rotorwash
30-07-04, 03:19
Summer, 1968, I was crewchief on Shark 137, a UH-1C gunship armed with an M5 system that consisted of an M75 40mm grenade launcher mounted on the nose and 7 rockets on each side. We were part of a light fire team (two gunships) flying out of a firebase named LZ Baldy which was located between Chu Lai and Da Nang just west of Highway 1 in the I Corps area of Vietnam. The current area of combat was to the west in a valley that ran northwest - southeast and was bordered on its eastern side by three U.S. firebases, named, logically enough, LZ Center, LZ West, and farther south, LZ East.
This was not normally our area of operations, we normally operated farther south, this was the area under the control of the 196th Light Infantry Brigade. Late in the day were called out to assist an infantry unit receiving incoming mortar fire. The area we were directed to was west of LZ West towards the border with Laos. We made contact with the infantry and were told that the mortar fire was coming from a hillside to their northwest.
We went into a racetrack pattern about a thousand feet off the ground and began randomly firing at likely locations on the hillside. After firing, we would break left and that gave me a chance to pick targets on the ground and fire as we turned to get out of the way of the second ship. About the third break, we noticed we were getting some ground fire. When this happens, it’s usually customary to continue firing, mostly so you can’t hear the other guy firing at you.
The next gun run we made must have made somebody mad, because we were greeted by 12.7 tracers coming from the hillside. Now you might think that a 12.7 isn’t that big, but to a helicopter crew it’s deadly. A 12.7 can go through a helicopter like a sewing machine through lace. There is nothing on a UH-1C that can stop a 12.7. A 12.7 tracer is green and starts out as a small green pinpoint of light and grows gradually until an eternity later it has grown to the size of a weather balloon, (well, not quite) but at least as big as a basketball, and flashes past at an astounding speed. I am told that seeing one is good, because it means that if you see the trace, it will miss you. I don’t know who the genius was that figured that out, and if you stop and think about it, it is really stupid to contemplate. However, when they are coming your way, even ignorant philosophy provides some comfort. It’s kind of like sitting on the outhouse roof and having Shaq throw green bowling balls at you.
It didn’t take us long to do the math, if we were at extreme range where we might get in a lucky hit, we were in his effective range where he could probably hit us, so we backed up. Our gun runs were no longer being made down toward the ground, instead we were flying straight and firing the 40mm at maximum elevation. The rounds were just barely clearing our rotor blades. The sun was setting behind the mountains to the west and we could watch our rounds as they left the gun, picked up a slight drift to the right, recovered back on track and thumped into the jungle. We could also now see his muzzle flashes as he fired three round bursts. The other ship in our team, a minigun ship, was also firing at extreme elevation.
For my part I concentrated my doorgun fire on places I had seen muzzle flashes out our left side. All this time the infantry on the ground was cheering us on like spectators at a gladiator game. I felt like the losers just before the score clock rang up “Lions - 2, Christians - 0." Amazingly enough I got a secondary explosion on the ground from my gunfire, that was reported by the infantry like we had just scored a touchdown.
We continued making runs in this bizarre fashion, and although no one spoke it, I am sure we were all hoping we would run out of ammo. A casual observer might ask, at this point, “Why didn’t you just run in on him and finish him off, you had two ships?” That does seem obvious, but in this valley the NVA set their 12.7's in threes, when you attacked one, you were flying between two more that had you in a crossfire. We chose to keep our distance.
I will never forget what happened next, we had just started another run, the 40mm rounds were arching up and away in front of the rotor disc, my machine gun was firing straight tracer at the ground, the sun was just finally setting, the pucker factor was so high, I thought I might never be able to f**t again, when, suddenly, there was a strange thump from the 40mm and then - silence. No more 40mm. Even with the engine noise and the doorguns, the silence was deafening. But worse then that, a cloud of black smoke surrounded the nose and drifted in the doors.
The pilot flying the ship turned to the other pilot, the one that had been firing the 40mm and asked, “Is it supposed to do that?”
“No, it jammed.”
“Well, try it again.”
“Won’t work. Jammed.”
