the first lift, because I'd have a decent LZ brief by then. We figured that if it took you more than five minutes to formulate the approach path, approach type, enemy situation and obstacle warning, touchdown point, egress route and suppression instructions, you were snoozing -- these days, they spend *hours* on "The Mission Plan: Actions Approaching the LZ" "...Actions In the LZ" et cetera -- usually with the same results that we got in five minutes.
*shrug*
The aircraft are six times as expensive, so I guess you've gotta spend six times longer on The Plan.
Visibility beneath and between cloud decks was great -- I identified the LZs when I was still a good seven miles to the southeast (the lower right corner of the map, ry) and, when I got closer, I could see something else.
Four guys un-camouflaging something.
"Hey, Three-One, One-Five on Uniform -- I've got people on our side of the north-south blue just short of--"
A 12.7mm Soviet heavy anti-aircraft machinegun. Aka, a .51 cal. See the red circle on the map?
"Owwww! Fifty-one! Fifty-one! Fifty-one! Break south -- One-five is going for the clouds!"
When concealment is closer than cover, opt for concealment. I'd already figured if I turned to run or dove, they had an excellent chance at nailing me, but I could climb 500 feet and be inside the scud before they could get a shot off. I yanked the cyclic back and the collective up, and went from straight-and-level at 100 knots to climbing in bat-outta-hell mode with zero knots forward airspeed.
Yours Truly to pilot: "Keep your eyes on that .51 -- lemme know when they start elevating it."
Pilot to YT: "Like they're doing now?"
*jink left, right pedal turn 90 degrees, keep climbing -- they don't have radar, and the jink 'n' pedal turn will skew his lead angle -- I hope*
Into the clouds. Six seconds later, out of the clouds.
"Hey, One-Five, Three-One, Uniform -- you sure you don't want company up there?"
"No, you'll just -- waitaminnit. Head south for three more minutes, then frag off one of the guns to Ca Mau for fuel -- have him tell the flight to hang loose and monitor Victor. Then you and your wingman head west to the Gulf, then turn north along the shore until you're over the PZ. Fly a long orbit and make noise, but keep the trees between you and the .51."
"Roger that. I sent Three-Three back. Don't get a nosebleed way up there."
YT: "Okay, how do you figure we're gonna get those guys?"
Pilot: "By that, I take it that we're not going to do something sensible, like go away from something designed to shoot down friggin' Messerschmitts?"
YT: "What's sensible got to do with it? I didn't get up at 0430 just to enjoy cold C-rats at Ca Mau at sunrise. Think."
Pilot: "Well, using the guns would be stupid -- they'd get killed before they got the first rocket off. Ummm -- you planning on dropping stuff on them?"
YT: "In a manner of speaking. Where were we yesterday?"
Pilot: "At that Marine Tiger Team fort. The one with the -- ooooh, artillery!"
Continued in Flash Traffic, so I don't blow all kat's Monday/Tuesday stuff through the bottom of the blog...
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
YT: "Yup. That .51 is right on the canal junction -- I can send a ten-digit grid. And the Marines are right on the north-south canal, so that's our gun-target line (if you haven't memorized the map yet, look for the magenta line. What, you thought I'd use *red*?). They've got one-seven-fives, and they fire a shell heavier than *I* am with a hundred-meter bursting radius -- and even if we only get close, the concussion will flatten them and the mud from the burst will bury 'em."
Yep. A 100-meter bursting radius and, at the range we were going to adjust, a normal dispersion of about a grid square (that's an old artillery joke)...
Long-story-short.
The clouds were drifting east and broken enough to give me a decent view of the target area from about 3,000 feet up while I was flying along the blue ellipsoid on the map. The first few rounds were on line and within 500 meters of the target, then they started to wander so far to the right (using the GT line) that they were hitting in the U Minh Swamp. Between exploding thirty feet deep in the the muck and the smoke dispersing through the foliage, I couldn't adjust for squat.
And, to make life even more exciting, whenever I strayed too far from the clouds, the VC gun crew would scramble to put a quick burst in my direction. Because I was being sneaky by flying out-of-trim, they'd miss by a mile. Copperhead 31 also had me in sight and razzed me every time he heard me make another adjustment, which just added to my determination to kill something before the day was over. Snarky UH-1C pilots included.
Back to square One.
YT to USMCFA: "Change adjustment. Mark Center of Sector, one round, Willie Pete, over."
Gyrene Guns: "Roj-oh, mark Center of Sector with one round of Willie Peter, out."
*pop into the clouds*
GG: "Shot, over."
YT: "Shot, out."
*pop out of the clouds to observe the burst*
GG: "Splash, over."
YT: "Splash, out."
...four, three, two -- looking out along the canal line for the football-field-sized white phosphorus--
!!! AIRBURST RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME !!!
Into the cloud. Six seconds later, out of the cloud. However, due to the aerodynamic peculiarities of the UH-1H, we'd already sucked a Huey-sized gulp of white phosphorus smoke into the cockpit and cabin, which, also due to the aerodynamic peculiarities of the UH-1H, proceded to leach out into the slipstream in as pretty a smoke trail as a stunt plane's at an airshow. Three-One hadn't seen the burst, but he *did* see me pop from behind a cloud.
Trailing a *lot* of white smoke.
Whereupon he keyed the mike and said, "Hey, One-Five -- uhh, ya do know yer on fire, don't ya?"
My reply was not suitable for your tender sensibilities, dear readers.
And, needless to say, I do not adhere to the old aviation dictum about ignoring ground fire -- "Big sky, little bullet."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Epilogue: After I decided Somebody didn't want me to verbally abuse the Marines any more, a Black Pony popped up on Guard (243.0 UHF, for the grognards) and asked if he could play with us. Oh, yessss!
I gave the artillery End Of Mission, AA Gun Crew Terrified, gave the OV-10 driver the location of the .51 and told him to have at it. He climbed up to 6,000 feet, did a wingover and came straight. down. at. the. gun. About 3,000 feet ( I was 'way off to the southeast, watching from behind a cloud), he launched a pair of 5-inch Zuni rockets, peeled left, and climbed back above me.
One of the rockets hit the canal junction and the other hit the .51. We felt the double *thwumpk* before we heard it -- my crewchief swore he watched the tripod fly a hundred feet across the canal before it disappeared into a paddy.
"Three-One, One-Five on Uniform -- tell Three-Three to follow the flight out here." *click* "All Vultures, One-Five on Victor -- go ahead and launch, give me a call when you're five minutes from the LZ."
YT: "Whoever's been watching from the woodline is gonna have a heart attack in about fifteen minutes."
Pilot: "Good. I had one when the Willie Pete went off, so that'll even things out..."
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
*fiddle-fiddle* Hah! Enable Comments
*doink!*
Serves me right for staying up 'til 0200...
by
BillT on October 4, 2007 9:49 AM
Snerk - trying to hit a point target with a 175. Geez, Bill, no wonder they let you go fly helos...
by
John of Argghhh! on October 4, 2007 10:17 AM
Oooh, didn't see that coming... at least it wasn't an HE airburst.
by
Pogue on October 4, 2007 10:24 AM
I was waiting for him to run out of fuel after all that time messing with the little gun.
by
kat-missouri on October 4, 2007 10:36 AM
Wow, between the WP and the smoke from it in the cockpit, I'm surprised you could see at all!
by NinjaFluff on October 4, 2007 10:43 AM
Snerk - trying to hit a point target with a 175.
You don't *have* to hit it with a 175 -- you just have to get close enough for the crap-nel to scare the gunners off.
Then you nip down and steal their friggin' gun.
...didn't see that coming...
We didn't either. Saw it after it got there, though.
I was waiting for him to run out of fuel...
Oh, thanks. Next time I won't give you a free ad.
I could've screwed around for two hours and still made it to Ca Mau or Rach Gia.
by
BillT on October 4, 2007 11:02 AM
Notice how he doesn't mention me hanging on the skids and backflapping for all I'm worth so the WP was a near miss rather than a direct hit. And some of that "cloud of white smoke" was a chunk of my starboard pinions. Not the first time and it certainly wasn't the last either.
by carborundum on October 4, 2007 11:43 AM
No...I wasn't "hoping" you'd run out of fuel...just "anticipating" the next hair raising part of the story. LOL
by
kat-missouri on October 4, 2007 11:51 AM
Well, good news is that you weren't actually On Fire, bad news is breathing WP isn't good for your health. Then again, yer still around, so ol' Carborundum's backflip musta worked pretty well ;-)
by
Barb on October 4, 2007 12:32 PM
You guys should have stayed above 25,000 feet.
by
lex on October 4, 2007 1:02 PM
Well John they nearly hit the point target rotoring around the clouds that's high precision isn't it? Even if low accuracy.
by
Trias on October 4, 2007 4:00 PM
So that was the noise we heard over on the Song Ong Doc?????
by Old Fat Sailor on October 4, 2007 6:08 PM
...between the WP and the smoke from it in the cockpit, I'm surprised you could see at all!
Well, considering we all slammed our eyes shut just before we punched in, seeing was kinda out of the loop for a few seconds. But if you lean forward far enough, you've got the altimeter, the airspeed indicator and the VSI right in front of you. You don't have to look outside to be able to keep it upright. Of course, keeping it upright and not bumping into something are two different things...
Heh -- kat, if I'd been dumb enough to run out of fuel, they would've grounded me and stuck me back in the artillery. Probably on the staff...
...bad news is breathing WP isn't good for your health.
Stinks a little, but as long as *koff* you don't *koff* inhale the burning *hack* stuff, it's no big *koff* *wheeze* deal.
You guys should have stayed above 25,000 feet.
Nah -- nosebleeds. Besides, you can't see the "uh-oh, shooting at him was a bad idea" expression on their faces from that high...
So that was the noise we heard over on the Song Ong Doc?????
I doubt it -- we were at least 50 klicks north of you and a 175 doesn't make *that* big a noise. But it might have been the 5-ton bomb a C-123 dropped east of Sea Float to make us an instant LZ in July, or it could have been an Arc Light (the Air Farce was always trying to catch us unawares), or maybe it was...
by
BillT on October 4, 2007 8:03 PM
Well John they nearly hit the point target rotoring around the clouds
A 175 round would always hit *something* -- even if it was only Planet Earth...
by
BillT on October 4, 2007 8:07 PM
Besides, you can't see the "uh-oh, shooting at him was a bad idea" expression on their faces from that high...
That's our SugarButtons--always a "people" person ...
by
bad cat robot on October 4, 2007 9:22 PM
Yeah, making eye contact always gives these things that personal touch -- it tells 'em, "Hey, I *feel* your pain. Just not quite as much..."
by
BillT on October 5, 2007 6:23 AM
Bill shows his inner infantryman, or lunatic. Rational people kill their enemies at a far enough distance that they can avoid looking them in the eye, unless they're really mad at them.
Uh, wait...
by
Justthisguy on October 6, 2007 10:36 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Oct 04, 2007
October 2, 2007
TINS! You Picked It (Again)
Well, the voting was close, in keeping with the spirit of the TINS!, in which *all* the calls are close. And at least nobody said, "Hey, all that stuff happened while you were still in Flight School!"
Nooooo, they *didn't*, and I have the best witnesses a quart of muscatel can buy.
Unfortunately, Real World reared it's misbegotten multiple heads so often I didn't get the chance to write anything for the past two days. *But* -- because I like ya, and you've waited so patiently to see me get my ass shot off yet again something tangible, here's a preview of what Numbah 10 was all about:

Yup, all those pretty colored kindergarten shapes actually *mean* something. I won't tell you exactly what, of course, until I figure out how to keep from getting my ass shot off actually type up the story. I'll give you a couple of hints, though.
The Plan.
Me.
Them.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Off to Bollimer. With any luck, I'll be there before any of you can wake up, read this, and ask me to retrieve a certain stuffed marmoset...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Be warned, some of us read on the midwatch.
Now about that stuffed critter...
by bc on October 2, 2007 12:05 AM
Hmmmm, a .51, theres gonna be pucker factor in this story....
by Old Fat Sailor on October 2, 2007 12:42 AM
OFS ~ there's an understatement for ya. Yikes.
by
HomefrontSix on October 2, 2007 1:21 AM
There is not enough room nor enough stale cheetos for the Marmoset(stuffed or not) here in Castle Argghhh!'s Purgatory. Sorry. If Cassie were willing to subsidize upkeep of said Marmoset with comic books and choco-pudding(not slated for the choco-gun, which isn't looking so good since it hasn't been used in a while and Sgt. B hasn't been by to service it), well, then something could be arranged.
by ry on October 2, 2007 4:54 AM
Eeeeewwww - Just the thought of Sgt. B servicing a stale Marmoset, is enough to ruin anyone's day.
by Boquisucio on October 2, 2007 7:51 AM
Boq - that's baa-a-ad. And I'm peeved that you got to post it before I did! Hehehe.
It's the return of Twitchy Bill! Yeeha!
by
Barb on October 2, 2007 8:51 AM
I'm wondering why rusmilitary.com is a banned site at work...
No. Actually, I should have known anything with "military" in the name would be a banned site for a company headquarted in Portland, OR.
frggin libs.
i'm testy today... and thinking about B servicing a stale marmoset put a big smile on my face! Thanks Boq!
by AFSister on October 2, 2007 9:47 AM
AFSis - try this link.
by
John of Argghhh! on October 2, 2007 3:13 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Oct 02, 2007
September 30, 2007
Sundry Sunday
An old farmer in Georgia had owned his farm for several years. He had a *huge* pond in the back, fixed up real nice; picnic tables, volleyball net, a horseshoe pitch -- like I said, real nice. And he'd properly shaped and graded the pond for swimming when he built it. One evening, the old farmer decided to go down to the pond, as he hadn't been there for a while, and look it over.
As he neared the pond, he heard voices shouting and laughing with glee.
As he came still closer, he saw the noise originated from a bunch of young ladies skinny-dipping in his pond. He coughed to make the ladies aware of his presence and they immediately swam to the deep end of the pond. One of them shouted to him, "We're not coming out until you leave!"
The old man replied, "Calm down, now, hon -- I didn't come down here to watch you ladies swim or make you get out of the pond nekkid--
"--I'm just here to feed the alligator..."
V-29 swears he *didn't* make that up.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So far, the Kill Bill Match the TINS! to the Radio Call Contest has produced some enlightening results: Brab and NinjaFluff (with Pogue flying CAS) want to see me crisped, the starch-wing contingent wants me to go trolling for flak, Sis wants to see me ventilated, ry's opting for a Blue-on-Blue and Two Who Shall Remain Nameless want me to go up for a rematch with the heat-seeker. At least Cassie hasn't shown up to fling the trivet. Or engage in rampant foot-tapping, followed by a faire la moue et la flounce.
However, if the trend holds, *most* of you will be able to -- ahem -- brag about your prescience...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Wow, slow day. They're not even bitin' on 'yer jokes, Unka Bill.
by ry on September 30, 2007 9:29 AM
Oh, that joke is so old it should have moss growing on it. I used to tell it as a Cajun joke...
MC
by
mostly cajun on September 30, 2007 10:15 AM
Mostly Caje did.
Looks like V-29 was right -- he *didn't* make it up!
by
BillT on September 30, 2007 2:13 PM
hahahahaha
by AFSister on September 30, 2007 7:38 PM
hahahahaha
Uh-oh. I recognize *that* laugh...
by
BillT on October 1, 2007 6:48 AM
It's too early on a Monday... but at least this is a decent start to the day. I don't care if it is old, it's still funny!
by NinjaFluff on October 1, 2007 11:36 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Sep 30, 2007
September 28, 2007
Friday Two-Fers
Yesterday, ry walked all over it with golf spikes was kind enough to remind me that I walked all over it with football cleats hadn't yet announced the winner of the new tagline contest from a couple of weeks ago.
Ahem.
According to the rules of the contest, which you *all* read, agreed to, and then consigned to memory -- with the evident exception of ry -- nobody won. There were some really, really, *really* good one-liners that *nobody voted for*. So, it looks like I'm stuck with answering the once-a-month e-mail with "It's an OH-58D" in the subject line. For the time being. And it's all your fault, slackers.
Eeeep! I'm channeling John...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
However, with me, you always get a shot at redemption. First, for those of you who have been stuck in a two-year time warp remember this one from a little while ago, congratulations on your admirable ability to restrain your curiosity for this length of time. Second, for those of you who are new to the site (and we *all* know who you are, but like you a lot anyway), here's the synopsis:
Every once in a while, regardless of what your particular job happens to be in the military, you hear a comment or a call over the radio that makes you realize how badly it sucks being you at that particular instance and in that particular point in space. One morning, I shook a bunch of them out of the *Ohhh-Boy!* compartment and listed them -- there's a TINS! that accompanies each -- and I asked you to vote for the particular one you figured would bore you the least deemed most interesting.
1. "Ooops!" [#1] -- from a gunship, two seconds after his rocket hit the (flooded) paddy I was just about to land in. Right underneath me. Instant concussive waterfall.
2. "Holy sh*t! They said Charlie didn't have any flak down here! One-Five, are any of you guys still alive in there?"
3. "Ooops!" [#2] -- from a different gunship, one nanosecond before my crewchief screamed that a rocket had just passed between our right skid and the belly of the aircraft.
4. "Hey, One-Five, you look like Niagara Falls. I thought those fuel cells were supposed to be self-sealing."
5. "Aaaaah! One-Five's dead!" -- from my copilot, right after I took a direct hit in the chicken plate that slammed me flailing off the controls while we were at flat pitch in an LZ. I thought I was dead and his squeak didn't do anything to lessen my depression.
6. "Sir? The world's biggest tracer just came offa Nui Coto an' -- geez, it's following us!" -- my introduction to the game of helicopter vs. heat-seeking missile. I won. Barely.
7. "Chalk Four, you've still got a tailboom. Couldn't say for how much longer, though."
8. "The SEALs are ready for pickup, sir. Along with about a platoon of VC on the other side of the treeline they're in."
9. "Sector TOC wants you to check out a possible 37mm site west of Nui Hon Soc. The others they sent there never called in."
10. "Hey, One-Five -- uhh, ya do know yer on fire, don't ya?"
Number 6 won. 'Fess up. You guys wanted to see if I really *did* get out of these things alive, didn't you...
However, there are still nine more to go, each one a bigger yawner than the last leading to a small vignette of a TINS! Pick a number and pop it into the comments -- the biggest vote-getter gets posted. And remember, one legit addy,
*glowering at a certain Denizenne blogtwin with multiple persona disorder*
one legit vote.
And then we'll do it again. And again, and again, and again until I figure you're ready to take on the sidebar -- again.
Two-Niner's allowed to pass, although he'll probably pop in to snark, because he either made some of the calls or knows the story already.
He *thinks* so, anyway.
Heh -- you don't think I only have *nine* stories left, do ya?
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Yeah, I walked all over it. And got a rapping of my knuckles by Cassie for my efforts too. I'd swear that woman was a Catholic School Nun if I didn't already know better. (Maybe I shouldn't say that in this crowd. Who knows what mind in the gutter comment will be made next.)
And I wouldn't mind hearing Oooops#1.
by ry on September 28, 2007 7:33 AM
*sigh*
I have FAILED MY TWIN! Not ONE VOTE? For ANY OF THEM?
I demand a recount! And I vote for HF6's "the ground repels them" comment. Lurv that one.
As for a new TINS story, I promise to play by the rules for ONCE in my life and will only vote one time. For #8. After all, who wouldn't love a story that involves SEALs?
by AFSister on September 28, 2007 8:05 AM
Who knows what mind in the gutter comment will be made next
With this crowd? Not a one.
After all, who wouldn't love a story that involves SEALs?
Me. For about five hours -- uhhh -- *minutes*, anyway.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When sustained automatic weapons fire turns the minutes to hours?
Sorry 'bout that, Gord-O.
by
BillT on September 28, 2007 9:26 AM
The love of God is concentrated in the efforts of your Guardian Angels... the reason you are here to *relate* the TINS.
Geez, Bill, that was an easy one.
by
John of Argghhh! on September 28, 2007 9:28 AM
I, for one, vote for #10. Fire ALWAYS makes for a good story, and it's even better if someone else has to inform you about it!
by NinjaFluff on September 28, 2007 9:34 AM
I vote for #6. I wanna see if you survive. And I *know* you have more than nine stories left -- yer just waiting for the statute of limitations to expire on the rest.
by
bad cat robot on September 28, 2007 9:38 AM
Speaking of Numbah 6 - I call Beauchamp on you. I don't believe your Crew Chief used the word, "Geez" you fabulist!
by
John of Argghhh! on September 28, 2007 9:45 AM
One of the limitations on the R-44 heliothwopter is max altitude of 9000 AGL. The book states this because in case of fire you have a five minute firewall, and above 9000 it will take you longer than that to autorotate to a landing. That's got to be a long 5 minutes...
I want to hear #10!
by
Pogue on September 28, 2007 9:49 AM
Fire ALWAYS makes for a good story
[Memo to self: TINS!-bait pulls NinjaFluff out from the draperies -- evidently schools with the other Denizennes when in stealth mode]
Aaaand BCR chimes in with a vote for Number Six. Won't she be surprised...
I don't believe your Crew Chief used the word, "Geez" you fabulist!
He most certainly did. Granted, it was the polysyllabic version, but it really-truly *started* with "Geez"...
...in case of fire you have a five minute firewall...
Betcha you could get a Robinson on the ground *real* fast if the fire started on the wrong side of the wall, though...
by
BillT on September 28, 2007 10:29 AM
*giggles as BCR*
lolololol
by AFSister on September 28, 2007 10:34 AM
I still want to hear them all. But I will echo NinjaFluff's vote for #10, which was one of my choices wayyyyy back when.
*grin*
by
Barb on September 28, 2007 10:43 AM
37mm HE vs Bell spam-can! #9's gotta be good!
by Neffi on September 28, 2007 11:50 AM
#6.
... to see if the story has been 'adjusted' in the past several years.
Cheers
by J.M. Heinrichs on September 28, 2007 12:03 PM
*giggles as BCR*
Not because you've fixed the death ray, I hope? You'll still chortle as WK, right?
... to see if the story has been 'adjusted' in the past several years.
Nope. Still there, warts and all. And I still lived. And the crewchief still said the G-Rated versio(u)n of what he really said.
by
BillT on September 28, 2007 1:02 PM
[Memo to self: TINS!-bait pulls NinjaFluff out from the draperies -- evidently schools with the other Denizennes when in stealth mode]
Nah... I just don't comment when I have nothing to add to the conversation. "Better they think you're a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt!"
That being said... I think I heard about a whole bunch more votes for #10 somewhere around here... *grin*
by Ninjafluff on September 28, 2007 1:21 PM
Fiends.
by
BillT on September 28, 2007 1:46 PM
Or you could always give your side of this story ...
by
bad cat robot on September 28, 2007 1:58 PM
I *did*:
A foul canard.
I get up at 0530, *not* 0700. And the spider had a satchel charge...
See? Vindication.
by
BillT on September 28, 2007 2:54 PM
And these days, I get up at 0415. Gaby got hold of a sour vole last week and her GI tract has been in revolt ever since.
If I had it to do over again, I would've gone for the rancher with the drainage hole in the kitchen floor...
by
BillT on September 28, 2007 3:00 PM
First read and damn near laughed my ass off... Having done a few of those myself, I've got to vote for #9.
by
Old NFO on September 28, 2007 9:21 PM
Poor little pup - she just needs to spend quality time with Bigfoot all by her little self ;-)
by
Barb on September 28, 2007 11:29 PM
...she just needs to spend quality time with Bigfoot all by her little self.
If you mean getting ear-chin skritches whenever she takes a break from trying to tackle Scout, jumping over Jake (while he's standing up) and boxing with Muffy the Maleficent, that -- plus leaping onto my lap whenever I sit down -- is the normal drill. She's turning into WereKitty...
by
BillT on September 29, 2007 12:06 PM
Number 9, please.
Although number 10 sounds fascinating, don't the Vietnamese consider that number unlucky? Maybe he should call that one "10a" "10+1"... ;)
by
Casey Tompkins on September 30, 2007 1:01 PM
Not unlucky, just the pits, as in "Choi oi, Numbah Ten."
Or, if it's really, *really* super-bad, "Choi-duc oi, sinh loi, Numbah Ten Thousand!"
by
BillT on September 30, 2007 2:18 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Sep 28, 2007
September 17, 2007
The Problem with Mangoes...
...is that you've gotta peel them before you can eat them. At least, us furriners do, otherwise you're just asking for a dance lesson -- the Taliban Two-Step. Soooo, because mangoes have a skin like a pear instead of something sensible, like an orange, you either need a long, sharp fingernail (which possesses its own issues, unless you have a really wild guitar-pickin' style) or a knife. And, since mango juice is kinda like superglue when it dries, I figured I needed something a bit easier to clean than my Swiss Army toolbox.
There are other things for sale in the local armament bazaars than bang-sticks (and replicas thereof), which is convenient, because I wasn't planning to peel any mangoes with a Khyber rifle. Got myself a Khyber knife, instead. Welllll, okay, it's a Kashmiri folder, but it *could* have been a Khyber knife if it really, really wanted to.
This one wasn't the biggest one of the bunch (I didn't need an Ilbarsi three-footer and I *don't* have Freudian hangups), but all I needed was a decent mango-peeler, so I got the pocket-size. The decorative extension of the spine is what keeps the peeler from slicing your pocket (and thigh) to ribbons when it's folded -- it serves as the edge guard.
It ratchets open nicely and locks like a champ (the seller made a slashing feint at my jugular to prove it wouldn't flop closed); the latch flips up to unlock the blade when you've finished the mango massacree.
Heh. After the seller took his swipe, he grinned and said, "Hah! You are an officer, yes! Not a flinch! Civilian *always* jump back when I do that!" I just grinned my trademark boyish grin at him and told him, "*Retired* officer." What I *didn't* tell him was he telegraphed his move with a windup, he couldn't have stuck me unless he stepped forward another two feet (and his table was in the way) -- and, since we'd already spent a half hour drinking tea and talking flintlocks, I knew he wanted to make a sale, not a dead gringo.
Besides, I couldn't have backed up even if I wanted to -- I was already leaning against his wall.
I did get the lowdown on shipping arms out of Pakistan, though. The gummint doesn't really care *what* you buy, as long as it's not post-WWII and you pay a couple of bucks export tax. If you know an exporter who ships mass quantities of -- say, carpets -- to the US, you can avoid a lot of the usual red tape at both ends.
"Okay, what's your brother shipping today?"
"Two hundred Nepalese carpets, a functional replica of an SMLE and a Baluchi flintlock shotgun."
"Hmmmmm -- I want to examine those carpets..."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Heh. Maybe poor Joe gets stuck in the decision loop,

but I made all of *my* decisions along those lines instantaneously. Comes from years and years of analyzing the situation then-at-hand and asking this simple question:
Do I drink one bottle or two?
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
OMG he's considering Fosters and some poor schmuck has already opened it. I hope that was to pour it out as insecticide.
by
Trias on September 17, 2007 1:38 AM
And in case Neffi had anything snide planned about the rust, it cleaned up very nicely with some steel wool, a Q-tip and alcohol. The bone bolsters are still brownish -- it's not an antique, but it ain't new, either. The seller claimed it's ninety years old, I figure it's about fifty.
by
BillT on September 17, 2007 1:38 AM
OMG he's considering Fosters...
Judging from the *urp* look on his face -- he's *not*...
by
BillT on September 17, 2007 5:47 AM
With a Beck's, don't be perplexed!
by fdcol63 on September 17, 2007 7:14 AM
I could almost hear Joe holler: ***.
by Boquisucio on September 17, 2007 7:52 AM
but how is it at slicing fingers? These are the burning questions...as to the beer, I have no clue.
by Cricket on September 17, 2007 8:30 AM
Snide? Moi? Actually Chief, I'm kinda jealous- that's a nice looking blade and whilst my collecting is of the military variety I do have a side interest in 'ethnic' knives... the *real* ones, as opposed to touristy rubbish.
And it looks quite capable of handling a mango or two.
by Neffi on September 17, 2007 9:03 AM
Hmph, he can get Stella Artois over there, but I can't get it into my shop to sell in Missouri. Stupid state liquor laws....
And, what's in the green tallboy can on the far left? My beeriousity wants to know.
Finally, Becks and Fosters... blugh!
by Kevin on September 17, 2007 10:10 AM
The mango juice, if allowed to ferment into mango vinegar, is capable of dissolving concrete. There are places on the garage floor at our old house which were smooth, and are now quite rough. My Dad left mangoes there and forgot about them.
by
Justthisguy on September 17, 2007 10:31 AM
but how is it at slicing fingers?
With the edge I put on it, it should make a beeline for bone. Of course, "I sliced my finger off with a Kashmiri Folding Mango Knife" doesn't quite sing the way "I bayoneted myself today" does, do I wouldn't be able to parlay that into a Barney-meet.
Speaking of singing, how's Ry's Redwood Rest Stop plaque-naming contest going?
My Dad left mangoes there and forgot about them.
Urk. Had to have happened in cool weather, or the solid wall of fruit flies would have been a dead giveaway...
by
BillT on September 17, 2007 11:48 AM
Nice mango-slicer, Bill. Even folded up, that's a big knife to haul around in one's pocket!
by
Barb on September 17, 2007 12:53 PM
Of course, "I sliced my finger off with a Kashmiri Folding Mango Knife" doesn't quite sing the way "I bayoneted myself today" does, do I wouldn't be able to parlay that into a Barney-meet.
Such petty jealousy from the little people.
We sniff and walk on.
No doubt tripping because our nose is in the air...
And you didn't bring me any presents back, either!
by
John of Argghhh! on September 17, 2007 1:17 PM
I'm sure SugarButtons has a *plentiful* supply of the local microfauna that he could share with you ...
by
bad cat robot on September 17, 2007 2:12 PM
Even folded up, that's a big knife to haul around in one's pocket!
Oh sure, Brab- like he's gonna tell anyone it's a *knife*...!
by Neffi on September 17, 2007 2:49 PM
Oh sure, Brab- like he's gonna tell anyone it's a *knife*...!
Sure, I do.
I also tell them it's a great counterbalance...
And you didn't bring me any presents back, either!
That Monmouth trip still on?
by
BillT on September 17, 2007 6:25 PM
Um, no. I'm going to Benning, instead. Closest I got to where you are was this weekend...
by
John of Argghhh! on September 17, 2007 6:32 PM
Umm, Chief, there is no cool weather here, except for a random week or two around Christmas and the Feast of the Circumcision.
No, Dad, like m'self I'm afraid, refused to take notice of things he didn't care about.
Drove Mom nuts, it did.
.
by
Justthisguy on September 17, 2007 7:14 PM
Oh, and when Hurricane Charlie, I think it was, went through here, it knocked all of the mangoes off of our trees. I industriously picked them all up, and put them up on the camper-top on my truck, to get dry and ripe. I had gone for a walk and hurt my aged knee, after that, and was lying up and resting, and healing.
I heard some motor noises outside, thought it was the trash collectors.
A bit later I went out and saw that all of my carefully salvaged mangoes were gone!
Dang! We were in a declared state of emergency then! Had I seen that looter doing that (yes he was a looter) I could have lawfully shot him dead dead dead. In the liver.
Argghh
by
Justthisguy on September 17, 2007 7:25 PM
h.
.
by
Justthisguy on September 17, 2007 7:30 PM
Dang. That was quick. We must have googlebots in the draperies...
by
BillT on September 17, 2007 7:38 PM
-5 for Spelling. +5 for quick recovery.
Bill - Snerk. But yes, once we got to a page rank of six or so, the Googlebot started coming around about every 4 hours or so.
But they might be hiding in the drapes.
We'll have Ry take them out for airing and whacking!
by
John of Argghhh! on September 17, 2007 8:23 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Sep 17, 2007
June 24, 2007
TINS! Whatever Can Go Wrong, Will Do So
And it will do so at the worst possible time, even if you've done everything to insure it wouldn't.
This one's for you folks who pop in on weekends. Remember Fuzzybear Lioness agonizing over her Excellent Gate-Crashing Exploit? Wonder what she'd have had to say if she'd been along on this particular magic carpet ride...
Every year, every Army Aviator gets a birthday present from Fort (aka "Mother") Rucker -- his (okay, okay, or *her*) very own Flight Physical. However, just to insure that unwrapping this particular present isn't all beer and skittles, Mother also sees to it that some units don't have ready access to an Army Flight Surgeon and must make do with the services of an Air Force Flight Surgeon (and who knows where *their* hands have been).
Army Flight Surgeons habitually sit patiently in their dank lairs corner offices in the local Clinic - Wellness Center - Whatever, patiently awaiting the arrival of whomever happened to have the misfortune of being born during that particular quarter of the year. Generally speaking, they're usually accessible except, of course, on Wednesdays, when they're out on the links with every other doctor within six counties. Visiting one is relatively simple -- hop in your car, find a Fort, slow to a crawl so the gate guard can see your access decal, produce your ID card for scrutiny and you're over the major hurdle.
Air Force Flight Surgeons view their demesne from behind massive desks of exotic wood situated in the center of their I Love Me offices, situated at the hub of their brightly-lit suite of examining rooms. A reservation for an appointment is, naturally, de rigeur; but since they golf on Mondays (to avoid the crowd of lesser docs), they're pretty much Doctor-Is-In on Wednesdays. However, availing oneself of the services of an Air Force Flight Surgeon entails travelling to the ethereal realms of -- an Air Base.
Which means getting past Base Security. The guys who are firmly convinced every Army Aviator has a burning desire to steal a multiengine, starched wing, fuel-bladder-with-a-cockpit.
So, the optimum solution is to fly *over* the APs, have a ground guide direct you to nestle the helicopter 'midst the aluminum overcast, get picked up by the crew bus and deposited in the vicinity of the Flight Medicine Edifice.
Weeeeelllll, that's how it's *supposed* to go. Nip back upstream and re-read the first sentences. I'll wait...
Okay, cutting to the chase: I'd made the reservation for the appointment, gotten the reservation, confirmed the reservation, refrained from eating anything containing cholesterol for 72 hours (followed by a 12-hour water-only fast), notified my Ops I'd need a Loach, computed the weight and balance form, did the aircraft performance planning, filed the Flight Plan, obtained the PPR (it means Prior Permission Required, Barb) to land at The Air Base, notified Base Ops that I'd be shutting down and would not require fuel, that I planned to be there for at least three hours and would request a Fire Guard when I was ready to depart.
I preflighted my trusty OH-6 and launched from home station. Ten minutes out from The Air Base, I called Base Ops on UHF to notify them I was inbound and gave them my PPR number. Five minutes out, I called Tower on VHF and announced that I had the numbers; I'd been listening to ATIS (not ADIZ -- whole different ball of wax) for wind data, landing runway, altimeter setting -- gotta do *something* when you're solo in a Loach, so you might as well find out what's going on at your destination before you get there. Tower cleared me to land and taxi to the ramp, where I could expect a ground guide to park me someplace I wouldn't contaminate the F-16s.
I entered the ramp and hovered in place, then spotted two blue boxvans approaching from different areas of the Jet Farm. Converging, actually. On *me*. With extreme rapidity. Just as I thought, "Well, gee, this is really nice of 'em, but I don't *need* a ride to the -- "
*screech of brakes* Out of each van popped
a. an AP with M9 in one hand and a Motorola Brick in the other,
b. two APs with M16 magazines firmly inserted into M16A1s and
c. one AP with an M60 attached to a fifty-round belt.
Ain't a single blank adapter on nuthin'. Copper jackets twinkled from the fifty-round belts, with orange noses in the appropriate locations. "Swell," I thought. "After they ventilate me, the Flight Surgeon can fill out the paperwork for my physical at the same time he does the autopsy..."
"Put your hands up and get out of the helicopter," comes The Voice of Doom from the ninth AP, hiding behind a van with a Brick in one hand and a loudspeaker in the other.
Bear in mind that I'm still at a three-foot hover, looking down the barrels of six automatic weapons.
"Put your hands up. Get out of the helicopter. This is your last warning!"
I key the mike on UHF and ask, "Hey, Ops, Guard 267 -- do you have commo with the A-Team out here?"
"Roger that."
"Could you please tell Hannibal Smith that I've gotta *land* before I get out? This thing doesn't have a Hover Button."
"*snort!* Roger, 267. Don't rip them too much after you get out -- they were just briefed that there's an alert pending and this place is secure against all threats except helicopters..."
*sigh*
Howsomever, I *did* pass my Flight Physical, and with no sign of elevated blood pressure.
Probably because my heart didn't start beating again until a couple of hours later...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
A hover button on a helo.... sounds like a job for BCR Labs!
Good to see that you've still got "it", Bill- and "it" is the ability to take a somewhat normal situation and turn it into a TINS through a comedy of errors (or in this case, assumptions).
by AFSister on June 24, 2007 7:38 AM
Bill - If it makes you feel any better, AF cops treat us (those who work on/fly AF assets) the same way. They are taught to trust nobody, ever.
by Oldloadr on June 24, 2007 7:40 AM
Hmmm - maybe the flight surgeon set you up just to see what your BP would be? Nah - that would've required work ;-)
Gee, you just can't take a simple helo trip anymore, can you?!
by
Barb on June 24, 2007 9:37 AM
Hahaha...yeah, that's funny. I bet there is a piece missing. Did you buzz anyone on your way over? Presidential motorcade or something? LOL
by
kat-missouri on June 24, 2007 11:01 AM
Well, if it makes you feel better we did the same thing to Air Force security outside of Ali Al Salem air base a couple years ago. We were taking a convoy out and noticed an SUV up on a hill observing, so we sent a couple of gun trucks up to check them out. Nobody told us they were doing perimeter patrols in SUVs. We did get their attention. Oh, and Army MP's are way more armed that Air Force MPs....
by
Pogue on June 24, 2007 11:05 AM
Must resist snark...
There.
Good helk. What I don't unnerstand is after you go through all the rigmarole of filing a flight plan and confirming your Permitted Arrival to the Base Of Bliss, that it happened anyway.
And yeah, I woulda been cautious too.
You didn't land on them anyway?
[Nope. They were still locked and loaded. I just fixed them in place with my withering gaze...]
by Cricket on June 25, 2007 1:35 AM
Trying valiently to hold in my snickers. The OTHER former zoomie in this office is out on maternity leave and there's nobody to share the joke with!
[Fine thing. I nearly get turned into a walking flour sifter and all the chicks think it's a hoot. *sniffle*]
by Karla (threadbndr) on June 25, 2007 4:08 PM
There, there SugarButtons! I wouldn't like it if you turned into a flour sifter...not at all!
Those meanies! Picking on a harmless Scrupl' Whisperer like our BillT! The NERVE.
OTOH, had you given me the withering gaze, I might been trying hard not to giggle.
by Cricket on June 26, 2007 1:40 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Jun 24, 2007
June 14, 2007
TINS! Smoke Gets In Your Eyes...
Well, since John started recycling my war stories under the "everything old is new again" premise, here's an old one that's new -- it never appeared in Flightfax because real life intruded before it got published.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Sometimes I think that every Army aviator old enough to remember reciprocating engines has a little tale about an emergency procedure that didn’t quite address the problem or had an emergency for which there was no written procedure. I met CW5 Roger W [those who know, know] (Flightfax, July 1998, “Crew Commo: UH-1 lesson learned”) last year and got the soup-to-nuts version of his own “crew-modified” emergency procedure--care to guess what happened to me about a month later?
It was a perfect night for honing NVG skills in the AH-1F--nice and dark, with just a hint of urban haze. It wasn’t quite so perfect for conducting NVG Refresher Training, though--which is what I was doing. At about 800 feet on climbout from our helipad, the Master Caution, Alternator and Rectifier lights decided that I had been heretofore underworked and cheerily made their presence known. “Aha--this takes care of Task 1068!” [note: Task 1068: Describe or Perform Emergency Procedure] I thought. My backseater (after a subtle hint or two) correctly identified the problem and performed the appropriate emergency procedure--alternator switch OFF, then RESET, then ON. (No big deal, unless the alternator doesn’t come back on line; in that event, it’s a “Land ASAP” situation due to the alternator’s location--it’s mounted on the transmission main case, and a dead alternator will produce a goodly number of unpleasant things, ranging from FOD’ed tranny gears to an in-flight fire.)
You’re absolutely correct! Not only did the alternator not reset, but white smoke (definitely not NVG-compatible) and a smell like fried socks decided to join the party immediately after I made a diving 180 to return to the helipad. The haze inside was rapidly compounding the haze outside and I had a fleeting thought about inventing the recovery procedure for inadvertent interior IMC...
By this time, Flight Ops had exercised the Crash Plan and the race to terra firma was nip-and-tuck between a smoking Cobra and the CFR foam truck. We won, but not by much (that truck is fast!). The seal on the alternator quill had blown, so hot oil had been spraying into a hot electrical component, and an armament bus had toasted itself in the tailboom electrical compartment--lots of smoke and stink, but no fire, as we (a fireman, a mechanic and yours truly) discovered after I popped out of the cockpit and scrambled to open the transmission cowl (yeah, I peeked first--just in case) while my backseater shut the aircraft down.
“Well, jeepers, Tuttle--you could’ve saved yourself considerable emotional turmoil merely by following the emergency procedure for cockpit smoke and fume elimination,” you observe.
Well, sir-or-ma’am, just what is the AH-1 Dash Ten procedure for that particular situation?
“‘Vents--open,’ of course,” you reply.
Correct, again! Just one teensy problem with that--and our mechanics are still scratching their heads over it--because, in complete violation of all the laws of physics, the smoke and fumes were entering the cockpit through the vents...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
"in violation of the laws of physics"
Maybe you were inhaling just a Leetle too much there, Bill!
Just sayin.
by
Barb on June 14, 2007 12:38 PM
That's not such a stretch, Brab - helicopters are violations of the laws of physics.
by
John of Argghhh! on June 14, 2007 12:56 PM
So are bumblebees, John.
by
HomefrontSix on June 14, 2007 1:58 PM
You simply reinforce my point, HFS!
by
John of Argghhh! on June 14, 2007 2:01 PM
Ah, but aircraft are designed by engineers, not physicists. The latter think about the Universe as they imagine it to be, the former have to deal with the Universe as it actually is, using messy approximations and empirical equations, sometimes with large fudge factors.
Physicists, I think, sometimes forget that the Lord has a sense of humor. Engineers know that He does have one, and a low and nasty one it is.
by
Justthisguy on June 14, 2007 3:14 PM
The alternator's mounted on the right side of the tranny, slightly aft of the mast. Intake for the vents is located about six feet forward on the fuselage, just behind where the pilot's right arm would rest if the Cobra was a convertible.
Ever known smoke to travel *against* a ninety mile-per-hour wind?
by
BillT on June 15, 2007 7:13 AM
Bill, the Lord was obviously exercising his sense of humor, and playing with your head.
And torturing Carborundum.
by
Justthisguy on June 16, 2007 6:15 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Jun 14, 2007
June 12, 2007
TINS*! There I was...
[Since Bill is about to re-enter the cockpit, it seems a good time to republish this bit of his - which will make some of the Denizen's comments on Bill's announcement yesterday take on a clarity for the new readers among us. -the Armorer]
Military aviation is an unforgiving vocation -- it's just as easy to get killed flying the friendly skies as it is flying the hostile ones. The following tale was originally published in Flightfax, Army Aviation's safety 'zine, in September 1997. I've added some short notes for clarification purposes, since we don't have a whole slew of former AH-1F pilots dropping in to visit. Most of it will be in Flash Traffic/Extended Entry, 'cuz John'll get his trousers torqued if I blow the rest of the site out the bottom of your monitor.
The entire flight lasted less than ten minutes. For those of you who need instant gratification, we lived.
There I was...in the front seat of a Cobra with a number-one hydraulic system failure, halfway down a 4800-foot runway, doing 50 knots about three inches above the pavement. Just the normal emergency procedure for this particular situation, with one pesky little difference -- we were flying sideways.
Gee -- glad you asked...
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
Gary and I were going out to fly some SP [Standardization Instructor Pilot] in the back seat vs. IE [Instrument Flight Examiner] in the front seat training (for me) and a few PARs [Precision Approach, Radar] (for him) -- a mutual beat-each-other-up to keep us honest. We'd flown together for about twenty years and our crew briefing usually consisted of, "We're going out for a Standardization (or Instrument) Evaluation Ride. You know the maneuvers we'll be doing -- got any questions?" "Nope." "You?" "Nope." "Okay -- let's go do it!" This briefing, though, was a little different, because Gary was now the Honor Graduate of our Flight Facility's second Aircrew Coordination Course [civil equivalent is called Cockpit Resource Management] -- only my extreme modesty prevents me from revealing that I had been his trainer. After a by-the-book crew briefing, he added, "Let's prebrief two specific emergencies; first, an engine failure at altitude and second, a dual-system hydraulic failure." After he detailed each pilot's responsibilities for each emergency (again, by the book), he said, "If we do get a failure, I'll fly because I've got that good ol' three-to-one mechanical advantage in the back seat." I said, "Sounds good -- and if you don't ask for the emergency collective hydraulic pump when we're a mile out on final, I'll announce and then turn it on." "Okay -- let's go do it!"
To make a short story even shorter, we were five minutes into our flight when a noise like a blender full of gravel caused both of us to shrink a little further down into our armored seats. I've long-since forgotten the RPM of a cavitating hydraulic pump, but it's a figure only Carl Sagan would comprehend. Two seconds later, the amok blender was joined by its friends, Messrs. Master Caution and #1 HYD PRESS lights. [Note: hydraulic fluid lubricates the pumps, and when a pump loses lubrication, it very shortly thereafter undergoes what the engineers laughingly describe as "catastrophic failure of structural integrity," i.e., it explodes. It's also located right behind the pilot's head. A number-one system hydraulic failure in an AH-1F means that your antitorque pedals are now about as movable as an I-beam. Which means that you have a problem keeping the pointy end in the direction you're flying. Which is not a Good Thing.]
As briefed, Gary continued to fly while I read off the checklist. As briefed, he turned toward a suitable area for a 'run-on landing at a speed of 50 KIAS or higher' -- which just happened to be home-station. [Note: there is a cheery blurb in the Emergency Procedures of the operator's manual which states that, as the airspeed decreases to 40 knots, the aircraft becomes uncontrollable and control inputs are futile.] As briefed, I called Tower, declared an emergency and told the controller we'd be coming in for a run-on landing to the duty runway. Suddenly, the grinding noise stopped and Gary said that he had normal pedal control back. While we mulled over this new development, the pump began to cavitate intermittently for several seconds. Aha! We were losing fluid, but we hadn't lost all our fluid; the pump was intermittently operational -- bear that in mind for later. A few seconds later, the pump resumed its annoying cavitation and (again, as briefed) I provided some additional pressure to the appropriate pedal whenever Gary called for an assist in maintaining heading. We then performed our by-the-book before-landing check -- as briefed.
Cut to final approach (and yes, I had announced, "We're at one mile. Emergency collective hydraulic pump coming on," and Gary had acknowledged -- as briefed). "We've got a slight crosswind, Bill -- help me out with some left pedal to straighten out the nose." "Okay, left pedal coming in " geez, that's stiff -- nose is straight down the centerline. Approach angle's good, airspeed's at sixty and before-landing check's still valid. Hold everything until we hit and I think we'll walk away from it, Gar." We touched down at sixty knots in an impressive display of sparks, smoke and textbook Aircrew Coordination. As we slid through fifty knots, we came to the intersecting runway, which has a slight crown. It launched us upward a few inches and we became airborne again -- just as the hydraulic pump stopped cavitating!
Now go back to There I was and reread the rest of the paragraph. It's okay -- I'll wait...
When the pump grabbed the last few ounces of fluid, several things happened simultaneously: the nose snapped left ninety degrees, we rolled right about ten degrees, Gary uttered a scatalogical expletive, our airspeed decreased rapidly (due to the 'barn door' effect), we began sinking back to the runway -- and the pump resumed its manic cavitation. Ooops -- we hadn't briefed this...
I had a nanosecond visual of each of our three options for dying --
1. either the rotor blades would hit the runway, fling us vertical and five tons of metal and jet fuel would come down on top of us, or
2. the skid would hit and become a pivot, flipping the canopy into the pavement and we'd get abraded from the top of our helmets down to our shoulders, or
3. the stub wing would hit the runway, crush the fuselage and rupture the fuel cell, turning us into a large, open air barbecue.
-- not a one of 'em appealed to me.
My Aviation Career Objective was now reduced to living through the next three seconds and appeared to be somewhat in jeopardy.
I then did something we *hadn't* briefed; I planted both size-twelves on the right pedal and shoved -- just as Gary hollered, "Right pedal!" The nose s-l-o-w-l-y reoriented right, the right skid-heel grabbed the runway -- followed rapidly by the rest of the right skid -- and we wobbled down the runway, teetering on one skid for several amusing seconds until the left skid decided to get with the program, too. We ground to a halt right next to the crash/rescue folks, who gave us a standing ovation for not plowing into them.
We performed a normal shutdown, but it took me three eternities to get two feet unstuck from an area that Bell had designed to accommodate one; my legs deciding to lock in the straight-from-the-hips position didn't help the situation. One of the asbestos-suiters came over and said that Ops had told them we'd probably "need this" and handed Gary a roll of Charmin. Glad somebody thought it was funny.
Eighteen months later (almost to the day), after regaling a relatively new Pilot-in-Command with the story, we were on short final to our weed patch and
Guess.What.Happened?
Heh. "Twitchy Bill," who told you, John?
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Bill - I've got some good news and some bad news.
1. Good news - you write aviation crash/problem stories pretty well.
2. Bad news. They're first person.
3. Good News. You get published a lot.
4. Bad News. In FlightFax, in First Person Stories.
I'm somewhat nervous about getting into any aircraft in which you have a front seat...
Of course, for all I know the only difference between you, Dusty, and Neffi is - they don't write much...
by
John of Argghhh! on March 21, 2005 12:26 PM
Look on the bright side--you won't be bored...
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 12:28 PM
Yeah, but Beth would get grumpy about the underwear situation...
by
John of Argghhh!!! on March 21, 2005 12:32 PM
Not a problem.
Quite the reverse, in fact.
You'd probably have to go to an ER to get the seat removed...
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 12:35 PM
I'm not writing...but I am listening...Have nothing profound to say right now but when I do I'll mash the mic button.
by
Instapilot on March 21, 2005 12:41 PM
...and I had an entertaining 2 minutes myself Saturday, culminating in a near-perfect touchdown after a 'sideways' approach on final, courtesy a very strong gust-front. But can't touch Chief for pucker factor this time...
by Neffi on March 21, 2005 12:46 PM
Wow, Bill! I'm glad you're here to tell the tales - we'll have to renegotiate the next series of virtual helo lessons ;-)
by
Barb on March 21, 2005 12:47 PM
Hmf. No sense of adventure.
>>hzz. has sense of common, though.
[*whap*] YIPE!
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 1:11 PM
Hey - I have a sense of adventure. I just want to survive the lessons ;-)
by
Barb on March 21, 2005 2:23 PM
But not knowing until it's over is part of the
[*gaaak--hork*]
thrill.
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 2:58 PM
Dusty - no snark intended, I was just referring to tales of horror from the cockpit.
Bill has been submitting these to FlightFax for years... always in the First Person, which is some cause for concern, what with he's flying US Gubbermint proppity 'n all!
by
John of Argghhh!!! on March 21, 2005 3:02 PM
O' course they were first person. Think I'd subject some other poor schnook to all that adrenaline overdose?
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 3:24 PM
Ah, yes, why I prefer airplanes to hellafloppers! An airplane is a structure, a 'flopper is a *machine*. All of the hubschrauber's itty bitty linkages and spinning things have to work, just for it to fly at all!
That said, I tend to agree with the fellow who said that a well-designed, well-made, well-maintained, well-flown helicopter is the safest thing in the air.
That's a kinda long chain of conditions, though.
by Justthisguy on March 21, 2005 3:36 PM
I hear tell of a crucial component of a helicopter known as the "Jesus bolt". 'Cause when you lose it ...
by Bad Cat Robot on March 21, 2005 3:53 PM
No, I believe that's called the "Jesus *Nut*".
Suspended in the air by one nut...
Heck, *two* would be pretty bad...
by Justthisguy on March 21, 2005 4:08 PM
In Bill's defense - he did *survive* all his incidents.
Which, while a mandatory requirement for recounting his adventures, is not necessary to experience them!
By the way, chopper question for anyone to answer - why do the model numbers go from the AH-1 (cobra) to AH-64 (Apache)? What happened to the intervening 62 models? Or is Bill the explanation?
by UtahMan on March 21, 2005 4:09 PM
Ummmm--I was exonerated on
[*peering over shoulder*]
all sixty-two counts.
Heh. Long story.
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 4:14 PM
Mast Bump Story! I wanna mast-bump story! (And, uh, did you live?)
by Justthisguy on March 21, 2005 4:23 PM
UtahMan
Probably was influenced by the Army tank numbers advancing, in a logical sequence, from M-60 to MBT-70 to M-1. I blame Neffi as a root cause.
Cheers
JMH
by J.M. Heinrichs on March 21, 2005 4:33 PM
Think manufacturers. Think manufacturers' product numbers.
Lockheed AH-56 (Cheyenne).
Sikorsky S-67 (Blackhawk, as distinct from the UH-60 Black Hawk). Woulda been the AH-67, except the AH-56 beat it out, then the AH-56 folded and was replaced by the AH-64.
Heh. Scout/Observation designations are even more fun.
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 5:05 PM
Jtg - If I'd had an in-flight mast-bump, nobody would ever have heard of me except as a statistic. And yer right about the "Jesus nut."
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 5:08 PM
Ah, that clears it up. Clear as mud. Thanks anyway, though.
Back to the story - great one. I like the look of the Cobras - but I think I like being able to admire them from here, safe on the ground.
by UtahMan on March 21, 2005 5:18 PM
Oh, the sad thing is, I like flying in 'em. Always have.
And I'll even get in one Bill's flying.
Sigh.
I'm stupid that way.
Hell, Heaven would be the cargo seat of an A-10 trainer - with Dusty at the stick, 'rolling in'.
Hell, I'll even go scout Minuteman silos with Neffi.
by
John of Argghhh! on March 21, 2005 5:41 PM
Woops. Posted too fast, and now I see Bill's comment. Manufacturer numbers - OK, that makes (more) sense.
Still like the look of the old Cobras, especially with the toothy mouth. I thought that was a thing of the past, but I remember seeing a couple of Apaches with calvary swords and alligator mouths on them during Operation Iraqi Freedom (7th Cav, I think). That just a Calvary thing?
by UtahMan on March 21, 2005 5:47 PM
I figure that Bill's proven his ability to find a way to survive anything! I'd love a ride in a helo he's flying ;-) Then again - what're the odds of that happening, eh?
:-(
by
Barb on March 21, 2005 5:47 PM
Umm, when I wrote "Did you live?" I was referring to the most ancient, most traditional kind of war story, in which the last two lines are:
Grandkid: And what happened then, Grampa?
Grampa: Why, I was killed, of course!
by Justthisguy on March 21, 2005 5:51 PM
I have a URL about the dreaded "mast-bump" saved around here somewheres, but can't find it right now. Suffice it for me to say that it's a problem one can have with hellafloppers with two-bladed teetering rotors, when the pilot, or the atmosphere, or something, causes the rotor to move violently and quickly about its teetering axis so as to bang up against its stops and break something, usually the "mast", or shaft from which all of the rest of the machine hangs..
Did I get that right, Bill?
by Justthisguy on March 21, 2005 6:00 PM
Chief, that was OUTSTANDING!
I'd fly with you in a heartbeat (even though I may pick up a few dozen heartbeats in the process!)
by AFSister on March 21, 2005 6:29 PM
ah sheesh, JMH... what's a model number or two. As for my own influence in the progression of tank designs, the fact is that I... I... ah Helk, I didn't tell the Grand Jury, why should I tell you?! heh
by Neffi 9aboard Vogon Destructor Fleet on March 21, 2005 6:32 PM
Heh. This just goes to show why we recruit youngsters with no knowledge of what they're facing for the infantry, eh, Bill?
by
John of Argghhh! on March 21, 2005 6:33 PM
oops, I am back now, Vogons like orders too much for my taste...
by Neffi on March 21, 2005 6:33 PM
John- I think we were all once young, dumb, and full of.. errh... combustibles. Nobody with any sense of self-preservation joins combat arms; gotta recruit those kids who think they're indestructible.
old adage:
'Everyone is born into this life with a full bag of luck, and an empty bag of experience.
The trick is to fill the bag of experience before the bag of luck runs out...'
by Neffi on March 21, 2005 6:56 PM
*Ahem*
Bill - How come in the original it was size thirteens, and now it's size twelves, Hmmm????
Your feet gettin' smaller over time? ;-)
by
Barb on March 21, 2005 7:52 PM
...sweat shrinkage, I'll bet...
by Neffi on March 21, 2005 7:53 PM
Hmmm - sweaty feet usually feel puffy to me ;-)
by
Barb on March 21, 2005 8:00 PM
Well, stop handling Chief's sweaty, puffy feet! sheesh hehe
by Neffi on March 21, 2005 8:03 PM
EEEEeeeee!!!!!! EVERYBODY leave everybody's feet alone!
by
John of Argghhh! on March 21, 2005 8:35 PM
Whatsa matter, John - feet ticklish??
by
Barb on March 21, 2005 9:57 PM
Barb - Thirteens in the original 'cuz I was wearing winter-weight boots and two pair of socks. It's spring now.
Jtg - Teetering (aka "semi-rigid) rotor is keerect. Three things can cause mast bumping: suddenly unloading the rotor system (negative G), too-rapid cyclic movement aft-then-forward and losing a portion of the control linkage above the swashplate, which is the component that transmits pitch-change movement to the rotor disk. A Cobra has a fourth little trick, a SCAS failure. SCAS is the Stability Control Augmentation System--electric sensor, hydraulic actuator. If it fails and you don't catch it in time, the nose pitches up, the hub pitches down and you launch the Big Frisbee. If you have normal reflexes, you can correct for it with no problems.
MAWK - Yer back! Problem isn't picking up extra heartbeats, it's keeping the ones you've got inside your rib cage and out of your throat. I won't mention the other two things that sometimes feel the need for company at a time like that and crawl up to grab your epiglottis, cuz you don't have 'em to worry about...
John - And aviation. They don't let the new kids visit the boneyard anymore.
by cw4billt on March 21, 2005 10:16 PM
UtahMan - As promised, links to teethy Snakes. No crossed sabres, but the triangle (or circle or square) on the sail (fairing over the tranny) is a line-unit ID we used for quick recognition; we conducted all our missions under radio silence, using an AMESLAN variation during the day and flashlight semaphore at night. First Cav evaluators in '91 went ballistic until we taught it to them...
Okay, tactical grey-on-CARC is here and a long-shot of full-color is here. And, for something completely different, follow the smoke trail to view a just-launched TOW missile--subtitle: "Why Tankers Get Depressed"...
by cw4billt on March 22, 2005 7:38 AM
Hi Bill!
I'm all done dancing...ready to party!
by MAWK on March 22, 2005 7:46 AM
Have a seat, kiddo--you've got a foot-rub comin'!
by cw4billt on March 22, 2005 8:21 AM
Nothing to ruin a tanker's day like a TOW from the blue...
Thanks Bill!
by UtahMan on March 22, 2005 4:51 PM
"Why Tankers Get Depressed" Not too often, one of my buddies in training (Tank school) was an ex-TOW gunner, and started out on the 106mm Recoiless Rifle. Depends on the infamous "Tactical Situation".
Cheers
JMH
by J.M. Heinrichs on March 22, 2005 8:30 PM
Absolutely correct. Ansbach vs. Mesa, Arizona.
by cw4billt on March 22, 2005 10:18 PM
Great thread, I'll have to stop by more often. Reminds me of the time in '73 in Germany....CW2 Maint Off liked to use the AH1's for parts runs (about the only way to get some hours on them) with an EM maint type for front seat ballast. Ammo bay door dropped open letting a brand new in the box top half UH-1 particle seperator exit the aircraft, taking the tail rotor with it. Story was they swapped ends from 2000 feet. Finally found CW2 and SP5 somewhat inebriated in the closest gasthaus. Aaahhh, the good old days!!
by R. Jewell on March 23, 2005 7:57 AM
I heard about that one--one of my buds was on the recovery mission (the aircraft, not the crew).
by cw4billt on March 23, 2005 8:48 AM
Was much of the machine recoverable?? It's amazing that the guys walked away!!
by
Barb on March 23, 2005 2:17 PM
Walked away?!? It's amazing they lived!
by cw4billt on March 23, 2005 10:32 PM
OK - you got me there! But you didn't answer the core question - was there anything worth recovering from the helo?
by
Barb on March 24, 2005 8:02 PM
So, should we lobby Congress for sideways ejection seats in hellafloppers?
by Justthisguy on March 25, 2005 12:25 AM
Can I open my eyes and peek now? Every time I read one of the TINS I read between my fingers.
I know, I am the duly appointed Castle Wimp.
I KNOW how it ends because one of the participants is alive to tell the tale.
And the html doesn't work so I can't ever snark in a refined manner.
by Cricket on June 12, 2007 8:22 PM
East Bay Regional Park Police, 1982
Back seat, me onboard medic, x slick pilot Randy, (Sarg. Parent to me) angels 900, low in the canyons looking at all da purty hills in the "Flyin Gucci bag"(Sand brown paint with wide green and red stripes down the turbine cowl of an X loach 500-E (bought surplus for a buck from the uncle) look down, look up at the tree o-clock....Big...BIG white wings two engine Bonanza cranked hard port and DDDDIIIIVVVVVVING just below my pucker'd web seat with just the right amount of wake turb to ensure post pucker moistness of an unexpected quanity......Randy would always tell me when I brought it up later, "Come-on Rich," Not even close!"
He would know,
by Richard on June 13, 2007 12:02 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Jun 12, 2007
May 24, 2007
Posted Sans Commentary.
From Iran Daily.
Researchers Build Micro-Submarines
TEHRAN, May 23--Researchers at the University of Tehran have built two types of micro-submarines, the project director said Wednesday. Aqil Yousefi-Koma added that the two submarines can be used in reconnaissance and rescue operations as well as for monitoring the health of marine structures and suicide bombing, ISNA reported.
Yousefi-Koma said these submarines can also simulate the movement of marine animals.
“Today, robots and underwater vehicles are devised by simulating aquatic animals. This simulation will boost the efficiency of robots and reduce the possibility of interception by enemy radars,“ he said.
The researcher noted that advanced software programs were used for simulating the movements of sharks, adding that the project is aimed at building unmanned submarines with a lower probability of interception.
Yousefi-Koma noted that each submarine weighs 1,100 grams and has been tested successfully.
Okay, I lied. Love the dual-use capability being contemplated.
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
They weigh a tad over two pounds each... must be proof-of-concept devices. Be interesting to see if they can scale them up into something *useful* without sacrificing their covert nature.
Assuming they exist in the first place, natch...
by Neffi on May 24, 2007 11:51 AM
Funny, lat night the favorite Naval consort emailed this to me from the Navy Times. I thought, "Yeah, I'll get to this.........." Now you have it. I guess I better go with the flow and read it, huh?
by
Maggie on May 24, 2007 1:01 PM
Neffi,
Are you suggesting that the Iranians don't have 200 mph torpedoes and other fantastical armaments like they claim?
I'm as shocked as Claude Raines in Casablanca to think that the Iranians might not be 100 percent truthful about their accomplishments.
by
NevadaDailySteve on May 24, 2007 1:21 PM
Heaven forfend I should imply that the veracity of the University of Tehran's spokesdude is not up to scratch, NDS! (snigger)
But I'd love to have a robotic shark, myself. About ten feet long... imagine the fun you could have at the beach...
babum babum babum babumbabum babumbabumbabumbabum
by Neffi on May 24, 2007 4:11 PM
The same guy who built their 200 mph torpedo's also developed their homeopathic AIDS cure.....
by
BloodSpite on May 24, 2007 9:34 PM
The question is not do the tadpoles exist, but from who did they acquire them.
Cheers
by J.M. Heinrichs on May 24, 2007 9:46 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
March 23, 2007
TINS! Except for Once an Hour -- When It *Was*...
Given the recurrent threads of Wally World, the VA and the State of Military Health Care In General this past week, it seems kind of appropriate to finish this off today. 'Specially since the only e-gram I got was from BCR
hmm. No 24-hr Ebola? Then it *has* to be an intestinal parasite about 6ft long. With fangs. And it detached because you weren't feeding it enough. It wanted to evacuate a la Aliens but the 27" zipper defeated it.
Heh. Close, but no kewpie doll, Doll.
While the Mekong Delta wasn't exactly a fever swamp (only about a third of it qualified for that title), we *did* get sick every so often. With one or two pilots knocked on their keisters, Ops had to do some creative flight scheduling -- wasn't like we were anywhere near full strength to begin with. But when everybody got smacked with a bug, Ops got downright creative.
If they strapped you in the seat and you didn't turn to mush and dribble into the chin bubble, you were good to go. And if you could actually make it out to the flight line under your own steam, you could count on getting a single-ship Ash And Trash mission, on the theory that you wouldn't disconcert the groundlings by collapsing at an untoward moment. As in, immediately upon entering the Navy Mess at My Tho (Those Who Know...).
For some reason known only to the Vietnamese Deity of Little Imagination, the 162d was subjected to the whims of a luvverly bit of microbacterial malignancy we christened "the Dong Tams" in honor of the airfield where we first made its acquaintance. An incipient case of the Dong Tams announced itself with a headache that would stop Were-Kitty in full charge. Following the headache within an hour or so, everything within your gastro-intestinal system that was *above* your belt buckle moved north con brio. And thirty plus-or-minus minutes later, everything remaining in your g-i system (no matter where) went south, explosively. Visualize achieving low Earth orbit without external boosters.
And thirty plus-or-minus minutes later, the cycle began again. And continued, regular as clockwork -- which is what gave the Ops guy the idea...
Everyone who had just suffered a projectile burp within, say, the same five-minute span, could be considered in synch with each other and got pegged for CAs. In theory, everybody would land at the PZ, fertilize the rice paddies, then depart with their pax for the LZ and either chum for birds inbound or suppress-with-bile in the LZ. Then lift off and head back to fertilize the paddies some more, pick up another load of troops -- okay, you've got the picture.
Out-of-synch got single-ship on the theory that it didn't much matter what kind of cycle you were on or which orifice was next on the exercise list -- as long as you were in the air,
a. you could either lean 'way out into the slipstream and -- ummmmm -- do a visual check of the tailboom or
b. you were within thirty seconds of landing on the Biggest Bathroom in Asia and the paddies needed fertilizing, anyway.
When the headache hit me, I knew what was next out of the chute, so to speak. I reported to the dispensary, got my tempatcher took, and obtained ten one-pint containers of kaopec (you fill in the rest -- I can't find the li'l *TM* I'd have to tack on the brand name) powder, hereinafter referred to as "k-p." Next stop was our PX, where I purchased a six-pack of orange soda and ten nickel-packs of cherry Kool-Aid Tee-Em. Halfway back to Tent City, the cycle started.
After I spat out the taste of coffee-flavored stomach lining, I poured half an orange soda into a pint container of k-p, shook it up and chugged it. Then mixed a second pint and sipped it down.
Half an hour later, I was relieved to discover that a lot of it had made into my intestinal tract -- at least my sphincter didn't feel like I'd just spent eight hours as a guest of Vlad Tepes. And a half an hour later -- hoo-ah -- gulp down another pint of k-p 'n' orange and a half an hour later -- Rocket Man -- and a half an hour later -- call the Borg -- gulp down another pint of k-p 'n' orange and a half an hour later...
Okay, you've got the idea. Now extend that over about thirty hours.
Oh, yeah -- for the excessively-curious among you, k-p and orange soda tastes like a Creamsicle Tee-Em made with chocolate-flavored gypsum.
While my copilot for the swing ship mission to Moc Hoa via My Tho (see above Navy Mess reference above) and I indulged in mutual commiseration in the pilots' outhouse -- three holes, minimal waiting -- the crews for the morning's CA had been dropping the pH of the North Swamp. Except for the AC of Chalk Two, who was plugging his posterior into the third hole of our al fresco commode.
I mixed a pint of k-p and cherry Kool-Aid (I was out of orange soda by now), chugged it and walked to the flight line. Later, while I was turning the POL point at Moc Hoa a revolutionary red, the flight had landed in a paddy PZ to load troops and offload fertilizer. Except for the AC of Chalk Two...
To be continued...
Didn't think I'd leave you wondering about the Rest of the Story, did you?
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Considering that Bill knows what kind of headaches I get, and at what point I come to a full and complete stop... DAMN. not to mention the "evacuation procedures" that follow the headache.
*shudder*
(the BAD kind of shudder)
by Were-Kitty on March 23, 2007 9:34 AM
Oh this brings back some bad memories, BTW Grape Nehi mixes well with the old keister-plaster, maybe it was a Navy thing......
by Old Fat Sailor on March 23, 2007 10:22 PM
Oh man... that takes me back to Desert Shield.
During the build up my unit had only been in Daharan, Saudi Arabia, for about three weeks. We were stuck at a -- 10,000 +/- man -- camp called Cement City. We called it Semen City, but that's a different story. HEH!
Anyway, so many people came down with a similar bug that at least two Combat Support Hospitals were flooded with troops within 72 hours. It seems that the 4 hole out-houses were a tad to close to the mess tent and the flies were going back and forth, back and forth. In fact, the only way to keep the flies off your food was to liberally coat everything with Tobasco, or some other brand of, hot sauce.
There I was, filling sand bags with the rest of my platoon, when in a matter of minutes it hit me, and most of the rest of us. With a great portion of the troops of Cement City to soon follow.
The first sign was just a headache. The second sign, within 10 minutes, was the involuntary evacuation of your stomach and bowels at the exact same instant.
YEAH!! Projectile puking and rocket booster shits in the same instant... nasty, wet, stinking, and uncontrollable.
It was a mess, to say the least.
By the time I got to the clinic I was so dehydrated that they couldn't get an IV started and I couldn't hold even a sip of water down.
Sip, heave, puke, spasm, shit, heave, puke, spasm, shit... sip, repeat!
By the time I got to the CaSH my temp was approaching 105 and I was packed in ice.
Later -- about 5 days later -- the doc told me that they had induced a coma to keep me in the ice as long as possible and reduce the chance of brain swelling and injury. After seven days in the CaSH I was deemed fit for duty.
Worst sickness I've ever had, and I don't even remember 75% of my hospital stay. LOL
V5
by V5 on March 23, 2007 10:35 PM
V5 - You guys weren't acclimatized yet, which is why you dehydrated so fast. You'd have been just as miserable if it hit you at the six month mark, but it would have taken at least 12 hours to shrivel you up.
Now imagine bouncing in a helicopter with all that going on -- uuhhhhhmm -- going out...
by
BillT on March 24, 2007 12:20 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Mar 23, 2007
March 18, 2007
A little obscure history - Helos shooting down fixed-wings.

On 12 January 1969 four An-2 gunships from the VPAF 919th Transport Regiment attacked the USAF Phou Pha Thi ELINT station in northern Laos. The base also housed a TSQ-81 radar/TACAN used to guide the airstrikes against North Vietnam. The An-2s caused moderate damage by firing 57mm rockets and dropping 120mm mortar rounds but three of them were lost; one was shot down by an Air America Bell 204 while the two others collided in mid-air by trying to escape the pursuing helicopter! This An-2 was recovered by an USAF HH-53 to be displayed at Vientiane. When the Hmong guerrillas reached the wreckage they found inside the cockpit an agonizing North Vietnamese pilot that they quickly executed. (Photo: Ken Conboy via Albert Grandolini)
Photo from ACIG.Org, which has
lots of interesting data stashed there.
[Armorer's note - I'm pretty sure the picture and the story below are the same event - even if the timelines diverge by years. Of course, then there's *this* account...]
FREEDOM BIRD
by Lawrence E. Pence
Colonel, USAF (Ret)
For most servicemen who served in Vietnam, the Freedom Bird was that civil airliner which took them back to the land of the big PX at the end of their tour. Mine was a bit different sort of Freedom Bird.
In mid-1967, as a junior Air Force Captain, I was detailed to 7th AF Hq in Saigon as an Air Technical Intelligence Liason Officer, short name: ATLO (the “I” gets left out, as people look strangely at anyone who calls himself an ATILO, thinking he is somehow related to Atilla the Hun). My job was to provide 7AF and the air war the best technical intelligence support that the Foreign Technology Division of AF Systems Command (my parent organization) could provide, in whatever area or discipline needed. Also I was to collect such technical intelligence as became available. This was a tall order for a young Captain, and this assignment provided much excitement, including the Tet Offensive.
At that time, Operation Rolling Thunder was underway, the bombing of military targets in North Vietnam. The weather in NVN was often lousy, making it difficult to find and accurately strike the assigned targets, so a radar control system was set up to direct the srike force to their targets. This system was installed on a remote, sheer-sided karst mountain just inside Laos on the northern Laos/NVN border. The site could be accessed only by helicopter or a tortuous trail winding up the near-vertical mountainside, so it was judged to be easily efensible. The mountaintop was relatively flat and about 30 acres in size.
On it was a tiny Hmong village called Phu Pha Ti, a small garrison of Thai and Meo mercenaries for defense, a helicopter pad and ops shack for the CIA-owned Air America Airline, and the radar site, which was manned by "sheep-dipped" US Air Force enlisted men in civilian clothes. Both the US and NVN paid lip service to the fiction that Laos was a neutral country, and no foreign military were stationed there, when in reality we had a couple of hundred people spread over several sites, and NVN had thousands on the Ho Chi Minh trail in eastern Laos. This particular site was called Lima (L for Laos) Site 85. The fighter-bomber crews called it Channel 97 (the radar frequency), and all aircrews called it North Station, since it was the furthest north facility in "friendly" territory. Anywhere north of North Station was bad guy land.
The Channel 97 radar system was an old SAC precision bomb scoring radar which could locate an aircraft to within a few meters at a hundred miles. In this application, the strike force would fly out from Lima Site 85 a given distance on a given radial, and the site operators would tell the strike leader precisely when to release his bomb load. It was surprisingly accurate, and allowed the strikes to be run at night or in bad weather. This capability was badly hurting the North Vietnamese war effort, so they decided to take out Lima Site 85.
Because of the difficulty of mounting a ground assault on Lima Site 85, and its remote location, an air strike was planned. Believe it or not, the NVNAF chose biplanes as their "strike bombers!" This has to be the only combat use of biplanes since the 1930's. The aircraft used were Antonov designed AN-2 general purpose 'workhorse" biplanes with a single 1000hp radial piston engine and about one ton payload. Actually, once you get past the obvious "Snoopy and the Red Baron" image, the AN-2 was not a bad choice for this mission. Its biggest disadvantage is, like all biplanes, it is slow. The Russians use the An-2 for a multitude of things, such as medevac, parachute training, flying school bus, crop dusting, and so on. An AN-2 just recently flew over the North Pole. In fact, if you measure success of an aircraft design by the criteria of number produced and length of time in series production, you could say that the AN-2 is the most successful aircraft design in the history of aviation!
The NVNAF fitted out their AN-2 "attack bombers with a 12 shot 57mm folding fin aerial rocket pod under each lower wing, and 20 250mm mortar rounds with aerial bomb fuses set in vertical tubes let into the floor of the aircraft cargo bay. These were dropped through holes cut in the cargo bay floor. Simple hinged bomb-bay doors closed these holes in flight. The pilot could salvo his bomb load by opening these doors. This was a pretty good munitions load to take out a soft, undefended target like a radar site. Altogether, the mission was well planned and equipped and should have been successful, but Murphy's Law prevailed.
[The rest is below the fold, in the Flash Traffic/Extended Entry section]
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
A three plane strike force was mounted, with two attack aircraft and one standing off as command and radio relay. They knew the radar site was on the mountaintop, but they did not have good intelligence as to its precise location, It was well camouflaged, and could not be seen readily from the air. They also did not realize that we had "anti-aircraft artillery" and "air defense interceptor" forces at the site. Neither did we realize this.
The AN-2 strike force rolled in on the target, mistook the Air America ops shack for the radar site, and proceeded to ventilate it. The aforementioned “anti-aircraft artillery” force- one little Thai mercenary about five feet tall and all balls- heard the commotion, ran out on the helicopter pad, stood in the path of the attacking aircraft spraying rockets and bombs verywhere, and emptied a 27-round clip from his AK-47 into the AN-2, which then crashed and burned. At this juncture, the second attack aircraft broke of and turned north towards home.
The "air defense interceptor" force was an unarmed Air America Huey helicopter which was by happenstance on the pad at the time, the pilot and flight mechanic having a Coke in the ops shack. When holes started appearing in the roof, they ran to their Huey and got airborne, not quite believing the sight of two biplanes fleeing north. Then the Huey pilot, no slouch in the balls department either, realized that his Huey was faster than the biplanes! So he did the only thing a real pilot could do-attack!
The Huey overtook the AN-2’s a few miles inside North Vietnam, unknown to the AN-2’s as their rearward visibility is nil. The Huey flew over the rearmost AN-2 and the helicopter’s down-wash stalled out the upper wing of the AN-2. Suddenly the hapless AN-2 pilot found himself sinking like a stone! So he pulled the yoke back in his lap and further reduced his forward speed. Meanwhile, the Huey flight mechanic, not to be outdone in the macho contest, crawled out on the Huey’s skid and, one-handed, emptied his AK-47 into the cockpit area of the AN-2, killing or wounding the pilot and copilot. At this point, the AN-2 went into a flat spin and crashed into a moutainside, but did not burn.
It should come as no surprise that the Air America pilot and flight mechanic found themselves in a heap of trouble with the State Department REMF’s in Vientiane. (REMF is an acronym. The first three words are Rear, Echelon, and Mother.) In spite of the striped-pants cookie-pushers' discomfort at (horrors!) an international incident (or perhaps, partly because of
it) these guys were heroes to everybody in the theatre who didn't wear puce panties and talk with a lisp. They accomplished a couple of firsts: (1) The first and only combat shootdown of a biplane by a helicopter, and (2) The first known CIA air-to-air victory. Not bad for a couple of spooks.
Communication with Headquarters was very good in Vietnam, and I learned of this incident within an hour or so of its happening, although I had no details. But the prospect of access to a North Vietnamese aircraft of any sort was very attractive to an intell type, so I grabbed my flyaway kit and headed for Udorn AFB in northern Thailand, where I knew I could get transport to the crash site from the Air Rescue and Recovery Service (ARRS), the Jolly Green Giants. Sure enough, the next morning we headed for bad guy land with a flight of three Jolly Green Giants. The State Department geniuses had decided to cover their ample butts by having the remains of the AN-2 airlifted down to Vientiane to put on display to an outraged world press, thus proving that North Vietnam had violated Laotian neutrality by sending armed aircraft against a peaceful civil airline facility. Yawn. The Air Force went along with it because it provided good cover for our intelligence operation. Of course, when State found out that I had gone in without saying Mother-may-I to them, they were really hot. But by then I had already gotten the goods we wanted, and what could they do to me? Fire me and send me to Vietnam?
We found the crashed AN-2 a few miles inside NVN. There were already some Meo mercenaries there led by a CIA field type, whose mission was to bag the crew's bodies and check to see if they were Russians. They weren't. The jungle and rough terrain precluded landing, so we went in by jungle penetrator, a cable-mounted weighted affair somewhat like a large plumb bob. I would have liked to parachute in because a behind-the-lines jump is considered a combat jump, opposed or not, but the jungle and rough terrain would have made that very dangerous. I may be a little crazy- all parachutists are- but I'm not stupid. With me went a couple of PS's- pararescue specialists. These men are elite young tigers who regularly risk their lives to save downed aircrews. They are universally and deservedly admired and respected. The PS's function was to rig a sling on the AN-2 so it could be lifted out, and to look after me. I was very glad they were there.
I was delighted to find the crashed AN-2 had the piece of equipment aboard that I had hoped to find, a brand new undamaged IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) electronic "black box". An IFF ~ a coded signal when interrogated by a friendly radar, thus identifying itself as a friendly. All combat aircraft have an IFF, and I had felt certain that the AN-2 would have been fitted with it for this mission. We had never before gotten our hands on one in undamaged condition. With this, we could "reverse engineer" a system which could reliably locate the small, sleek, elusive MiG-21's before they could sneak up on our strike aircraft. And we did just that, greatly improving the RED CROWN warning system we had at that time. This capability saved a good many crews and aircraft during the later years of that miserable war. I am very proud to have had a hand in this effort.
After rigging the sling on the AN-2, and finishing my intell collection, we tried to lift it out, but it was too heavy for the Jolly Green helo. (We sent in an Army Chinook heavy-lift helo the next day to lift it down to Vientiane.) All this activity took several hours. Suddenly we got a call from the Jollys that an RS57 had been shot down somewhere north and had strung bailed-out crew members along a twenty mile path. An all-out rescue effort was required and our helicopters were being pulled off our mission immediately, without even time to pick us up. They would be back to get us when they could. Suddenly, what had been a relatively low risk in-and-out mission took on a whole different aspect. I knew from good intel that there were NVN Army elements in the vicinity, and they would no doubt be directed to find and destroy the crashed AN-2. All the stooging around with noisy helicopters we had done that morning, plus voluminous radio comms, could not have failed to alert them. We were four Americans, who knew not ten words of Umong between us, and about a dozen Meo mercenaries, none of whom spoke English. Our arms consisted of three -38 revolvers, my Colt 1911 .45 automatic, and the Meos' ragtag lot of Ml's, Ml4's, and '03 Springfields. We had very little ammo, no water, no rations, no flares or smoke grenades, not even a compass. We did have short range ground-to-air radios, and a promise to return for us, but who knew when that would be. Not a good situation.
After a hasty conference, we decided to remain at the crash site until an hour or so before dark, and then move off and find a defensible place to spend the night, if necessary. So we waited. Late that afternoon, we heard a helicopter and got a call that the big rescue operation as completed, and we should saddle up for extraction. I can't begin to describe how relieved we were to see that big beautiful Freedom Bird flying toward us. Our Freedom Bird picked us up with no problem, and we were back at Udorn in time for Happy Hour. No ARRS crewman ever bought his own drink at any club in 'Nam. I can assure you none did that night.
As a postscript, Lima Site 85 was overrun by ground troops about a month after the bombing attempt, and all US personnel were killed or captured. The comm guys who heard their last messages said it was a pitiful situation as the site team reported the attackers' progress at getting at them in their cave bunker. The official version of what happened is that North Vietnamese troops climbed the sheer sides of the mountain with ropes and pitons to attack the site. I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now. The attack had all the earmarks of a Spetsnaz operation, probably insertion by a HALO parachute team, but unless the Russians admit it we will probably never know.
Of interest, the History Channel in their Missions of CIA series, did a one hour documentary on the Lima Site 85 incident which I saw a few months ago. It showed footage of the AN-2 in Vientiane, and discussed the ground assault (the "official" version). All in all, they did a pretty good job with it, especially considering that it was over thirty years ago. They got some things wrong, and some they never knew about, but they weren't there at the time. I was.
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
We don't make a habit of shooting down jets -- the zoomies would stop buying us beers in the "O" Club.
Remind me to tell you about the North Vietnamese MiG-17 pilot who went helicopter hunting west of Dong Ha and met a Charlie-model. Gotta love rockets with VT fuzes...
by
BillT on March 18, 2007 6:11 PM
The last of the combat biplanes (other than the An-2) would have been Fairey Swordfish ("Stringbags") of the British RN. They were in production through 1944, with the last new models being introduced in 1943. The last operational squadron was disbanded in late May, 1945, and last training squadron in mid 1946.
They did all right, what with wrecking the Italian fleet at Taranto, and slowing down the Bismarck before the Royal Navy sank it. They also flew antishipping missions from Malta.
They ended up being used for U-boat patrol (sank 14), and outlived their successor, the Fairey Albacore, which was also a biplane. Tough old bird.
by steveH on March 18, 2007 8:49 PM
I once had a close encounter with one of them AN-2's. Well, kinda sorta.
Back in '91 I was traveling DCA - SJU on the venerable PanAm May she rest in peace. After changing planes at FLL, and while taxiing out on my final leg to SJU, I noticed a pack of emergency vehicles speeding down along the runway proper. After what it seemed like a loooong wait, the pilot stated on the intercom something akin to: "Sorry folks, for the delay, but we have a Cuban plane vectoring-in for freedom, blah - blah - blah".
I craned my neck against my port-side window seat, and as if right on queue, this rackety-old mustard colored AN-2 glided by onto the runway.
Sure enough, the following morning,El Nuevo Dia reported of a family's daring escape to freedom on that old barn stormer.
by Boquisucio on March 19, 2007 7:14 AM
This is a true story, the story of "Lima-85". One of my good friends, a retired USAF L/Col who was a working controller as call sign "Dressy Lady" at a similar, and safer site at Nahkon Phanom (NKP, or "Naked Fanny") confirms that such an attack by the AN-2s did take place, and was repulsed exactly as depicted.
I was a B-52D Arc Light navigator, and unbeknownst to me, Boyd controlled many of my missions in the Sky Spot mode. Most all of the B-52 missions in 'Nam and Laos were controlled this way. Boyd and I met later as deputy sheriffs in the same Oregon Sheriff's office! What a coincidence. I still have coffee with him every week.
by
Rivrdog on March 20, 2007 3:55 PM
BTW, that kaffee klatch includes mostly ex-deputies, but most are also 'Nam vets. We have myself (B-52s), three chopper pilots, two Army and one USAF (was in Super Jolly Greens, and commanded one of the squadrons at the end of the war), one USAF maintenance XO, one Forward Ground Controller, one squid and one or two others who don't talk much about their war.
Yes, there are usually war stories as well as cop stories.
by
Rivrdog on March 20, 2007 4:02 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
March 16, 2007
A TINS! of a Different Color
Remember the Serial Thriller from a couple of weeks back (if you don't, ask FuzzybeeEll for the links -- I think she made an antimacassar out of 'em)? Well, one result of the torrent of e-mails from everyone -- uhhmm -- intermittent spate of encouragement from the Denizennes awfully nice comment I got from NevadaDailySteve, was that it gave me an idea. Since you guys were so anxious to see how it was gonna turn out, this time, you'll *know* the ending -- 'cuz you're gonna write it.
It's been a while since we had a contest with some literary merit. This probably won't break the dry spell, but it'll be good for some giggles. And you'll have *alllll* weekend to work on it!
I'll start the story, then stop at an appropriately suspenseful point and you pick it up from there. E-mail me the narrative and I'll add it / them in during next week (it's in your own best interest to contribute -- I can plug in "...and then I died. The End." --MajMike or "...and then I died. The End. Cheers!" --the Armorer all. week. long.)
Caveat: Anybody who *does* kill me off gets his or [ominous glare] *her* electronic addy posted on the "spam me" bulletin board of every cyber café in Lagos, Nigeria...
Ready? Ahem...
It was the smoothest landing I'd made in my entire aviation career (all six months of it). Even got a compliment from the Green Beanie major who'd been directing the op from the jump seat behind the radio console. I rolled the throttle to the flight idle stop and (after a couple of tries) flicked the spring-loaded RPM warning switch to the "OFF" position, then unfastened my shoulder harness.
Big mistake. It had been the only thing holding me upright.
Dimly aware that I was slumping to the right, I half-twisted toward the big opening in the cockpit that was normally occupied by the door and coughedvomitedcoughed about a pint of thick liquid onto the perforated steel matting of the runway. I remember thinking that the rusty orange of the steel planking provided an interesting counterpoint to the dark red I'd puked...
Okay, kids -- you've got the controls...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
I dunno, Chief. I remember how bad the Moat Monster's gizzard stones messed me up just before I lost consciousness, the last time I participated in one of these. I think BCR almost despaired of bringing me back.
Sometimes I wonder how much she *did* bring back and how much she just replaced and improved. At least I still have free will, and I think BCR is really cool and I would do anything for her and I wrote that without coercion and it was my own idea to write that and she didn't make me do it and BCR has only my best intere*%%(%%*@^$&
So whatta y'all think about this weather we've been having lately, huh
by
Justthisguy on March 16, 2007 1:17 AM
I dunno, Chief. THe last time I tried my hand at, intentionally, writing fiction the school forced me to see a psychiatrist---they couldn't make up their mind if I was homicidal or suicidal. So I think I'll pass. Besides, I like your true stories better than anything I could imagine.
And now, off to the grocery store since I can't sleep anyway!
by ry on March 16, 2007 1:34 AM
Jtg - If you're gonna channel BCR for this, kinda downplay the death ray and the whole R&R in New Zealand thing, okay? Besides, I went to Australia...
ry - Fiction? Nope. I start you off with a factual incident and you report the rest of it. Just think of it as an NYT or WaPo article, but with more of a foundation in reality.
by
BillT on March 16, 2007 6:03 AM
I don't think I like the beginning (ending?) of this story very much. Particularly because it's you...
One of the dangers of hanging out with soldiers, I suppose...
by
FbL on March 16, 2007 9:29 AM
I see JTG is due for a paranoia tuneup ;-)
Well, this should be fun! I've got two ideas already. Neither involving death rays or robots, for a change.
by
bad cat robot on March 16, 2007 9:36 AM
I for one, look forward to cashing-in on a bit of those Yoruba Dollars.
by Boquisucio on March 16, 2007 10:19 AM
I don't think I like the beginning (ending?) of this story very much.
Neither beginning nor ending -- it's the middle. As in, what came out of mine.
One of the dangers of hanging out with soldiers, I suppose...
Bet you're glad I'm not a proctologist, huh?
by
BillT on March 16, 2007 10:25 AM
BCR - Could'a used a robot for a few minutes after I launched the technicolor burp. Almost fell flat on my face trying to climb out of the cockpit solo.
Dearestly Beloved Sir Bocqwicucchio: I
>am the sole
>eldest only-surving scion of the
>former Minister of the Interior Decorations of
>Republic
>of Nigeria, who met
>his death of a fatal
>illness immediately prior ot the
>aerplan crash in
>which there were no survivores
>save only myself, thanks
>be.
by
BillT on March 16, 2007 10:42 AM
I'll try my hand...
The night before, yours truly had been down to the mess hall (mess being the operative word). They were serving a lovely St. Patrick's day dinner. At least, I think it was St. Patrick's day dinner. It was green and smelled slightly of three times boiled cabage and week old corned beef mixed with the socks of an infantry squad just returned from a five day hump through the wilderness and one large, recently "fertilized" rice patty.
But, it was St. Patty's day and it was green, so I decided to try it anyway. The peanut butter and bologna sandwiches were starting to be a little stale.
by
kat-missouri on March 16, 2007 2:38 PM
Then I died.
Buuuutt...
God sent me back, to continue until the ring had been destroyed, having been cast into the fires of Mt Fuji... Where I'd been sent by 7 homely geisha girls after one soulless night in the Ginsha-kinfe area of Naga-shima, savoring saki-dipped rice, chopstick-fed to me one grain at a time, while my feet were massaged....
Or maybe it was Bangkok, or...
:-)
by
SangerM on March 16, 2007 3:09 PM
and right there and then I had an epiphany; I would work to resolve the issues of drab icky colors.
I was reborn as BT.
by Cricket on March 16, 2007 6:18 PM
I picked a great day to eat my last meal of beets and chianti.
by
Chuck Simmins on March 16, 2007 10:40 PM
Damn! I thought. The Doc was right! It really is true that if you drink too much for too long, one day you'll start to bleed out from the stomach!
by
Justthisguy on March 17, 2007 4:32 AM
Yaaay - I'm well underway to gettin' me my self some of those Yoruban Pesos. Once I raid my 401K an all.
by Boquisucio on March 17, 2007 6:52 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Mar 16, 2007
March 13, 2007
Defunding the Defenders
Now that the anti-uniform War For Oil mob in Congress is frantically skittering to distance itself from the scheme to bleed-down The Surge, I can probably write this without being accused of posting a partisan political polemic in the guise of a TINS.
One of the (many) squawks of outrage I heard concerning Monsieur Murtha's Modest Proposal went something like, "This is the first time in the history of the United States that politicians, in a time of war, intend to rob soldiers of the tools they need to fight that war!"
The first time? Heh -- maybe so or maybe no. How 'bout I tell you a little story and let you decide for yourselves, okay?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Time: Early-to-mid-1970
The Place: Tent City, aka Circus World, aka the Company Area of the 162d AHC.
There must've been a dozen of us -- pilots, crewchiefs, doorgunners -- gathered around the bulletin board outside the Orderly Room.
DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY
HEADQUARTERS, 164TH AVIATION GROUP (CBT)
APO SAN FRANCISCO XXXXX
"THE DELTA GROUP"
ORDER NUMBER XX
1. Due to recent funding constraints imposed on USARV, all units under this command will implement ammunition conservation measure as stated below.
2. Effective immediately, units will be limited to drawing five hundred (500) rounds of linked 7.62mm machine gun ammunition per machine gun barrel per day.
FOR THE COMMANDER:
Twelve helicopter crewmen with a single thought. We do about ten CAs on a good day.
[Note: On a bad day, the number of CAs you flew depended on what time you got shot down]
We're gonna get killed because some effing bean-counter wants to save a buck...
Twelve helicopter crewmen with a single vision: five wrecked Hueys scattered around in a clearing.
1st Platoon 1LT: "Emory."
1st Platoon Doorgunner: "Sir?"
1st Platoon 1LT: "How many rounds do you burn up going into a hot LZ?"
1st Platoon Doorgunner: "About six hundred. Maybe a thousand, if the grunts are slow unassing the ships. Or if we have to shoot our way out."
Six hundred rounds for one M60D. We mounted one on each side. Two hundred rounds shy of what each ship needed to fight it's way into a hot LZ -- and a thousand short of what each needed to fight it's way out. We're all dead...
1st Platoon 1LT: "Hey, Geoff -- when was the last time we went into a cold LZ?"
1st Platoon CW2: "Last week, southeast of Nui Hon Soc, but that was because we caught Chawles-baby with his drawers droopin'. The second and third trips in were hot."
Copperhead Crewchief: "We worked that LZ all morning after the flight got fragged to clean out that ammo cache the SEALs found. We had to re-arm three times..."
We're gonna get killed. First hot LZ, we're gonna get killed...
Second Platoon WO1: "Cripefire, even the kamikazes got protection on their last flights..."
1st Platoon 1LT: *studying the order* "Hah! I think we may be in better shape than we think. This doesn't say, '500 rounds per machine gun,' it says, '500 rounds per machine gun barrel.' Doesn't even say they have to be good barrels..."
We didn't have one single gunner who hadn't squirreled away at least six spare barrels -- not counting the burned-out ones decorating the tent interiors.
Copperhead WO1: *wolfish grin* "Minigun's got six barrels. And we have twelve minis in the Supply hootch."
Long story short, we eventually counted over two hundred 7.62mm barrels, which we dutifully displayed for the local bean-counters. Of course, when the IG paid us a visit, we had to hide three-quarters of them. We dumped the sand out of the 55-gallon drums we used for counter-mortar blast walls, stuck twenty in each drum and then put sandbags on top. If we got mortared, we might definitely get wounded, but if the IG made us turn in those M60 barrels, we'd definitely get dead.
However, even though we could, by the strict letter of the edict, draw 100,000 rounds per day, we practiced ammo conservation and only drew the tens of thousands we needed.
Until we needed more...
And everyone -- except the enemy -- was happy with the solution. Of course, when the bean-counters from 'Way On High realized they were spending just as much on ammunition as they had been before the edict, they came up with a diabolically clever alternative target.
However, I'll save the saga of the Great Mekong Delta Toilet Paper Shortage for another day...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Okay, just to keep both readers from asking, "WTF is a CA?" -- it's a Combat Assault. Technical helicopter pilot term for dropping onto the opposition's front lawn (on purpose) with a load of troops and start trashing his house.
Problem is that he's usually at home, awake and irate (you can't really sneak up on somebody when you're flying a helicopter), so you just have to keep shooting at him until he stops shooting back -- hopefully, he'll stop long enough for you to beat feet and come back with another load of troops. And another.
Then you go to his *other* house and do it there, too. Ad infinitum...
by
BillT on March 13, 2007 6:41 AM
Amen Brother, I remember when the logistics types in Binh Thuy got their knickers in a knot after the Navy base at Nah Be had gone through their monthly "quota" of 2.75" rockets by the 15th and asked for more. It escalated to the 3-star level before more rockets were forthcoming. To bad we couldn't convince Charlie to fight his side of the war on a quota basis. :-)
by
74 on March 13, 2007 10:51 AM
a *fine* piece of barracks-lawyering ;-)
by
bad cat robot on March 13, 2007 11:23 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Mar 13, 2007
March 7, 2007
Dies Irae
The Time: 0530 on the morning of a day two weeks after the defoliation mission.
The Place: The bunker beneath the wayhouse constructed by the work detail from Tay Do Two battalion.
Phouc was finding it more difficult to maintain his Revolutionary Ardor with each basketful of earth he hauled from the bunker to scatter into the dead grass. Sergeant Van had been displeased with the implications of the message Phouc had relayed from Colonel Trinh and had placed Phouc in command of the bunker-construction detail -- which consisted solely of Phouc.
As he hauled what he had decided was this night’s final basket of damp dirt from the hootch to the grass, he misstepped and slipped, dropping the basket and losing half its contents. Fine, he thought. The load will be that much lighter. After he scattered the remaining dirt into the grass, he returned to the spill and halfheartedly spread the dirt with a handful of dead palm fronds. He glanced around and realized that he could now discern separate shadows. Ghost’s dawn, he thought. Time to go home before the Government soldiers manning the guardpost on the main road awaken…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Heya, Tut.”
“Heya, Steve. What flavor is the bug-juice this morning?”
“Green.”
“My favorite. I think I’ll stick with coffee.”
“That’s green this morning, too. You AMCing the CA today?”
“Nope. Single ship COORDS mission. But with three Copperheads for company.”
“Ah-hah. Single ship and a heavy fire team? Sounds like the excrement is gonna hit the impeller -- wanna borrow my Swedish K?”
“No, thanks. If Sir Charles gets that close, I’ll beat him to death with the survival kit.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As Pham Giang Xuan approached the newly-constructed wayhouse, he glared at the scattering of darker earth outside the door. Idiots. Why didn’t they just erect a sign reading “Occupied”? Pham didn’t bother to search the sky for the helicopters he had been hearing for the past hour -- the low muttering of the blades was well to the north, probably emanating from the American airfield west of the city. Stay up there, he thought. I have enough difficulties without your annoying presence. Pham scanned the entrance for the small knots warning of boobytraps. Seeing none, he entered the hootch, peering into the cool shadows. Very well, I am early. But it is still not proper that I should be unmet. He walked the few steps to the field table beside the newly-finished bunker, turned to face the doorway and struck a pose. Pham hadn’t risen through the Byzantine maze of Vietnamese politics to his present position without developing an appreciation of the theatrical.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We were at flight idle, waiting for our pax on the raised helipad outside the COORDS shack that sat on the eastern side of Can Tho’s soccer field, viewing the world through the semicircular bounce caused by one main rotor blade being slightly out-of-track. We figured any outfit called Civil Operations and Revolutionary Development Support had to be a front for spooks; the missions the COORDS guys came up with were either incredibly boring or brain-freezing scary. We’d learned that pax waiting on the pad usually meant the latter, because the planners would be anxious to get rolling, get done, and get back. The absence of pax did not bode well for our hopes of an interesting flight.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Senior Sergeant Ly Doan Chinh halted at the line of dried leaves and the file of men behind him froze in place. Ly quickly scanned the brown vegetation surrounding the clearing for movement and, seeing none, began a deliberate visual search. The tree-killers have been efficient, he thought. Even the pond scum is brown. When we built the wayhouse, it was invisible beneath the forest canopy -- now, it sits in the middle of a bunch of wooden pillars. He eyed the roof with distaste. Extravagance. The money for those tiles should have been spent for repair parts for the radios. Ly made a mental note to have the two youngest soldiers camouflage those portions that were not already covered with a layer of dead leaves.
He listened for a moment. The helicopters were well to the north, he decided, and presented no threat. Ly did not fear helicopters -- he had been awarded a medal for shooting a small one down three years previously -- but he had a great respect for what they could do. He raised his left hand and gave three signals that sent four flankers to opposite sides of the clearing, then mentally tracked their progress. When his mind told him they were in place, he stalked along the well-used trail through the clearing toward the wayhouse, carrying his AK-47 at waist level, right forearm braced against his hip. When he reached mid-clearing, he stopped, looking at the wayhouse but listening to the woods for untoward sounds.
If there were enemy troops in the area, they would not be able to resist firing at him.
Ly waited for the shots. He counted to one hundred, heard nothing to alarm him and resumed stalking toward the wayhouse. Five others emerged into the clearing and followed in a well-spaced file – his battalion commander, the major from Hanoi, their two bodyguards and Sergeant Van, the trailwatcher. As he drew closer to the wayhouse, Ly saw a shadowy figure within. Damn. The Junior Emperor is here already. Ly observed the damp earth as he drew closer and thought, The bunker detail has been exceptionally careless or Junior has a weak bladder…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“How are you guys doing this morning?” our passenger shouted as he entered through the left cargo door and sat down in the jump seat just to the rear of my seat.
“Just fine and dandy, sir -- where are we going today?” I hollered back.
Our passenger was wearing unmarked tiger fatigues and appeared to be armed solely with a map and a PRC-6 walkie-talkie. He placed the map on the radio console so I could see it without dislocating my neck and pointed to an area he had circled with a black grease pencil. “Right here.”
I blinked. It was the same Free Fire Zone we’d drenched with Orange a few weeks previously.
“Nasty area. I sprayed that whole place a couple weeks back, so whatever you’re looking for won’t be too hard to find.”
He gave me a grin and said, “You have no idea how much I hope you’re right.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ly assumed guard stance just inside the doorway of the wayhouse as Colonel Trinh and the Northerner major entered. Pham Giang Xuan had neither moved nor spoken.
“Good morning, Eldest Brother,” said Trinh, with a slight bow. “I trust you breakfasted well?”
“Good morning, Right Hand of the Revolution,” replied Pham. He ignored Trinh’s polite inquiry to reinforce his authority and added, “And good morning to our Brother from the People’s Army.”
“Good morning, Province Chief Pham.” Major Nghiem Trong Tri was equally blunt and unimpressed with Pham’s position as Governor of Phong Dinh Province. “What news of such import have you that could not be entrusted to a messenger?”
“News that must be closely held, lest it generate disaffection. Messengers are soldiers, soldiers talk, and soldiers’ talk does not always reinforce revolutionary zeal.” Pham proceeded to recount the litany of recent setbacks…
Senior Sergeant Ly frowned. The muted sound of the helicopters to the north had changed pitch, becoming clearer and louder. He could now discern three, possibly four, different helicopters. Frogs, not sharks, he thought. Too many for a resupply mission and too few for an assault landing. And definitely coming closer. He did not hear the higher pitched sounds indicating the presence of the small scout helicopters, which would mean a reconnaissance mission, but then he remembered that the heavily-armed gunships of one particular unit did use the small scouts…
“Ly-anh, see what manner of Frog becomes so intrusive and report their flight direction.”
Ly stepped from the door of the wayhouse just as the lead helicopter flashed past, not twenty meters away.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Geez! Hey, Back Seat -- Chuck had a hootch with a red tile roof under all those trees!”
“That’s what--”
“Got fresh dirt in front of it.” “Footprints!” “Fresh trails all over the place -- ”
I banked hard right and saw a guy in black PJs and web gear step from the doorway and dart back inside. “Armed male in the hootch!” Hah! First time I’ve ever seen a VC’s eyes get that round…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ly turned and shouted,“Nói thầm chết!” Muttering Death! He took in the sight of the three men scrambling to roll into the bunker, calculated his chance of getting inside through the press as less than zero and thought, Well, maybe I’ll get another one before they get me. He wheeled in the doorway --
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As I rolled level and kicked the Huey out of trim to give my crewchief a clean shot into the hootch, I saw the VC turn and raise his AK just as the first rocket hit the red tile roof. The walls of the hootch flashed into four clouds of smoke, dirt and grass, the roof shivered, shattered and collapsed, and the guy in the doorway evaporated in a pink mist.
“Got two guys running --” “Bust ‘em!” “Got another one on the west side -- he just went into a spider hole!” Ten 40mm grenades from one of the M-5s followed him down the hole. “Got a runner in the treeline!”
A minute later, the only movement in the area was a thin cloud of drifting smoke.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Time: 1340, three days later.
The Place: The office of the S2, 164th Aviation Group, Can Tho Army Airfield, RVN.
I glanced from the Captain to his Staff Sergeant to the civilian from COORDS who were all standing with their arms folded across their chests. “Were you the AMC on a mission three days ago that destroyed a hootch with a red tile roof about ten klicks south?”
“Yes. Is that why I’m here?”
The COORDS guy said, “Captain, you killed the Province Chief.”
Oh, crap! I’m going to jail!
He grinned. “You also killed an NVA major, the Tay Do Two Battalion Commander and six other VC.”
My heart crawled back down where it belonged. “So, I’m not in trouble?”
The S2 said, “No. This gentleman just wanted to see what somebody worth 500 bicycles looked like. By the way, did you ever figure out what you did to piss Colonel Trinh off?”
“His name was Trinh? No.” I shook my head. “Sorry, but I haven’t got a clue.”
As I walked back along the dirt road to Tent City, I noticed Rat Catcher Six fiddling with a yellow Nguy Hiem box and gave him a small wave.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sergeant Van Lanh Thu returned the pilot’s wave and watched as he faded into the distance. Then he resumed his work with the rat-box, thinking, You should have offered five thousand bicycles, Brother…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Postscript: The names of the Vietnamese characters are mixes of common Vietnamese names; except for the ARVN Captain in Sequel As Prequel, who flew with us on several missions and whose real name I did *not* use, I have no idea what any of their true names were. Their actions in the weeks preceding this final portion of the story is only conjecture on my part, but based on the events -- all of which happened pretty much as I've timelined them -- *something* brought all the players together at that place and time, and I think I crafted a plausible (and sorta-kinda entertaining) scenario.
I *do*, in fact, know for certain
1. why "Colonel Trinh" wanted me whacked,
2. why the COORDS spooks were adamant about sending a heavy fire team to the site and
3. that one VC -- most likely a trailwatcher -- escaped the area.
And I know the Green Beanie who led the patrol into the area after we departed. He recovered a money belt full of VC Liberation scrip that the Province Chief had been wearing and said it would have been just enough to buy 500 Peugeot bicycles...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Dang, Chief! You have exceeded yerself with this one, you excessive person, you! Obviously some poetic license there, but as Hollywood says, "Based on a True Story."
P.S. And if the truth is less entertaining, emotional, and evocative than that, I don't wanna hear it.
by
Justthisguy on March 7, 2007 4:14 AM
Come to think, BOATS is less rude than TINS when de-acronymized.
by
Justthisguy on March 7, 2007 5:06 AM
Well, geez, JTG, I'm a rude and crude Neolithic knuckle-dragger. Whaddya expect? The cut-and-dried version actually was pretty emotional, albeit mostly in the dialogue, and there *are* Ladies who visit.
Plus Mizz Thang reads over ry's shoulder...
by
BillT on March 7, 2007 5:15 AM
Haven't read it yet because I just realized I missed the previous installment. Anybody have the link for it?
by
FbL on March 7, 2007 6:34 AM
"sorta-kinda entertaining"...surely you jest. It was full on entertaining. Thank you for taking the time and making the effort to share your experiences.
by Capo del Fuoco on March 7, 2007 7:06 AM
FuzzyBee - Check your mail. But you didn't miss the previous installment, it just wasn't partic'larly exciting. Heh...
Capo del Fuoco - Grazi, Signore, grazi. Benvenuto a "Castel Argghhh!"...
by
BillT on March 7, 2007 7:37 AM
"there *are* Ladies who visit"
surely... you jest.
*wink*
Thanks for giving us a glimpse into how you earned that chest full of medals and ribbons, Chief.
Even more glad you're here to tell the tale.
by AFSister on March 7, 2007 8:39 AM
SB,
Guess what song is on my ipod right now? "Magic Carpet Ride"
always reminds me of you. "why don't you come away with me, little girl, on a magic carpet ride...."
ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
by AFSister on March 7, 2007 8:50 AM
wow. bravo!
more more more!!!
by MajMike on March 7, 2007 9:16 AM
It's CORDS: "Civil Operations for Revolutionary Development Services."
Look up Robert Comer, William Colby and John Vann.
Your story could have been on the XRay Sierra mapsheet. Wikimapia shows that it grew back.
by rickg on March 7, 2007 3:18 PM
rickg - COORDS was the way CORDS was spelled in Can Tho. Got no idea why, but that's what was painted on the sign in front of their hootch and that was the spelling on the mission sheets. Maybe there was originally another word in the acronym (Can Tho was one of the first established) or maybe the Viet sign painter charged by the letter. Xray Sierra was across the Ba Sac -- see what WS89480253 turns up.
Most of the areas we defoliated *did* grow back after the following rainy season. One of these days, I'll do a post on the stuff, including how it worked. Or how we were *told* it worked.
AFSis - Ain't a chest full, just the left half and part of the right. And I got most of that stuff just for having a discernible pulse.
No, really. Honest to Pete.
Ummmm, would you believe that they had some extras and gave me a couple? And I got one in a box of Cracker Jax, I think...
by
BillT on March 8, 2007 12:04 AM
Excellent story, Bill - fitting the (potential) actions into the known timeline made it a tense read ;-)
No, we won't believe they had extras, but we'll believe they gave you your share. And not just for breathing, neither. But don't forget the Captain Crunch box one ...
by
Barb on March 8, 2007 11:24 PM
What I wanna know is, is there a Celestial Psychiatric version of Soldiers' Angels for poor old Carborundum? I mean, I betcha he's getting some bad wing cramps in that straight jacket.
What with the Delegated Omniscience, we just know he starts frothing and headbanging when Chief Bill starts to think about flying a hellaflopper.
by
Justthisguy on March 9, 2007 1:46 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Mar 07, 2007
February 27, 2007
Camera Obscura
If you’re a new visitor and have a few minutes to spare, you can read the background posts here, here, here, here, and here. If you don’t, well, just lean back and enjoy the ride…
The Time: 0640 the morning of Colonel Trinh Vo Thanh’s meeting.
The Place: Dempsey Compound Gate, Can Tho Army Airfield, Phong Dinh Province, RVN.
Sergeant Van Lanh Thu waited while the gate guards performed their normal pat-down search of his trousers and the threadbare American fishing vest he always wore when he reported for work on the American base. Searching the vest always resulted in the guards finding and examining his cigarettes, his battered Zippo lighter and his lunch. The aroma from this last item dissuaded the guards from a further search of his person, which today might have revealed the 8mm film casette for the Minox camera he would shortly retrieve from its hiding place inside a rat-box.
Sergeant Van’s “day job” was stocking every narrow, meter-long, yellow box on the base with rat poison and removing the carcasses of the victims. It was, he thought, the perfect job for intelligence-gathering; everyone saw him and no one took notice of him. He could go anywhere because the yellow boxes with the red “Nguy Hiem” warning were everywhere…
Van knew where the tree-killing unit lived and began walking along the row of helicopters toward the ones with the blue and white insignia on the nose. They killed more than trees last night, he thought, glancing at the expended brass casings littering the revetments. Watch yourself, old uncle, or they’ll get you, too. Van knew that if he patrolled the area, eventually he would see one of the pilots with the metal insignia that many of them wore, and he would be very happy if the first pilot he saw was one of them. The Minox was metal, the sun was climbing, and if he was careless with the way he removed it from its pocket inside his vest, sunglint would betray him. Van squatted on his heels by a rat-box and pretended to examine it while he scanned the line of helicopters in their revetments.
Movement by the far revetment. Brown-green uniform, carrying torso armor with one hand and a helmet bag in the other.
Pilot, carrying weapon, water and little else. He fights light, as is proper, he thought with professional approval. Van saw a flash of metal on the right shirt pocket. Excellent. He’s from the tree-killer unit. He withdrew the Minox, using the rat-box to mask his movements. He’d wait until the pilot’s eyes were averted…
? I know that one!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As I walked toward my Huey-du-jour (I didn’t rate my own personal ship yet because we we didn’t have that many to go around anymore), I saw Rat-Catcher Six fiddling with one of the Nguy Hiem boxes and wondered (again) what garbage dump he’d scrounged his fishing vest from. I gave him a grin and a nod of recognition and went back to scanning tail numbers to find mine…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Van smiled politely in return and took the pilot’s picture as he turned his head and looked past him.
Van shrugged and baited the rat-box, then washed the poison from his hands in the pond behind the revetments. Later, he watched as the helicopter hovered past, crossed the runway and landed by the barrels of the tree-killing chemical. The pilot he’d recognized was at the controls.
At noon, he sought the shade of the north wall of the building where his cousin worked as the personal secretary of one of the American staff officers. He squatted on his heels, removed the plantain-leaf wrapper that contained his lunch with his left hand and leaned back until his shoulders touched the wall. He picked up the small wad of paper at his feet with his right hand.
He read the note from his cousin. “Sister Phoenix has sung and the fire casts a wider light.” Sister Phoenix was the Political Officer from the North who had been taken prisoner a fortnight previously when the Americans had surprised the Tay Do sub-unit commanders at their briefing. She had been reading the unit rosters provided by the commanders when the American helicopters appeared and, they had all hoped, she’d had the good sense to shove the rosters into the mud before she had been taken. The fire casts a wider light, he thought. It’s time to leave before the fire gets closer and fries my butt. The name of Van Lanh Thu was on one of those rosters, along with the name which appeared on his civilian-hire identity card.
Thirty minutes later, Van was walking briskly along QL4 towards the grove where Tay Do battalion’s sole remaining radio was concealed. In one of his inside vest pockets was a Minox film casette with a single exposure…
To be concluded...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
"To be concluded..."
...after these messages from our sponsors: Minox, and d-Con Rat Poison. We'll be right back...
by
Damian on February 27, 2007 8:31 AM
Gee, I was hoping for a full blown serial a la Lex's Rhythms...
by Pogue on February 27, 2007 8:51 AM
..join us tomorrow for the next exciting chapter...
by MajMike on February 27, 2007 4:04 PM
Gonna have to be Thursday. I've got to be in Norfolk at 0730 tamarrah...and then back in Joisey at 1400.
Oooog...
by
BillT on February 27, 2007 5:47 PM
in Norfolk at 0730 tamarrah...and then back in Joisey at 1400.
Does this relate to possible employment for you?
by
FbL on February 27, 2007 11:35 PM
Does this relate to possible employment for you?
If by "employment" you mean "being used" -- yeah. Least I won't be burning my own gas...
by
BillT on February 28, 2007 4:51 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Feb 27, 2007
February 23, 2007
Ab Initio: Muttering Death
The Time: 1500 on an evening roughly three months prior to the post that started this saga.
The Place: The Plain of Reeds, northwest of Moc Hoa, RVN.
Either the pace man had miscounted the number of streams they’d crossed or the compass man had oriented the map by placing it on the engine cover of the Ford tractor. Miscounting streams in the Plain of Reeds was excusable, especially during the interval between the end of the monsoon and the middle of the dry season – every stream, like everything else, was under two or three feet of water and a streambed was just another deep spot in a 10,000 square-kilometer marsh. Placing a map and compass on a ton of metal and believing you’d get a reliable course was inexcusable…
“Hey, One-Five, Three-Four – you won’t believe what I found!”
“Today, I’ll believe anything – I saw a pink rhinoceros this morning.”
“Are you still hung over?”
“Nope. The rhino was rolling in the red clay by Cai Cai and he came out pink. What’d you find?”
“I got fifty NVA marching along a dike, with a flag and a tractor towing a 106mm reckless rifle.”
“Whoooo! Where are they and where are you?”
“They just walked across the border, between BTT and Moc Hoa. We’re orbiting a couple of klicks south of them.”
“Okay, I see them. Geez, it’s a parade! Keep orbiting – they’ve either got the world’s ballsiest Lieutenant, or they think they’re still in Cambodia.” [break] “Reed Control, Vulture One-Five squawking 0533. What’s my exact location, Sugar Bear?”
“Hi, One-Five, you’re tracking one kay south of Never-Never Land, parallel to the border and the No-Fly Zone, eight klicks northwest of my house.”
“Give me a grid on my mark, okay?”
“You got it.”
I turned south for several klicks, then began a slow turn northward. I wanted to approach the parade from the south, which would lull them into thinking I had crossed the border to investigate them. They knew we couldn’t touch them if they were in Cambodia and I intended to convince them they were still inviolate. Until I was ready, anyway…
“Sugar Bear, One-Five – on my mark, five…four…three…two…one…mark!” I broke right over them at 500 feet – they’d had me in sight for at least a minute; because I wasn’t behaving in a threatening manner, they weren’t concerned. Half of them even flipped me the bird. I began a slow, right orbit at 500 feet, just being a stupid, curious helicopter pilot who didn’t want to cause an international incident.
The remainder of the segment gets somewhat dark, so I put it in Flash Traffic. No, it's *not* the final installment...
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
“One-Five, ready to copy your grid?”
“Affirm. Send it, Reed.”
He did. I quick-checked my tac-map; the parade was almost a klick south of the border.
“You went and got professional on me, Sir, and I see you’re orbiting. If you’ve got something, I’d appreciate a play-by-play.”
“Would you believe – fifty NVA, with flag, with tractor, with one-owe-six.”
“Geez, we’re being invaded…”
“Three-Four, One-Five, got me in sight?”
“Yep.”
“Honk it over and drag your skids in the weeds. Orient on me and you’ll blast past them on your right. Then break right and we’ll pretend we’re the Indians and they’re the settlers.” Having two Charlie-Model gunships suddenly appear at eye level would make them start to reconsider their inviolability, and I wanted them to make the first move, considering how close we were to the border. Didn’t need any REMF at Group screaming for my guts on a spit because I’d created an international incident…
The two gunships flashed past at 140 knots then broke right over them. The tractor driver bailed and the tractor lurched to a stop. Half the troops in the column ducked and the other half dodged sideways.
“Taking fire!" The troops who had ducked had done so to unsling their weapons and were now firing -- inaccurately -- at all three of us.
“Bust ‘em!” Three-Four and playmate did cyclic climbs to altitude followed by wingovers to roll into a rocket run.
“Full right suppression to cover the gunships – hit those idiots around the tractor!”
The troops who had dodged now had their weapons out but were confused about which of us to shoot – the gunships turning to dive on them, or the Huey actively firing on them. In the end, it didn’t really matter. And the end came in seconds. Ten-pound warheads and multiple minigun bursts are very effective at eliminating a linear target...
Three-Four slowed after rolling into a right turn and approached the kill zone.
“Three-Four, what the %$#@! are you doing hovering down there?”
“I’ve got three guys trying to unlimber the one-owe-six. I don’t believe this – they’re trying to use it as an antiaircraft gun!”
Sure enough, I watched as Three-Four slowly slid past, keeping just ahead of the muzzle as the impromptu flak crew sighted and *traverse-traverse-traverse-thunk* and hit the stops. They picked up the trails, swung the gun ninety degrees and *traverse-traverse-traverse-thunk* and hit the stops. They picked up the trails again, swung the gun another ninety degrees and *traverse-traverse-traverse-thunk* and hit the stops. Three-Four’s wingman stopped the farce with a burst from his miniguns.
I dropped to six feet and flew slowly past, looking for movement -- if we found any wounded, we’d pull them aboard and evacuate them to the hospital at Binh Thuy. We found none. But as I flew past the Ford tractor, I saw a stencil on the engine cover.
In English.
“A gift to the [bullet hole]ple of the Democr[bullet hole]c Republic of Vietnam from the Americ[bullet hole]riends Service Commi[bullet hole].”
Great, I thought. Some peacenik group is shipping prime movers to the enemy and we can’t even get our own government to send us toilet paper without wood chips in it…
To be continued…
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Dang! And to think that at one time, back in the seventies, I would run my two-stroke street bike up to twice the speed limit when late for the Atlanta Friends Meeting, so that I could shut it off and coast the last two blocks with the clutch lever pulled so as not to make noise.
There was an ex-F-100D driver in that Meeting, who had some stories.
by
Justthisguy on February 23, 2007 2:12 AM
JTG - Back in the day, the AFSC wrapped itself in the Quaker mantle but acted more like a Santeria gang (I refuse to call *that* lot a congregation). The AFSC liked bloodshed and sorrow, so long as it was US military blood that was shed and US military families sorrowing. The %$#@ers even delivered phony "The President Regrets" telegrams to families of guys serving in RVN or showed up on their doorsteps -- in military uniform -- to announce the "deaths" of their sons and castigate them for having participated in an "immoral" war.
They aren't quite as vicious these days -- yet -- but they still like to see US casualties. They *claim* they're faith-driven, but they're as agenda-driven as all the rest of the moonbats.
And if I haven't made myself clear on the matter, I do *not* like the AFSC...
by
BillT on February 23, 2007 6:18 AM
Oh yeah I could picture the AFSC gang baying at the moon, with chants to Eleguá Cayombé.
by Boquisucio on February 23, 2007 8:02 AM
A GIFT FROM AMERICA?
um. YEAH. i got your "GIFT"... right HERE (flips bird)
damn.
by AFSister on February 23, 2007 9:11 AM
Ab initio...
Cetera desunt!!
by MajMike on February 23, 2007 12:07 PM
your writing style is like a good Latin sentence, with the action verb at the end.
by MajMike on February 23, 2007 12:11 PM
your writing style is like a good Latin sentence, with the action verb at the end.
Gratias tibi -- cetera desunt et prenuncii sunt.
by
BillT on February 23, 2007 7:24 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Feb 23, 2007
�
MilBlogs links with:
The Milbloggies.
February 22, 2007
Occam’s Punji Stake
The Time: 2130 of the night following this incident.
The Place: The command bunker of the Tay Do Two Battalion Commander, twenty feet below the surface of a garden in Phong Dinh Province, RVN.
Colonel Trinh Vo Thanh placed Sergeant Van’s report on the field table, then placed both palms flat, flanking the message. He shifted his gaze to the rammed-earth ceiling and thought, Van is reliable and his employment as a day laborer for the American engineers produces valuable intelligence – and how he managed to smuggle that miniature camera into their base was a tale in itself. But sometimes he will intuit a conclusion without considering all the factors. Something is left unsaid in this report.
He called toward the anteroom and told his adjutant to send Phouc, the message runner, to him. Phouc ducked in through the low entryway, then stood at rigid attention.
Trinh smiled to ease Phouc’s apprehension. “Soldier Phouc, you have performed your mission well. But I feel that I may have missed something of import in the message. Now you may set Soldier Phouc aside and become Young Brother Phouc, as I will set aside Battalion Commander Trinh – we will sit together and my Young Brother will tell the tale of this morning’s events to his Eldest Brother…”
Phouc told Trinh of the work party’s interruption by the sound of approaching helicopters: “We could tell they were Frogs (UH-1s), not Sharks (AH-1s) or Bees (OH-6s) by the sounds, but we didn’t know if they were just Frogs or the Muttering Death (gunships, particularly UH-1Ds or-Hs in Nighthawk configuration). We dispersed to our fighting positions beneath the trees and pulled our covers over us…”
When Phouc finished his story, Trinh said, “That was a most excellent story. Thank you, Young Brother. Please wait outside.” Van decided that the Americans’ morale was low, but what Phouc described was either a highly aggressive reconnaissance or – oh, seven hells! – a very concentrated tree-killing. Trinh fervently hoped it was the former; he had personally chosen the site for the forward base because it was deep inside the woods and because it was in close proximity to his protector’s main cash crop.
Nuc mau. Tiger grass.
Which, in turn, was planted there because it was on land that bordered his protector’s holdings. And the American politicians had told their soldiers to keep their noses out of Vietnamese politics and leave the Vietnamese politicians to the American politicians…
Seven hells and the hells beneath the hells. If the Americans had indeed sprayed their chemicals on the nuc mau, he would have to placate his protector in a very visible manner…
“Soldier Phouc!”
Phouc bolted through the entryway, eyes wide. “Sir!”
“Soldier Phouc, memorize this message and repeat it to Sergeant Van: ‘You know the unit that flies the tree-killing missions. You said you saw the pilots. I want their pictures by tomorrow evening.’ Soldier Phouc, you are dismissed!”
“Sir!” Phouc exited at a crouching run.
Colonel Trinh looked at his watch. Midnight. Phouc would deliver his message by 0300 and Sergeant Van would be on the Americans’ base by 0630.
Trinh made a mental note to visit his protector at 0730 with a request…
To be continued...
Hang in there, kids (and just how many of you have been keeping up with the timeline, hmmmmm?
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Well, this happened the day of(or the day after) you went weed killing, which was a week or so before you got told you had a price on your head, Han Solo. So when do you shoot Greedo?
(Sounds of a zombie being shoved into the woodchipper.)
by ry on February 22, 2007 1:36 AM
Heh. Don't forget the *other* events...
by
BillT on February 22, 2007 5:51 AM
Yaaaeee! It's another iteration of the adventures of Hubert and the caped cruzader
by Boquisucio on February 22, 2007 7:10 AM
I'm betting on old girlie being his wife or sister, you ticked him even more by gnabbing her, and now you've got half the NVA thinking "It's BMX time"
by
BloodSpite on February 22, 2007 8:46 AM
i'm still trying to calculate BMNT and EENT, MR/MS and get the %Illum nailed down...
by MajMike on February 22, 2007 8:58 AM
I have a very strong suspicion I know exactly why the bounty was set, but I don't want to ruin the story.
Let's just say that you could run into similar problems in certain areas of Kentucky these days... ;)
by
Casey Tompkins on February 22, 2007 12:50 PM
I wonder, did Col. Trinh Vo also wore an evil-looking "Fu-Manchú" above his creased lips?
by Boquisucio on February 22, 2007 2:04 PM
The pot .....er *plot* thickens!
by Neffi on February 22, 2007 3:43 PM
Oh, golly-gee-whiz-darn and gosh-all-hemlock, I sho' nuff did telegraph that punch, huh? Maybe I should just do a couple of limericks for tomorrow, instead of the last *three* installments, then. In fact, I think I'll just do that. It'll save a lot of wear and tear on the keyboard.
R-i-i-i-i-ght.
You armchair -- uhhh -- swivelchair detectives ain't getting off *that* easily...
by
BillT on February 22, 2007 4:51 PM
Sorry, sensi. This miserable worm humbly begs you to continue your enthralling tale.
No, really, Bill. You've told some great stories here in the Castle, to the point where I would seriously suggest you put this stuff together and publish. Your work reminds me of Martin Caidin at his best, or Jerry Pournelle channeling Larry Niven.
Or would that be Niven channeling Pournelle? You capture the former's humor with the latter's solid story-telling.
Either way, please don't stop. :)
by
Casey Tompkins on February 23, 2007 2:45 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Feb 22, 2007
February 21, 2007
And Prequel is Sequel…
When I’d been map-briefed on the area I was scheduled to spray that morning, something small, cold and prickly settled between my shoulder blades and started to dig. I’d flown over the overgrown paddies and double-canopy woods at least fifty times, and always above 1,500 feet. It never ceased to amaze me that there were so many well-used trails in the middle of a Free Fire Zone, even though it was Tay Do Two battalion’s home turf.
I didn’t like the idea of flying through the area at treetop-level.
I didn’t like the idea of flying through the area at 40 knots.
I didn’t like the area, period.
Nothing personal, just an irrational desire to live through the next three hours…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Some quick background: The Air Force defoliation program, Ranch Hand, used C-123s rigged with a pair of fifty-foot ag-spray booms bolted beneath the wings to lavishly drench large tracts of jungle with herbicides to expose major infiltration routes, large enemy base camps, bunker complexes, and so forth. The Army defoliation program, Autumn Mist [John and a couple of the Usual Suspects will find that an interesting choice of code name], used Hueys rigged with a pair of eight-foot ag-spray booms wired to the fuselage to surgically spritz individual treelines with herbicides to expose trails, VC/NVA overnight bivouacs, individual bunkers, and so forth.
The C-123s flew relatively fast, in straight lines and collected a lot of bullet holes.
The Hueys flew really slow, jinking constantly and collected even more bullet holes – because we also inherited those areas the Air Force considered too dangerous…
FYI, Agent Orange feels sticky and tastes oily. If the subject ever comes up at a party, you’ll dazzle ‘em...
Now, most Autumn Mist pilots flew at sixty knots and stayed about five feet above the trees, which minimized their time in the Dead Man’s Zone, but caused excessive spray drift when they were flying in a crosswind. Which meant incomplete coverage of the target. Which meant another trip into the area to clean up the missed areas. Which also meant they were traveling at the optimum speed for someone leading the aircraft by ten feet, which was pretty much what the VC Field Manual for Shooting Helicopters Down recommended. I flew at forty knots, dragging my skids in the treetops, which resulted in minimal crosswind drifting, so all the vegetation got the full benefit of the spray. Which also meant that somebody leading me by ten feet was missing my nose by about four feet. I calculated the increased exposure time and heightened pucker factor was worth not becoming a frequent flyer over a known nasty area. And I flew with the doors off, so I could track the treetops with my peripheral vision, too. Although, if they'd been bulletproof...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Time: About 0915, roughly a week after this incident.
The Place: Seven miles southeast of the city of Can Tho, Phong Dinh Province, RVN.
"Coming up on the first point in three…two…one…start spray."
"Roger, start spray."
The little donkey engine strapped to the transmission well changed pitch as it began sucking liquid instead of air. I was absorbed with keeping the belly of the Huey from hitting the trees but still realized that the small, cold prickly feeling between my shoulder blades had just crawled up to the nape of my neck. While my Peter Pilot covered our left front quadrant with his M-16, I kept scanning for tree limbs, muzzle flashes, tree limbs, RPG backblasts, tree limbs, tracers, tree limbs –
And then my gunner screamed, "SIR! Break left! BREAK LEFT! NOW!"
My heart grabbed my tonsils, small-cold-and-prickly gibbered and clawed its way into my skull and I slammed the cyclic left and aft to pull the ag-boom out of the trees.
"What is it? What is it?"
[Cripes, if it’s an RPG or a missile, I’ll have to dive to the other side of the woodline and tuck in close; if it’s small arms, I’ll have to increase speed to climb out of range; if it’s a fifty-one, I’ll have to stay low and get out of range as fast as possible. Oh-geez-oh-geez-oh-geez, if I screw up this up, we’re all dead…]
"WHAT IS IT?!?"
"Sir, she’s the world’s biggest pot plant – she’s huge! Must be forty feet tall and thirty feet around! We almost sprayed her!"
My heart sank down into my stomach, small-cold-and-prickly joined it, I started a slow climb back to treetop level.
"You. Scared. The. Living. H*ll. Out. Of. Me. For. A. WEED?!?"
"She’s not a weed, Sir, she’s the goddess Sativa! Just look at her – she’s beautiful! We almost killed her, Sir…"
I won’t even attempt to recreate the ensuing diatribe and the aerial gyrations. Suffice it to say that I saturated an area the size of Yankee Stadium with fifty gallons of Dow Chemical’s Liquid Bulldozer, cussing a blue streak the entire time...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The working party from Strive Valiantly Company watched in silence as the American helicopter with the odd, protruding tubes climbed skyward. When it vanished behind the trees, Sergeant Van Lanh Thu clambered from the half-built bunker and quietly ordered his squad back to work. They quickly removed the camouflage from the stack of red roofing tiles and placed their weapons nearby. Van examined the red-brown film on a nearby nipa palm; the film had formed soon after the helicopter had arrived over his position. It had flown so low, he had seen the pilots’ faces.
He rubbed the leaf between his fingers. He smelled his fingertips, then tentatively touched his index finger to his tongue.
Oil, he thought. Muttering Death leaks oil. Shoddy maintenance is a sign of poor morale.
He wiped his fingers on his blue fatigue shirt.
Eldest Brother will be interested. He signaled a man carrying a woodcutter's axe. "Younger Brother Phouc, I have a message which you have the honor of delivering..."
To be continued...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
(Snort)
I think I went to college with your door gunner's son.
by ry on February 21, 2007 12:43 AM
did ze pilotz lizten to Valkyrie muzik whilst executing Herbst Nebel?
by MajMike on February 21, 2007 8:27 AM
"did ze pilotz lizten to Valkyrie muzik whilst executing Herbst Nebel?"
Nope, but the rat-a-tat from AK47s and other small arms, kept us entertained.
I hated defoliation missions, low, slow and a big fat target wasn't my idea fun. Seldom did the spray ship escape without taking fire. One incident was funny after the fact, for sure. We had been taking turns in this one AO over the course of a week, each time taking fire. Copperhead 36, in his cape and Cmodel gunship, decides to tag along on one of the missions to "protect" the spray ship. In the midst of the run V17 calls, "taking fire". C36, forgetting how low and slow the spray ship was punches off a pair, under him. We don't know if he got any bad guys, but we do know V17 gained altitude without pulling pitch and sustained a lot of damage to the ass end of his ship.
by
V29 on February 21, 2007 10:17 AM
And don't forget the time Baby-San shot *himself* down...
by
BillT on February 21, 2007 4:28 PM
Ok... I was laughing out loud from the "WEED Comment... Now, I can't type for $h*t from the "shot himself down" comment.... Sometimes the punch line is the best... and the V29 anecdote too.
Ahhhhh, that's the Army I remember....
But c'mon with the story, jeez, you're almost as bad as Prince Valiant and Brenda Starr!
by
SangerM on February 21, 2007 6:06 PM
*Muttering Death* ?!! Oh Chief, yer killing me here! The F4U jocks from WWII dunno wether to shirt or go blind....
...and c'mon with Chapter the Fourth already, sheesh!
by Neffi on February 21, 2007 8:30 PM
...jeez, you're almost as bad as Prince Valiant and Brenda Starr!
I thought Prince Valiant was a *good* guy. And my eyes may be *gaw*-juss, but they don't go all twinky-winky, like Mlle. Starr's do...
The F4U jocks from WWII dunno wether to shirt or go blind....
Hah! Dad flew F4Us off Guadalcanal and Okie -- VMF 215's squadron patch *was* a Whistling Death riding a Corsair.
Whistling Death, Muttering Death -- gotta give 'em points for they being *poetic* li'l bassetts...
by
BillT on February 21, 2007 10:42 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Feb 21, 2007
February 20, 2007
Sequel As Prequel
The Time: 0730 on the morning of a day three weeks prior to the vignette I recounted yesterday.
The Place: Flight Operations, 162d Assault Helicopter Company.
The Cast: The 164th Combat Aviation Group S2, three Copperhead Aircraft Commanders (gunship guys) and an Air Mission Commander (me) from the 162d, a Mission Commander from the 9th Division, Army of the Republic of Vietnam and his US counterpart.
“Gentlemen -- our old friends in Tay Do Two are at it again.”
Tay Do Two was what remained of the local VC battalion. The original Tay Do battalion had been all but destroyed during Tet ’69; the commander and his staff had survived, though, and were reconstituting, maintaining the original designation. We added the “Two” to remind them that their predecessors had been creamed, and we knew that they’d heard the message -- they had an *amazing* intel network. Tay Do Two "companies" had been fielding nothing larger than roving squad-sized elements for about a year, confining their activities to sniping at patrols (and sometimes at us during pre-dawn preflights), firing the odd mortar or RPG at the RVN forts scattered throughout Phong Dinh Province and generally making a nuisance of themselves.
“Agent reports indicate that they’ll be conducting a briefing for some visitors from up north this morning at 0900, and the meeting place is this patch of woods just across the river. If you climb up that water tower, you can see the area from right here. A three-klick long patch of woods extending from the riverbank to here has been designated a Free Fire Zone, beginning today at 0900 and ending at 1000. Beginning at 0800, civilian traffic southbound along QL4 will be held at a roadblock two klicks north of the Zone and northbound traffic will be held at the ferry slip on this side of the river. At 0830, two deuce-and-a-halfs will proceed from the north side roadblock to the ferry crossing to police up any stragglers on the road. At 0900, you guys will own the Zone -- no one except Tay Do Two and their guests will be in those woods, on the road, or in the paddies west of the woods. Captain Tuttle runs the show, but Dai-Uy Trung has final say on anything unforeseen that pops up. Questions?”
Yup.
I asked, “How far on either side of the woods does the Zone extend?”
“The edge of the woods is the boundary.”
Copperhead Three-Six asked, “How about evaders from the Zone -- are they righteous targets?”
“Anyone running along QL4 after the action starts will be picked up by 9th ARVN at the roadblock. And no one will take to the paddies -- nobody’s dumb enough to try to run through knee-deep swamp water to get away from helicopters.”
I looked at the Copperheads and they were trying hard to keep poker-faced. About two months previously, we’d caught fifty NVA west of Moc Hoa attempting to do just that…
At the aircraft:
“Back Seat, I’ll be flying from the right side, so you and Dai-Uy Trung can go ahead and strap in facing out to the right. I’ll take off first and the Copperheads will follow in trail, ten seconds later. They’ll be right behind us when we hit the Zone. We’re going in low and fast -- if you see anybody down in the trees, tell the crewchief to pop smoke on ‘em so the guns can engage.” We carried five red smoke grenades for marking targets. And two violet ones to mark our own position for the fast-movers in case we crashed…
We cranked at 0850, ran through power and commo checks, then stayed at full throttle until 0858.
“You’ve got the controls. Normal takeoff until we get to fifty feet, then level off, grab an armful of pitch and scream for the river. When you see the treeline, fly to the left of it and maintain speed and altitude, okay?”
“Roger that. I’ve got the controls.”
“Can Tho Tower, Vulture One-Five’s a single H-model in the Roost with a heavy fire team of Charlie-models in the Snake Pit – northeast departure in sequence across the blue, then we’ll be low, working the treelines parallel to the extended centerline.”
“One-Five and flight of three, from present positions, cleared for departure in sequence. You guys going after something I should be worried about?”
“Probably. One-Five and guns are on the go.”
Might as well let *him* sweat, too…
I saw the woods as soon as we passed through forty feet. Across 500 meters of muddy river, slight right turn to parallel the trees and--
“Geez! People, people, people!”
The woods erupted with running figures -- all splashing through the paddies toward the double-canopy woods a half mile away.
“Hey, Three-Six -- get some rockets into the Zone, fast!”
“Roger!”
“One-Five, Three-Three! Can we bust these guys in the open? I see at least seven carrying weapons!”
“Three-Niner’s got a guy with an RPG!”
Frack. The Zone ended at the woodline.
“Dai-Uy Trung! Can we engage those VC in the open?” I turned around and saw a very miserable ARVN back-seater grit his teeth and say, “They have escaped the trap.”
And he’d been put into one. If he allowed us to kill the runners, he would be crucified for disobeying orders. If he refused to allow us to kill them, he would be crucified for letting them escape unharmed.
“We can’t kill them? Even the ones who are armed?”
“No. No…”
I suddenly thought of a third option.
“Well, can we capture them?”
Dai-Uy Trung grinned. “YES!”
“Three-Six, take Three-Niner and see if you can scare Charles back into the woods! Three-Three, frag off and pick up an orbit on me – I’m going body-snatching!”
“I still have the controls, right?”
“You sure do! See those three running in a cluster at two o’clock? Come at them from behind, dust ‘em off and put us down between them and the trees! I want both -60s on the right side, now! Both Dai-Uy Back-Seats -- hang on to your weapons!”
And down we went.
Why did I pick those three? Well, the one in the white shirt and blue pants was obviously a woman by the way she was running and she was wearing sneakers, not sandals. That meant she wasn’t local and was someone important. The guy in the blue shirt and olive green pants to her right was helping her run, and he was wearing sneakers, too. That meant he was her bodyguard, which meant she was someone *very* important. And the guy in the black PJs to her left kept pulling ahead, then turning back to help, and he was barefoot. That meant he was local, he was their guide and babysitter and it’d be his neck if anything happened to her. Which meant that she was very important indeed…
Ever have a Huey slam into the ground directly in front of you? It can be disconcerting.
They were very disconcerted. And very confused. And very wet.
Three-Three roared past in a low orbit and the sight of the rocket pods, minigun and grinning gunners brought their confusion to a screeching halt. The woman appeared so relieved not to have been killed outright that she almost threw herself into Dai-Uy Trung’s lap. Her bodyguard shrugged and stuck out his hands to be pulled aboard, rather reluctan--
“Black shirt’s reaching for something behind his back!”
The local guide was trying to decide if he could grab whatever he had in his waistband, arm it and use it before he was shredded by the crewchief’s M-60. And he was wavering toward “yes”…
“Point the gun between his eyes, smile and wave at him!”
He stopped reaching for whatever he had and waved back. Works every time.
A sudden motion caught his eye. He glanced at the cockpit and saw my arm outstretched toward his head, with my M1911 attached at the end. His hands went behind his neck, very, very slowly. The gunner hopped out, removed the grenade from his waistband and helped him aboard.
“Holy…hey, Sir, Back-Seat’s been going through the female’s dittybag. So far, he’s pulled out a K-54 and a blade and about a dozen green GI notepads and some kind of ID booklet and a wad of cash that’d choke the Jolly Green Giant. We hit paydirt!”
“Good. Strap everybody in -- I don’t want these jokers trying for a high dive into the Mekong after we pull pitch. Hey, Back-Seat, did we make Dai-Uy Trung happy?”
“Hah. Every time he pulls out another document, his eyes get rounder and his grin gets bigger!”
“Good. Take a break -- I’ve got the controls.”
“You’ve got ‘em!”
“Three-Three, One-Five’s pulling pitch. Three-Six, it’s time to git outta Dodge…”
To be continued…
Heh. Surely you didn't think *that* would'a been enough to hack off a VC battalion commander, did'ja?
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
hot damn, we got us a story going now....
gimme more.
by MajMike on February 20, 2007 8:32 AM
Hmmm... Wonder if Mama-San there was the same viper that infested your shower stall.
by Boquisucio on February 20, 2007 8:52 AM
Brilliant, Bill. I can't wait for the next installment.
by
Damian on February 20, 2007 9:31 AM
Not bad ...
Cheers
by J.M. Heinrichs on February 20, 2007 12:26 PM
"Not bad..." he says. Tankers! *sheesh*
Good tale, Bill. 'Please sir, may I have another?' - er - more...
[lookee there... we have a never-been-in-the-military person cranking one off in a branch-related snark. Ahhhh, the power of the Castle... -the Armorer]
by
Barb on February 20, 2007 2:53 PM
If I coulda got a export/import license for those bikes..ole Bill T mighta been Comrade Bill. RLO's tsk tsk, the trouble they get into, shameful. You'll notice when Bill grew up they made him a Warrant Officer! :-)
by
V29 on February 20, 2007 5:40 PM
RLO's tsk tsk, the trouble they get into, shameful.
Yeah, but don't forget who *taught* me.
And I *still* have my suspicions as to who it was that planted the sign saying "Nguy Hiem! Dai-Uy Tuttle Live Here" outside my tent...
Barb - 'Fess up -- it was the reference to the M1911, wasn't it?
by
BillT on February 20, 2007 6:07 PM
I. Am. Offended. I Am Not A "tanker", I Am A ZIPPERHEAD!!!!
Cheers
by J.M. Heinrichs on February 20, 2007 9:39 PM
I. am. offended. too!
that zipperhead ain't a tanker!!!
by MajMike on February 21, 2007 8:13 AM
Aren't we being a bit disingenous John... taking advantage of your southron cousins.
Zipperhead - armoured tank soldier, derived from their use of "zip up" to close hatches when under fire
From here (see Military Nicknames).
by
John of Argghhh! on February 21, 2007 9:02 AM
Tankers rule,grunts drool....nanner nanner nanner.
Great story!
by Jerry on February 21, 2007 9:52 AM
Actually, "zipperhead" in the Canadian Army pre-dates the Vietnam War. And properly used, it is a nickname for a Strat.
Cheers
by J.M. Heinrichs on February 21, 2007 3:53 PM
So, Bill, was she good-lookin'?
by
Justthisguy on February 22, 2007 4:36 PM
So, Bill, was she good-lookin'?
Late-twenties / early-thirties, hair chopped short, *dark* almond-shaped eyes, the whole been-rode-hard-and-put-away-wet look, a bit of mud fetchingly smeared across her pert li'l nose. And smelled a lot like Secaucus at low tide.
Ummm, I never really noticed...
by
BillT on February 22, 2007 5:16 PM
Yer just writin' that 'cause you think the Luddite Wife might be reading this. As is widely known, Vietnamese wimmin are famous for both good-lookingness and toughmindedness, just like the Mississippian wimmin, of whom my late Mom is one.
I'll allow that you were more attracted to the ones who weren't trying to kill you.
by
Justthisguy on February 22, 2007 10:28 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Feb 20, 2007
�
Mudville Gazette links with:
Dawn Patrol
February 19, 2007
In Medias Res
The sun was just rising, so the temperature was only about 110F as I slogged along the PSP taxiway bordering the North Swamp. I passed a Scout pilot single-mindedly preflighting a Loach in the Cav revetments and loosened the underarm fasteners of my chicken plate to let some of the heat out. I wanted a drink of anything cold and wet, and I wanted a shave and a shower to get rid of the night’s accumulation of sweat, dust, blood, jet fuel, gunpowder residue, grease and hydraulic fluid -- aka, Vietnam Helicopter Pilot Flight Funk. I crossed the packed dust of the airfield boundary road and ambled toward my tent, mentally shedding flight gear and praying that the local VC wouldn’t mortar the shower shed while I was in it.
I had just divested myself of armor and armament when the company clerk trotted up and said, “Hey, Dai-Uy, Six wants to see you as soon as you get presentable -- he said take your time, but hurry up.”
*?*
I did a quick-strip, grabbed my soap and towel and dashed to the shower. I wasn’t in trouble, or the invitation to the CO’s office wouldn’t have been delivered so casually. It sure wouldn’t hurt to be prompt, though. Ten minutes later, I was freshly-shaved, de-funked (but still slightly damp) and suitably attired in clean jungle fatigues as I rounded the corner of the admin hut and almost collided with the Boss.
“Well, that was quick -- is the cobra back inside the showers again?”
“No, Sir, but the immersion heater’s out of gas. Not that I don’t enjoy a cold shower as much as anybody else, you understand…”
“Hah. Well, at least you’re fit for polite society, for a change.” He gave me an odd look, then said, “Take my jeep and get on over to 164th Group -- the S2 wants to see you. You’ve got trouble, but not with us.”
*?!?*
I parked the jeep in an empty slot in front of Group HQ, looped the you-can’t-steal-me chain around the six o’clock spoke of the steering wheel and secured the loop with the padlock. I still hadn’t the vaguest idea why the intel staff would want to see me, and my CO’s warning had me just a wee bit apprehensive (Did I dust off an ARVN GO? Did those SEALs go bragging in the wrong bar? Did that TV crew figure out where the CS cloud came from?)...
I stopped before the closed door with the “S2 -- Knock, Then Enter” sign. I knocked, then entered. A captain looked up from the tattered piece of paper he was perusing, rose from desk defilade and peered at me. He turned to the staff sergeant at the desk behind his and said, “Yeah, it’s him, all right.”
*!!?!!*
The captain picked up paper by one corner and held it in front of me. I looked at it and saw --
Me. Walking along the flight line, looking slightly to my left. With a couple of paragraphs of Vietnamese below.
“Do you remember anybody taking your picture recently? Do you know where it was taken? When?”
“Well, judging by the flight gear I’m wearing and the helicopters in the revetments, I’d say the picture was taken on the flight line. And I don’t remember anybody pointing a camera at me, but it had to have been within the past month, ‘cuz you can see the railroad tracks on my collar and I just got promoted on 2 June.”
“Who do you usually see on the flight line?”
*shrug* “Other pilots. Crew chiefs, gunners. Locals with PA&E (Pacific Architects and Engineers, aka Promises, Alibis and Excuses). Why? What’s this (pointing at the paper) thing, anyway?”
“VC ‘Wanted’ poster. We found another one with two other pilots’ names on it, but this one is the only one with a picture. And it’s the only one personally signed by the Tay Do Two battalion commander.”
“A ‘Wanted’ poster? *grin* What’s the reward, a lifetime supply of nuoc-mam?”
The E-6 grinned back and said, “One thousand piastres for your dogtags and that metal unit patch you’re wearin’. Two thousand piastres for your dogtags, patch and nametape. Five hundred Peugeot bicycles or the cash equivalent for your dogtags, patch, nametape and -- your head.”
Okay, the South Vietnamese piastre was then worth about eleven cents, US -- but --
Five hundred friggin’ *bicycles*?
“How much if they get me alive?”
“Nothing. This VC colonel wants you very, very dead. You got him royally p*ssed, whatever it was you did, Captain.”
“I guess so. Uhhh, any chance I could have that as a souvenir?”
“No.”
*sigh* “Okay. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes. Let us know what you did, if you figure it out.”
“Sure.”
I left and walked back to the jeep. Now, it’s one thing to realize that the enemy, generically, wants you, generically, dead -- that’s just the way things are. It’s something else entirely to realize that the enemy battalion commander, personally, wants you, personally, dead. But --
Five hundred friggin’ *bicycles*?!?
I parked the jeep near the “O” Club and walked in to sort things out. Since I hadn’t eaten anything since my usual midnight supper of C-rat tuna fish, I figured a shot of JD and three beers would jumpstart the surviving brain cells. As luck would have it, I spotted Two-Niner in the corner, nursing a cold can of lunch.
“Pull up a chair -- you look pretty bent.”
“I just discovered what I’m worth.” I then recapped my meeting with the S2 and the five hundred bicycles.
He grinned, “I’d be extra careful, if I were you. In this country, a man could start his own trucking company with five hundred bicycles.”
“Or the cash equivalent. What’s a Peugeot bicycle go for around here, anyway?”
“About thirty bucks. But around here, that’s two month’s pay.”
“Okay, so five hundred bicycles would -- geez, *twenty years’ pay*?!?”
“Yeah, roughly. That VC colonel must really hate your guts.”
“I guess so. I just wish I knew what it was I did to p*ss him off.”
“Why?”
“So I can go do it some more…”
To be continued…
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
damn.
it's never good when the S2 wants to see you.
by MajMike on February 19, 2007 8:14 AM
C'mon, c'mon!! Don't do that!! Where's the rest!!!! eeerrrrrhhhhh!
(p.s., it's been about a hundred years since I thought about a "don't steal me chain" or had to fumble with keys in the dark or bust one of those useless brass locks off with ball peen.... I had a guy working for me that guarenteed he could bust one off in one hit every time or he'd buy the beer. He never bought the beer and we never had to remove a flat jeep tire from its rim while that fellow was in the platoon. --You remember that? Maybe not... flat side of the mattock beat into the joint between the tire and rim, one brave soul with foot on the pointy end, holding it down, another guy with a 10lb sledge, and at least 3 good whacks before the tire came loose from the rim... And that was just breaking the seal. Another 10 minutes fighting it off the rim, even with soapy water. Stupid useless no account inner tubes!!!)
by
SangerM on February 19, 2007 8:39 AM
Very wicked of you to string us along, Bill.
*tsk tsk*
Looking forward to finding out what you did, and how many bicycles you were worth after you did it again ;-)
by
Barb on February 19, 2007 8:46 AM
Trust you to leave it hanging.
by
Trias on February 19, 2007 9:18 AM
I'm guessing it had to do with the Enraged Water Buffalo incident.
by
bad cat robot on February 19, 2007 11:45 AM
Just gonna leave us hangin'? NUMBAH TEN!
by
Bill Faith on February 19, 2007 3:17 PM
Curiousity is killing me, even if it might trod on a sore never(got the privy plack already manufactured, it's even got a spot left blank for what ultimately causes my demise).
Did you suffer from the RIF after Vietnam, Chief? I've always gotten the impression you were a HS flier, but frocked to captian to come home and not be a commissioned officer? Dang. You must really love the Army, Chief. I've run into at least half a dozen people who HATE the Army because they got 'downsized'---some after GW and others Vietnam.
by ry on February 19, 2007 3:58 PM
Gotta give you credit for this one:
“So I can go do it some more…”
But it's still not nice to make us wait to find out if you did. :)
by
Fallen Angel on February 19, 2007 5:23 PM
Why are you all clamoring like this? This is just what he wants. SugarButtons is a tease and you are just encouraging him.
by
Maggie on February 19, 2007 6:48 PM
Sugar-buttons or no, I'm looking forward to seeing where this leads. Even if it is a helo story. *duck*
by
lex on February 19, 2007 8:20 PM
I'm guessing it had to do with the Enraged Water Buffalo incident.
Never met her. Or the other Senator from NY, either.
But it's still not nice to make us wait to find out if you did.
Thank you, ma'am. But if George Lucas can do it, I can, too. Just not as well. Or as lucratively...
Ry - No RIF. I was a Reservist on Extended Active Duty. I took a Warrant to fly in the Guard -- if I'd stayed a captain, they would have stuck me in an Honest John outfit...
Trust you to leave it hanging.
Heh. Ask Barb or BCR about the 27" zipper.
SugarButtons is a tease and you are just encouraging him.
That from the Princess -- who needs absolutely *no* encouragement...
Soooooo, what did I do, did I do it again and did I get to keep my Vulture patch (and head...)? The answers to these questions and many more -- coming soon to a blog near you!
by
BillT on February 19, 2007 8:36 PM
"Five hundred friggin’ *bicycles*?!?"
heheh....can't wait for part II.
by Montieth (LJ) on February 19, 2007 9:02 PM
How much would you pay for the rest of the story?$19.99? $29.99? But wait! There's more... not available in any store!
heh- come on Chief- give it up!
by Neffi on February 19, 2007 9:08 PM
*This* enraged water buffalo, SugarButtons. How could you forget?
by
bad cat robot on February 19, 2007 9:35 PM
*on pins and needles*
by
FbL on February 19, 2007 9:44 PM
OK... 500 bicycles... which translates to how many Hanoi Hookers?
by WereKitten on February 19, 2007 9:44 PM
*Stuck in an Honest John outfit...*
Aside from the badly aligned nomenclature in this case... I agree whole-heartedly.
Nothing more boring (and career-risky for no upside) than the big rocket units.
Hell, *I'd* have sold my soul for wings if that was the only way to escape flaming telephone poles.
Even if it meant I'd have to duck the other variety of same.
by
John of Argghhh! on February 19, 2007 10:11 PM
SugarButtons is a tease and you are just encouraging him.
That from the Princess -- who needs absolutely *no* encouragement...
No, but it's always welcome!
by
Maggie on February 20, 2007 9:08 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Feb 19, 2007
�
Old War Dogs links with:
Today's Cliffhanger
December 21, 2006
The Ghost of (A) Christmas Past
RF/PF -- �Ruff-Puff� -- was the acronym for Regional Forces/Popular Forces, the South Vietnamese militia. Most units were composed of a mixed bag of farmers, frog hunters and former VC who had developed a hankering to be on the inside of a Huey looking down at the landscape, rather than being on the outside of a Huey looking up and becoming part of the landscape. Some units were independent strikers, but most were attached to a major unit of the South Vietnamese Army and were used as scouts and flank security troops. For some reason known only to Buddha, most of them wore purple helmet liners as the war-hat-of-choice...
Earlier in the morning, we�d inserted five ships'-worth of Ruff-Puffs into a warm LZ (scattered, inaccurate ground fire) about fifteen klicks west of Bac Lieu in the �way-south part of the Delta; we�d refueled, opened our cans of breakfast and were now enroute for the extraction, listening to Christmas carols on AFVN-AM (the nice thing about your ADF nav radio is that it will pick up commercial radio stations). I was flying Chalk Two, which tucked me right next to Lead.
Late December is two months after the last of the monsoons, so the paddies were still thigh-deep in water, the treelines were thick with fresh understory growth and the indigenous bad guys had their minds more on growing enough food to stash for the dry season than on mounting any decent-sized offensives. And besides, the Annual Christmas Truce (�Don�t shoot back unless they�re getting really, really accurate�) was in effect. At least it was in effect on our side -- the VC were either Buddhists or good little Fraternal Socialist Peaceloving Anti-Imperialists and couldn�t care less, a fact which seemed to have passed over the heads of the galaxies in Saigon (�I dunno, sir, maybe MACV figgers they�re all Presbyterians �er sumpthin���)
So, the local 21st ARVN Advisor had decided it was the perfect opportunity to give his attached (and newly-minted) Puffs some training in real, live Enemy Territory, searching for food and weapons cached in the area. The theory was that the Puffs�d be on the qui-vive on patrol due to the possibility of contact and in sufficient numbers to take out whatever stragglers were foolish enough to initiate contact.
Good training.
In theory.
Three miles out, fifteen hundred feet up, not a sign of the Puffs, who should have been assembling in the PZ (the former LZ) after completing their patrols -- the PZ was a large paddy sandwiched between a shallow river to the south with a dozen wooded islands in it and a good-sized patch of jungle to the north. I flipped the nav monitor toggle switch off in the middle of �Deck the Halls� so I could listen for any radio calls from the ground. We were on short final to the PZ before one of the gunners spotted them forming up in the treeline.
�Little People at nine o�clock, sir -- along with a zillion chickens.�
Oh, Balzac. They�d been foraging instead of patrolling. I remember hoping that they�d found at least one weapons cache and blown it�
�They�re taking their own sweet time about catching the bus -- cripes! They went fishing, too!?!�
Sure enough, the Puffs who weren�t loaded down with scraggly chickens were loaded down with the local version of catfish. I shrugged and flipped the nav monitor toggle switch on.
Siiiiilent Night, Hoooooly whumf
Mud-dirt-smoke a hundred yards south. The Ruff-Puffs started trotting toward the ships.
�Hey, Copperheads, Lead -- are you guys popping rockets to suppress?�
�Negative. We�re just orbiting about three klicks north.�
Allll is calm, allll is whooompf!
Mud-dirt-smoke fifty yards north. The Puffs are now pelting for the ships, fish flapping, chickens thrashing, purple helmet liners bobbing.
�Hey, Lead, Chalk Four -- Flight�s taking mortars in the PZ.�
�Yeah, looks like they�ve got a really decent bracket on us, too.�
"Hey, they broke the truce!"
"Why are you surprised?"
"'Cuz it's supposed to be *our* turn to break it!"
�Round yon viiiiirgi BAAMPF!!
Mud-dirt-smoke-flying debris-pting-zizzz! right through my door. The Puffs pile inside, to the accompaniment of the Copperheads flashing overhead, screaming south to look for the mortar team.
�Lead, Two -- they�ve got the range. Next round�s gonna land in my lap.�
�Lead, Five. Flight�s up.� Good. Everybody�s on board and it�s Time To Git Outta Dodge.
Five Hueys come unstuck and nose over to gain speed as multiple mud-dirt-smokes erupt from where we had just been.
Sleeeeep in heav-- I flick the nav toggle off.
* * * * * * *
Seven hours later, in the 'way-north part of the Delta (which is nonetheless still the 'way-south portion of Vietnam), we were proceeding inbound to pick up an ambush patrol from Moc Hoa. Just as I reached down to flip the nav toggle switch off,
Siiiiilent Night, Hoooooly pok! pok-pok!
Green tracers everywhere, coming from about thirty muzzle flashes right out my door.
Allll is calm, allll is pok!pok!pok!
�Chalk Three�s goin� down. Our engine's gone.�
�Chalk Five�s right behind you. Don�t forget to grab the radios and shoot the battery when you leave.�
�Hey, sir, there�s fluid on the deck. I think it�s oil, but it might be tranny fluid. It�s too dark to tell for sure.�
Oh, joy to the world.
pok!pok!pok!pok!pok!
�Lead, Two�s got fluid on the deck. My gauges are still normal, but I don�t think that�ll be the case in a couple of minutes.�
�Roj. Break off and head for Moc Hoa. Four, you hang with me and we�ll cover Five when he lifts off and pick up Two if he goes down enroute.�
I made it to Moc Hoa, barely. Oh, yeah -- it was tranny fluid.
* * * * * * *
Thirty-odd years later.
�What did you get for Christmas in Vietnam, Bill?�
�Shot down. For the *first* time.�
Heh. I still flick the radio off when "Silent Night" comes on�
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Somehow, I don't think I'll ever hear "Silent Night" with the same emotion either, SB.
Let's hope that this Christmas is kinder to ya!
by AFSister on December 21, 2006 5:39 AM
Great story... probably not so great as it happened, but it is now that you can look back and tell it... having made it home safely.
Thank you for sharing.
I have a great (personal) Christmas story from Desert Storm that I tell every year now. :)
My 14 year old son can repeat it verbatim now. Heh!
by V5 on December 21, 2006 7:43 AM
BillT,
You know, even to this day, I still freeze for a moment whenever I hear rotors. That whup-whup-whup-whup puts a tingle to the back of my neck. My son wonders what it is about them that makes me do that. I think that you have to be a certain age to understand.
I was never in Vietnam. The Army apparently decided I was more useful elsewhere.I did, however, spend a huge amount of time in and around Hueys and to this day can still pick them out from other helos soundwise.
That single aircraft is, to my mind, the over-riding image of Vietnam. It was everywhere. It was new. The Uh-1 was the Jeep of Vietnam, and everyone of a certain age recognises it on sight.
There are few things that I can recognise as easily as it's sound. One other being the P-3 Orion, which I accumulated over 4K hours in after I transferred to the Navy. The other though, is OD canvas.
Is there anyone who has ever served who cannot instantly remember the smell of OD canvas on a hot day? You could blindfold me, stick plugs in my ears, and I could still identify the smell of a deuce and a half's canvas top. Probably also easily identify it by the spinal injuries suffered whilst riding in it, but that's another story.. :)
Seriously, I hear those rotors, and so many thngs come rushing back. Smells and sounds and touch sensations. Well, I'm rambling now, so I'll shut up, but BillT, I'm glad you're here to write for us, and I wish all of you good folks a wonderful Christmas.
Respects,
by Gwedd on December 21, 2006 7:46 AM
AW1 Tim,
My Dad cringes at the "whup whup whup" of ANY helicopter after his experiences riding in Huey's in VN. He won't ever tell us what happened though.
by AFSister on December 21, 2006 8:22 AM
V5 - Things that happened at Christmas assume the status of "Significant Life Event" -- even if it was only getting shot down.
AW1 Tim - Ramble on. That's what the TINS! are supposed to trigger!
AFSis - Your dad may have gone for a ride with me during one of my more *exciting* flights. These two were kinda ho-hum...
by
BillT on December 21, 2006 9:41 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Dec 21, 2006
June 8, 2006
TINS!* Times Two
I racked my brain for a while, trying to decide how to spin this turkey highlight certain portions of the tale in order to give you something other than the usual humdrum yawner sedate narrative youve come to tolerate expect from me. But I decided against it, because I had a brain stall of galactic proportions wanted to give you an example of how gut-wrenchingly dull prosaically routine most of our missions were
*tongue planted so firmly in cheek you couldnt budge it with det cord*
Instead, I dumped half of it in V29s lap asked V29 for an assist, since, after all, thats what this particular TINS! is all about. If you want to follow the action on a Tac Map, drop in here and visit the third map from the bottom, third map from the left. I'll let Two Niner start it rolling...
TINS! Times Two; or, He Said / I Said / We Said
V29: In the months leading up to the Cambodian Invasion in May 1970, the 162nd AHC, nightly, flew border patrols from the Parrot's Beak to Ha Tien. We would base from a small airfield adjacent to a Special Forces compound in Moc Hoa. Our team consisted of a C-model gunship fireteam and a C&C/flareship. Or, when we had it equipped an H-model with flares, .50 cal, mini-gun and infrared sight.
V15: This was also the time frame that the Army was doing its first experiments with a Huey night fighter--the INFANT (Iroquois Night Fighter And Night Tracker), a UH-1M (which was a Charlie-model gunship beefed up with an H-model engine) equipped with a Low Light-Level TV. The First Cav played around with a couple of them in III Corps until February 1970, then came down to see how well it would work in the Delta. I got tagged to fly C & C for the lads (and thats a subject for a whole separate TINS!--*really* made me appreciate how much flight discipline we kept in the 162d). Anyway, while Two-Niner was NightHawking along the border, I was babysitting the INFANT (heh) above the Plain of Reeds...
*go ahead and ignore the area labeled Ambush for the time being--its okay, you can ignore it--awwww, cmon, ignore it*
Most of the time, we staged from Can Tho, but this night we, too, were working from Moc Hoa. I had the company's other .50 cal at the crewchiefs station, a twin-M60 mount at the gunners station and five flares strapped to the floor.
V29: On the day in question, probably around late March to early April '70, we had the second configuration and I was AC of the H-model. The night patrol had passed uneventfully and our gunship had departed for Can Tho early, while we waited to see if the Team needed to transport any personnel to Can Tho. At our release time we took off for home with no passengers. We were maybe, 10 minutes outbound when a Navy Mike Boat came up on Guard seeking assistance.
V15: Wed had a so-so night. The Charlie-model gunship in *our* team was an Outlaw from Vinh Long. Hed been plagued with electrical glitches during the first mission, so the Cav AMC (Air Mission Commander) released him and opted to launch the 0300 mission with just his top cover--me. After an hour of boring holes in the night sky, the Cav found a squad-sized element moving south along one of the canals leading to the junction we called the Big Wagon Wheel (Why? Because it had more intersecting canals than the *Little* Wagon Wheel. Duh). After some clock-cleaning, he dropped to fifty feet (he flew blacked-out, so I had to drop to eighty feet to keep him in sight) and followed their backtrail north. He popped a pair of rockets at a sampan, then broke left (without warning me) and the secondary that fireballed its way past my nose added my night vision as collateral damage. We decided to scratch the pre-dawn mission and headed to Moc Hoa for fuel and a chat with the radar operators, just to confirm we hadnt busted the Cambodian border during our gyrations. The Cav launched for Can Tho before first light and we were just cranking up when Two-Niner departed. Enroute to 1,500 feet for the trip home, we heard the Navys Mayday (he'd taken an RPG hit) and Two-Niners answer. And you just *know* I wasnt gonna nonchalantly continue to motor south, dont ya?
[Aside: We called almost everything Mike-Boats (from Mobile-Riverine), including what the Navy called PBRs (Patrol Boat, Riverine) or PCRs (yadda Craft yadda); what the Navy originally called Mike-Boats couldnt even fit in a canal. Adding to the merriment, there were smaller craft the Navy also called Mike Boats, and (naturally) they also called Monitors Mike Boats. But as far as we were concerned, if it was one of ours and in a canal and wasnt a hovercraft, it was a Mike Boat and a PBR was warm beer in a rusty can. We were a bit more precise when referring to the floating POL points...]
V29: He reported having wounded and taking heavy fire from both sides of a narrow, heavily wooded canal. I could hear the fire over the radio and the quiet desperation in his voice. As we had an uneventful night, we had a full ammo load, so I decided to see what help we could provide. I made for the coordinates he gave me and had no trouble finding him. The boat was dead in the water and smoking. They were in a fight for their lives for sure.
V15: I was still a good five miles away when I spotted Two-Niner making an orbit around some smoke and figured Id stay high and play top cover while he did whatever he was planning to do. I wasnt worried about him biting off more than he could chew, because whatever a NightHawk Huey bit got royally chewed in the process. And I had no desire to collect a .50 cal ricochet, either, so I climbed to 2,000 feet and started a wide right orbit.
V29: By this time we were told the wounded were in need of immediate evacuation. But, I couldn't blindly put my ship and crew at risk. It was necessary to have a look-see and assess the situation. We circled at 1500' and hosed down both sides of the canal with our .50 and minigun. It took a few minutes to impress on Charles that we meant business and had the means to cause them extreme harm. Charlie blinked, taking cover to assess the situation. Surprised at the opportunity, but taking advantage of the lull in fire, I ordered the boat to lower their radio antennae and descended to pick up the wounded. I put my skid on the side of the boat and hovered while the wounded were loaded. At this point the LtJG in command asked if there was anyway to get him out of the kill zone. His engine was kaput and he was rightfully afraid that when we departed Charles would be back to finish him off. What the heck, my H-model could push that little tinderbox about as fast as his engine could, thought I. So, around to the stern I went and placing my skid there, I hovered sideways, while the Navy steered, pushing the boat about 400 yards down the canal to a spot where it widened and the banks were devoid of heavy foliage. At this point, confident that further assistance was on the way, I left them and took the wounded directly to a Navy hospital ship in the bay at Vung Tau. My landing on the hospital ship is a story for another time.
V15: Most of the reason Charlie kept his nose out of it while Two-Niner played with the boat was a reluctance to mess with a NightHawk and the remainder of the reason was us, circling at two grand, squirting rounds from the twin-sixty on our outbound leg and dumping expended brass into the woodlines on the inbound leg (rapidly-descending 7.62 casings warble--they sound just like inbound 60mm mortar rounds). When I saw him reposition to the stern, followed immediately by the Mike-Boat beginning to move out smartly, my first thought was that the boat was under fire again and Two-Niner was now pulling a moving medevac, which is a real thrill. When I realized he was *pushing* the boat, I figured the Boat Boss had just promised him a surf n turf lunch in the Navy Mess at My Tho
V29: I can't remember who my gunner or PP were, but I'm quite sure the CE was Jim M. It amazes me that I have little clear memory of so much of my tour. There are maybe three or four incidents that are etched in my mind and I think of them often. Were they real or figments of my imagination??????? It was unpopular on Wall Street in the early '70s to be a RVN vet, so I never talked of my experiences and may, in fact, have suppressed them to the point that I only remember incidents where the adrenaline was flowing freely. The rest is gone, only to return when somebody prompts me with a memory of theirs. Well that is how I recollect one incident...it's my story and I'm sticking to it.
V15: I clued him in on his Peter-Pilots ID, since Id heard that Daown Ee-yust twang when PP mashed the floor mic button, forgot his selector switch was still set on Reed Controls FM frequency and started whining about the tail rotor getting close to the trees. But he confirms one thing Id previously realized--if something wasnt a significant event, the basics (what happened and where) get dribbled into memory, but the details (date, crew, exact sequence of events) vanish until somebody says, Hey, I need a little help with a story I want to do
Epilogue: Whats all the current teeth-gnashing about Jointness being so devastatingly difficult to achieve? We did it thirty-odd years ago--it was dirt-simple:
1. Navy (or Air Force or Marines) get into trouble and call for an Army helicopter.
2. Army helicopter arrives and saves the day.
See? What could be simpler?
Post-epilogue: As the Princess has constantly (and fetchingly) pointed out in the past, we sometimes engage in squid-snarks around this place, but I must confess to a certain admiration for the Navy--after all, I can attest to the fact that it was the *first* uniformed service to utilize, in combat, a brown-water patrol boat powered by a four ton, turbine-engined outboard motor with a 48-foot prop.
Operated by an Army crew.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Gratuitous Squid Snark: I'll betcha I've landed on more different types of naval craft than Lex has--including to the *width* of the flight deck. Twice.
*sigh* But we can't use the phrase "Boys In Blue" to snark the sister services anymore, evidently. Although I'll bet John will take issue with one of the reasons given for the switch--
In quality, the blue Army Service Uniform is made of a durable material that is suitable for daily use without special care.
It's gotta be a real nuisance trying to find the exact shade of blue for those spandex side-seam inserts...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
TINS: Zarqawi is dead. Sorry for the comment instead of email, but best way to communicate for me... I have the press release up on my site, feel free to snag it.
by
uruloki on June 8, 2006 3:21 AM
I haven't heard that story in a while! Now if that does't meet the sea-story criteria ("This is no s***!") I don't know what does. You guys did some stuff for my outfit up around Tay Ninh City on a few occasions I beleive. We got a mixed bag of support up there, Sea Wolves, Army Air, Black Ponies and even some of Lex's F-4 driving buddies ( ya never lived till ya use an F-4 for close air support, a 500lb GP does a hell of a job of fire supression). A tip of the ole black beret, OFS late of River Division 594.
by Old Fat Sailor on June 8, 2006 4:58 AM
uruloki - Don't apologize for breaking news items like that one in the comment blocks.
OFS - Now you know whodunnit. I did a medevac from one of those bathtub toys you guys drove around in, but never pushed one downstream. And nothin' says "here's a lotta love from up above" like those 5" Zuni telephone poles the Black Ponies used to use...
by cw4(ret)billt on June 8, 2006 6:15 AM
I lurv TINS.
Keeps me on the edge of my seat, even though I know in advance that you guys made it, you never know HOW you made it, or, in some cases... WHY.
Very cool.
by AFSister on June 8, 2006 7:57 AM
Great TINS there Boss(ret). Too bad that The Armorer doesn't like my depiction of Connie and Hubert though.
by Boquisucio on June 8, 2006 8:53 AM
Boq - quit whining, wouldja?
Besides, yer wrong.
by
John of Argghhh! on June 8, 2006 10:14 AM
Being a little unclear about boat designations is probably just an aviator thing rather than an Army thing. The folks at Ft Story don't have that problem. Although you Army helo types did have problems figuring out which boat was which, you had no problems figuring out which bases to refuel and rearm from based on the quality of food. Thats why Nha Be was constantly running out of 2.75" rockets. Proof once again that the Army travels on its stomach. BTW, my own little vacation along that particular stretch of river (Vam Co Tay) was about a year before your's.
by
74 on June 8, 2006 10:27 AM
Re: Joint helo ops. We were cruising off the coast of South Vietnam in 1972 when one of our sailors fell down a ladder or something and got himself smashed up enough that it was too much even for our Navy corpsmen to deal with. We called in a med evac. Army chopper vectored in. I'll never forget his comment as he arrived "Hey - you guys are a boat!" Made a very careful but very nice landing on flight deck (considering he had skids and not wheels like Navy helos do) and we were able to send off young sailor for repairs. Given all the rigging potentially in the way and all, I admired the willingness of that Army pilot to get his mission done. Don't know who he was, but he earned my respect...
by
Eagle1 on June 8, 2006 10:40 AM
Yer prolly right Bill - except about that landing cross-wise thing. Over the course of my naval career I've twice had the opportunity while running to my jet to launch an Alert 15 to land sprawling across the landing area, having tripped across summat or other.
One of my first CO's flew O-2's in the Black Ponies, and his stuff sure sounded hairy - but he said the real crazies were the Loach (sp?) pilots -rotary wings spinning down below the jungle canopies. Whew.
And thanks from me for savign the Navy's bacon that day in 1970. What a great story.
by
lex on June 8, 2006 11:07 AM
Heee! Another chain successfully yanked. My work here's done. ;)
by Boquisucio on June 8, 2006 11:25 AM
Blasted Blattid Bastid.
by
John of Argghhh! on June 8, 2006 12:46 PM
Hey. I was just thinkin'.... if this is a "TINS times two"... wouldn't that make you guys "TINS TWINS?"
*snicker*
by AFSister on June 8, 2006 12:59 PM
Great story. Love the comments, too. *smiling*
by
FbL on June 8, 2006 8:24 PM
AFSis - ...even though I know in advance that you guys made it, you never know HOW you made it, or, in some cases... WHY.
Heh--*we* don't know, either...
Boq - The Armorer doesn't like my depiction of Connie and Hubert though.
Connie? Connie Converse flew *jets*, not helicopters. Except for the time he and Corky Myers "appropriated" an amphib to fish my dad out of the middle of Long Island Sound (jets were kinda cranky back in the early fifties)...
74 - Both Two-Niner and I were members of the "My Tho for Lunch Bunch." I'm still trying to figure out how their mess steward eliminated the rice paddy taste from the tea. And we found a one-ton cache of 122mm rockets along the Vam Co Tay one morning--Charles got a little slovenly with his camo mats. I think the ensuing explosion shifted the entire river 20 feet to the south...
Eagle1 - "Hey - you guys are a boat!"
I knew somebody a long time ago who told that story from the cockpit perspective. If the pilot looked like a hobbit in a flight helmet, his name was Gaylord Robinson and held the distinction of being bounced out of the Army for being too *short* to be an aviator--after he finished his year and a half tour.
Lex - Loach drivers were the usual suspects when it came to flying underneath the trees, but that's the advantage of having a 26-foot rotor disk vice a 48-footer. But *we* were the ones who had to go get them when they tried to fly between trees 25 feet apart...
FbL - Hiya, kiddo! Did Were-Kitty ever clean the marshmallow fluff off the divan in the chandelier?
by cw4(ret)billt on June 8, 2006 11:11 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Jun 08, 2006
January 6, 2006
First Sergeants.

1st Sgt. Fidelito Ordonio, first sergeant with Co. A, TF 1-27 INF, stands against a wall with Sahilia elementary school students during the dedication of the school March 3.
Ahh, the First Sergeant. The Spine of the Company/Battery/Troop. Sometimes known as the First Shirt.
This is a story about a 1st Sergeant. In a First Shirt mode.
Top Sergeants are the unit Bearer of Standards. Yes, yes, the officers are supposed to be that way, but a good Top Kick can overcome slovenly officers. The success of my battery level command is testament to that. More importantly, the First Sergeant has ad hoc tools available to him that a prudent officer will avoid.
While normally a First Sergeant is selected from NCO's of requisite caliber in the same branch as the unit they allow their officers to take responsibility for, this is not always the case. This has to do with the requisite quality in a First Sergeant is the ability to capital-L Lead. The duties of the 1SG generally doesn't extend to that of leading the troops around taking bunkers, breaking track, serving the guns. His or her job is to move among the soldiers and make sure that the troops are being taken care of, the NCOs are doing their jobs, and making sure it's all done to standard.
My first unit, Headquarters and Headquarters Battery, 1st Battalion, 22nd Field Artillery Regiment, then assigned to the 1st Armored Division Artillery at Pinder Barracks, Zirndorf, Germany, is an example of a unit that did not have an MOS-related 1SG. 1SG "Z" was a dental technician. Yes. A dental tech. Yet he rode herd on that battery of 250 souls as if he were born to the trade. He did much to teach me how to interact with Sergeants and Soldiers as an officer, and mindful of being a junior officer. A direct support artillery battalion HHB is a large, lumbering monster, with many moving parts, usually not moving in synch. By design. The first 'H', the Headquarters, is just that . The Battalion Commander and his staff, including the battalion Command Sergeant Major, the senior NCO in the battalion. Lots of egos to deal with there. All of 'em prissy and prickly. They are the reason the battery exists. Yet, because this is a DS unit, it also contains the FS Element, which has all the Forward Observers in it, who scatter to the winds to their supported armor and infantry battalions and companies when those units are out training or deployed. The 1SG has to manage all of that in consonance with his commander, and 1SG 'Z' did it well.
I hid the best part of this below the fold, in the Flash Traffic/Extended Entry.
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �

Now a friend of mine had a similar situation, except that he commanded an M110A1 8 inch howitzer battery at Fort Carson, Colorado. The 8inch is the finest cannon the Army ever fielded, SWWBO sez so. And the howitzer wasn't bad either. Mike had a recruiting poster 1st Sergeant, who had gone through his career as a Air Defense Artillery soldier. He was a tall, big-chested, narrow-hipped, starched-uniform-in-a-mud-puddle kind of guy. But he was also a Sam Damon, not a Courtney Massengale.
But he was *also* not a gun bunny (cannon crewman) or chart monkey (fire direction specialist).
First mission of the day out in the field at Carson was a 0600 DIVARTY TOT, a mission where all the rounds of the massed guns of the division are to fall on the target at the same time, +/- 5 seconds. This is the First Shirt's first TOT (time-on-target) ever. He and Mike are standing there, 100 feet or so behind the gun line (which is staggered in echelon taking in the terrain) which means that the guns run on-line to them on their flank, up and away from them.
The First Shirt is there, in all his starched, STRAC glory. Mike is somewhat scruffier, but serviceable. The First Shirt is tall and handsome, Mike is, well, not tall.
The First Shirt has his steel field cup full of steaming joe, and is watching his watch. He knows it's important that the lanyards be pulled on time and the guns fire together. Mike is doing the same. With one, tiny, difference.
Mike knows what a Time on Target is. The First Shirt *thinks* he knows. The key is time ON target. Which means you calculate Time of Flight, and SUBTRACT it from the TOT. This little useful tidbit is unknown to the First Shirt, and it didn't occur to Mike that his 1SG didn't know it.
So, there's the Command Team, watching their watches... tic tic tic tic
Did I mention the 8 inch howitzer is a *large* gun?
Time of flight was, oh, 50 seconds or so.
So the guns fired - with one voice - 50 seconds before the First Shirt was ready.
They really *are* very large, the 8 inch, 203mm gun. With very efficient muzzle brakes. Which divert a lot of energy (and noise) to the sides, to help reduce recoil.
Loud. 4 of 'em firing at once. With one voice. When you weren't ready for it.
The First Shirt was suddenly *wearing* his coffee, dripping down like Christmas lights from the rim of his helmet onto his immaculate shirt.
Mike sez he took a short walk to the FDC to check on upcoming missions - and the First Shirt showed up, immaculate.
They can do that, y'know. That's why they are First sergeants. Like First Sergeant Kasal, USMC.
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
8" guns - you are a sly one, John!
by
Barb on January 6, 2006 8:26 AM
And Brab wins da prize!
by
John of Argghhh! on January 6, 2006 8:48 AM
YEEEEE-HAAAA! Way to go, Adjutant!
Hey, John--does she still get to shoot out the basement window?
Or would that be "shoot the basement window out"...?
Grabsnabbitz. Ya gonna let her plink tree rats?
by cw4(ret)billt on January 6, 2006 9:02 AM
Glad to see the opening of another school.
A little disappointed to see only boys in line...
by April on January 6, 2006 9:06 AM
I don't think he means *that* prize, Bill, it's still up for grabs.
*grin*
Plinking tree rats with what John has in his basement would be a tad overkill, dontcha think??
by
Barb on January 6, 2006 9:12 AM
Nope--easier to bake 'em into cookies for the scruples after they've been tenderized a bit...
by cw4(ret)billt on January 6, 2006 9:20 AM
Wrong prize, Bill. Different contest.
by
John of Argghhh! on January 6, 2006 9:36 AM
Plinking tree rats with what John has in his basement would be a tad overkill, dontcha think??
Not too mention breaking a few laws *and* annoying the neighbors...
We do shoot CO2 pistol in the basement, however...
by
John of Argghhh! on January 6, 2006 9:38 AM
Hope you use a cardboard backstop...
Heh. Little Brother the Fed *still* has the half-moon scar on his leg when he borrowed my .357 lookalike to see what it'd do to a webspinner in a damp corner...
by cw4(ret)billt on January 6, 2006 9:46 AM
Wolfhounds! Did I mention I began my Army career in A/1/27IN, 25ID(L)? Way back in '86. Had one HECK of a 1SG named Charlie Ball. Very impressive gent. Course, when they made the 25th transition from basic "leg" division to a "light" division, they really stacked the deck with some great, talented NCO's. All our PSG's had at least on tour in the 75th IN.
by Ar on January 6, 2006 3:07 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
December 10, 2005
TINS!* Another Vulture Caught the Bug
Some of my old RVN buds lurk and even sally forth to make the occasional comment (yeah, *you* Two-Niner!).
And now, they're doing TINS!
And about time, too. The Vietnam Helicopter Pilots Association is looking for contributions to the oral history archives, and the guys are coming through like champs...
Bob Shine (V One-Seven) did this one, but the sneaky basset didn't tell me about it--probably because he figgered I'd post it.
He was right. And Eric ratted you out, Baby-San!
However, to forestall the inevitable question--no, I was *not* the guy who put the Huey inverted. But I *did* get a 110-degree bank out of one (something the Army still insists is impossible, by the way)--and if I hadn't, this place would still be subtitled "The Home of Two of Jonah's Military Guys"...period.
It's a quick read and a good one. Peekchurs, too--and you'll see why we tagged him Baby-San.
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Bob Shine, never the shy one. I did notice that he forgot to mention the 90 degree gear box incident! He was a lucky boy that day. As for Baby-san...phooey I was much better looking!
:-). Good to see some of the lads telling their story. I still can't bring myself to conjure up those old memories.......... some day maybe?
by
V29 on December 10, 2005 6:45 AM
I was sitting at re-arm about fifty meters away when the gb seized and he went flipping in with the world's loudest "thud!" The dust hadn't even settled by the time I got over there, figuring for sure I'd be policing up body parts. I *still* can't believe everybody walked away from it.
He also didn't mention the time we were shut down at POL at Moc Hoa and he crawled up the mast and out onto one of the mains to get away from Moc Hoa Mary--and I untied it. Heh. Mary landed on top of him and latched on like a pit bull with a new squeaky toy...
by cw4(ret)billt on December 10, 2005 6:55 AM
For the ones that don't make you want to crawl into a bottle... we'll be happy to get those tales out in the open, and add them, in a little tiny way, to the collective consciousness.
by
John of Argghhh! on December 10, 2005 8:28 AM
Bill and Bob,
Thanks to both of you for your courageous and daring service under such difficult circumstances, and for sharing this with us. And V29, we will be ready to listen when you're ready to share, too.
And Bill, you're gonna casually mention a "110-degree bank" and "Moc Hoa Mary," and not tell us the rest of the story? You tease! ;)
by
FbL on December 10, 2005 8:45 AM
Ah, Moc Hoa Mary, denizen of the night at Moc Hoa, RVN. Mary while not a young man's dream was very handy for a short diversion while waiting for the next mission. Never having had
the pleasure of her company, I cannot speak of her skill from a first hand point of view. But, considering the trade she did, her skill (or perhaps the clients need) was... considerable. Perhaps Bill can shed more light?
by V29 on December 10, 2005 8:58 AM
Good TINS - thanks Bob and Bill for sharing/posting! We are glad to have you all back (you too, V29) home, whether or not you share the tales. But we do love the tales here :-)
by
Barb on December 10, 2005 10:17 AM
Hah! The only light I could shed on Mary would be with flares from fifteen-hundred feet. Only reason she got close to Baby-San was cuz she snuck up on him while he was napping in the gunner's well.
Cute daughters, though. Their Dad was French, so Mary must have been quite the belle back in her heyday.
1950, or so.
by cw4(ret)billt on December 10, 2005 11:32 AM
HAH! De Frenchies do get around- was one cauzed Andre to be gracink dis world now. Menny Happy for the Holiday Zeasonz- an Mery Chrissmas, too!
by Andre the Pole on December 10, 2005 6:21 PM
I'm coming to the realization that Huey pilots are all crazy mo-fo's, and ya'll must have worn out the GA's.
by AFSister on December 10, 2005 10:27 PM
Hey CW4 BillT - you gonna be in DC this July? If so, I'll buy ya a beer. :)
by
NOTR on December 13, 2005 12:36 PM
NOTR - I'm not sure about DC yet, but we usually have a unit reunion down at Rucker each year. I'll keep you posted on that.
by cw4(ret)billt on December 13, 2005 1:15 PM
110 degrees doesn't sound that extreme to an old 17th Cav snake driver.
by cw4rogerc(ret) on December 16, 2005 3:49 AM
Yeah, but the H-model didn't have a 540 rotor head, either.
And I've done my share of RTTs and wingovers in an ECAS and the F-Prod, too...
by cw4(ret)billt on December 16, 2005 10:59 AM
Even without the 540, I've seen that old H model bent over pretty good. Flew the S models some, but mostly flew the G model. Sometimes on a clear sunny day, I get crazy and even miss it a little. Then I remember what that G model was like pre-ECU.
by cw4rogerc(ret) on December 16, 2005 4:48 PM
Heh--you mean, the World's First Flying Sauna?
by cw4billt on December 16, 2005 8:31 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Dec 10, 2005
November 28, 2005
Hah! I *knew* there was more to the story than he was letting on...
While goofing off this weekend, I found a strange trackback. The IP address was all Fibonacci numbers, and when I went to the source it appeared to be a blog I'd never heard of before, "Pinfeathers". I would link to it but now the URL just brings up a message about no such server ever existing in any space-time continuum. Anyway, this page remained in my cache and I thought the Denizens would find it of interest ...
Now I know why Bill didn't hit on them - it wasn't because he thought they were carrying... it was Divine Intervention!
Anno Domine 2005, Cycle of Harmony 265
I really miss Effluvius. He was the funniest one of our team and he could come up with great names like Spreadsheet for Lt. Excelsius and I'm pretty sure he was the one who replaced Dolorius' wing powder with Extra Strength Gold Bond. I was thinking about him especially today because we got a special ops mission he would have loved. Seems our assigned human is just bound and determined to get into trouble even though his helicopters have been taken away (and that was a good thing 'cause Sgt. Carborundum was getting demonic around the edges close to the end there). So he figured out a way to get sent all the way out to where these two lady bloggers live and when Carbo heard that he did a one-jump launch and started spittin' coffee with the orders 'cause he was talking too fast to swallow.
It was really strange too because we have some new equipment, label says "PG-17a" and "BCR Laboratories" on the side and it went all spastic on us at the same time. (I didn't know robots went to Heaven but Dolorius says dogs do and why not robots?) Anyway, I get a case of the stupids and say something like we aren't the Morality Squad and don't they have their own GA details so Carbo has to pull my feathers out and douse me with poultry seasoning, pointing out we know *both* of them can place lead where they want it to go and did we really want to stand before a Board of Inquiry chorusing "I didn't know they were loaded"?
Point taken. Then the Ell-Tee wakes up and says maybe Tuttle will behave himself and man, it was funny how the whole squad found something else they just had to do right then. Carbo inhaled his coffee which was probably good even though he nearly choked 'cause he calmed down by the time he stopped coughing. Anyway even the Ell-Tee didn't really belive it either so we had to come up with a plan and I think we did a good job, that's what comes of working as a team for so long in a dangerous environment, it really makes you work together. We had it all covered. The long flight, switching the decaf and regular coffeepots, Incompatible File Formats, screwing up the meal schedule, even the weather. The best bit was Carbo hacking into the human's logistics systems and getting all the gear Tuttle was supposed to look at in three different places. He's mean, but he's good! And it worked -- he was too tired to hit on anything except his beer! Never seen him so well-behaved.
Non-denizens may find this confusing. You can catch up...
Here...
And here...
And here.
Now yer caught up on Guardian Angels.
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
LOL...now that is funny! So, basically bill was just too darn tired to hit on them because the divine intervention?
I always thought it would take an act of G*d.
by
kat-missouri on November 28, 2005 11:23 AM
Heh. I wondered why my boss was looking so confused during the trip. Carborundum--report to the Flight Surgeon to get your peepers checked! I shaved my mustache off *years* ago and you know darn well I'd never wear a purple tie.
And that new kid, Iridium, needs to brush up on his AFV ID--the whole time he was supposed to be shifting the Strykers around, he was struggling to move a bunch of M113 hulls from Range Control over to North Fort. Oh, and if he's gonna keep impersonating an E-5, he needs to learn some decent cusswords--"by Neddie Dingoes" and "oh, effluent" are dead giveaways...
by cw4(ret)billt on November 28, 2005 12:07 PM
Dang - you mean that we have the GA's to blame for clipping Chief(ret) Bill's wings? Thanks a bunch, how's a gurl supposed to have fun when the flyboy's instincts have been messed with, Huh?
Heh ...
by
Barb on November 28, 2005 9:56 PM
Gee, Barb, my instincts were *fine*--notice that I kept my hands in sight the entire time?
by cw4(ret)billt on November 28, 2005 11:20 PM
Oh, man! Too funny! ROFL
by
FbL on November 29, 2005 7:25 AM
*hairy eyeball aimed at fbl*
And just what's so rolling-on-the-floor funny about my hands, young lady, hmmmmmmm?
by cw4(ret)billt on November 29, 2005 7:37 AM
I don't know...
Come visit me so I can get a closer look, and maybe I'll tell you!
by
Fuzzybear Lioness on November 29, 2005 8:58 AM
Right.
"Step into my parlor," said the spiderlady to the flyboy...
by cw4(ret)billt on November 29, 2005 11:05 AM
Spider?! Wrong species, bud!
by
Fuzzybear Lioness on November 29, 2005 1:49 PM
Classical allusions, pussycat. Classical allusions...
by
John of Argghhh! on November 29, 2005 1:51 PM
Good grief, John! How uneducated do you think I am? :P
by
Fuzzybear Lioness on November 29, 2005 2:11 PM
Heh. My sister is married to a music teacher... ya *really* want me to answer that?
*armored shield comes down*
by
John of Argghhh! on November 29, 2005 2:41 PM
Obviously can't tell the difference between an education and a career, can you, John? :P
by
Fuzzybear Lioness on November 29, 2005 3:22 PM
Sure I can. I have *both*, fully paid for and paying well...
8^P Pppllllpppptttt!
by
John of Argghhh! on November 29, 2005 3:25 PM
Hey, hey, hey! Fight nice, you two!
Geez, leave 'em without adult supervision for ten minutes...
Ratz--now I gotta go find an adult, somewhere.
by cw4(ret)billt on November 29, 2005 3:33 PM
Okay, Gramps.
I'm sorry Fuzzy.
(digs toe in carpet)
by
John of Argghhh! on November 29, 2005 3:40 PM
Okay, Fuzzybee - your turn to make nice-nice.
C'mon
*tweaking fbl's pert li'l tenaciously-dimpled chin*
I don't have all
[*YOW!*]
Mmmmpf--nice *gasp* shoes...
by cw4(ret)billt on November 29, 2005 3:49 PM
LOL! Well done, both of you. :)
And btw, if you read closely you'll a couple of the fallacies of John's argument.
1. I never implied that a career and education were mutually exclusive.
2. One uneducated music teacher is nothing more than an anecdote, and shouldn't be broadly applied.
3. One of the biggest issues around music education is that many districts don't even require a music teacher to be certified in music. They can simply be certified in general elementary education, and are considered "qualified" for the position. Hence the rotten reputation of the qualifications/education of the average music teacher. In this case, you're addressing someone with a master's degree in her field and a large amount of un-required extra training. *smirk*
As to you brother-in-law, let me guess... union rep for his school? LOL! I'm not even a member. *GRIN*
[All in good fun, John. :)]
by
Fuzzybear Lioness on November 29, 2005 3:54 PM
Oh, and sorry for the snarky email I sent... *conciliatory smile*
Oops, gotta remember to hide the sharp teeth. *GRIN*
by
Fuzzybear Lioness on November 29, 2005 3:58 PM
*peering at above-posted comments*
It would appear that you would have benefitted from a quick class in English, too.
Not to mention *cough* proofreading...
*limping offstage*
by cw4(ret)billt on November 29, 2005 3:59 PM
Stick it in your ear, Chief. :P
by
Fuzzybear Lioness on November 29, 2005 4:05 PM
Oh, and speak for yourself. It's BENEFITED. :P
by
Fuzzybear Lioness on November 29, 2005 4:06 PM
Um, he was the Union President...
He's ABD in Music, and a Masters in Elem. Ed.
And he's really a pretty good teacher, but I wasn't going to let the truth get in the way of anything.
by
John of Argghhh! on November 29, 2005 4:09 PM
*gah-rinnnn!*
Figgered you wouldn't be able to resist that!
See how well you do when you're not wailing along at 120-words-per (with gusts to 150)?
by cw4(ret)billt on November 29, 2005 4:10 PM
*rolling eyes at Bill* And I'm surprised you can remember a thing like that, seeing how long it's been. *sulk*
by
FbL on November 29, 2005 6:27 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
October 12, 2005
Updating a post a little tiny bit...

That post being this one, where Blake expounds on stuff the Polish Army is taking home from Iraq.
I mentioned in that discussion the Skoda howitzer at Pinder Barracks, Zirndorf, Germany, my first duty station after my initial Army schooling. Reader but infrequent commenter Frank C. was a fellow-denizen of Pinder, we have exchanged TINS before. This week he provided scans of his pics of the gun in question! So here is a little, tiny slice of Pinder Barracks, now long since returned to the Germans. To them it was FlakKaserne Zirndorf, barracks for the local anti-aircraft units responsible for the southwestern sector of defense for the Nűrnberg-Fűrth region. It appears it's first US occupants (outside of the combat forces moving through the area at the end of the war) was a military police railway security battalion, the the 395th MP SV. Battalion, followed by the 16th Infantry Regiment. To me it was home to the 1st Battalion, 22nd Field Artillery, 6th Battalion, 14th Field Artillery, Headquarters and Headquarters Battery, 1st Armored Division Artillery, the 595th Military Police Company (we needed lots of supervision...) and the 156th Maintenance Company. After the 1st Tank Division moved out of that part of Germany, Pinder was briefly Headquarters AAFES-Europe (which had itself been moved from Munich).
Pinder has been mostly dismantled, though the signature tower and guard room remains - and it's now PinderPark... which is nice that Zirndorf kept the name, given that it was named for John J. Pinder, posthumous awardee of the Medal of Honor. It speaks well for our overall relationship with Zirndorf that they kept the name, I think.
*PINDER, JOHN J., JR.
Rank and organization: Technician Fifth Grade, U.S. Army, 16th Infantry, 1st Infantry Division. Place and date: Near Colleville-sur-Mer, France, 6 June 1944. Entered .service at: Burgettstown, Pa. Birth: McKees Rocks, Pa. G.O. No.: 1, 4 January 1945. Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty on 6 June 1944, near Colleville-sur-Mer, France. On D-day, Technician 5th Grade Pinder landed on the coast 100 yards off shore under devastating enemy machinegun and artillery fire which caused severe casualties among the boatload. Carrying a vitally important radio, he struggled towards shore in waist-deep water. Only a few yards from his craft he was hit by enemy fire and was gravely wounded. Technician 5th Grade Pinder never stopped. He made shore and delivered the radio. Refusing to take cover afforded, or to accept medical attention for his wounds, Technician 5th Grade Pinder, though terribly weakened by loss of blood and in fierce pain, on 3 occasions went into the fire-swept surf to salvage communication equipment. He recovered many vital parts and equipment, including another workable radio. On the 3rd trip he was again hit, suffering machinegun bullet wounds in the legs. Still this valiant soldier would not stop for rest or medical attention. Remaining exposed to heavy enemy fire, growing steadily weaker, he aided in establishing the vital radio communication on the beach. While so engaged this dauntless soldier was hit for the third time and killed. The indomitable courage and personal bravery of Technician 5th Grade Pinder was a magnificent inspiration to the men with whom he served.
And many, many thanks to Richard Lippmann, webmaster of Zirndorf, for his gesture of friendship to those of us who spent time living in Pinder and the surrounding area.
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
I spent an uneasy night in Zirndorf in late 1976, I think it was, when my buddy and I took a jeep from Erlangen and went first to a gasthaus in Illesheim for a legendary schnitzel and pommes fritz, thence to Zirndorf Kasserne where we slept in the jeep that night.
He was driving folks around in support of a Reforger or some big exercise, and had been given the weekend off, so he came and got me, and off we went. Ahh, those were the days--freewheeling around on the German countryside in green clothes, checking out the small towns and such. We even went so far as to put on jeans and T-shirts under our field jackets, so we could go inside places without problems, but that made me too nervous, so we switched back to fatigues. I didn't mind gtting caught screwing off, but I didn't want to be caught in civilian clothes in an Army jeep while screwing off.
Go figure.
That is one of my fonder memories of Germany, even though it was pretty dumb.
by SangerM on October 12, 2005 3:18 PM
One of the very worst milplaces I ever spent a night (beneath a solid roof, not a poncho-tent) was on the return trip from Boz, at a pit stop called Babhausen. The place was seriously in need of some "Whack-a-Mold" self-help. And that's not a misspelling of *mole,* either.
Geez, the Boz CONEX box I spent the winter in was cleaner...
by cw4(ret)billt on October 13, 2005 7:53 AM
And then there was the time we pulled into the railhead at Vilseck at about 2 AM, and the Geniuses In Command (TM) ordered us to go ahead and load and tie down each and every M109, M548, M577, gamma goat, jeep, and deuce-and-a-half in the unit.
Finally got about 2 hours of sleep, whereupon the German rail officials arrived, assessed the situation, and ordered us to untie everything and move them up about 2 inches.
Oh, I'm sure the difference was CRITICAL! It's not as if our "friends" in the Deutsches Bundesbahn would EVER screw with GI's, now, is it?
LOL
by fdcol63 on October 13, 2005 1:27 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
October 3, 2005
Getting to the fight, part 5.
Blake, retired soldier turned civil-servant-in-the-assault, reports in from "Somewhere Not In The USA." I can attest to the fact that the Army is getting serious about the OPSEC aspects of things (especially blogging) and have some pretty interesting briefs up (all FOUO or better, so I can't share) on *why* they are doing that. And some very good milbloggers we all know and like sadly figure prominently in those briefs (no, I won't name names except to say Argghhh! has not attracted any officially-mentioned attention - it's all deployed guys describing ops). My visit logs do show visits from the people who now monitor things like that, however. Which is okay, I don't think I've given away anything that wasn't already out there in wide distribution. Which means I've been scooped on stuff, but, hey - I'm *not* a reporter, nor do I play one on TV. And I didn't spend the night last night in a Holiday Inn Express, either. I *will* admit to being a journalist. In the original use of the term, one who writes a journal...
Anyway - on to Blake and his latest.
CENTCOM is getting a seriously serious case of the collywobbles about the potential for the Bad Guys in Iraq to make use of open-source
material about the war there (such as blog entries,) to improve the effectiveness of what they are doing. While a part of this is based on the calculus that if the Opposition might be able to do something, the prudent planner must assume that they can do it, and that they will do it, some of the briefs Ive been given with respect to some of what Ive been doing over here have given me pause, and Ive become extremely reluctant to discuss certain specific activities in real time, or to provide photos that could be used to identify a specific operating location. Ive concluded that Id rather seem boring than do something that would put our side at any increased risk.
So, suffice it to say that Ive spent a good chunk of the last ten days at a seaport somewhere around here, offloading a whole bunch of equipment, making sure those civilian mariners from MSC (pirates, the lot of them,) didnt trade our HMMWVs for beer in Gibraltar or something, and then arranging to move all this junk to our staging base, which as weve already noted, is right next door to the Ass End of Nowhere. (This also involved persuading one of our maintenance warrants that he couldnt just accidentally load a couple of cute little Navy arc-welders that were sitting in the yard looking lonely aboard a couple of our trucks... ...but thats a whole different story.) It involved a lot of long days, under unpleasant conditions (temps 120-130 degrees F, winds gusting to 30 knots, blowing sand, and so forth. But we did in fact get all our stuff accounted for and sent off to where it needs to be.
In lieu of interesting details, though, I offer the following:
True Tales of Horror from the Unit Movements Bidness, Part 1.
John keeps encouraging me to tell stories, observing that logistics is an essential part of any major military operation that seldom gets a lot of press coverage. The only problem I have with that is that a lot of the better stories I have to tell dont show the units Ive worked with in a very good light. You see, if everybody does everything right, there isnt much of an interesting story to tell. The equipment gets packed up; the rolling stock gets prepared; the necessary paperwork gets shuffled; everything gets put on the transportation, it all gets delivered, the unit unpacks its gear and loads up everything in a combat-ready configuration, and moves out smartly. Lots of work gets done, but
there's nothing all that interesting there...
Its when things DONT go right that the good stories emerge. Like the time I went to Honduras in 1985 as an acting platoon sergeant with D Co, 1-187 Inf. There we were, part of the worlds ONLY Air Assault division, engaged in a major multiservice, multinational exercise in northeast Honduras. And us with no helicopters... ...talk about embarrassing.
About two days before we left Fort Campbell, a UH-60 had come apart in mid-air over Fort Rucker, AL. (The UH-60 was still fairly new in 1985, and we hadn't gotten all of the bugs out of the system yet.) As a result, the entire UH-60 fleet, Army wide, was grounded until the safety gurus could determine what had happened and figure out how to prevent it from happening again. The day I landed at Golason AFB, (near La Cieba on the northern coast of Honduras,) an MH-47 of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment literally chopped itself into flinders on a taxiway at the airport at San Pedro Sula, Honduras. The rear rotor tilted forward well past its normal limits and started chewing its way down through the fuselage. (Nobody got hurt in this one: the pilots went out the front and the crew-chief and gunners went out the back.) But the entire CH-47/MH-47 fleet was grounded until, once more, the safety gurus could determine what had happened and figure out how to prevent it from happening again.
Which left us with precisely no helicopters with which to air assault into the exercise area.
Offshore we had a US Navy amphibious group with an embarked USMC Battalion Landing Team that included a helicopter carrier with a bunch of CH-46s and CH-53s. Heck, we could SEE the durned ships from some of the guard towers, and could count the number of helos on the flight deck if we were using binoculars. So Col. Dave Bramlett, our brigade commander, asked the Marines politely if we could borrow their helos and pilots long enough to deliver our troops to the field. The response was a study in obfuscatory language that boiled down to the fact that the Marines were not going to sully their precious Marine helicopeters by using them to carry Army grunts. Which left us little or no way to get over the mountains to where we were supposed to engage in quaint forms of folk-dancing with the Honduran Army and the United States Marines. Fortunately, we had both a smart transportation officer and a competent contracting officer along on our little tropical excursion.
Now, it is a little-known fact that when a classic American yellow school bus becomes a little long in the tooth, it generally gets sold to a used-bus wholesaler. A lot of these buses wind up getting sold to buyers in Central and South America, where they form an important part of the rural transportation system. A local entrepreneur will buy one of these old buses, install a roof-rack for luggage and an access ladder for the roof-rack, weld an extension on the exhaust pipe to facilitate fording rivers, obtain a concession from the government, and set himself up as a transit operator. Typically, the bus will start out in the early morning from some tiny village in the hinterlands and thereafter travels toward the principal city or town in the region, stopping in every little village and hamlet along the way to pick up passengers. Arriving in town about mid-morning, the driver will discharge his passengers, refuel the bus, and then wait at some designated location for his returning passengers. About mid-afternoon, with everyone loaded up, goats, chickens, piglets, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all, the driver starts the bus back up, and wends his way back into the countryside, dropping off passengers and livestock as he goes, until he eventually reaches his place of origin, where his route ends. And, as it happens, we found out that on any given day a number of these buses are available for private hire...
Which is how we wound up making the infamous 140-km-nap-of-the-earth-Trans-Sula-bus-assault-mission. 35-40 kph over gravel roads with the traditional 40 x 40 climate-control system. Yep. 40 open windows at 40 kph. And we werent the only traffic on the road, so dust was a constant companion. See the two accompanying photos taken during the bus assault
Even with all the dust it still beat walking
I hadnt really intended to tell that story here, but it does make the point that military transportation people dont get paid to tell units that we cant move something from where it is to where its needed. Which is how I wound up helping to airmail a water buffalo to Afghanistan about which more in a later installment.
Oooo. I can't wait for *that* one!
Parts 1, 2, and 3, 4, can be reached by clicking the respective numbers.
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
It took the Army over a week to admit to itself that a Black Hawk could go ka-blooey in mid-air.
And, during that week, the Rucker MPs were busily rounding up witnesses and explaining to them that they didn't really see what they'd reported seeing. One of them (a Warrant, naturally) asked, "So what *did* I see--swamp gas or the planet Venus?"
Safety Center was not amused...
by cw4(ret)billt on October 3, 2005 8:41 AM
2 thoughts:
1. Safety people, I have found, have no sense of humor and are therefore, never amused.
2. The same timeframe as mentioned above, I was living in Landstuhl Housing (while assigned to the 86TFW at Ramstein). My quarters were between the Hsopital helopad and the Army medivac unit's (UH-60s) ops area. I used to sit on my balcony and watch the choppers fly over to the helo pad to pick up patients. I told my cousin about this, who was a full-time guard technician at a unit that had just transitioned from the venerable UH-1 to the Blackhawk. He warned me that watching a Blackhawk in flight for more than 90 seconds could subject me to testifying to an accident board. He had been a crew chief on CH-47s in Nam and had worked the venerable Huey since joining the guard and was, aparently, not impressed with the Blackhawk, at the time. However, I am thankful to say, the Army did seem to get the bugs worked out (most of them anyway) as they are sure flying a lot of sorties here in Iraq with an outstanding safety record.
by Oldloadr on October 3, 2005 12:46 PM
Au contraire, us Safety types *do* have a sense of humor. We also have a sense of propriety, so we don't exercise the former at work, particularly when said work is poking through the aluminum mulch surrounding a smoking hole in the ground...
by cw4(ret)billt on October 3, 2005 2:25 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
October 1, 2005
TGISaturday...
...only one more workday in the week.
One of the advantages of this contractor gig is that I get to go places.
One of the disadvantages of this contractor gig is that the only places I get to go are military posts.
Not that Fort Polk in the aftermath of a hurricane and Fort Sill in the middle of a tornado alert and Fort Lewis under siege by pea-soup fog are devoid of charm, yunnerstand, but when the high point of the day is listening to Talk Radio in between meetings -- well, you get the picture.
With which I segue seamlessly into Johns Imperial Grunts mention last Sunday as being prologue to Michael Medveds interview with Robert Kaplan on Tuesday. And I actually came out of my jet-lagged stupor long enough to pay attention when Kaplan described some of the background action which led to his writing Imperial Grunts.
But I really perked up when Medved asked Kaplan what griped the troops the most; Kaplan answered, The restrictive Rules of Engagement and then went on to describe how exacting the troops had to be to avoid capping noncombatants caught in a firefight.
Heh. Wonder what hed think of this
The Aircraft Commander of any Army helicopter receiving fire will perform the following steps before initiating suppressive fire:
1) Positively identify the location of the fire.
2) Positively identify the location of the nearest friendly units.
3) Positively identify the location of the nearest friendly civilians.
4) Positively identify the location of the nearest neutral civilians.
5) Determine whether the type, accuracy or volume of fire warrants returning the fire.
6) If you have determined that you should return fire,
a) call Sector TOC with your aircraft identification, location, the type and volume of fire you are receiving, location of the source of the fire, the locations of 2, 3 and 4 (above), and request permission to return fire;
b) Sector TOC will relay the request to 164th Group headquarters by the most expeditious means;
c) 164th Group headquarters will notify First Aviation Brigade headquarters of the request;
d) First Aviation Brigade headquarters will relay the request to Corps headquarters, which will approve / disapprove the request and so inform First Aviation Brigade headquarters;
e) First Aviation Brigade will relay approval/disapproval to 164th Group headquarters;
f) 164th Group headquarters will relay approval / disapproval to Sector TOC;
g) Sector TOC will issue permission / denial of permission to return fire to the requesting aircraft.
Try doing all that between now and the time you finally run out of fuel.
If you think I exaggerated the preceding to illustrate just how restrictive the ROE could get, ask the next Vietnam Helicopter pilot you meet about the Rules. He should be able to rattle them off from memory, because they were taped to the instrument panel of every helicopter in Vietnam. Those rules were about as restrictive and tightly-controlled as you can get without having to call the Commander-in-Chief on the red phone for permission to shoot back; they were intended to completely eliminate both fratricide and civilian casualties.
But did they work?
TINS*! Continued in Flash Traffic/Extended Entry
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
Once upon a time, I got the mission of flushing a suspected VC staging area into an ambush which was being set up just outside my zones eastern boundary. A couple of minutes before midnight, in the southern sector of my zone, I spotted a cooking fire with several armed people sitting around it.
I knew exactly where we were, because Id been radar-vectored to the area and the orientation of the intersecting canals we called the Little Wagon Wheel were readily identifiable, even at night.
I called Sector TOC to report that we were on station and had a sighting.
I gave the 5th SF a Spot Report with a radar-confirmed 10-digit grid and said we were ready to rock n roll. Then, to the soothing sounds of the drum solo from In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida," we proceeded to rain Leaden Death on the wily foe a thousand feet below...
...for about three rounds. Then, the M-60 jammed.
The good news is that the couple of seconds it took to clear the jam was long enough for the Green Beanie ambush patrol leader to make a squeaky Gunship shooting up the Big Wagon Wheelcease fire! call on his RT-10.
The bad news is that we were firing up the Little Wagon Wheel
Seems the newbie Lootenant-in-Charge had decided to be sneaky and travel cross-country with his ambush patrol instead of following his briefed route, which was along the only north-south canal in the area and he meandered southwest instead of southeast.
Instead of arriving in his own sandbox, he and his team wound up about three klicks inside mine.
So, despite adhering to fairly restrictive Rules of Engagement, despite radar vectors to the target area, despite being over a radar-confirmed ten-digit grid in the middle of a Free-Fire Zone and despite having had a complete situation brief and FM / UHF / VHF commo with every TOC in the Plain of Reeds, there would have been a several more names on The Wall if it hadnt been for one twisted link in a 2500-round belt of machinegun ammo.
And it was ammo from a brand, new box.
Sometimes, Somebody Else amends the rules...
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Hmmmm. Tieing one hand behind your back to make it even?
by Boquisucio on October 1, 2005 8:37 AM
Help from above is always a good thing!
Good tunes fer shootin' to, though ;-)
by
Barb on October 1, 2005 9:44 AM
*double take*
Waitaminit! When were you at Fort Lewis??? Are you coming back???
by
Barb on October 1, 2005 9:53 AM
A good Crew Chief/Gunner could perform tasks numbered one through five in about the time it takes the human heart to beat twice, and act accordingly, giving the guys in the front plenty of time to execute tasks 6a through 6g at their leisure.
My "kid" is back in Indiana now, with Rules of Engagement stories of the new generation. I liked ours better.
by R Jewell on October 1, 2005 1:16 PM
Sometimes things happen to remind us all that, as much as we would like to believe it, we are NOT in charge of everything.
Sometimes it does take an Act of God to remind us of that fact.
by AFSister on October 1, 2005 9:01 PM
RJ - Betcha our "shortage stories" would top his: one C-rat had to last for three meals, undrinkable water and an ammo limit of 500 rounds per day. Urk.
Make sure you get your digs in between sips of beer by the fishin' hole, then the two of you can coordinate your stories about the big ones that chewed through the monofilament to get away...
by cw4(ret)billt on October 1, 2005 11:49 PM
Bill T, You guys in the Delta actually had one whole C Rat per day? Heck, as I remember it, back in '69 up in I Corps we had to make one last.............(insert outrageous claim here)
They have some good "shortage" stories too, among them "appropriating" gun mounts and other equipment, and use of '68 vintage 113's and "hillbilly armored" hummers.
The fishing/beer gig sounds good. Maybe we'll do that as soon as we surgically remove the 6 and 8 year olds that have permenantly attached themselves to his legs since he got home.
by R Jewell on October 3, 2005 9:36 AM
RJ - Yeah, we actually had a whole C for the day, but it was "Turkey or Chicken Loaf."
Kinda makes you wonder, since even the people who made it didn't know what it was...
Heh--surgery shouldn't be necessary; just play with 'em for about four months and they'll drop off to sleep on their own.
by cw4(ret)billt on October 3, 2005 10:21 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Oct 01, 2005
August 28, 2005
Hey, all you auld farts out there...
...doesn't this sound familiar? Edited because I'm not supposed to publish the details, so I went with a fill-in-the-blank format. And all we auld guys and gals in the service can fill in the blanks with no problem!
For those who don't know - welcome to a "Congressional". Disgruntled troop/family member/civilian you looked at funny on the street writes their congressperson about whatever. The legislator then sends a note to the Pentagon. And within 24 hours you are getting a phone call from higher, informing you that *you* have 24 hours to respond, hardcopy to follow. Most complaints are picayune, some are substantive, some are petty vengeances. All of them eat your time, and give you exposure you *don't* generally want. And then there's the ones that are inadvertent...
This was sent to me by a frequent commenter, regarding his son who is in service. The good details have been omitted to protect the innocent.
We talked to ___ on the phone today and there is a little interesting development regarding the [installation in an undisclosed place].
After the article came out in the [name deleted] newspaper he decided to send a copy to [Congressperson X] along with a short note explaining that he is from [location] and had voted for [Congressperson X].
It had been several weeks and _____ heard nothing back. Not even a short note saying thanks for writing. Well this week ____ came into [work] and the [senior non-com] looked at him and said We have to talk follow me to the [Boss's] office. ______ was wondering what had happened and what he had done wrong. The [Boss] then asked him what he had been up to and ______ was stumped. He then asked him what he had sent [Congressperson X] and ____ said he had just forwarded a copy of the news article. The [Boss] said No you didnt .. you also sent a paragraph along and I have a copy of what you wrote!
It seems that [Congressperson X's] office had contacted the [Supreme Leader of a US Armed Force} who had contacted the [Minion Flag Officer] in [undisclosed location], who had contacted [Senior Field Grade] in [another undisclosed location], who then called ______'s [Boss] in [the undisclosed duty station]. Basically after they had scared ____ to death the [Boss] then told him he hadnt written anything out of line since he blamed no one nor pointed fingers. The [Boss] told him officially that he shouldnt write any more letters or send any more emails but if he did he was to let the [Boss] know. Then the [Boss] said that officially higher ups were upset but that unofficially there were people in [Intermediate Headquarters] that would like to give _____ a medal.
In the end _____ wasnt in trouble but it seems that [US Armed Forces] officers (especially the [4-Bagger in Charge] dont like [Congresspersons] calling when they arent expecting it.
_____ says he doesnt want to see his name in print again for a long time. He says he doesnt want [Flag Officers] to know his name or even know he is in the [US Armed Forces].
Ha
Take care.
I will note that it is *borderline* illegal to tell a subordinate, "The [Boss] told him officially that he shouldnt write any more letters or send any more emails but if he did he was to let the [Boss] know."
It's an unenforceable order, too. Every citizen has the *right* to pester their representatives. But if yer a servicemember, just remember that if your chain of command is bad enough for you to need to write the congressperson, they probably are *also* not going to like the fact you did...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Writing a Congressperson or Senator regarding issues that should be addressed in the chain of command sounds like a good way to commit career suicide for a member of the armed forces, regardless of how needed it might be.
Yikes!
by
Jack on August 28, 2005 10:21 AM
It's amazing how fast a bureaucracy can move when it wants to!-as I recently learned. I asked a friend for some help; eighteen hours and one thrice-forwarded email later, I was awakened by a rather intimidating (to little ol' me) VIP from the other side of the country who changed things real quick. Quite a shock. I'm almost afraid to ask for help again, haha!
by
FbL on August 28, 2005 10:34 AM
My dad wrote President Reagan once about an incredibly raw deal my wife and I were getting when we were both in the military...unbeknownst to me. Next thing I know, dad's telling me what a great letter he got back from the WHite House.
"Oh, s**t. You did WHAT?!?"
He explained what he'd done.
To make a long story longer, the guy who dealt with the "Presidential" (little different from a Congressional) was in fighter assignments at Langley at the time and rectified the problem (and it was a screwup on the part of the AF Personnel Center's general officers). Anyway...he ended up being my Ops Officer at Suwon. I repeat, "Oh, s**t!"
He put my mind at ease first thing, when he found out we had a mutual "history." Bottom line, his entire shop was waiting for a Congressional. Nay, they were HOPING for one because the policy being implemented was rock-stoopid. My dad was the only one who bitched...but that's all they needed and the policy was reversed immediately. For what it's worth, it had no effect on my career whatsoever...my reasons for not making BG are all mine...heh.
by
Instapilot on August 28, 2005 10:59 AM
NB: I am careful about words. I used each one below intentionally:
In '85/86, I was being hounded by my immediate chain of command because I had decided to leave the Army before 20 years. I was called names by my SGM, insulted routinely by my company commander, accused of not being a "team player" by my Bde CO, so on. This may sound like an exaggeration, but I assure you, I am understating things.
For all of that, and in spite of my declared intention to ETS in 1987; I was scheduled for NCOES in 'mid-86. Seems having been the honor grad at the 1AD NCO academy (under CSM Kidd), and having had max NCOERs for some time, and having been a PSG for years as an E5 and E6, etc, merited such an honor. Problem was, my wife was pregnant, and since I was planning to leave the Army anyway, I tried to decline the school. I offered to sign a bar to reenlistment, or whatever the Army wanted. All that did was merit an in-crease in the abuse by my immediate chain of command, to the point that my Bn SGM (who had never spoken directly to me about any of this) declared me a dirtball.
Aaaahhh, I can hear you thinking, "well, there must have been some other issue, or maybe this guy was really just a problem child, and so on..." Think what you will, I have all of this documented, and in the end I was completely vindicated...
But anyway: Having exhausted ALL local options, I did two things. I wrote a letter to Senator Phil Graham of Texas and mailed it, then I made an appointment to see my Bn CO. In that meeting I gave a copy of the letter to the CO, and after his shocked "Have you mailed this already!?" I explained why I had written it, and so on.
The results? My Bn SGM finally decided to look at my personnel folder (and my I-love-me book) and declared he'd been wrong about me.. Imagine that. Also, Senator Graham con-tacted the Army, and some senior flunky officer at the Pentagon made the mistake of re-sponding with some snide, but no-so-true statements which I was able to refute easily, so that ultimately, the Army changed my school date to just before my ETS. Why? Well, I would have had to extend to go to the school, and since I wasn't willing, I was dropped from the roster.
But that wasn't the end of the story.
In early '87, several months after I signed that declination of intent to reenlist (not a bar, mind you), I got orders for Germany for June '87 (just months before my ETS date, and less than 2 years since I'd returned from there). I was told I had to extend or sign a bar to re-enlistment. I refused to sign anything, telling them I would go but I wouldn't extend to do so... This ended up going pretty high up the III Corp chain as I understand it, and I ended up having to take my BN SGM to Personnel with me; but finally the orders were re-scinded. Seems I should never have been given those, since I had already signed a dec-lination. Seems someone at MILPERCEN had originated that request especially for me. Imagine that.
In 1987, I ETS'd, finally, and all I can say is that if I were to base all of my feelings about the Army on my last two years in it, I would be truly bitter, and totally anti-Army. I will also say that but for Senator Graham, and the "Congressional" process, I would not have been at home when the events took place that ended in the stillbirth of my son.
'Nuff said.
-SangerM
by SangerM on August 28, 2005 11:20 AM
Gad, Sanger - I try to post a mostly-funny and it turns into tragedy...
Not my posting-day!
by
John of Argghhh! on August 28, 2005 11:26 AM
Well I used each word intentionally except for the Corp when I meant Corps. Stoopid spell checker...
by SangerM on August 28, 2005 11:28 AM
No, no, not a tragedy from your post... I regret it seemed that way. Point was, were it not for that process, things would have been so much worse for me than they were. I am a firm believer in Congressionals, and I think it is one of the things that make ours a better country, military, whatever. Sometimes, one just needs to be able to get powerful help...
Sure, yeah, the person needs to exhaust all local means, and I did that, which is what gave me the moral high ground, and why the guy at DA wade such a fool of himself. I kept records, etc....
BTW, I still have all the letters and etc that went back and forth. Sometimes, I like to read them so I can live again the thrill of victory. Yeah, right.... I wish I had never had to do that, but in the end it worked out ok.
And that was the point of what I wrote...
V/R
SangerM
by SangerM on August 28, 2005 11:35 AM
In 1978, the NCOs in my branch petitioned all of our congressmen over a particular Captain. About 6 months before, we had participated in an AF experiment named Salty Demo. This Captain had gone around telling all of us Load Crew Chiefs to not worry about the book, just speed and don't hurt anybody. Well, the experiment looked great and everybody was happy, but a couple of months later we got our ORI (Operational Readiness Inspection) and the USAFE IG members wrote up a couple of our brethren for flagrant tech data violations. Mostly, for not rejecting the worn out, beat up, air to air missile delivered to them (remember the Carter years). Well, this Captain denied ever telling is to take short cuts and advised the commander to offer article 15s to the individuals. The next month, we had an exercise and we all went strictly by the book. Four hours after start-X, we had 2 jets loaded for air-air. The Wing CC cancelled the exercise and called all of the Weapons NCOs to the base theater to find out what was going on. Of course he felt compelled to chew our collective ass for a while. Anyway, when we got back the shop, we sent letters to our individual reps and the chairmen of both armed services committees. A plane from DC landed a few weeks later and some of us were called in to talk to the investigators, and as far as we knew, that was the end of it. Fast forward to 1986, Im now at Ramstein (and a TSgt) and the CMSgt Im under (who was also involved with the congressional) comes back to the section from the dental clinic one day and hollers in to me, Hey, get in here! I go in his office and he says, I saw Capt. _____ at the dental clinic; only hes not a Captain any more, hes wearing SSgt stripesyou outrank him! Moral of the story, justice is sometimes slow, but it comes.
by Oldloadr on August 28, 2005 11:41 AM
Oldloadr,
So you were in Salty Demo?
"I am not worthy...I am not worthy."
...says this old Spang' Hog driver.
SD was well before my time, but it's still a legend.
by
Instapilot on August 28, 2005 5:15 PM
Actually, I was in both Salty Rooster and Salty Demo. One was at Hahn and the other at Spang. Just lucky, I guess...
by oldloadr on August 29, 2005 7:08 AM
Well, you also have to wonder about battalion commanders who claim bragging rights to having had 'more congressionals since I became
a battalion commander than when I was a company commander...'
Or brigade commanders who give 45 minute power point slide presentations on their resume at the change of command, the brigade staff meeting and the FRG meeting...
SangerM, you are a fine person and I agree with you about appropriate use of the chain for being there when needed.
I am so sorry for your loss.
by Cricket on August 29, 2005 12:20 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
June 14, 2005
Guest Post : A TINS*!
SangerM has few rantpeers in the blogosphere. He is also a TINS aficionado, both reading and recounting. He sent me this example a couple of days ago. If you ever thought the crewchief of an Army helicopter boring holes in the peacetime skies had a sweet deal, read on.
Not recommended for the underaged, the nervous, or the terminally queasy...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
How I got my first Civilian Job.
It was the throwing up that did it.
In 1984 I was put in charge of a helicopter platoon. The platoon consisted of three old, but highly modified Huey helicopters. The equipment on board was designed to intercept, record, and if desired, jam the living daylights out of enemy radio transmissions. That two of the helicopters had actually been shot down in Vietnam (we had the log books to prove it) might give you some idea of how old, and how modified, these birds were. They were called "Quickfix" helicopters.
As a bona fide crewmember on an Army aircraft I was qualified to receive flight incentive pay, and to wear the coveted wings, as long as I managed to spend at least 4 hours per month in the air doing my job. This meant that I had to fly around in one of the crewmember seats listening to and tuning the radio, recording voice conversations, and so on, even if the flight was only for training. And believe me, 4 hours is a lot of time to accumulate in a month when there are 12 of you who need to get the time, only 2 seats in each aircraft, and there are no training exercises planned for the next two months. During an exercise we could each rack up 12-20 hours, but time does pass quickly, and it is important to take your flights when you can.
So it was that one day, a Major E. needed to get a check ride in a Quickfix helicopter. He was over from the states, and figured it would be as good a time as any to do his annual check ride, since we had a bona fide test pilot in our company. So the warrant officer and Major E. were going to go up. I asked if I could go too. No sweat, but hurry because launch is in about 20 minutes. They went off to pre-flight and I went off to change.
I kept a flight suit at work for just such an occasion, and in no time I was off. Being in a hurry, however, I made one of the biggest tactical errors of my entire life. I ran out to the helicopter with only my helmet. I did not wear my vest or take my helmet bag. This was the mistake. Why? Well, I get airsick. And I always carried a couple of ziplock bags in my helmet bag or in my pockets, or in my vest, so that I could do what I needed to, and not make everyone else miserable.
See, in the Quickfix birds, the crew members sit in high, padded, forward-facing seats, looking at a rack of equipment that stretches nearly to the top of the crew cabin. We could not see forward. Also, because the seats are so high, the top of the side-door windows come to about shoulder level, which means we could only see down, not out to the horizon. And a horizon is what I need to keep from getting sick. Also, we were not allowed to take dramamine or other chemicals when flying, and I did not know about ginger, so I paid for my love affair with helicopters almost every time I got in one.
This was a recipe for disaster.
About an hour into the flight, the Major called back over the intercom and asked me to look out the windows for an F-4 that was in the area. He wanted me to be an extra pair of eyes. No big deal, except I then did something that no one with experience would ever have done. I bent over forward in my seat and turned my head left then right to look out the windows. When I didn't see anything, I sat back up quickly. THAT was the mistake!
At that moment, time slowed to a crawl as my mind raced through the options. I knew I was going to barf in less than ten seconds. I did not however, have anything to barf into. Nothing! So I had three choices: I could barf on the floor, I could barf on the equipment racks (keyboards, radios, computers, etc.), or I could barf down the inside of my flight suit. Not much choice there, actually. I did not want to have to clean up the helicopter when we got back, so I pulled the neck of my T-shirt way out, and I barfed.
I hear you all going. Ughhhhhhh!
IT. WAS. GOD-AWFUL! AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHH!!!!
But it was done. So I carefully tightened and closed the Velcro fastener at my neck, and I leaned back in the seat and tried to think myself somewhere else. I even managed to tell the Major that I hadn't seen the F-4, but I did not mention my accident because I was embarrassed.
The next 20 minutes were awful, but the worst had actually passed. Or so I thought. It was not an unpleasant flight back to the field, but as we approached I remembered that we always topped off the fuel tanks upon return, and it was the job of the crewmember to do fire guard. Now this is a dumb-guy job, but it is important. The aircraft sits on the pad, running. Blades spinning at idle. The pilots remain at the controls while a fuel jockey connects a hose and does his job. And a crew member stands off to the side with a medium size fire extinguisher in hand. This is not to put out a burning helicopter, but to put out burning people. Really. If a fire starts, the fireguard is to help the pilots and the fueler get away from the plane. As I was the only crewmember on this flight, it was my turn.
Did I mention my flight suit was one of those sleek, one piece green things worn by every aviator in the Army? And did I mention that I wore my t-shirt outside my boxer shorts? Well, it was and I did, which meant that standing and walking was going to be ugly. So, I called up to the front and asked if they would be willing to drop me off at the hanger before they fueled up. But I didn't mention why (I couldn't bring myself to admit it), so they said no. Great.
Minutes later I was standing there, freezing in the rotor wash, holding the fire extinguisher nozzle in my left hand, and holding my right arm across my stomach. The front of me was a big wet circle that stretched from my chest to my thighs. And my misery was compounded when I saw the Major point me out to the test pilot, who started laughing himself silly.
After I climbed back in and got buckled up so we could go park the helicopter, the Major called back and told me that I should have said something. This was a helicopter after all, and he could have landed it anywhere to let me take a leak. To which I responded by telling him what really happened.
Stunned silence. No response. I saw the two of them look at one another in disbelief. Then the Major calls back and says, "You are one tough son-of-a-bitch." Then the two of them just laughed their asses off. I was not laughing.
After we got back, I went straight to the showers. I got undressed in the shower, and I washed up for at least 20 minutes. When I got out, I threw away my underwear and my socks. The flight suit never did lose the smell, no matter how many times I washed it, so I got it DX'd for a torn zipper. I walked back through the hanger to my office buck naked; I didn't care who saw me, but fortunately it was late in the day, and none of the women were present.
That night, we were having a going away party for the Major at a local gasthaus. I was not the first to arrive, so when I walked in the door, I was greeted with hoots and cheers, and I took a ribbing for that for the rest of the night. Thrills.
Now zip ahead two years or so. I am in the S-3 of an aviation battalion in Texas. I am the only one in the office, as I had decided to work through lunch. The phone rings, so I answered it, which the secretary would have done otherwise. It was, to my surprise, a colonel who I knew worked with Major E. I introduced myself and asked if knew where Major E. was. Yes, the now-Lt. Colonel was in Texas on another project, and he gave me his number.
Later, I called E., to see if he had any leads on jobs, since I was getting out of the Army in September of that year. He remembered me explicitly, we had a few laughs, and he gave me the name and number of a fellow in Virginia who might be interested in my skills and experience.
The following February, I started working for that fellow in Virginia. I was told I came with the highest recommendation as a person who could think quickly and who could make tough decisions. Right.
And THAT's how I got my first ever civilian job.
WARNING WARNING WARNING! Seriously disturbed and stomach-churning comments below. Peruse at own risk! Must have barf bag handy! Management not responsible for patrons choking or slipping on vomit... Enter at own risk.
Geez, Argghhh!!! has jumped the snark. Interservice vomit-rivalry. Thanks, guys. I am *soooo* proud!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Hey! We spell it Argghhh!, mebbe Argghhh!!!, 'round here!
by
John of Argghhh! on June 14, 2005 5:05 AM
Yeah, but that was how he pronounced it back then.
Least ya didn't call the site "HUUUURRRRLLLLL"...
by cw4(ret)billt on June 14, 2005 5:54 AM
Excellent TINS! Is it a personal story of Sanger, or one he collected?
by Fuzzybear Lioness on June 14, 2005 10:07 AM
That is 100% Sanger. No doubts.
by
John of Argghhh! on June 14, 2005 10:11 AM
Yep, it's me. 100% Though I Wish't it weren't, for reasons I am sure you can guess....
argghhh, the memories.... Still Yucch!
by SangerM on June 14, 2005 10:23 AM
Quick thinking indeed, Sanger.
Reminds me of the time it happened to me, in a tank in Germany- and all I could grab it time was my own CVC helmet.
That got DXed, too... heh
by Neffi on June 14, 2005 10:38 AM
I'll refrain from the "grunt-perspected" observations, and express my admiration for an immeadiate plan of action in a dire situation...
Sometimes you do what you've got to do...
Hard Corps, amigo...
by Sgt. B. on June 14, 2005 10:41 AM
Very impressive, Sanger. But... Blech!!! *shudder*
by Fuzzybear Lioness on June 14, 2005 11:09 AM
Listen, I know this'll sound like so much crapola, but my one and only knickname in the Army was, for some time, Sgt Rock. You hadda know the comic book to appreciate this I suppose. I wasn't really (I mean, who could be?!), but I did have a reputation for doing stuff the hard and mean way. And for being able to convince other people to do things they didn't always want to do.
This was so true that while many of my superiors found me a tad hard to deal with sometimes, I was almost universally the person they assigned to those tasks that needed someone's leg chewed off.
I may not have a lot of raw talent, but one thing I really am very good at (must be the ADD) is getting right to the heart of a problem and grinding away at it until it isn't a problem anymore, and in some cases until it isn't even recognizable as a former problem. Sometimes that causes collateral damage, sometimes it doesn't. Not my problem, mostly.
That's how I used to approach everything--as a problem to solve. I've learned that's not always the right approach, but it sure helped keep me in the mode of making and executing hard decisions in a hurry. If I'd hesitated that day, the results would have been far worse.
As Sgt B said, "sometimes you do what you've got to do..."
(and I could segue into a serious discussion here about integrity, training, manhood, and all that, but this started out as a discussion about barf, so I'll just not... :-)
BTW, if you want to know just how really tough that was, ask me what I'd eaten just about an hour before the flight. Yum. Both times.
:-D
by SangerM on June 14, 2005 11:32 AM
Time for a Mommy TINS.....
My children are not known for their rock-hard stomachs. They inherited their Mother's skill and enthusiam for a good hurl. Hey- they didn't call me "Pukey Anna" as a little girl for nothing! Anyway.....
One night, when Kevin was 2 1/2, he started coughing in his sleep. Knowing the sound of the cough, I figured he'd be decorating the sheets pretty soon, so I went to check on him. Children have the amazing ability to sleep through just about anything- including coughing fits. He was resting peacefully when I got to his room. It was dark, but I could see his cute little silhouette on the bed, all curled up asleep.
I walked over to his bed to get a closer look, bent down, and kissed his cheek ('cuz Mommy lips are the best thermometer in the world, you know). I started to stand back up and went "What THE.... OH GROSSSSS" He had thrown up on his pillow, and rolled his angelic little face in it. The same angelic little face I had just KISSED.
YUCK YUCK YUCK.... and a few ICKY's thrown in for good measure. You think your own spew tastes gross? Try someone else's and then we'll talk. OOGIE ICKY YUCK
by AFSister on June 14, 2005 11:33 AM
AFSis, you got me there... I've got a barfing child as well, and after about the 5th time she got me instead of Mom or anyone else, I got tagged as "Barf Parent." Even so, I never got any in my mouth that wasn't mine...
Eeewwwwwwwwwww
by SangerM on June 14, 2005 11:38 AM
Okay, that's it. AFSis can't post anymore. Ewwww!
by
John of Argghhh! on June 14, 2005 11:42 AM
MAWK and Were-Kitten can post, but AFSis is *banned*! At least from TINS like that.
Geez, woman!
by
John of Argghhh! on June 14, 2005 11:49 AM
Good tale, Sanger - but EEeeewww ... and Yuck!
by
Barb on June 14, 2005 11:58 AM
*laughing*
Banned from TINS? I thought that was impossible...
Sanger- I'll share that "barf parent" title with you. It's well deserved!
by AFSister on June 14, 2005 12:19 PM
Great tale. But, not quite up to the standard of a Marine A-6 B/N I was friends with in the early 90s. We were both Fleet Replacements on a WEPSDET to El Centro, CA. On this particularly warm sunny day, the det was working on its 40 degree dive deliveries, a manual delivery much in vogue before precision guided munitions took over the world.
Anyways, the pattern runs at 12000' AGL with a 4G turn and pull down into the delivery run and an equally hard recovery pull at the bottom. Since it is all manual by the numbers, B/Ns are more safety observers - calling altitudes, keeping traffic in sight, handling radios. They get yanked around without too much to focus on inside the cockpit. Replacement pilots flew with instructor B/Ns and vice versa.
1LT M. was with a particularly agressive instructor pilot in the heated greenhouse that was the Intruder cockpit. On about the 10th dive, 1LT M. informed his pilot that he was not feeling well. When asked whether to abort the run, 1LT M., in the finest tradition of the Corps, responded with a continue call. As the pilot leveled the wings on the run-in line, a glance at 1LT M. revealed vomit erupting from the oxygen mask relief valve that ringed the hose-mask connection. The pilot dropped his bomb and started the climb up out of the dive pattern to the pattern safety altitude. Very quickly, 1LT M. got on the ICS and said that he was OK to continue. Mystified, the pilot asked how he had managed to clear the vomit in his mask without taking it off. 1LT M. simply stated that he had swallowed everything back out of his O2 mask. That, ladies and gentlemen, with several more runs to make is the definition of a Marine. As a former Navy attack puke, this story still makes me shudder.
by Chuck on June 14, 2005 12:24 PM
Chuck-
That is nasty, baby.... but it's still not someone else's barf..... (see above)
by AFSister on June 14, 2005 12:38 PM
!!!Chuck!!!
Ok, ok, ok! That wins hands down! I bow to the superior barf TINS
RLOL!!!
And that would make it three times to my twice, PLUS he had to smell it the whole time. Holy cow!! That guy was tougher than I could ever be...
Semper Fi!
by SangerM on June 14, 2005 12:51 PM
AFSis - Concur!! That sounds like Spinal Tap: drummer drowns in vomit, but authorities not sure that it was his own because they can't figerprint vomit...
by Chuck on June 14, 2005 12:54 PM
But, it goes to eleven, Chuck. (in my best fake British accent)
Nothing like a barf story one-upper day! "This one time... in band camp...." LOL
Oh, and we're getting more rain. I wonder if the back door is a waterfall again.... *grumble*
by AFSister on June 14, 2005 12:59 PM
Great warning, John! (ROTFLOL!!)
by Fuzzybear Lioness on June 14, 2005 2:49 PM
*Preen*
I'm so glad you're proud of us John... It's nice to be appreciated.
*big grin*
by AFSister on June 14, 2005 3:34 PM
Chuck - I have to award you the prize for that one. Ack!
AFSis - Your story is good, chickie, but for sheer endurance I have to go with Chuck, sorry ;-)
by
Barb on June 14, 2005 5:39 PM
Heh, not Military in nature but i've got one from the other end of the spectrum for you. Self-induced even.
When we bought our house, it had an old hot-tub attached to the deck in the back. When I tried to revive it, as it had been unused for a year because some pipes broke and froze, there was a lot of cleanup because it had been totally neglected.
Once i'd repaired the pipes full cleanup begain in earnest. In the pit where the filters sit, there was stagnant old hot-tub water. Water that not only had various organisms living in it, hair (not ours), dead bugs, etc, but it was also the year old unfiltered water from the hot tub when used by OTHER PEOPLE.
I dunno what you people do in hottubs, but I know what I do in hot tubs... In my experience they tend to be nookie magnets.
Anyhoo, you can probably imagine how foul that water is. So in my infinite wisdom, instead of digging out one of the fish tank lines that are clear so you can see where the water is as you siphon it out... I opted for a green garden hose.
At first I was very careful, trying to hit that break-even point without getting any on me. After about five minutes of failing to get it right, I decided i'd just give it a big 'ol heave and duck out of the way. Bad idea. Ended up with about 2-3 mouthfuls of water, and only one mouth for it to fit in, and the hatch was open, so not only am I trying to get the hose away from me, but i'm less focused on keeping the water out completely than I am on just keeping it out of my lungs. So, down the hatch a significant amount of it went.
Panic sets in, and I immeditately go to work trying to eliminate the contents of my stomach. Unfortunately, i'm not very good at that. I can count the number of times i've vomited in my LIFE on one hand. My plumbing does not easily reverse itself.
After about a half hour of self-induced agony, FINALLY the gates opened up and I managed to get it, and dinner out in the lawn. Worst. Thing. Ever.
And the net result? My stomach muscles hurt so bad the next day from dry heaving for a half hour, that on mature consideration, I should have just sucked it up and gone inside to brush my teeth and tried to forget it ever happened...
My brother claims siphoning Diesel is worse, but i'm skeptical..
by MCart on June 14, 2005 6:42 PM
Oh for pity's sake, MCart. Please? Didjoo hafta go down that nookie path?
I'm about ready to shut the comments down.
Eeeeeeee!
by
John of Argghhh! on June 14, 2005 6:44 PM
If it's too risque, you're welcome to cut that paragraph.. Possible the horror will be obvious without it. :)
It was also an assumption, but probably a safe assumption...
by MCart on June 14, 2005 6:56 PM
Barb-
Chuck's got me beat for endurance for sure...the more I think about it, the more I DON'T want to think about it..... *chuckle*
by AFSister on June 14, 2005 7:28 PM
"There are only two types of Airmen: those who have puked aboard the aircraft and those who will."
For being a nervous puker all my life, I've never needed to make use of the bags while airborne, even while the guy next to me was ralphing up a 1 lb. bag of M&Ms during a summertime aerial refueling. I don't know why...I tossed my cookies *before* every single one of my training flights, but after passing my eval, the inside of the Bird became part of my comfort zone. If I ever was to puke on the plane, it should have been while pasted to the side window by G-Forces while the pilot was trying to shake a Red force bogey. But I was having too much fun.
by
cowboy blob on June 14, 2005 9:04 PM
MCart, glad to hear you got a finger on the problem... heh
by Brucie on June 14, 2005 9:19 PM
My TINS on the subject - never had the a/c experience, for some reason the AUF doing their pilot thing never upset me to the puking point (even when lying down on the deck of a Huey, looking straight down between my feet at triple canopy jungle during training in Panama), but firefighting was another thing.
You know the airpacks firefighters wear, that make the "Darth Vadar" kind of noise when they breath? It is real, real important to get a good, tight seal on them BEFORE you enter the burning building, as you really don't want to get a lungful of what is in there. After you get a good seal, then you pull a hood over the strap assembly, and cinch the helmet down pretty secure over the whole arrangement, making it a several-step procedure to rip it off your face.
We had just finished a low country boil (shrimp, crab, onions, potatoes, corn and whatnot all boiled together - delicious!) at the station, and got rung out on a "good, snot-wringing" fire call, where we had a three-room involvement in a large, complex resort hotel, requiring a long hump up several stairs and hauling hose down several long corridors, all while packed out. I got tired and hot, things started burbling, and as I was backing up the nozzleman (you lean into him and pull as much slack off the hose as you can, to make his job easier), I didn't have a hand free to pull one side off the mask off when the safety valve (aka stomach) opened up. Not only did I then have a mask full of partially digested fish stuff, as well as a nose and mouth full, chunky parts had jammed down in the exhaust valve, making the mask overpressurize in short order. Nothing really dramatic happened, but it was a completely unpleasant experience feeling Chunky Particals jamming further up your nose and back down your throat, and Liquid Bits spraying around the nosepiece into my eyes and down on my neck. All the time working to put out the blasted fire, too.
Cleaning up was a long, sad experience.
Fun alternate TINS was while diving with a bunch of open-water scuba students off Ft. Lauderdale. Several had down the Stupid College Kid thing the night before, and were looking a bit green well before we dived. Big Fun time came while we were diving on a shallow reef - one kid suddenly jerked back, his eyes bugged out, and Big Chunky Particles came shooting out his exhaust port - which are MUCH bigger than firefighting masks! The local fish population was delighted, as well.
by John the Baptist on June 14, 2005 10:05 PM
Ok ok...
My wife has given permission to post this. Not as intensely heroic or gross as some of the above, but noteworthy for the sheer magnitude...
When she was a child, she and four of her siblings were home alone in a 2-story house near Flagstaff. Her parents were playing cards at a friend's house.
At some point, one of the girls pulls a big ugly booger out of her nose and waves it in the face of the only boy in the family, who promptly upchucks.
This caused the booger girl to do the same. One of the other girls comes running and seeing this, joins them, but in a different direction. The noise draws the last two, who also join in the barf-o-rama. Five children all barfing. In every direction. Upstairs, downstairs, even on the front porch. This went on for some time, each new wave leading to another.
The oldest calls and reports the barf-fest to Mom & Dad, who rush home to find nearly the entire house befouled. When they found out it started with a booger, things got a bit dicey, but the worst punishment was that all the siblings had to help clean it up (which of course caused an occasional relapse).
The best part is that the boy had a well earned reputation for his gross-out antics--he would put nearly anything in his mouth or his nose, or wherever. It seems, however, that he could handle his own gross stuff, but not someone else's.
Today, he's living in China, eating fish, cat, silkworms, and whatever else someone offers him. He says the cat is pretty good.
But I bet he still can't abide boogers.
:-)
Nuff 'o that!
by SangerM on June 14, 2005 10:38 PM
Oi. From interservice barf competitions, we've degraded to family.
I surrender.
by
John of Argghhh! on June 14, 2005 10:51 PM
The only thing I can add is: Don't ever eat cheddar cheese soup before going out on a cheap red wine p*ss up..Then after you do that ,don't trip over the comforter when the ceiling starts spinning later. Then really,really don't fumble with the doorknob(shall we say,cause it's all slippery by this point).And really,really ,REALLY think up a good explanation the next afternoon when your beloved to be comes over to see how you enjoyed the comforter her Grandmother handmade for our wedding present.(said "to be" part accounts for the cheap red wine indulgence)
by big al on June 14, 2005 11:17 PM
Sanger-
That was noteworthy for magnitude and comic relief.... HILARIOUS!
And JtB- that is NASTY. Funny as hell too... I've got some firefighter friends who will get real kick outta that one!
*strolls out of room... giggling and supressing sympathy barf button i am dangerously close to triggering*
by AFSister on June 15, 2005 3:21 PM
Let's just throw up - sorry - in the stories of the Medics and Corpsmen who, while performing mouth to mouth on a casualty, ends up helping the poor person digest part of his last meal! (Heard about this in CERT Training...)
Oh yeah, gotta love the "Vomit Comment" string...
Okay, now that we have it out of our collective systems...
*eeeeeuuuuuccchhh*
by
Sgt. B. on June 15, 2005 5:05 PM
Well, I never had that there MMR vaccine, with the thimerosal or whatever. I was weird to start with. I got my Measles immunity the old-fashioned way, by catching the measles.
It gave me a well-learned revulsion for Campbell's Tomato Soup which lasts to this day. My Mom fed it to me when I was sick with the measles, and when I vomited it back up, some of it came out through my nose. She always put milk in it, too. Dang, don't get me wrong, I do miss my Mom, but I do wish she hadn't fed me that.
by Justthisguy on June 19, 2005 6:53 PM
Sometimes I think, that if you take a sniff inside a military airplane which has been kept in a damp, shady place, that you are likely to smell vomit, and anxiety-sweat.
Presumably the ones which smell like pee and poo don't exist, having ended up as the proverbial smoking holes in the ground.
But then, I dunno, never having done it myself. From my reading of history, loose bowels seem to be the commonest complaint of soldiers, all through known history.
Why confine our Eww Gross stories to the upper end of the GI tract?
After all, and I guaran-dang-tee you, if you live long enough, you answer as Senator Dole did.
Q. Senator, do you wear boxers, or briefs?
A. Depends.
by Justthisguy on June 19, 2005 7:20 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
Jun 14, 2005
�
There's One, Only! links with:
Oooh... Urk*
May 23, 2005
TINS! You picked it
6. Sir? The worlds biggest tracer just came offa Nui Coto an -- geez, its following us! -- my introduction to the game of helicopter vs. heat-seeking missile. I won. Barely.
Mightve guessed you guys would pick one of the longer ones
We were playing the usual Nighthawk game of lone Huey annoying the neighbors and had just finished beating up some infiltrators with more guts than brains. Wed picked them up while they were still in Cambodia, then lazed around at 1,500 feet until they crossed the border and made the particularly foolish mistake of skirting a patch of woods rather than seeking cover in it when we flew over.
It was dark, but not so dark that we couldnt see them -- the other mistake they made was not extinguishing their lanterns. They didnt need them, once we dropped to 500 feet and turned on the million-candlepower xenon light
Afterwards, I decided to break early for fuel and re-arm and I headed south, still at 500 feet, sweeping the canals with the xenon for a while, then ordered it turned off as we approached Nui Coto. The usual situation on the mountains in the Delta was that we owned the bottom and (sometimes) the top, and the bad guys (a mixed bag of VC and NVA) owned everything in between. Nui Coto was different -- the bad guys owned the whole thing.
As we drew abeam the eastern slope, my crewchief hollered, Sir? The worlds biggest tracer just came offa Nui Coto an -- geez, its following us! Now, tracers will drift as youre watching them, but they dont make curving turns to follow you. One thing which will, though, is a heat-seeker. In this case, an SA-7. A Strela.
Continued in Flash Traffic.
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
A bit of background: since we had no pilots with actual experience dodging missiles in my outfit, wed only talked about our options in the event that we were engaged. We decided that the same tactics we used against radar-directed guns would work; either break the lock by putting something solid between the incoming present and the helicopter or make a 90 turn accompanied by a radical change in altitude, invariably a dive. A Huey cant outclimb a 37mm shell, but with a scared pilot at the controls, Hubert will out-dive a greased dump truck.
Back to the moment, frozen in time, when my crewchief hollered. I was faced with two clear-cut choices:
a. stay at altitude and definitely die when the missile hit or
b. go for the ground and possibly die when the bad guys down there opened fire.
A no-brainer. Less than a second after the crewchief yelled, I lowered the collective (i.e., entered a power-on autorotation) and dumped the nose.
We left a hole in the air at 500 feet.
Full suppression left and right. Shoot at the treelines and anything else you see down there -- I want whoevers below us to think weve spotted them and were coming down to bust em! Thought Id hedge the bets for option b.
An SA-7 travels at mach 1.4, roughly 1,600 feet per second.
A falling Huey drops in excess of 3,000 feet per minute, roughly 50 feet per second.
Since we were about four klicks from Nui Coto, that meant the missile now had to to travel less than 10 seconds to reach us.
And, since I had been at 500 feet and the trees were roughly forty feet high, that meant that I, too, had less than 10 seconds to reach treetop altitude.
The problem was, if we arrived at terra firma still descending at 3,000 feet per minute -- can you say, Squashed flat on impact? I had to turn the dive into level flight at some point or Id do the missiles job for it.
By the way, did I mention it was dark?
My attention was glued to the outside world and my Peter Pilots eyes were glued to the altimeter, calling out our altitude in 50-foot increments. I saw the treeline below me just as he said, Two-hundred feet, still descending. I jinked left to get on the far side of it and increased collective, adding pitch to the rotor system.
A couple of seonds later, two things occurred simultaneously:
a. we were in level flight again, screaming below the treetops to our right and
b. the missile impacted on the other side of the treeline.
I keyed the intercom and said, Cease fire. I think weve had enough fun for tonight. Were going home.
Nobody argued.
I turned the controls over to my Peter Pilot and just sat back in my seat, wondering how the Strela shooter had gotten a lock on us. We were blacked out -- he shouldnt have even seen us. Uh, oh -- the xenon light. Wed been using it, and only turned it off as we were approaching Nui Coto.
The xenon light got so hot, it glows for about a minute. It must have looked like the noonday sun to the IR tracker
Oh, yeah. The SA-7 slant range is a bit over four klicks, and we were roughly four klicks from the mountain when it impacted. So, did my anti-missile maneuver trick it into the treeline, or did it just run out of steam and crash?
Heh. Can you say, The answer is irrelevant?
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
I for one am glad that we are not going to have a winnie roast anytime soon.
Mine hat doth doff on to you.
by Boquisucio on May 23, 2005 8:29 AM
I can vouch for how quickly a Huey can hit the deck. Bottom collective, nose over and kick the bitch outta trim. I never had a missile fired at me, but after it had happenend a few times in that AO, I recall we were told to up the volume on the Fox Mike and listen for a series of beeps. When we heard them to turn 90 degs and hit the deck. Night Hawk never had a dull moment. Ask Bill to tell you about Moc Hoa Mary or was it Sally?
29 out.
by Vulture 29 on May 23, 2005 12:20 PM
damn Bill.... You really put the GA's through a workout that night!
by Were-Kitty on May 23, 2005 12:55 PM
Out of curiosity, when were combat helicopters first outfitted with flares and or chaff?
by MCart on May 23, 2005 3:04 PM
D*mn, Bill - What a close call! Once again your brain and reflexes prove amazing! Lucky for us :-)
by
Barb on May 23, 2005 5:33 PM
This story suggests you & I may have been "in country" about the same time. I was Class 70-40. You from that time frame by chance?
SA-7's sure changed things in III Corps. All of a sudden the 1500 foot enroute rule was out the window!
By the way, U doing VHPA in SF this year? Tell ya what though...I will buy you a beer in DC next year. We are passing on support of the Frisco economy this time.
v/r
NOTR
(betcha you are the only one who breaks the acronym NO T/R down...its attempt at av8tor humor!)
Always enjoy looking at my little bird "that could" on the site main page! :)
by
NOTR on May 23, 2005 6:26 PM
McCart-
It might be a while before you get a good answer to that. Bill's trolling the beaches of Omaha and Normany for a while.
However... He did put up a post a while back which explained that they often outfitted their own helo's with all sorts of lighting systems and weapons that didn't actually "come" with the chopper. All of those guys getting dinged for "savaging" vehicles in Iraq... well, Bill said they did the same thing during Vietnam. He had a picture up at one point of a Huey with a B-52 light array attached to it.
Anyway... it's a good question! I hope Bill answers you when he gets back.
by Were-Kitty on May 23, 2005 6:26 PM
I think the answer to the question of the SA-7 is irrelevant.
All I can say is wow! and holy crap! What an incredible story. So, those xenon lights can get you all the time. But I'm glad you were able to make rapid decisions that overall led the SA-7 from being a successful heat seeker.
One, so glad you're here to tell about it. Two, you explained this so well to a non aviator butterfly. And I understood it all. Great job!
Thanks for sharing that Bill. Can't imagine the heart pounding you must've experienced.
by
Desult on May 23, 2005 10:43 PM
NOTR?
Now Oblivious To Reason?
NO Training Required?
Naval Officers Transend Reality?
NOt True, Really?
No Obvious Training Requirement?
National Order of Terrestrial Rodents?
Cheers
JMH
by J.M. Heinrichs on May 24, 2005 9:01 AM
That was close. My palms are sweating and I was doing the math.
Okay, so I get into a story.
*grumping around for chocolate chip cookies*
by Cricket on May 24, 2005 2:09 PM
NOTR - No Thrust Reversers?
by
Barb on May 24, 2005 11:58 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
May 23, 2005
May 17, 2005
TINS! A contest...
Okay, I've provided some radio (and intercom) calls directed at me (or about me, which is worse) during the course of some fairly lively flying. Here's the deal: pick a quote and the one garnering the most votes becomes the subject of the next TINS.
One quote, one vote, and no fair sneaking in under different loginids (good thing Dbie the AFSister is still in Mickey World -- I've totally lost track of how many different personae she is these days). And, there's still time to blow her thread right through into last week, gang -- she won't be back 'til Wednesday!
All right, then. There should be somethin' or other down there to appeal to just about everybody...
1. Ooops! [#1] -- from a gunship, two seconds after his rocket hit the (flooded) paddy I was just about to land in. Right underneath me. Instant concussive waterfall.
2. Holy sh*t! They said Charlie didnt have any flak down here! One-Five, are any of you guys still alive in there?
3. Ooops! [#2] -- from a different gunship, one nanosecond before my crewchief screamed that a rocket had just passed between our right skid and the belly of the aircraft.
4. Hey, One-Five, you look like Niagara Falls. I thought those fuel cells were supposed to be self-sealing.
5. Aaaaah! One-Fives dead! -- from my copilot, right after I took a direct hit in the chicken plate that slammed me flailing off the controls while we were at flat pitch in an LZ. I thought I was dead and his squeak didnt do anything to lessen my depression.
6. Sir? The worlds biggest tracer just came offa Nui Coto an -- geez, its following us! -- my introduction to the game of helicopter vs. heat-seeking missile. I won. Barely.
7. Chalk Four, youve still got a tailboom. Couldnt say for how much longer, though.
8. The SEALs are ready for pickup, sir. Along with about a platoon of VC on the other side of the treeline theyre in.
9. Sector TOC wants you to check out a possible 37mm site west of Nui Hon Soc. The others they sent there never called in.
10. Hey, One-Five -- uhh, ya do know yer on fire, dont ya?
Heh. The polls are open...
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
[*flips through calendar*]
[*mutters to self*]: Better leave this one open 'til Friday. AFSis'll screech like a scalded banshee if she doesn't get to play with a TINS...
by cw4(ret)billt on May 17, 2005 2:30 AM
Lemmee see, #5 would obviously make the best war story, but #10 is the most smart-asstical. Y'all know me. I vote for number 10.
Numbah 10!
by Justthisguy on May 17, 2005 3:06 AM
The numbers *are* significant. Look at what he talks about for number 1 and number 2.
by Justthisguy on May 17, 2005 5:21 AM
Oh my. Just sked 'em all, Bill. Since I always like stories about "Stupid Officer Tricks" I guess I hafta vote for #9. It's a geek thing.
I don't think Dusty got shot at enough during his career (I know *I* didn't) to have *quite* as interesting a menu...
by
John of Argghhh! on May 17, 2005 6:44 AM
At least they didn't all happen on the same day. #6 happened at night...
by cw4(ret)billt on May 17, 2005 7:04 AM
And by the way, lurkers - you-all should vote, too!
by
John of Argghhh! on May 17, 2005 7:07 AM
The more, the merrier.
Might even get some quotable contributions, right?
by cw4(ret)billt on May 17, 2005 7:18 AM
5. Aaaaah! One-Fives dead! -- from my copilot, right after I took a direct hit in the chicken plate that slammed me flailing off the controls while we were at flat pitch in an LZ. I thought I was dead and his squeak didnt do anything to lessen my depression.
Is anyone really surprised at my vote?
by Marvin on May 17, 2005 7:25 AM
#5 followed by #6. No question.
#6 reminds me of the junior crewman aft looking out the window while crossing the Afghan-Pakistan border at night saying, "Wow, that looks cool. Almost like fireworks or something." 25yr E8 flight engineer with 5 kids and an angry wife that wanted him to retire in 2000 responds, "The're shooting at us a55()13. Shut the #($& up."
by
CDR Salamander on May 17, 2005 7:39 AM
OK...this lurker will vote --
But Bill, how the hell are we supposed to pick from these... they ALL deserve to win...
Let's see-- #6 or #9
I think I'll go with #6
Sir? The worlds biggest tracer just came offa Nui Coto an -- geez, its following us!
...and I was looking for adrenaline by bungee jumping! It would seem that we are lucky to have you with us!
by
ALa on May 17, 2005 8:15 AM
I vote for #6. I can't wait to find out how you got away from it.
by Fuzzybear Lioness on May 17, 2005 9:26 AM
Got to vote #6, but I hope we hear them all eventually.
by Randy K on May 17, 2005 9:37 AM
Hmmm - I'm with John, I want 'em all!
*sigh* If I have to choose, then I would start with #5, with #10 as second choice.
by
Barb on May 17, 2005 9:50 AM
#6
by Luke on May 17, 2005 9:51 AM
All of them...
But, if I have to make a choice, how about #6...
by Sgt. B. on May 17, 2005 9:53 AM
Number 6 - 'cause it reminded me of when I was briefing a crew about avoiding "the world's biggest helocopter trap", which could be the subject of another TINS in and of itself.
by
74 on May 17, 2005 10:43 AM
Ahhh! This is a tough one, Bill. On one note, had I been in your position there's no doubt I would have had the hebegeebee's like nothing I've ever experienced before.
*5 minutes pass and still thinking*
...Damn, this is tough!...
*add 2 minutes*
They all make for a great next TINS topic.
*30 seconds to decide before head explodes*
*done*
Okay, #5.
by
Desult on May 17, 2005 10:44 AM
CMD Salamander, that's a good one, btw!
by
Desult on May 17, 2005 10:49 AM
Looks like I'll go with 5, everyone else wants it, but number 8 is a close second.
by MCart on May 17, 2005 10:51 AM
Numbah six.
by
Puddle Pirate on May 17, 2005 11:12 AM
#6 first
Then #5 and #9.
by
kat-missouri on May 17, 2005 11:55 AM
But, if I comment, then I can't claim to be a lurker anymore. Kinda like the 'fly on the wall' aspect.
However, as the daughter of a helicopter test pilot, I feel compelled to vote for #10. Can just imagine my dad's reply to that one!
p.s. Like the site and get a kick out of the comment threads.
by TxAFbrat on May 17, 2005 12:18 PM
All of them would make for lovely yarns. Though it would be great to hear about N9 First.
by Boquisucio on May 17, 2005 12:53 PM
#10
by Tom on May 17, 2005 1:16 PM
I for one, second the motions for ALL of them, but in the meantime, #10 will suffice.
by Vox Clamatis on May 17, 2005 1:16 PM
#10
by Tom on May 17, 2005 1:17 PM
# 10
# 9
# 5
# 6
hell - just give us all of them.
by fluke_boy on May 17, 2005 2:12 PM
Hey,
# 8, only because I was one of the guys on the ground, hoping the driver had balls the size of King Cong.
Oh, just subsitute "Lurps" for "Seals" and
"Company" for "Platoon.
Papa Ray
West Texas
USA
by Papa Ray on May 17, 2005 3:43 PM
I'm going for 10
by
BloodSpite on May 17, 2005 3:47 PM
I'm going for 10
by
BloodSpite on May 17, 2005 3:47 PM
Hmmm--lotsa votes for 6 and 10. You guys are savage.
Heh. If I'd known watching me get into scrapes was gonna be this popular, I'd've done some hero stuff to liven things up...
by cw4(ret)billt on May 17, 2005 4:06 PM
And prolly been a footnote on the wall...
by
John of Argghhh! on May 17, 2005 4:12 PM
You've just got to do: 6. Sir? The worlds biggest tracer just came offa Nui Coto an -- geez, its following us! -- my introduction to the game of helicopter vs. heat-seeking missile. I won. Barely.
Even if another one gets more votes, you've just got to tell us about 6 sometime.
All the best!
by
John on May 17, 2005 4:28 PM
Almost too hard, But I gotta go with the SEALS. It borders on the "Right Stuff." But we definitely need the rest of the story of #8. (and for 1, 2,3,4, 5, 6,7,9, 10)
My favorite Army helo driver quote came when we had an sailor injured off Vietnam and called in a Medevac. Gave the pilot our coordinates and he came bopping out. "Hey you guys are a ship!" he reported to us. Somehow we were not as surprised by that as he was. Made a nice landing on the small flight deck with skids (Navy helos mostly have wheels), though. Must have been his first landing on landing spot moving at 12 knots...
by
EagleSpeak on May 17, 2005 4:34 PM
Correction, Bill - everything you DID was hero stuff!
by
Barb on May 17, 2005 4:34 PM
Don't matter which one Bill. They'll all have lots of truth, humor, and "OMG, he's still alive! He went back and did it again? Masochistic bassid."
Hmm, given that I'm more into your humor I'd say #10.
by ry on May 17, 2005 5:50 PM
Gotta go with number 6, the heat seeking missle.
Although I have to, it is a really tough choice.
#5 is in second place.
by
UtahMan on May 17, 2005 6:01 PM
Gotta go with number 6, the heat seeking missle.
Although I have to say, it is a really tough choice.
#5 is in second place.
by
UtahMan on May 17, 2005 6:01 PM
And the echo chamber (or my fat fingers) is working just fine.
by UtahMan on May 17, 2005 6:07 PM
i'll have to say #7 and #9...i'm a sucker for dry humor.
but oops 1 and 2 are classics. oops is SUCH a useful...word?
pick one, damn. okay. ummm...#5. brings to mind the punchline "he's not dead, he's only sleeping..."
toodles.
by
alix on May 17, 2005 6:18 PM
hmmmmmmmm - flak, rockets, missiles... but gotta go with numero 10- there's no pucker factor to equal flight and flame occuring together.
"The only time you have too much fuel,is when..."
by Neffi on May 17, 2005 7:17 PM
Alix,
How 'bout Monty Python's "I'm not dead yet!"
by Masked Menace on May 17, 2005 7:23 PM
"Bring out yer dead..." heh
by Neffi on May 17, 2005 7:25 PM
#6, #7 and 10.
I am off to surf the 'net and spend judicious amounts of credit for increasing the nifty books in my library. This involves going to websites, perusing print catalogs and poring over ebay.
My limit? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I am allowed 100.00 per transaction and can't make another one until it is paid off.
To go with Monty Python: "It's just a flesh wound."
by Cricket on May 17, 2005 8:51 PM
Hey kids, why don't we all get out some Marshmellows. Looks like we are gonna have ourselves a little WINNIE ROAST.
by Boquisucio on May 17, 2005 8:54 PM
Cricket- I shall be trying your Brat relish recipe this coming Saturday (from the AFSis post); but I'm gonna go with the jalapeno pepper (me and mine like that stuff). It really sounds great... and the local meat grinder- Boulder Sausage Company- makes a brat significantly lower in fat that still tastes like a brat. Ohhh... brats on the Weber... thanks, girlie
by Neffi on May 17, 2005 10:46 PM
Six.
by
Punctilous on May 17, 2005 11:10 PM
Jeeze Bill!!!, he says, trying to imagine his own reactions to any one of those calls! Just Jeeze!!!
Anyway, 5, 9, 8, 7 or all
But I only want to hear 5 if you lived, ok?
:-)
by SangerM on May 17, 2005 11:35 PM
ROFL! Sanger - what a hoot!
by
Barb on May 17, 2005 11:46 PM
Boq, NOooooooooo!!!!
Don't cook Pooh!!
Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!!!!
by SangerM on May 17, 2005 11:49 PM
OMG, Sanger! You're a too silly...*LMAO*
by
Desult on May 18, 2005 1:16 AM
John - The choir hears ya, preacher.
Barb - "Correction, Bill - everything you DID was hero stuff!" Nope. This was just "a bad day at work" stuff.
by cw4(ret)billt on May 18, 2005 10:14 AM
Papa Ray - "...only because I was one of the guys on the ground, hoping the driver had balls the size of King Cong."
The Fighter Pilot's Prayer: "O Lord, when I go into the fray, grant that I may have the eyes of an eagle, the heart of a lion, the swiftness of a falcon and the balls of an Army helicopter pilot."
by cw4(ret)billt on May 18, 2005 10:18 AM
Sanger - Here I am getting all my kosher dogs all skewered and ready, thinking that all the denizens were pining for N 10. Oh well.
And dont worry; Pooh, Piglet and Eeyore are all safe.
by Boquisucio on May 18, 2005 11:24 AM
Thaaaanks for noticin' me.....
AND!!!
I know all the words to the Little Black Rain Cloud song by heart. I made my whole platoon learn 'em too, and we'd all sing it together. I liked singing it while flying along jamming the crap outta some ground-pounder radidio's!
Ohhh, I'm just a little black rain cloud....
bzzzzzzzzzzzzztttttt!
ahahahahahahahahahahahah!!
by SangEyorer on May 18, 2005 2:42 PM
Gotta go with the, "Gee, thanks for the help, smart@ss!" comment, sounds like too many people I know. So...
#10!
by
PigBoatSailor on May 18, 2005 4:08 PM
"hovering over your honey tree.
Nobody notices rain clouds,
Pay no attention to little me."
A rousing chorus.
Neffi, I kid you not, the relish recipe is good enough to eat ALONE. With brats, TO DIE FOR.
I really wish I could take credit for it being original with me, but it is brilliant, and therefore not mine.
Do report on how it turns out, okay? Like I said, I never post a menu I haven't made myself. I am not a chef or a gourmand, but I have been on a perfectionist's quest to make great food since I was 18, and I have tweaked recipes here and there, so when I post one, it will be the original version for others to play with as they see fit.
It makes the pickle relish taste sickly sweet by comparison. The flavors are well balanced with the sweet, sour, hot and bitter.
by Cricket on May 18, 2005 4:10 PM
Ah The Cloud Song. In its original version it goes...
Dum ultro citroque commeabas num nubes minaturae essent scire avens Winnie ille Pu carmen istud cantitavit:
Quis vult in terra stare
Cum possit volitare?
Parvae nubeculae
Cantitat carmina.
Quis vult in terra stare
Cum possit volitare?
Vita nubeculae
Est fons superbiae
by Boquisucio on May 18, 2005 5:36 PM
And how many blogs have 'auld songs you have known'... in Latin?
I ask you!
by
John of Argghhh! on May 18, 2005 5:41 PM
I gotta go with #6. As much as I'd like to hear the story behind the two "oops!" incidents, the engineer in me curious as to how a helicopter dodges a missile.
BTW... is it bad that I laughed out loud at each of the snippits? I know that The Rotorhead's life was on the line, but I found each of those really funny :).
by
Wes on May 18, 2005 7:14 PM
Why not laugh? I did. I usually laugh a *lot* after I dodge the Reaper...
by
John of Argghhh! on May 18, 2005 7:41 PM
Just checking to make sure I wasn't turing into some cold-hearted ghoul, a creature that solely takes delight in the misfortune and potential flaming demise of others.
by
Wes on May 18, 2005 8:00 PM
Well, I can't speak for normals, but that pretty much nails us vets!
by
John of Argghhh! on May 18, 2005 8:03 PM
Wes - They were even funny at the time--that's why I remembered them. Well, most of them were, anyway. Ummm--one or maybe two...
Of course, the "significant life events" they were attached to kinda re-inforced the synapses. Seared -- s-e-a-r-e-d, I tell you -- in my memory!
Heh.
by cw4(ret)billt on May 19, 2005 1:19 AM
Yeah - I bet you just laughed you a$$ off on each occasion ... Later, over strong drink!
by
Barb on May 19, 2005 1:49 AM
Barb - First time I've ever heard a rusty can of lukewarm PBR described as "strong drink"...
by cw4(ret)billt on May 19, 2005 7:01 AM
Back to Papa Ray's Oh, just subsitute "Lurps" for "Seals" and "Company" for "Platoon, I swear they must've taught smarmy in Lurp School:
Me: "Frosty 32, this is Vulture 15, two mikes."
Lurp RTO [whispering]: "Roger, 15. Three-two is in place, baddies to north and west."
Me: "Roger, 32. How close are they?"
Lurp RTO [whispering]: "Wait a minute and I'll let you talk to one."
by cw4(ret)billt on May 19, 2005 7:10 AM
Look at that.... a contest about "My favorite way the Chief almost bought it".... what a sick world!
I'm in for 8!!!! *giggle*
by AFSister on May 19, 2005 7:52 AM
Yes. Humor is indeed blessed relief.
I shed a tear at reading "I'm just a Little Black Raincloud" in Latin.
I am seriously thinking of getting the Dr. Seuss books in Latin. Especially "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas." Or "The Places You'll Go."
Dr. Seuss is easy in most languages but Latin is
the best. I am looking through Veritas Press' catalogue and I am just sick at the realization that I had classically trained myself but didn't know it when it came to the reading.
Thanks for the translation.
by Cricket on May 19, 2005 1:59 PM
Ah - Dr Seuss.
Though I have read Alicia Per Speculum Transitum, Regulum (Little Prince), & Winnie Ille Pu, Dr Seuss is in my Latin blind spot.
One of these days I'll have to put Cattus Petasatus on my book list.
by Boquisucio on May 19, 2005 5:44 PM
I vote for #10, with #5 close behind.
by
Pam on May 19, 2005 7:47 PM
So far, it's 6, followed closely by Numbah 10, with 5 in third place, trailed by 8 and 9.
Brrrrr. FlashbackFlashbackFlashback...
by cw4(ret)billt on May 20, 2005 1:03 AM
Bill - As you well know, we are an insatiable bunch - so we'd love to have them all eventually!
by
Barb on May 20, 2005 3:16 PM
BILL!
Oh. I thought you were going to start snapping Bedoodlewhoopie butt or putting the scruples in
sling shots and firing them at unsuspecting Denizens.
I would like to hear the details of ALL of them, sort of like a 'gather round the fire for this story' by Bill. I do read the TINS stuff from time to time and shake my head.
I don't offer comment because it just boggles my little head that anyone could live through ONE incident, let alone fight a war with stuff going on like that.
Increases my respect.
Once again, are you having a Vaurnet day?
by Cricket on May 20, 2005 5:16 PM
Bosq,
Veritas Press has them of course, as does Barnes and Noble.
I am sort of trying to make up for lost time since Latin was discontinued the year before I got to Salinas High School. My counselor told me that if I could get 25 students to sign a petition to reinstate, the BOE would do so. I did and it came to naught since the money went into the administrator's salaries.
For the longest time I was totally unaware that it was indeed thriving and not a 'dead' language. I found out about ten years ago it was alive and well, and a couple of years ago I got catalogues from the Classical League. I have the very basic children's books for starters, and am working up to Dr. Seuss.
by Cricket on May 20, 2005 5:23 PM
Barb - Errrr--"insatiable," eh? My admiration for the Hubster just took a quantum leap.
Cricket - No, I just sort of hunker down and dodge the cuddly wuddly tracers [hmmm--now, there's a painful visual].
by cw4(ret)billt on May 21, 2005 1:36 AM
Okay--since Friday is now history, #6 is the subject of the upcoming TINS.
I wuz kinda hoping you guys would have picked one of the shorter stories, but
*shrug*
I need the typing practice...
*eyes glazing over, hunkering down to dodge cuddly wuddly tracers*
by cw4(ret)billt on May 21, 2005 1:42 AM
Sorry y'all for being absent yesterday. Internet Connection problems.
Cricket - Latin is not for everyone; however, it should be more widely available for students, than it is now. In my opinion, one should learn Latin not because of a need to appreciate Virgilian Poetry, but because it sets the building blocks for all Western Modern Languages. This goes not only for the obvious Romance, but also Germanic, and even Slavic Languages as well.
Spanish is my native tongue, and though I learnt English at an early age, I wasn't able to appreciate their interconnectivity until ploughing through Latin. It also gave me the tools necessary to tackle Italian, Portuguese, and French as well.
As years go by, I have forgotten more Latin than I now remember. There was a time in which I was quite proficient at it. Today I have to belabor with the aide of my trusty Wheelock and Langensheit. Oh well, life goes on, and couldn't become a monk dedicating my life to ancient scriptures. Still I owe much to a great teacher of mine, who instilled in me great love for this language.
by Boquisucio on May 21, 2005 8:05 AM
Bill, I didn't know tracers had that same endearing quality. Must remember that. I await your memoir on #6.
Boquisucio, I have added that to my bookmarks.
I am going slowly with Latin for my own reasons, not the least of which I got the children's books to read to my children to see if they had an affinity for it. I don't mind studying alone, but it is fun to read Latin to them.
by Cricket on May 21, 2005 8:46 AM
Bill - Totally insatiable ... I need More ... Heh!
by
Barb on May 21, 2005 9:49 AM
All of us little Oliver Twists--"More, sir!"
Of course, Bill wouldn't be so eager to restrict our diets either.
Heh. Neffi, I am prepping some of the Tasty Animal carcasses in my freezer for future meals. I am going over my cookbooks and seeing which techniques are best suited for which carcass.
For laughs and giggles: I have a WWII copy of the Boston Cooking School cookbook. It is one of the best I have seen on 'cookery.' I refer to it often when I need clarification on a term.
by Cricket on May 22, 2005 8:29 AM
Children's Books - I do have a soft spot for all the classics. What other genre in literature can be equally enjoyed by a children of ages 4 to 94?
A Grade Schooler can read The Little Prince, and find great joy learning about the parable of the Rose and the Fox, or the Hat and the Eaten Elephant. Yet, when read through the eyes of a Forty year-old, the same parables can have such a profound universal meaning.
It is of little surprise that Pooh, Peter the Pan, and Alice have such cult-like following amongst us aged children.
One has to grow old but not grow-up.
by Boquisucio on May 22, 2005 9:38 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
May 17, 2005
May 16, 2005
The other side of the TINS
But not yet. First, my contribution to the Festival of the Links. Yesterday, John mentioned Dave Chappelle's views on the remoras who attach themselves to the Hollywood glitterati. Here's the Huntress' considerably more animated expansion on the theme.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I've had one or two [*whap*] *ow! okay--"a lot of"* unplanned excursions into the realm of Aviation Emergencies. And, just to prove the major players in the MSM aren't the only ones spinning otherwise factual stories into "events that never were"--from the Big Bag o' Trons comes:
CW4 William S. Tuttle
AASF #1 (NJARNG)
Trenton-Mercer Airport
West Trenton, NJ 08628-1302
Mr. H.L. Schwartz III
The Trentonian
600 Perry Street
Trenton, NJ 08602
Dear sir;
Reference the above item [note: refers to a newspaper clipping pasted to the original letter. Didn't take here, cuz the paste won't stick to the monitor, for some reason...] which appeared on page 3 of May 13ths Trentonian--there are four factual errors in a filler only four sentences long, which may cause you--as Editor-- some consternation.
First, the pilot never stated that he might have to crash land; he said he would have to make a running landing, which is the prescribed emergency procedure for a hydraulic failure in this particular helicopter.
Second, 10 tense minutes did not elapse; the aircraft was on the runway three minutes after the pilots initial call to the control tower.
Third, the pilot never called the tower and said that the problem suddenly corrected itself. The second radio transmission between the pilot and the controller took place after the aircraft landed; the controller asked the pilot if he would be shutting down on the runway, and the pilot answered, Yes--theres a ground crew coming over to tow it off.
Fourth, the problem never corrected itself; if it had, the running landing would have been unnecessary.
Still, it was an improvement over your coverage of a similar incident which occurred last year, in which the pilot was reported to have crashed the aircraft into the runway--resulting, astoundingly enough, in no damage to either pilot or helicopter.
If your staff writers ever evince curiosity about the difference between an
emergency landing and a crash landing, feel free to call me--I was the helicopter pilot in both incidents.
WILLIAM S. TUTTLE
Chief Warrant Officer Four
New Jersey Army National Guard
(phone number deleted as obsolete. billt)
Nope. They didn't call...heh.
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
LMAO...that's too funny. I was trying to figure out how you could make all those corrections for the editor.
On a different note, remember when I asked you for a ride sometime in a helicopter if I don't get the opportunity to pilot one myself? Well... *wink*
Great post!!!!
by
Desult on May 16, 2005 4:04 AM
Hi, Flutterby! If by "well... *wink*" you mean "I've had a serious change of mind"--I don't blame you one bit.
I get nervous flying with me, too...
by cw4(ret)billt on May 16, 2005 6:54 AM
It's all about sexing it up, Chief...
Editor- "hmmm need a headline for this story... "CHOPPER MAKES UNEVENTFUL LANDING"... nah. "DARING AVIATOR SNATCHES VICTORY FROM THE JAWS OF FLAMING DEATH!!!" Yeah... COPYBOY! "
by Neffi on May 16, 2005 9:24 AM
I would fly with the Chief even though helos scare me to death.
Glad to see you safe on terra firma and telling these people to get their facts straight.
Heh.
by Cricket on May 16, 2005 9:39 AM
Way to tell the bastids, Bill! I don't think the 'editors' are paying very close attention to most of the crap they print these days, from the evidence.
As for helicopter rides - You promised me one in Hubert a l-o-n-g time ago! So if you pilot a helo anywhere, I'd better be on it, Mister!
[*scowls cutely*]
by
Barb on May 16, 2005 9:46 AM
Neffi - If the head had read "DARING AVIATOR SNATCHES VICTORY FROM THE JAWS OF FLAMING DEATH!!!", I not only wouldn't have written the letter, I'd have made sure they spelled my name right!
Ladies - Yer making me blush. I wasn't all that good a pilot.
[*whap*] YIPE!
Okay. I wouldn't be alive if I wasn't. Ummmm...and one of the Supply Guys did square me away with an extra helmet (SPH-4 and outmoded, but still workable--now all I need is the aircraft...hmmmmm)
by cw4(ret)billt on May 16, 2005 10:58 AM
We could put up a donations button for the BillT retirement / helicopter rides fund ;-)
by
Barb on May 16, 2005 11:09 AM
Hey! Speaking of supply guys and *stuff* how come the blogson gets rotor parts and the Arsenal doesn't?
by
John of Argghhh! on May 16, 2005 11:18 AM
If we work it right, we could BUY him a chopper... Mebbe, on a serious note, there are aviation companies looking for pilots, or, taking it a step further, a Manager for their aviation department... (I'm thinking forestry, news - if you can stomach it), exploration, tourism...) Think about it!
by Sgt. B. on May 16, 2005 11:20 AM
I have been in news articles a few times (once with my picture), and an eyewitness to events that made the news about 3-4 times. In EVERY case, the facts reported were not the corrects facts in some way. This included incorrect names, locations, unit missions, events, results, etc. Not once did they get it right, even when I made sure the info was correct.
Consequently, I have absolutely no faith in the print news media whatsoever, and I don't even trust what they show on video, because a camera has tunnel vision and you just don't know what's happening off-screen or if something has been spliced. The best I figure one can say is something happened in someplace and some people and some things were involved. facts could follow, but not for sure....
In fact, the self-imposed almost-instant factchecking nature of the blogging world makes me believe what I read here much more than what I read in the print-mainstream media. And they think THIS is the media that can't be trusted. HA!
by SangerM on May 16, 2005 12:07 PM
I was going insert a snark filled comment here, but out of deference to those who have BTDT, I will say that Newsweek needs to have something done to it.
Badly. Why aren't we targeting more journalists from that organization?
by Cricket on May 16, 2005 4:12 PM
Targeting is such a harsh word Cricket, and given the insanity of journo's and journo-hangers on it's playing right into their diseased mind state: The US military is trying to kill journalists!
Newsweak(or for those who read The Blogfather, Todd) is getting beaten up a bit. Isikoff may not go down like Rather did in a hail of e-bullets fired by the pajamihadeen, but their credibility is suffering and radio stations are dropping Todd's reportage from their broadcasts.
And I wonder how Eric Alterman can say 'What liberal media' with a straight face.
Glad to know that the addage, 'Any landing you can walk away from...', holds Bill.
by ry on May 16, 2005 5:28 PM
Now Neffi, Not only you are a great connoisseur of Damascus Steel, and accomplished aviator, and expert on the grill, but also a great Yellow Rag pusher. Mr. Hearst would be impressed.
by Boquisucio on May 16, 2005 6:22 PM
I once wrote the press release and then collected the articles published about it from around the country. Let's just say that I was clearly experiencing a different reality than a bunch of other folks.
by
Punctilious on May 16, 2005 8:48 PM
Boq, I'll take a check from the Hearst estate anytime... [waits hopefully by mailbox] but I dinna understand the ref to pushing any Yaller Rag.
ps- I once buzzed the Hearst estate (in a Piper Comanche, belonged to my Dad). What a place... high on a bluff looking out over the Pacific, the mansion complete with pool surrounded by Grecian arches and well-tended grounds. The west-facing side of the 'house' has a huge balcony/deck built of redwood(?) that probably has more square footage than my house.... sigh
by Neffi on May 16, 2005 9:01 PM
Ah San Simeon.
Christmas 2000, we spent in Cambria. Took my lovely bride into LAX and made a bee-line on Route 1 up to Santa Barbara. Let's say that Except for Santa Monica, LA isn't our favorite town. From there up to San Luis Obispo, Cambria, Paso de los Robles and Solvang. Not to mention most of the Central Coast Wineries - YUMMM
The highlight, though was the B&B in Cambria right on the beach along with San Simeon's Castle up the road. Both the inside and outside of the Castle was fully decked-out in full Christmas splendor. That Hearst dude sure knew how to live it up.
You and Mr. Hearst can surely come up with great headlines.
by Boquisucio on May 16, 2005 9:17 PM
heh- slowly doth the light shine in, Boq....
"GREASY SPANIARDS SINK AMERICAN BATTLESHIP IN HAVANA HARBOUR!!! TO WAR!!!!!"
by Neffi on May 16, 2005 9:51 PM
Si Seor - Good to know that the low wattage once in a while flickers.
Dunno whether you followed a prior post of mine. But I owe my life to Mr. Hearst himself. If the above Headline wouldn't have been drafted, the chromosomes of my Greatgrandaddy would have never made to my gene-pool.
All Hail to Yellow Journalism!!!
by Boquisucio on May 16, 2005 9:59 PM
Boq - Isn't the wine country around Santa Maria fun? It's been many years since I did that drive, worth the trek to see the Hearst estate.
by
Barb on May 16, 2005 10:09 PM
If you guys feel like a little comment party - come over to AFSister's place. Punct made some tea - BYOB...
by
Barb on May 16, 2005 11:02 PM
Bill, you kept me from being hit by cars in traffic. Of course I trust you as a pilot. I still want the ride?
Barb, I'm in for the donation buttons for Bill's aircraft.
by
Desult on May 17, 2005 12:17 AM
"Hey! Speaking of supply guys and *stuff* how come the blogson gets rotor parts and the Arsenal doesn't?"
Think it's easy scrounging milparts when your source has been laid off, too?
Think I've been sitting around all day on my butt, listening to KtLW's Standard Lecture #3?
Heh. [*whispers*] score. *with* documentation.
E-M yer shipping addy.
by cw4(ret)billt on May 17, 2005 12:22 AM
Heehee - You're on, Flutterby!
by
Barb on May 17, 2005 1:25 AM
Feh! I drop hints alla time about Kewl Stuff for the Castle, and all y'all wanna do is buy Bill a helikopeeter.
Fie!
by
John of Argghhh! on May 17, 2005 6:41 AM
Sorry, John - a ride in a helo with Bill at the controls is a leetle more exciting than providing another geegaw for the Armorer. Don't pout ;-)
by
Barb on May 17, 2005 10:34 AM
Fie! Fie I say!
by
John of Argghhh! on May 17, 2005 11:17 AM
Oh yea Barb, Loved them wineries around Santa Maria and Santa Ynez.
Amongst my favorites: Zaca Mesa, and Fess Parker at Los Olivos.
by Boquisucio on May 17, 2005 11:40 AM
Boq - I loved Fess Parker Winery as well, stopped in there on our trip up to San Simeon. Zaca Mesa must be new, though - I don't recognize it.
by
Barb on May 17, 2005 2:12 PM
Who would have thunk it. The guy with the Coon Cap doesn't make skunked wine.
Zaca Mesa happens to be about a mile west from Fess Parker. They make a mean Syrah
Don't know what happened with the Links, thought I'd composed in propper HTML:
Zaca Mesa
Fess Parker
by Boquisucio on May 17, 2005 2:37 PM
John the Wizard fixed 'em right quick - no problems ;-)
We shall have to check out Zaca Mesa wines when we get a chance. If you like wine country - you need to set up a trip to the Okanagan Valley in SE British Columbia. BC wines are marvelous!
by
Barb on May 17, 2005 2:48 PM
Oh yeah - We have a hankering for trekking up the NW, er SW for those above the 54th.
I must admit that except my exposure to Canadian wines is very limited; I once sampled an ice wine from Quebec - a yummy sweet-sticky one.
However, every single Columbia Valley wine that I've had, have always been excellent. Someday, I look forward to getting to know the Columbia Valley up close and personal, plus expanding my horizons into those tasty BC grapes.
by Boquisucio on May 17, 2005 6:34 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
May 16, 2005
May 6, 2005
TINS! "First, the good news..."
...is that Denizen Dbie AFSister got all excited last night over a post at ALa's that hasn't been posted at this time of the morning, but probably will by the time you guys get here.
*checks watch, winces*
Ummmm--make that *might* be, by the time you guys get here. But since she hit 50,000 yesterday, drop in anyway and give her a boost to 100,000, okay?
To the TINS. Caveat omnes: After reading most of this, you might construe it as a slam against A-10 drivers. It isn't. R-e-a-d the whole thing...
First, the Good News--when the new Commander of our ARNG Aviation Brigade decided he wanted a detachment of his AH-1F (C-Nite/FLIR) Light Nightfighters to deploy to Annual Training with his UH-60 Air Assaulters for a fairly aggressive series of NVG Aerial Escort Security missions, he shook out some additional flying hours for our trainup two months before Show Time.
Now, the Bad News--because our original Flying Hour program only allowed 1.5 hours per crew, per month, only two of us, the Battalion SP (Standardization Instructor Pilot) and yours truly, had been maintaining NVG currency--but not proficiency. In other words, we were good, but we needed to be perfect.
First, the Good News--my Company Commander sat down with us and we set priorities for Refresher Training and after a month of Tuesday-, Thursday- and Saturday-night goggling, we had our required five mission-trained crews.
Now, the Bad News--two weeks before Show Time, Brigade discovered that the Air Force essentially owned the skies over Ft. Postage Stamp, VA, and, since DivArty would be hub-to-hub on the ground, decided that the situation was tailor-made for daytime Joint Aerial Attack Team (JAAT) missions. The way a JAAT works is, artillery fire buttons the armor up, then the Cobras pop out of the trees to fire up the Air Defense systems, then the A-10s nip in to bust up the tanks, then the Cobras beat up the Air Defenders again while the A-10s skedaddle, then the tubes suppress while the Cobras duck back into the trees. Repeat until white flags sprout in the kill zone or the Cobras run low on ammo. If it's done right, it's a thing of beauty. If it's not, it's a recipe for suicide.
First, the Good News--since our tactical training area is sandwiched between R-5001 and R-5002 (oh, go ahead, Neffi--look at the Washington Sectional), weve got a lot of JAATs under our collective belt--mostly wet (for the non-mil Denizens and Visitors, "live fire").
Now, the Bad News--due to resourcing constraints, none of us had done a JAAT in at least two years and it had been a full year since any of us had put any rounds downrange.
First, the Good News--we had a Range Window on R-5001 the day before we were to deploy and the Battalion Master Gunners gunnery matrix gave us priority so we wouldnt fall behind schedule.
Now, the Bad News--between holding the pace of the range to a crawl and a shortage of gunnery IPs, I would have to stay on the range an additional day to get our last two detachment shooters current--with one Tuna Surprise MRE to last me from supper to breakfast to lunch to supper...
First, the Good News--figuring that nothing we do in training is worth killing somebody, my CO revised his original plan; he and I would fly a single-ship penetration of the Mason-Dixon ADIZ, do a zone recon of our little corner of Ft. Postage Stamp (we always do a hazard recon--see Why I Hate Wires March 29, 2005. No, I'm not gonna link myself and you need the practice researching the archives...) and figure out our options on-site. And Id already 'phoned the Safety Officers for Post and Brigade; they were a wealth of information on our three-grid-square maneuvering area and range fans, active artillery firing points and gun-target lines, current laser operations and the ingress/egress routes of our A-10 JAAT-mates. After we were satisfied, wed link with our other four crews at the Air Assaulters home station for a complete sitrep.
Now, the Bad News--the original AMC got the flu, so we'd have to break in a new one during the mission, and, in addition to DivArty shooting indirect from the south-through-west quadrants, Marine TOW LAVs were doing direct fire from the north. Oh, and just to keep us from getting complacent, two OPFOR Stinger teams were roaming our corridor, ready to engage all comers, i.e., "us." The situation was starting to grow fur.
First, the Good News--we got a solid face-to-face brief and new hazard maps from Brigades ASO, and did a thorough recon of our maneuver area. We were able to get two-days worth of plan, brief, rehearse, fly two dry JAATs, debrief, refine, rebrief and rehearse some more. Since we were the A-10s final exam for a Balkan deployment, their FAC Evaluator, Hard Rock, took the onus of the Nine-Line brief, our AMC (Air Mission Commander) briefed target ID and the JAAT clock while I controlled the Cobras. Since the fast-movers attack corridor was our western no-fly line, we had to settle the nagging question about their hard-floor of 500 feet (MSL? AGL?); sitting in the treetops of our battle position put us at about 430 MSL (our own hard floor was rock). The ground-attack guys would be cueing on the laser spot from a GLID/COLTS, so we did a final laser-protective glasses showdown.
Now, the Bad News--I got the Tuna Surprise MRE for lunch both days.
It gets better (or worse, depending on your point of view)--click on Extended Entry for the rest.
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
The day of the first wet JAAT, the ceiling was too low for the A-10s to play; to keep us sharp, Hard Rock provided us with notional (militarese for pretend) attackers over UHF. Our CO identified the targets, briefed Call Thunder (A-10s sixty seconds from weapons release), Lightning (30 seconds from weapons release) and Break (A-10s egressing) and started the JAAT clock.
The 155s fired on-the-mark, pounded the impact area for five minutes and gave us Rounds Complete with an illum airburst. We were too heavy for OGE (Out of Ground Effect. This regime requires a whole bag of power, which we didn't have available--yet) hovering, so wed set up a racetrack pattern--the AMC and I were Red 1, with Red 2, White 1 and Mauve 1 (just dont ask, okay?) in trail. Hard Rock checked in with Thunder--my cue to call, Cobras Cold--Acknowledge. Hard Rock called Lightning and proceeded to dazzle us with his repertoire of A-10 pilot-talk.
By the second attack, we had burned off enough fuel and ordnance to allow us OGE power, so we filled-in line-abreast and began hover fire from treetop height. I *love* rockets...
We debriefed and began prepping and rehearsing the new AMC. During the rehearsal, he asked if we thought we could safely call Cobras Cold on Lightning rather than Thunder, allowing us an extra 30 seconds of firing to lose some more weight and make it tactically-correct for the A-10 drivers. We timed it out until each crew was comfortable with the margin; aside from that change, the new AMC decided he didnt want to mess with success.
We then computed what wed each have to shoot-off/burn-off during our racetrack to achieve OGE-capability and threw in some additional conservatism for Mauve 1s ship--he was having trouble keeping the engine temp within limits, and we suspected it was in serious need of a compressor cleaning.
The next wet JAAT was CAVU (Ceiling Absolute, Visibility Unlimited; aka, CAFB--no, I won't--there are Ladies present) and--what a surprise--hot as blazes; it appeared the only variables from the first JAAT would be the Cobras Cold time and the A-10s for-real participation. We arrived on-station and began our Trolling for Stingers pattern.
Five minutes after the AMC gave his target ID to Hard Rock, the fast-movers still hadnt checked in; AMC gave Hard Rock a call to request notionals--wed only have 15 minutes on-station unless we fired some ordnance, and soon. Hard Rock was happy to oblige, so our AMC started the JAAT clock.
Halfway through the artillery firing, the A-10s checked in. Hard Rock once again became a FAC and gave the Nine-Line Brief; the AMC briefed Call Thunder, Lightning, Spot and Break, then reset the clock to four minutes. We launched an impressive array of rockets, TOWs and 20mm until the artillery resumed, finally got to OGE-weight and assumed our line-abreast, treetop defilade firing positions.
A-10 Lead called that hed be 30 seconds late at the IP (Initial Point--where they commence their inbound run)--additional time for us to fire off some weight--I mentally revised my own stopwatch to account for those extra 30 seconds. The 155s fired for two minutes and popped the airburst illum for Rounds Complete. We resumed our suppression.
I stopped beating up an innocent APC hull and peeked at my stopwatch--okay, 3+15 into the original clock. That additional 30 seconds for A-10 Leads late arrival (I resumed my outside scan) meant we should be hearing Thunder in another 15 seconds and Lightning in--
HOLY-EEE-YOW!! Knock it off!! KNOCK IT OFF!! came over the VHF just as an A-10 flashed from behind the trees and zipped along from left-to-right about thirty meters in front us--at our altitude--followed a split-second later by his overly-trusting (or overly-sanguine) wingman. Our CO got off an Abort! Abort! call when he was sure our suicidally-inclined JAAT-mates wouldnt break directly into one of us. The million-dollar question was now, "Hey, Red 1--why didnt you call us cold?!? How? He never called Thunder and he was way too early! I was exonerated by Hard Rocks confirmation and a quick situational-awareness check.
I wasnt at the Air Forces debrief, so I didn't find out how A-10 Lead managed to arrive 30 seconds late at the IP, fly through the live artillery gun-target line, descend below his hard floor (at that point, the question of MSL or AGL was rather moot), make his run (on the wrong target) perpendicular to our own line of fire and still arrive a full minute early, ready to provide us with some air-to-air practice before he broke for his (Look out, boys--here they come again!) second attack.
Whats really scary is that his wingman either didnt feel like saying anything or didnt know that what they were doing was the Ultimate Soup Sandwich.
Okay, Tuttle--nice little feel-good bedtime story, but whats the point?
Hoped youd ask that--and heres the Good News--wed done everything right:
1. The CO used input from all of us for crew selection, crew coordination, multiple mission briefs, rehearsals, dry-runs, After-Action Reviews, a detailed Risk Assessment and Management Program and Sticking with What Works and
2. Individually, we kept situational awareness and covered each others blind spots (as far as possible); the only pilot who could see far enough to the left to cue on the A-10s approach from that angle and make a Knock it off call, did so (yup--good ol Mauve 1).
Oh, yeah--and now the Bad News--if the A-10s had arrived on time for the initial JAAT clock and then did what they did when they did, they would have arrived directly in front of our firing position while we were still in our treetop-hugging, 50-knot racetrack firing runs...
And I can visualize at least four different (but equally messy) outcomes to that particular scenario...
And this wasn't a slam at all A-10 pilots, just the two who happened to be a wee bit too complacent about playing with Cobras who had their fangs out.
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
I guess I'll keep the "Good news - we found the extra tub of coffee. Bad news - we only have the small filters so there will be lots of grounds in the coffee today" story to myself.
I hate being a staff-weenie on shore duty.
by
CDR Salamander on May 6, 2005 7:36 AM
Commander Salamander, Sir -
First, the good news--if you throw some extra grounds into your cup and stir well, you can pretend you're deployed to Bosnia.
Now, the bad news--if you slam it in one gulp, you can pretend you're me...
by cw4(ret)billt on May 6, 2005 8:11 AM
Now I see why Bill has been so quiet. I thought it was the poat-retirement hangover, but see that it was writing this book!
by
John of Argghhh! on May 6, 2005 8:34 AM
Hi John!
I think we've all been in a funk lately. Did you guys check out the "he-wimp soldier-haters" link on ALa's? What a bunch of....well, I don't even know what. And it's one of those "do I ignore the ignorant, or call them out on the table" situations. Do we ignore them, and hope they go away, or pay attention to them and shame them into oblivion....
by Were-Kitty on May 6, 2005 8:42 AM
Were-Kitty, I don't think it's possible to shame them. If it were, they wouldn't have made their feelings so public in the first place.
by Fuzzybear Lioness on May 6, 2005 9:18 AM
John - Still not retired. Supposedly, they found my records Tuesday, so I get to sign the DD214 today and make it official. *Then* I get to have "poat" retirement issues. Like, finding a %$#@! real job.
WK - Most of us VietVets are studiously ignoring the jerk-site. Those types thrive on attention. The 162d did overload their bandwidth for them last week, though--naughty us.
Without signing the guestbook, I might add.
by cw4(ret)billt on May 6, 2005 9:28 AM
So Bill, how many of the Tuttle Detail Gaurdian Angels did you use on this adventure?
I'd love to see their after action report.
by ry on May 6, 2005 9:35 AM
Tuna MREs two days running? Shouldn't there be helk to pay? *stalks off mumbling something about needing to cater a field feed as a service project*
Well, I have been regenerating bone for the past two days. My chamber has the desktop, books and comfy chairs. heh.
by Cricket on May 6, 2005 9:36 AM
THe AIQ who runs that site is exactly the reason people are choosing not to define themselves as progressives in this country.
The AIQ will get his just deserts as every whack-a-doodle he votes for and every cause he pushes for loses. He'll spend his life bitter and feeling unfulfilled becasue 'we just don't get him and his ideology'.
Hey, is there a collection plate going around for Bill's retirement party booze fund yet? John, there's no donation tab.
by ry on May 6, 2005 9:52 AM
*putting aside all thoughts regarding the judicial use of Barret Light .50s in an urban terrain, I shall ignore the maggots, and instead allow shivers to run up and down my spine at another TINS narrative, well delivered...*
And don't forget the Fuzzibear picture...
by Sgt. B. on May 6, 2005 3:34 PM
Ry - We mollified the GAs somewhat by allowing them to ride in the front cockpits on the way back. They *did* earn their HazDuty Pay, fer sher...
by cw4(ret)billt on May 6, 2005 9:54 PM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
by
CW4BillT
on
May 06, 2005
April 23, 2005
This is too good to pass up.
SWWBO's a little under the weather today, we're getting a late start. All this travel has been taking a toll on her. So, I'm going through email, marveling that the denizens wimped out of a good chance at a party last night (we're just too old, izzat it? Can't hang late any more? Except those left coasters who have an advantage in this regard...)
Ennyway, Martin M sends this story, and a link. It reminds me of a TINS I'll need to work up into a post someday - good, old fashioned, National Guard kind of story that we don't do enough of because no one has a sense of humor anymore kind of story.
Here's what Martin said:
This almost sounds like an Infantry 'TINS'. This is what some of my National Guard training used to be like in 'the old days'. My brother the writer puts this on paper better than I do at: [see link at end of this - it's better to read this first. ed.]
My first real drill weekend was in August. Since the unit had been to AT; this was a maintenance drill; clean everything up and put it back in storage. It was hot, I was bored and sleepy. So was everyone else. I was starting to think that enlisting was a mistake when the Company Commander came on to the drill floor and asked for volunteers. Seems the Jefferson State Militia' had taken over City Hall and we were being asked to come down and drive them out. . . . .
. . . . The rebels broke and ran after just a couple of volleys, in accordance with the script. We were supposed to chase them down to Veteran's Park, where they'd make their escape across Lake Ewauna in a WW II vintage DUKW amphibious truck. We gave them a little bit of a head start so that we wouldn't have fighting going on in the streets on the way to the park; then we headed out after them.
After the 'revolutionaries' bailed out the back door of City Hall, we pursued them. The team Martin was with ran across Klamath Avenue, through traffic, then followed the alley between Main and Klamath, firing whenever a target appeared. Cars were braking as they ran in front of them. Tourists (and locals) were understandably confused about what was happening; since there hadn't been any prior warning of military action to speak of.
Now you can know "The rest of the Story."
And, since we're at it - Sailor Bill P, aka 74 of Bowramp, sends along this explanation of his interest in guns, large and small.
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
Thanks to Martin and his brother for that fun story! Who knew training could be so much fun :-)
by
Barb on April 23, 2005 10:28 AM
� Dismissed, Soldier!
April 20, 2005
"I have the worst job...
...in the entire world.
Except for the lucky few, weve all thought that at one time or another, right?
Just to help you keep things in perspective
TINS* [This Is No Sh*t--standard War Story Alert]
When I first joined the Guard after the South East Asian Unpleasantness, our aviation det was strictly Old-Guy (WWII vets) and New-Guy (Vietnam Vets). Thirteen pilots, thirteen aircraft--good times, except when the weather was uncooperative.
One Saturday morning, it was uncooperative. Three of us--Norm, who flew Scout ships with the First o the Ninth in RVN, Bill, who flew B-24s out of Libya in WWII, and yours truly--were sitting in Ops, drinking coffee and keeping each other company. The talk gradually turned to the been-there-done-that
Part I
Norm took a sip of coffee.
We were working the Iron Triangle and the world opens up on us. I beat feet about a klick away and C n C [Command and Control aircrafta Huey with three additional FM radios] calls for an airstrike.
"About ten minutes later, I hear a fast-mover call On station, then C n' C vectors him for the strike. I look way, way up and I see this B-57 at about 5,000 feet, and just as I start to think, He cant even hit Vietnam from up there,' he rolls on his back, noses it over and comes screaming out of the sky like a Stuka.
"Straight down.
"So, hes coming down and the green basketballs are going up and I think, 'Oh, man--am I glad I dont have that job.'
"He drops a coupla 500-pounders and pulls out and the bombs hit and theres smoke and flames and green basketballs following him back up into the sky. He gets up to five grand, rolls and noses again and comes straight down through the basketballs. He pickles the load and pulls out. The whole grid square jumps fifty feet into the air, then falls down again.
"No basketballs.
"C n C sends me over for a BDA [Bomb Damage Assessment] and Im flying through dust and smoke and leaves and I see whats left of a good-sized base camp. I start calling in so-many bags of rice burning, so-many bunkers destroyed, three .51 cals destroyed, and I start looking for bodies.
"Now the B-57 pilot asks C n C if hell be able to get a BDA to his Ops within the hour. C n C says, If you hang around for about a minute, I can give it to you now. Ive got a guy in there already.
"B-57 pilot says, Do you mean to tell me theres actually somebody down there in that mess? Oh--wait a minute, I see him. Gawd, I wouldnt want that job.
Part II
I put my coffee down.
(Click on Extended Entry for the rest. It's a bit long, but a fast read...)
Flash Traffic (extended entry) Follows �
I'm flying swing ship [each Province in the Delta received a UH-1 for daily admin support--everything from hauling mail to hot-LZ medevacs, but usually a ho-hum mission] out of Ca Mau and we're just topping off. A Captain advisor-type comes running across the runway and hollers that theres a Marine Tiger Team thats just been overrun and chased out of their mud fort, Charlies in the fort, and the Marines and their Viet platoon are holed up on the other side of a canal.
"Theyre also out of ammo.
"Captain points to the far end of the runway, where I see a flurry of activity. He says thats the ammo for the re-supply--he tells me to load up, then fly north and look for a mud fort full of bad guys and a canal dike with a bunch of friendlies on the western bank.
"I love a detailed briefing.
I hover over, and the Viets start tossing ammo crates on board faster than the crewchief and gunner can stack them. We're getting so heavy that the Hueys skids are settling, so I tell the crew to wave off the Viets and we take off.
"The aircraft is sluggish as hell, and Im thinking they must have loaded some cases of grenades on board, too, cause small arms ammo doesnt weigh that much, and weve gotta be at max gross...
"I find the fort and call the Marines--there are no good guys in or near the fort. I brief the gunner and start the approach. At 500 feet, I tell the gunner to begin suppression. At a hundred feet, the gun stops and the gunner announces, Wind jam. We touch down hot cause of the extra weight and the crewchief starts passing crates to the friendlies.
Were less than a hundred feet from the fort, just on the other side of the canal. Im watching this Marine to my right front, about my age, all crouched over, hollering and gesticulating and getting things organized. He looks up at me and grins.
*pok* An AK round comes through the windshield, careens through the electrical panel, pops out, smacks me in the helmet and spins out the window. I mustve reacted pretty radically, cause the Marines eyes are now the size of saucers.
*pok* *pok* We're taking fire, don't have an operable doorgun, and we're still not unloaded. Im on the controls real loose, so my reflex action wont yank us into the air if/when I get hit...
"The crewchief hollers through the intercom, Sir, the crates werent marked--they loaded us full of 81mm mortar rounds. Gyrenes say the tubes are still in the fort. There aint a solitary 5.56 or 7.62 in the lot. Whadda we do?
Abject misery.
*pok-thwack* into my doorpost.
Bloody hell. Its gonna be one of those days.
Give em your sixty and all the doorgun ammo weve got. Give em all the mags for your M-16s except for two--we might need em. Tell em well be back in ten minutes. I look at the Marine to my front and sign Back here in ten, ammo with my left hand. He thumbs-up, then gets his guys distributing the presents we left.
"He's stuck in the middle of nowhere, no ammo, bad guys running through his house and hes gotta take it back with the same troops who just got their butts kicked. I'm glad I dont have his job.
I figure well return with the ammo, then hang around and suppress the fort when they assault. I'm tired of being shot at and not shooting back.
I pull pitch and give Ca Mau a holler, explaining the screwup and tell them I want 5.56 and 7.62 and nothing else. We land, and the Viets start loading more mortar rounds. Both crewchief and gunner unass the aircraft, chase everybody away, toss out the mortar rounds, and run over to the pile of crates, rooting around for small arms ammo.
"Paydirt. They get the Viets into a bucket brigade and were soon full of the things we should have had on the first trip and enroute back to Tiger's location. One mile out, the gunner says, Guns operational. I tell him to begin suppression as soon as I give the word.
Five hundred feet, on the approach.
"Muzzle-flashes. *pok*
Suppress the fort.
We land in the same spot and offload the ammo. My crewchief recovers his M60 and the Marine gives me a thumbs up. I motion him over, then holler, Well fire the fort up whenever youre ready. He looks at his guys, tells me Three minutes and steps back. Gives me a big grin and a salute. I grin and return it.
"*pok* right through the motor for the windshield wiper--it breaks loose and hits me in the arm. The Marine turns quickly and moves off to his troops.
"Three minutes later, the friendlies are ready to assault. The gunner and crewchief are now both on the right side of the Huey and ready to thank Charlie for putting holes in the helicopter.
They stop shooting just as the good guys storm over the walls of their fort to take it back.
We circle the fort, then return to Ca Mau, land, refuel, shut down and open our cans of lunch. The Captain saunters over and says, Tiger says thanks. He also says he wouldnt do your job for love or money.
Part III
Bills just gotten a refill on his coffee and takes a slow sip.
He tells us about the raid on Ploiesti, in August of 1943. He talks quietly about his squadron arriving late, after the early arrivals set refineries and storage tanks ablaze, alerting and fully-arousing the defenders.
He mentions, almost as an afterthought, watching three B-24s fly into a cloud of black smoke and seeing only one fly out the other side.
He talks of flying so low the gunners in the flak towers couldnt depress their guns low enough to hit him, and he grins as he describes the look of frustration on their faces.
Hes flying a damned B-24 close enough to see their faces
Norm and I glance at each other, and I know the same thought has just hit both of us--"GeezI could never do anything like that.
Bill takes another sip of coffee and describes dodging steel structures in the refineries, of hitting a chunk of debris that took out an engine. His assigned targets completely obliterated by smoke, but he climbs slightly, drops his bombs and egresses, still at low-level.
He watches three fighters in the far distance, beating up one of the raiders. It explodes in mid-air.
He describes the hours-long return trip over the Mediterranean on three engines, with avgas leaking into the wind from a flak hole in one wing. He runs out of fuel on final approach and his aircraft belly-lands because the nose gear collapses.
He finishes his coffee and says, But you could put a gun to my head and I wouldnt have the nerve to do the things that you guys did.
See? It all depends on your perspective
� Secure this line!
Reporting As Ordered, Sir! �
D*mn good TINS, Bill! Or should I say TINSs (plural), since it's a three-fer? *grin*
by
Barb on April 20, 2005 12:46 AM
Barb - Sounds like the basis for a contest. You want to pick the winner?
Drat. There's gotta be a snark in there *somewhere*...
by cw4billt on April 20, 2005 1:41 AM
Word.
by
John of Argghhh! on April 20, 2005 5:49 AM
Oh, and Barb, TINS would be correct... 8^)
by
John of Argghhh! on April 20, 2005 5:57 AM
John - Nuts. There you go, doing her job...