They both looked at me, “What’s wrong?”
I just shrugged, what did they want me to do, get out and look? They looked at my gunner, Robert Velasquez, he looked at me and we both shrugged.
Reluctantly, (yeh, right) we informed the infantry that we had problems and had to return to base. They thanked us enthusiastically for entertaining them and we gained altitude so we could make radio contact with our company. The company informed us that there were no ships available to take our place and we would have to wait until sometime the next day to be relieved.
We spent an uneasy night but it was uneventful. The next morning we took the gun apart and discovered a round had stuck in the barrel. Apparently, water had gotten in the shell and ruined the propellant. Now we had a 40mm grenade, the same as an M79 round jammed in the barrel. Our company website has a picture of just such a situation as this, this exact same aircraft at LZ Baldy, the crewchief and gunner looking at the jammed M5. I know this is not a picture of Robert and I because in the morning when we looked at the gun, we were not wearing flight gear.
Our situation was dire - bad, even. We had a jammed weapon and might be called upon to go into action at a moments notice. (Sound melodramatic enough for you?) Robert asked if I thought we could drive the round out of the barrel somehow, but I didn’t think so. It had only entered the barrel about three inches and I was afraid that driving it out down the rifling might cause it to go off. I did remember, however, that the round had to spin a certain number of times before it was armed, and this round had not spun but about an eighth of a turn so it should be nowhere close to being armed.
I then suggested that we take two screwdrivers that I had, insert them, handle down, down the barrel on each side of the nose and gently drive the bugger out. Robert thought this was a fine idea, obviously he was as mentally deficient at the moment as I was. Now the second reason why the picture on our website is not Robert and I occurs to me, after we thought this one up, the pilots were no longer close enough to take a picture.
Carefully we set the base of the barrel on a board, inserted the two screwdrivers down the barrel, one on each side of the nose, and prepared to strike. Either this would be a stroke of genius or we would rank right up there amongst the stupidest people in the world and have stories told about us forever. We decided to go for it. Robert held the barrel and I tapped. Nothing moved. We looked at each other, I held my breath and tapped a little harder. With a polite thunk the round dropped onto the board. We gingerly picked it up, carried it to a disposal area, put the gun back together again and were back in business.
For a detailed view of this armament system, you can access the following web site.
http://incolor.inebraska.com/iceman/data/arm23.jpg
Rotorwash :idea:
This was not normally our area of operations, we normally operated farther south, this was the area under the control of the 196th Light Infantry Brigade. Late in the day were called out to assist an infantry unit receiving incoming mortar fire. The area we were directed to was west of LZ West towards the border with Laos. We made contact with the infantry and were told that the mortar fire was coming from a hillside to their northwest.
We went into a racetrack pattern about a thousand feet off the ground and began randomly firing at likely locations on the hillside. After firing, we would break left and that gave me a chance to pick targets on the ground and fire as we turned to get out of the way of the second ship. About the third break, we noticed we were getting some ground fire. When this happens, it’s usually customary to continue firing, mostly so you can’t hear the other guy firing at you.
The next gun run we made must have made somebody mad, because we were greeted by 12.7 tracers coming from the hillside. Now you might think that a 12.7 isn’t that big, but to a helicopter crew it’s deadly. A 12.7 can go through a helicopter like a sewing machine through lace. There is nothing on a UH-1C that can stop a 12.7. A 12.7 tracer is green and starts out as a small green pinpoint of light and grows gradually until an eternity later it has grown to the size of a weather balloon, (well, not quite) but at least as big as a basketball, and flashes past at an astounding speed. I am told that seeing one is good, because it means that if you see the trace, it will miss you. I don’t know who the genius was that figured that out, and if you stop and think about it, it is really stupid to contemplate. However, when they are coming your way, even ignorant philosophy provides some comfort. It’s kind of like sitting on the outhouse roof and having Shaq throw green bowling balls at you.
It didn’t take us long to do the math, if we were at extreme range where we might get in a lucky hit, we were in his effective range where he could probably hit us, so we backed up. Our gun runs were no longer being made down toward the ground, instead we were flying straight and firing the 40mm at maximum elevation. The rounds were just barely clearing our rotor blades. The sun was setting behind the mountains to the west and we could watch our rounds as they left the gun, picked up a slight drift to the right, recovered back on track and thumped into the jungle. We could also now see his muzzle flashes as he fired three round bursts. The other ship in our team, a minigun ship, was also firing at extreme elevation.
For my part I concentrated my doorgun fire on places I had seen muzzle flashes out our left side. All this time the infantry on the ground was cheering us on like spectators at a gladiator game. I felt like the losers just before the score clock rang up “Lions - 2, Christians - 0." Amazingly enough I got a secondary explosion on the ground from my gunfire, that was reported by the infantry like we had just scored a touchdown.
We continued making runs in this bizarre fashion, and although no one spoke it, I am sure we were all hoping we would run out of ammo. A casual observer might ask, at this point, “Why didn’t you just run in on him and finish him off, you had two ships?” That does seem obvious, but in this valley the NVA set their 12.7's in threes, when you attacked one, you were flying between two more that had you in a crossfire. We chose to keep our distance.
I will never forget what happened next, we had just started another run, the 40mm rounds were arching up and away in front of the rotor disc, my machine gun was firing straight tracer at the ground, the sun was just finally setting, the pucker factor was so high, I thought I might never be able to f**t again, when, suddenly, there was a strange thump from the 40mm and then - silence. No more 40mm. Even with the engine noise and the doorguns, the silence was deafening. But worse then that, a cloud of black smoke surrounded the nose and drifted in the doors.
The pilot flying the ship turned to the other pilot, the one that had been firing the 40mm and asked, “Is it supposed to do that?”
“No, it jammed.”
“Well, try it again.”
“Won’t work. Jammed.”
They both looked at me, “What’s wrong?”
I just shrugged, what did they want me to do, get out and look? They looked at my gunner, Robert Velasquez, he looked at me and we both shrugged.
Reluctantly, (yeh, right) we informed the infantry that we had problems and had to return to base. They thanked us enthusiastically for entertaining them and we gained altitude so we could make radio contact with our company. The company informed us that there were no ships available to take our place and we would have to wait until sometime the next day to be relieved.
We spent an uneasy night but it was uneventful. The next morning we took the gun apart and discovered a round had stuck in the barrel. Apparently, water had gotten in the shell and ruined the propellant. Now we had a 40mm grenade, the same as an M79 round jammed in the barrel. Our company website has a picture of just such a situation as this, this exact same aircraft at LZ Baldy, the crewchief and gunner looking at the jammed M5. I know this is not a picture of Robert and I because in the morning when we looked at the gun, we were not wearing flight gear.
Our situation was dire - bad, even. We had a jammed weapon and might be called upon to go into action at a moments notice. (Sound melodramatic enough for you?) Robert asked if I thought we could drive the round out of the barrel somehow, but I didn’t think so. It had only entered the barrel about three inches and I was afraid that driving it out down the rifling might cause it to go off. I did remember, however, that the round had to spin a certain number of times before it was armed, and this round had not spun but about an eighth of a turn so it should be nowhere close to being armed.
I then suggested that we take two screwdrivers that I had, insert them, handle down, down the barrel on each side of the nose and gently drive the bugger out. Robert thought this was a fine idea, obviously he was as mentally deficient at the moment as I was. Now the second reason why the picture on our website is not Robert and I occurs to me, after we thought this one up, the pilots were no longer close enough to take a picture.
Carefully we set the base of the barrel on a board, inserted the two screwdrivers down the barrel, one on each side of the nose, and prepared to strike. Either this would be a stroke of genius or we would rank right up there amongst the stupidest people in the world and have stories told about us forever. We decided to go for it. Robert held the barrel and I tapped. Nothing moved. We looked at each other, I held my breath and tapped a little harder. With a polite thunk the round dropped onto the board. We gingerly picked it up, carried it to a disposal area, put the gun back together again and were back in business.
For a detailed view of this armament system, you can access the following web site.
http://incolor.inebraska.com/iceman/data/arm23.jpg
Rotorwash :idea: